No Secrets in Spandex

by Toni Jones

  “Tonight I seem to have been guided to you … ”

  And with that, his lips lowered onto hers.

  His kiss rocked her to her core. Desire bloomed low in her belly and rippled out like an earthquake, until even her fingertips felt hot, achy, super-sensitive. She could feel her pulse quicken, hear the blood pounding in her ears. She slid down into the water and he gripped her against his chest, his powerful legs keeping both their heads above water. His hands moved up her back, buried themselves in her wet locks. His tongue moved against hers. Hot. Expert. Insistent. She moaned and he deepened the kiss. They sank into the water, entwined, and surfaced, sputtering and laughing.

  “Some lifeguard,” she said, her voice rich and low with desire. She took a steadying breath and put an arm behind her to brace herself on the edge of the pool. In a millisecond, he was upon her, his swift movement through the water sending a delicious wave that slapped against her breasts and made her gasp.

  She felt one of his hard thighs nestle between her legs. Before she could stop herself, she ran her fingertips over the rock-hard muscles of his impressively wide chest. She let her fingertips drift up the column of his throat, play along the strong jaw.

  She needed to feel him, know him.

  She touched his lips and felt them part. Sharp teeth caught her fingertip in a playful bite.

  What she was doing? Fondling a stranger in a pool at midnight … Something more than just the altitude was to blame. Ariel was never this uninhibited with guys. Maybe … maybe she was afraid. Afraid of loving and losing … of being left even lonelier than she already was … She had already lost so much.

  Well, she wasn’t acting afraid tonight.

  The man let his knuckles graze her lips. He dropped his hand to her clavicle, then slid a finger down to the tops of her breasts. She held her breath as his fingers slid deeper, inside the scrap of damp lace that hid her painfully erect nipples.

  Hid her nipples? What she was thinking? Neither of them could see anything. It was pitch black. It was madness.

  What was he wearing? His thigh shifted and she felt the answer to her question. Nothing. He was wearing nothing. She felt the shocking length of his arousal, hot and hard, pressing against her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said hoarsely.

  With a smooth, athletic motion, she pulled herself from the water and stood dripping on the marble. Suddenly, he stood beside her, water cascading from muscles that seemed to shine with dark light.

  “How can you tell?” she asked breathlessly.

  He didn’t answer. He simply pulled her toward him, molded her body to his. His hands encircled the narrowness of her waist, cupped her buttocks. She felt a different kind of moisture gathering between her legs. A heaviness. A driving need. Oh God. She surrendered to his kiss, opening her mouth to allow him deeper access. Melting into him. Forgetting everything but the sensations he sent coursing through her.

  All those years of toning her muscles. Conditioning herself. Making her body the perfect instrument. An instrument that nobody had played. Really played. Made sing.

  Ariel quivered on the rooftop, every nerve fiber vibrating. What had she been missing? What was she doing? It was too much. Too fast.

  Exerting a tremendous amount of self-control, she pulled away.

  “I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl,” she whispered, hearing the raw quiver in her voice, the lack of conviction — a lack of conviction that had never been there before.

  “Fair enough,” the man said gently. He stepped back. As soon as his body no longer touched hers, Ariel was suddenly cold. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt desolate — wanting and not wanting him to push beyond her words to the truth of what she was feeling, to challenge her. Her objections could be so easily overturned.

  Before she had a chance to do something crazy — throw herself back into his arms, renew their kiss — the man reached out, stroked her cheek for a fleeting instant, then turned. He murmured, “Goodnight,” over his shoulder as he walked away, then disappeared through the door leading to the stairwell. He was silhouetted for a moment in the light from within. Ariel saw that he’d wrapped a towel around his waist, but she still couldn’t see his face. The word goodnight echoed in Ariel’s ears. What had she heard in his voice? She wondered if he was as shaken as she was by what had just happened. Ariel knew she’d be hearing that word throb in her mind for a very long time.

  Goodnight. She’d never realized it could sound so sexy.

