Fearless Maverick

by Robyn Grady

  ‘I’ll help with the buttons.’

  When she didn’t hesitate to step forward and assist, his brows hiked but she didn’t react. He could turn on the wicked charm all he liked, but if he’d hoped to put her off balance again today, he could think again. She’d made a pledge and she intended to keep it.

  Iron-willed.

  Asexual.

  Professional.

  With the sling removed, she deftly unbuttoned his freshly laundered chambray shirt. The subtle smell of lemons drifted into her lungs, but the scent that truly caught her senses was musky. Pure male. A scent she wasn’t unfamiliar with in her everyday work. But, of course, Alex Wolfe went a mile beyond ‘everyday.’

  Last button attended to, she eased the shirt off those dynamite shoulders, then manoeuvred around to release the fabric from his back. As the shirt fell away, her gaze gravitated to the muscular contours, the straight-as-a-die dent of his spine, the lean measure of his hips. Her heart began to pound. She thought she’d prepared herself but, frankly, the sight of this man half naked stole her breath away.

  Thrusting back her shoulders, she once again set her mind on the specialist straight and narrow.

  ‘Let’s start with testing your range of movement.’

  She asked that he first raise his arms in front, palm down, as high as possible, then at his sides. Next, internal and external rotation, with his hands behind his back.

  While making notes—the ROM around the joint was not full, which meant passive work to help it improve—she said, ‘Now we’ll test the strength.’

  His good shoulder squared. ‘Ready when you are, doc.’

  Navigating around to face him, Libby found herself analysing that amazing chest and powerhouse arms from a female rather than professional point of view. Big mistake. Her brain began to tingle at the same time her bones seemed to liquefy. She’d laid awake half the night telling herself she could handle whatever today might bring and yet she’d missed the turn-off coming here because she’d been contemplating precisely this moment.

  Resisting the urge to wet her lips, she eased her gaze higher and met his amused look. Then one corner of his mouth slowly curved and her face flooded with heat. Caught out, she stuttered an excuse. She hadn’t been ogling. Merely … assessing.

  ‘You, uh, obviously work out,’ she said, and then inwardly cringed.

  Stupid. He was a World Number One. Of course he worked out. No doubt there’d be gyms in his other houses around the world, and the best personal trainers, as well as a food plan to sustain the mind and might of a champion.

  She cleared her throat. ‘What I mean to say is … despite your injury, you look great.’

  His lips tilted more at the same time he seemed to move slightly closer, lean faintly nearer, and the heat in her cheeks exploded, raging out of control as that natural male scent enveloped her completely.

  His gaze skimming her cheek, he murmured, ‘Thank you.’

  Gulping back a breath, she averted her gaze and muttered, ‘You’re welcome.’

  She imagined that he chuckled to himself before he asked, ‘Where would you like me?’

  With unsteady steps, she crossed to a mirror that covered an entire wall. ‘We’ll start here. You in front facing the mirror. I’ll stand behind.’

  He took up his position, steely legs in black athlete’s shorts pinned apart. His slightly cleft chin angled up. ‘How’s this?’

  Libby was torn between sighing and smirking at the magnificent reflection. As if he didn’t know he looked better than fabulous.

  ‘That’s fine. Now hold your arms out at right angles to your body.’ His arms rose easily. ‘Any pain?’

  ‘It feels …’ The chiselled planes of his face pinched. ‘A little weak.’

  She grunted. She’d bet more than ‘a little.’

  ‘I’m going to test that strength. I’ll put one hand here on the uninjured arm and the other here, on your recovering arm.’

  As she laid a palm on each bicep, she felt the vibration … his chest rumbling, the sound of a big cat anticipating a full bucket of cream or, perhaps, defending it.

  Locking off her imagination, she continued. ‘Now I’ll push lightly.’

  ‘Would you like me to push too? You know—’ his left bicep flexed twice beneath her hand ‘—push up?’

  She met his poker-faced reflection and simmered inside. Damn the man! He’d done that little trick on purpose. This wasn’t a contest or a show. Every session, every minute, counted. He needed to take this seriously.

  Filling her lungs, she reassembled her patience. ‘I’ll push down and you try to resist.’

  Gently she put weight on each arm. His left stayed parallel. His right came down.

  His cool expression dissolved and a crease cut between his brows. ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘With your injury, it’s normal. We’ll get there.’

  ‘Yes, we will. In time for China.’

  She held off gaping at his implacable tone. But she had no intention of arguing that particular point now. She had a job to do. His shoulder would be fit for a return to the track when she said it was and not a moment before.

  ‘Would you go over there and lie down, please?’

  Holding his injured arm, Alex looked her up and down, as if deciding whether it would weaken his position to comply. Then he reluctantly crossed the room, hitched up on the bed’s white sheet and spread out.

  Edging closer, she scanned the exquisite form lying before her and swallowed against the rapid pulse beating high in her throat. He looked even better on his back than he had standing. The rectus abdominis had been sculpted by a god. The tone of his trapesius and deltoids were exceptional. The pectoralis majors, dusted with crisp hair, were as first-rate an example as she’d ever seen—and she’d seen a few. Powerful, firm, prime flesh. Below that waist band, Libby imagined another well defined muscle and her mouth went dry.

  He pushed up on his good arm and his broad shoulders slanted toward her. ‘Maybe we should start with something more strenuous. You know, get the show on the road.’

  ‘No, Alex. We shouldn’t.’

  His jaw shifted and eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t see what lying around will achieve.’

  ‘Leave that to me.’

  His gaze pierced hers, challenging, testing. Finally he rolled back down, looking like a third grader forced to face some senseless spelling bee he hadn’t studied for.

  He stared blindly at the ceiling. ‘What now?’

  Alongside of him, Libby took both his hands, which felt as hot and strong as the rest of him looked. Her fingers curled around his and she brought them to lie near his navel. She refused to acknowledge the trail of dark hair descending in a particularly tantalising line to the loose band of his shorts, much less the subtle bulge further down.

  ‘No pain?’ she asked in a remarkably composed voice.

  His gaze met hers and, confident, he grinned. ‘Not a hint.’

  ‘Good. Now slowly lift your arms.’

  ‘How high?’

  ‘See how you go. I’ll go through the exercise with you first.’ With his hands sandwiched between hers, a hot pulse beating through her blood, she began to move with him. ‘Up, two, three … hold and … down, two, three.’ Her words were even, regulated, the opposite of her clambering heartbeat. ‘How’s that feel?’

  ‘Up. Down. Up. Down.’ She felt his curious gaze on hers. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘A few more times.’

  Any moment she expected him to protest again but as their breathing synchronised with the movements, he seemed to accept the inevitable. So while they finished the set, she focused on his shoulder, as well as his expression for signs of discomfort. Her gaze drifted to gauge the steady breathing of that glorious chest and before she could rein her straying thoughts in, she imagined her palms gliding over that granite surface and her lips brushing those small dark discs.

  Hauling herself back with a start, Libby lowered their hands a final time and t
ook a resolute step away.

  ‘That’s it?’ he asked, sounding pleased.

  She patted her hair, which she’d worn in a low bun with multiple pins today. ‘Now I’ll show you an easy exercise to continue with.’ An active as opposed to passive version of the exercise they’d done together. ‘And we’ll work in some remedial massages along the way.’

  But he growled. ‘I don’t need massages. I don’t want easy.’

  What he really meant was, This soft stuff is a waste of time.

  Tucking in her chin, Libby took stock.

  This time with Alex Wolfe would be more difficult than she’d thought. She knew Alex was beyond eager to get back onto the track and that he was beyond confident about his abilities. She respected where that energy came from … an unconquerable winner’s spirit. That quality, however, did not excuse his veiled attempt to bribe her, suggesting she convince the team doctor that he was fit and well to drive whether he was or he wasn’t. Nor did it excuse that forceful tone.