  Why was she even now thinking of how it might have felt to continue that kiss, to run her hands down his back, to be pressed into the tiled surface of the rooftop under his weight, to see the stars glimmering over his shoulder?

  Ariel had never slept with a man on the first date, and what she and this man had experienced together certainly didn’t qualify as a date. So why had it felt so intimate? How could she be so affected — body, mind, perhaps soul, if she admitted that she believed in something so non-rational — by a casual encounter with a stranger she knew nothing about? She didn’t know his name, hadn’t seen his face. And that made it unlikely — impossible — that she would ever see him again … or recognize him if she did.

  She wondered suddenly if, for all her caution, she had just made a terrible mistake. She’d managed to lose something she had never even had.

  Chapter Four

  Jacob Hunter threw down his book and sat up. His muscles were tense. As he swung his legs over the side of the king-sized bed, he felt a stab of pain. The muscles in his calves were so tight they seemed to vibrate like guitar strings. He walked stiffly to the bathroom and winced as he stepped into the shower.

  The pain didn’t surprise him. For the past weeks, he’d been pushing his body to the limit. But this feeling was different. He couldn’t attribute it all to lactic acid in his quads. He felt keyed up. Preoccupied. The hot water sluicing over his shoulders couldn’t relieve the knot in his chest. Even the muscles in his jaw felt like they were about to snap. He groaned and turned his face to the water. Relax, he told himself.

  The criterium didn’t start until five P.M., but Jacob had to be there hours early to warm up and check the course. The race would be short, intense, and dangerous. Sixty minutes of hard, technical riding through the streets of Vail. Though he hated to admit it, Jacob still felt a rush of nervous energy before every race. But even a case of the pre-race jitters couldn’t explain this degree of agitation.

  Jacob had more to worry about than his performance in the criterium. Usually, he raced like he had something to prove. This time, he’d be racing like he had something to hide. His number one priority was dodging the journalists that swarmed Vail like a plague of locusts. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Once he actually craved the attention that the media lavished on football heroes and baseball stars. He’d wanted the fanfare, the acceptance. Cycling had never been popular in America. The sport had never received the appreciation it deserved. In Europe, Jacob was loved and hated. Loved for his raw talent, that mixture of grace and brutal strength that powered him through to a victory at the Paris-Roubaix. And hated for exactly the same thing.

  He still remembered the sneering French television announcer who’d cried out in disdain and disbelief: “It cannot be! The cowboy has crossed the finish line! And the real cyclists are far behind!” The Europeans appreciated cycling but they had little appreciation for American cyclists winning their most treasured races. The Paris-Roubaix Classic was one of the continent’s oldest and most important races. A good finish in the Paris-Roubaix separated the cyclists from the cycle-tourists. And winning …

  Winning didn’t mean you were good. Winning meant you were God.

  Jacob remembered every second of the race. He’d thought his teeth were going to break as he rode across the cobblestones. His elbows turned to jelly. Sixty miles of pure pai
n. As well as the equally grueling, but less jolting sixty miles of pavement. When he’d gone down in the mud and scrambled up again with a gaping gash in his thigh, everyone was sure he was out of it. But in that final sprint, he’d outpaced not only the world champion cyclist, but his own body. His own dreams. He was moving beyond the speed of thought. Every fiber of his body was tearing. Burning up. He’d never been so close to dying. He’d never felt so alive.

  It was the best day of his life. And nobody back home gave a damn.

  However, in the past few months, things had changed. Some bigwig in L.A. had gotten the idea that cycling could be the next big thing — if the races had the right down home flavor and a spectacular, all-American venue. If there were an American face to put on the posters.

  Jacob rubbed his hands over his face, tried to release the tension in his jaw. It was useless. He shut the tap, dried, and dressed. He glanced at the pile of newspapers on the table — his image graced the front page of every one.