  Regardless, the bottom line was that she’d taken on this case, which meant she would give it her all and then some, whether Alex Wolfe appreciated her own brand of zealousness or not. If he decided their relationship wasn’t working, he could sack her, but she wasn’t about to quit, or double guess herself at every turn. He’d thought enough of her credentials to hire her in the first place after all.

  ‘Alex, I appreciate your … enthusiasm, but I’m going to ask you to leave the program to me.’

  ‘Just as long as we’re in tune with what I need.’

  What I expect, he should have said.

  Her smile was thin. ‘I know precisely what you need.’

  His gaze pierced hers and she thought he might push his point to make himself clear. The simmering in his eyes said he would miss not one more race than he thought he had to. Every round he didn’t drive took him further away from the means to retain his title, and anyone who tried to stop him was public enemy number one.

  But then the thrust of his shadowed jaw eased, his trademark grin returned and he added in a placated tone, ‘Pleased to know we’re on the same page.’

  They continued to work out with similar isometrics. After thirty minutes, she caught him flinching so she called an end to their first session.

  ‘That’ll do for today,’ she said, heading off to collect her bag.

  He was standing, hands threaded behind to allow a gentle stretch between the blades. With his brow damp from rehabilitative work his body wasn’t used to, he joined her. ‘So you’re leaving?’

  ‘I have other appointments.’

  She was sure he wouldn’t be lonely. He must have acquaintances in Sydney he could catch up with. No doubt many wore skirts.

  While she found her car keys, he eased into his shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned—an unabashed encore, she supposed—he escorted her out of the gym. Halfway down the long northern hall, that enormous storage block, visible beyond a set of soaring windows, caught her eye.

  Curious, she slowed up. ‘What do you keep out there?’

  ‘Three guesses.’

  She only needed one. ‘Cars.’

  He laughed and the deep, easy sound—as warm as a blanket on a cold night—made her forget what a privileged pain in the butt he could be at times.

  ‘Come and have a look,’ he said. When she opened her mouth to object, he broke in. ‘Surely you can spare five minutes.’

  Libby thought it over. Her next appointment wasn’t for an hour, and she was intrigued as to how many and what types of cars a motor racing champion owned. She knew Payton would be interested to hear.

  Relenting, and more than a little excited, she nodded. ‘Five minutes.’

  His grey eyes smiled, but in a different way—as if he truly appreciated her interest—and together they walked out the house, past the magazine lift-out pool and over the immaculate emerald-green lawn.

  ‘Where did it all start,’ she asked, ‘this love affair with cars and speed?’

  ‘My father owned prestige automobiles, everything from vintage classics to top-of-the-range sports cars. Every now and then I’d take one out.’

  ‘He must have trusted you a great deal.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t ask. I became quite well known throughout Oxfordshire for my jaunts.’

  ‘Known to the authorities?’ He only grinned, his gaze distant and mischievous as he remembered back. ‘What did your father say when he got a hold of you?’

  He opened the huge end door and flicked a switch. An enormous space, filled with rows of gleaming prestige cars, materialised before them.

  ‘What’s your poison?’ he asked. ‘The red Ferrari F430 is extremely popular. Then there’s the classic British sports car, which I can assure you is a very nice ride.’

  The spectacle greeting her was so out of the world ‘rich and famous,’ Libby put her hand to her chest to try to catch a gasp. ‘I hate to think of your insurance bill. Do you have as many cars in your other homes?’

  They strolled further inside, under the overly bright lights, surrounded by automobile excellence and an atmosphere of wealth at its decadent best.

  ‘This is my main stash. I have another healthy group hidden away in the French countryside. Some in England too.’

  ‘Must leave your dad’s collection for dead.’

  Without commenting, he strolled on, and it clicked that he hadn’t answered her previous question. What had his father done when he’d caught his son driving his prize cars? But then the obvious dawned and she guessed why he didn’t want to speak about it.