  It was almost funny. A year ago, he was on cloud nine. Winning the Paris-Roubaix. Catapulting to international fame. Best of all, becoming the poster boy at the center of an American cycling renaissance. He’d always wanted his country to embrace cycling. To recognize the sport for what it was. The ultimate test of the body and mind. The most beautiful sacrifice a man could ever make to speed. To freedom.

  Now, he’d give anything to rewind the clock. To go back to the days when the French booed him in the streets. And the Americans … Well, the Americans didn’t care enough to ignore him. They didn’t even know he existed.

  Thanks to the funds and enthusiasm of that L.A. bigwig, a new race had been born. A race modeled on the European classics but with an American twist. It would be bigger. Harder. Longer. It would take place in Colorado, starting only a few dozen miles from the town where Jacob grew up. And it was supposed to be a media firestorm.

  Even today’s criterium was just an excuse to drum up attention for the big race, now only ten days away. They were calling it the Colorado Classic. They were calling Jacob Hunter the hometown hero. And all eyes were on him, following his every move. He was jumping out of his skin with the pressure. Every second it got worse.

  And yesterday, his sponsors had dropped a bomb.

  They’d given a reporter permission to shadow him all through the next week leading up the Colorado Classic. They even wanted him to give an interview today. Before the criterium. They’d scheduled the meeting for noon in the hotel restaurant. As if Jacob could eat while he fielded the questions of a news hound determined to invade his carefully guarded privacy … what little there was left of it. He’d argued with the sponsors until he was hoarse, but they were determined to grab whatever share of the spotlight Jacob was offered by the American media. They sponsored athletes, they reminded him, for business reasons, not personal ones. Besides, they assured him, it would be nothing but a celebrity profile, a fluff piece. Little did they know how dangerous any attention could be for Jacob right now, even from the most star-struck of journalists.

  His anger ebbed as the memory of his other preoccupation arose in his mind, bringing with it a flood of sensation throughout his whole body. The smell of a woman’s hair, floral and fresh … the taste of her honey-sweet mouth … the feel of her firm, silky flesh under his hands … those outrageous curves he’d traced like a blind man. He couldn’t stop himself. He tried to piece together the body he’d never seen in daylight. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the sensual recollection of that moment under the stars, when he and a stranger had fallen together into the feverish heat of one another’s arms.

  He so rarely had a moment to himself. He should have resented the fact that another hotel guest had invaded one of his only retreats. Instead he’d been tantalized by the unknown woman’s presence, immediately drawn to her throaty voice, her lithe form slippery with water.

  It had been sexually exciting, yes, but it had also stirred deeper feelings … feelings of exhilaration, of yearning. He remembered those feelings. He’d felt them during his first years of serious cycling as an adolescent, when he’d ventured further and further from his hometown of Leadville, Colorado, seeking out isolated stretches of highway, riding through mountain passes and alpine fields strewn with wildflowers. He got faster and faster, until he truly felt he was flying, alone and free. The pure love of speed kept him going, always looking for the long, sweeping descent on the far side of a pass or an unbroken straightaway on which he could pump his legs like pistons to bring himself closer and closer to pure velocity. The brutal grinds up the endless faces of Colorado peaks were worth it for those moments, however brief. Eventually he’d realized the climbs themselves were equally exhilarating in their own way. In the same way that any immense effort, however punishing, is satisfying when it achieves its goal.

  Jacob left his room. He entered the elevator and punched the button for the lobby. He lifted himself up and down onto the balls of his feet, trying to expel his restless energy. He reminded himself of how far he’d come. He had achieved most of the goals he’d set for himself. At twenty-seven, he was in the best condition of his life, and he had the wins to prove it. Now he was back where he’d started … and it was a matter of pride that he dominate the field in the criterium and the upcoming Colorado Classic.

  It should feel good to return home. To compete on his own landscape, the topography that had shaped his body, that had given him the drive to conquer the peaks of the Alps and the Pyrenees. It should feel good.

  It didn’t. He was in agony.

  He sighed, feeling the weight of his stress descend again onto his shoulders. As he exited the elevator, he glanced at the clock on the wall and realized he was already late for his interview. His abdomen clenched. He felt less than certain that he could traverse the rocky terrain of a conversation with a reporter who wanted to write a profile about his life. Who wanted to expose him, all his private thoughts and concerns. Who wanted to make his secrets into her next headline.

  Hell no.

  In a split second, Jacob made his decision. He passed the entrance to the restaurant quickly but with his head up, as if daring anyone to stop him. Let the reporter sit there and wait. Suddenly, Jacob spotted the Directeur Sportif’s assistant, Ben, coming into the lobby through the main doors.

  “Hi Jake.” Ben smiled. The lobby was dim, but Ben didn’t remove his wraparound sunglasses. He broadened his cocky smile and pretended to shoot Jacob with his finger. Jacob forced a smile. Normally, he’d rather take a real bullet than buddy around with Ben, but today was different. Today Ben might be of service.

  “Playing chauffeur?” asked Jacob innocently. Ben often ferried equipment back and forth to races. He also ferried whoever the sponsors designated their current VIP. Usually some sporting goods tycoon they wanted to impress. Or a smarmy reporter.

  Ben shrugged. “I’m the only guy around here that can handle four wheels.”

  “It’s a burden, I know,” said Jacob. “Listen, are you driving … ” What was the reporter’s name, again?

  “Ariel Hayes,” Ben supplied.

  “Ariel Hayes,” repeated Jacob. “To the race today?”

  Ben folded his arms across his chest and looked at Jacob suspiciously. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Well, I’m going to give her a ride instead,” said Jacob. “That way we can talk more. You can turn in your keys and spend the afternoon in the Biergarten.”

  In addition to being challenging races, criteriums doubled as citywide parties, with spectators mobbing the closed-off streets, drinking and shouting. Biergartens sprang up overnight. At the Mt. Hood criterium, the downtown had smelled like someone had opened a liquor-filled fire hydrant.

  Strangely, Ben didn’t look pleased to be discharged of his duty. Finally, he pulled off his sunglasses and gave Jacob a look that Jacob couldn’t interpret. “Sure,” he said. “See you at the race.” As
he turned away, Jacob could have sworn he winked.

  What was that about? Were he and Ben involved in a pissing contest he wasn’t aware of? It seemed like every interaction he had these days was tainted.

  Except for last night.

  No. He couldn’t dwell on last night. It was as distant as a dream. Just made him feel worse.

  At least he’d taken care of that reporter. He hoped Ariel Hayes waited for a good long time before she realized that Jacob Hunter wasn’t going to show. How long before she realized her ride was similarly MIA?

  Swinging easily through the front door, he examined his conscience for feelings of guilt. Nope. Reporters were vultures. As a cyclist, Jacob had to overcome challenges every day. Let Ariel Hayes fight for her interview. If she wanted to ask him questions so badly, she could chase him down. Maybe she would get a firsthand taste of the most important, the most newsworthy, thing about him.

  He was very, very fast.

  • • •

  The Colorado air was cool and dry. Endlessly fresh. Breathing hard, Jacob sprinted through the final lap of the criterium. He’d dominated the race and was easily forty meters ahead of his closest competitor. He sat up on his bike and saluted before he’d even crossed the finish line. In response, the crowd went wild. Jacob heard screams and popping bottles and a chorus of female voices chanting his name. He bowed his head briefly over his handlebars, taking deep breaths.

  Did it, he thought. Exhilaration mingled with relief. Someone was thrusting a magnum of champagne into his arms. Steven Fratello, one of his teammates, had already opened another magnum and was aiming the spuming bottle at Jacob’s chest. Jacob felt the cool liquid hit his throat, spraying across his face and dripping down to soak his jersey. He licked his lips. The champagne tasted surprisingly sweet.

  Steven seemed to read his mind. “Not as dry and light as the champagne at Roubaix?” he joked. “You turned into some kind of froggy snob? Used to the finer stuff?”