  She put a compassionate note into her voice. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Alex frowned over. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father.’

  He ran his left hand over the bonnet of a deep-blue muscle car. ‘He’s dead.’

  Expecting that answer, she nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You must be the only person alive who is.’

  Libby blinked several times and was about to ask him to explain. But his eyes were suddenly so shuttered, his face expressionless. Clearly this was a touchy subject. Seemed there was more to motoring superstar Alex Wolfe than met the eye, an obvious bitterness toward his deceased father for one. What else lay beneath his polished public persona?

  But she was being no better than the press. Everyone was entitled to keep their past private, she and Alex included.

  Still walking, she crossed her arms and looked down. ‘I apologise. I shouldn’t have dug.’

  He tugged an ear and, thoughtful, focused on some far-off point. ‘Quite a bit of digging’s been going on recently,’ he admitted.

  About his past? Who was digging? ‘Someone from your family?’

  ‘Yes. From the family.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My twin.’

  ‘You have a twin brother?’

  ‘Sister.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  It took a few seconds for him to answer.

  ‘Annabelle.’

  ‘Alex and Annabelle.’ She smiled. Cute.

  ‘She was in contact before my accident.’

  ‘Something to do with your father?’

  ‘His estate,’ he replied. Then he turned back to face her and his demeanour purposely lightened. ‘Seems our oldest brother has made an appearance out of the distant blue to renovate old Wolfe Manor before the council tears it down. A sound idea, if you ask me.’

  ‘This is back in England? Oxfordshire?’

  ‘An estate overlooking a quaint little village by the name of Wolfestone.’

  Libby shook her head, amazed. How many people had a village named after their family? But Alex didn’t seem impressed by any of it. The timbre of his voice was casual again but the light in his usually entrancing grey gaze had dulled.

  ‘How long since you’ve seen this mysterious brother?’ she asked, knowing she was being nosy again.

  But Libby knew ghosts from the past could creep up when a person had time on their hands, and Alex wouldn�
��t be used to being confined, cut off, the way he had been these past days. If he wanted to share—about his family and old Wolfe Manor—anything he said wouldn’t go beyond her.

  ‘Jacob left Wolfe Manor almost two decades ago. Disappeared one night without a goodbye.’ He looked down at the same time his brow furrowed. But then he seemed to shore himself up, particularly when his gaze hooked onto another sporty car. ‘I’d offer you a ride in my Sargaris TVR but I really need two hands to control it.’

  She’d lost interest in cars. ‘Do you have other siblings other than those two?’

  ‘Three shy of a football team.’

  ‘Do you see them often?’

  ‘Not regularly. Never all together. I haven’t seen Jacob since he left.’ Alex hunkered down to inspect something that seemed to trouble him about one of the car’s tyres. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I don’t have any siblings.’

  ‘Your parents alive?’

  ‘And well.’

  ‘What did you do before becoming a physio?’

  As he pushed to his feet, she saw a certain glint in his eye and her insides wrenched. Seemed he had a few questions of his own … questions she wasn’t entirely comfortable with answering. Time to pull up the brake.

  She curled some hair behind an ear. ‘I didn’t mean to pry so deeply. We got sidetracked and I was interested …’

  Her words trailed off as he angled more toward her. The air between them seemed to crackle when he said in a deep sure tone, ‘I’m interested too.’

  She let out a pent-up breath. The emotion in his eyes looked sincere. But how much was she prepared to divulge? Although her accident and subsequent amputation weren’t federal secrets, she’d made it her policy not to wallow in the past. She certainly didn’t want pity, which was often people’s first reaction.

  Dismissive, she hitched up one shoulder. ‘My family history isn’t that exciting.’

  ‘I’m sure being the female world surf champion would’ve been anything but boring.’

  Her stomach pitched and a chill crept over her scalp. She felt unsteady. Worse, she felt like a downright fool. He knew about her past? And he’d said nothing! What other information had he gathered?