by Heidi Rice
‘I hear that the museum want to see your artwork,’ he whispered. ‘Congratulations. I would like to help you celebrate.’
It was a good thing she was sitting down, because suddenly all the wind went out of her sails.
‘Thing is, if you are like me, you’ll probably be working hard at making those pieces the best work you have ever done. And loving it. But you know what they say … All work and no play … So I have a suggestion. And don’t panic. It is not another date. Our deal was strictly for a one-off event. Think of this as more of a research trip. And I know how much you love research.’
The bottom sank out of her stomach and she slapped the side of her head.
‘Cory Sports sponsor an aqua-therapy programme at a couple of London swimming pools. We’ve just opened a new class and I’m going to head down to check on how it is doing. Want to come out and play?’
Andy stepped out of the taxi cab into the cool dusky air, and immediately tugged the belt of her navy raincoat a little tighter.
What was the dress code for meeting millionaire CEOs at swimming pools for a research trip? Research into how mad she was to agree to this in the first place. So what if his pitch had been brilliant and the shop loved her proposal. It was the artwork that had swung it, not just the clever marketing ploy.
Casual, Miles had said. What did that mean? Casual by her standards meant loose pants and sweatshirt and fluffy slippers. And Saffie had just laughed her head off when she rang her for advice. No help at all.
And where was she? The cab had dropped her off in front of a small shopping arcade in the middle of a residential area of Victorian and Edwardian houses with a sprinkling of modern flats and bungalows.
No flash glass and stone buildings here. No photographers of paparazzi—just a sign pointing her towards a community gym and pool.
Two minutes later, Andy found her way to the ladies’ changing room, drew open the door and instantly reeled back in surprise at the groups of lovely older ladies who were crammed around the lockers, all chatting and laughing and peering into bags and holdalls. But what really struck her was that, irrespective of their age, size and shape, every one of them was wearing a brightly coloured one-piece swimming costume that would not be out of place on some tropical beach. Huge red blossoms, birds of paradise and exotic butterflies clashed with huge banana leaves and gold ribbon trim and swim racer backs.
The room was a riot of colour and life and, try as she might, Andy could not help but laugh out loud in delight and astonishment.
This was the last thing she had expected to find in a small local gym in a residential area of London, but the colour scheme certainly matched the temperature. She had never been in a changing area that was this warm before. Tropical was about right.
‘Hey, ladies—any of those swimming costumes left over? They’re brilliant!’
‘And they pull in the boys,’ the nearest lady replied, which set the others off into an explosion of helpless giggling, which was probably not such a good idea for the lady in the wheelchair who had to gasp for breath because she was laughing so much.
Leaving them to their fun, Andy stowed her coat and boots and slipped her feet into a pair of non-slip pool shoes.
Time to find out where Miles had got to.
Andy drew back the swing doors and stepped out onto the tiles. Bright overhead lights reflected back from the water, the light broken by a swimmer doing strong front crawl, length after length. Andy looked up, just in time to see Miles Gibson hauling himself up over the edge of the pool.
Too proud to use the steps at the shallow end.
And the breath seemed to catch in her lungs as she ogled and kept on ogling.
Strong abs. Long muscular legs. Dark hairline going down to his trunks. Spectacular shoulders. She had not expected him to be so fit after months of hospital treatment. Or so gorgeous out of his clothes. Why was she always attracted to the muscular types? She had spent way too much time working in offices if this was what she was missing.
As she watched Miles shook his head back, showering water droplets down over his shoulders and the stunning rippling muscles across his wide back.
Her throat was dry, her palms clammy and walking and talking at the same time were going to be a challenge until he put some clothing on.
Miles Gibson was sex on legs.
Seriously.
Andy broke the spell by sighing in appreciation—way too loudly.
He smiled up at her as she calmly padded across to the poolside bench, but as she passed him his towel his face fell and he instantly dropped the towel over his lap and thighs.
‘What? No bikini?’ he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
‘You should be so lucky,’ she replied, ‘but, speaking of swimwear, are you responsible for that collection of exotic birds that are waiting to explode out of the ladies’ changing area?’ She gestured with her head back towards the changing area. ‘Because I have to tell you, it certainly brightened up my day.’
His reply was a slow nod and a lazy smile. ‘Ladies’ night. Cory Sports have spent the last two years developing a full programme of hot-water aqua-therapy classes. Their trainer is on the way but in the meantime the ladies have some fun and the company has some beta testing of its all-ages swimwear. Speaking of which—’ and his brows tightened as his gaze scanned her body ‘—I thought you might have brought a swimming costume? Can’t have all of the fun to myself.’
Andy sucked in a breath through her clenched teeth and focused her gaze on the wall murals.
‘I was just admiring the pool. Such lovely colours. And warm too.’
‘A nice ninety-five degrees. Great for arthritis and rheumatism and a whole raft of other conditions, such as sports injuries. And why are you avoiding my question?’
‘I went to a private school which had its own pool. A cold-water swimming pool. The gym teacher thought that icy swimming classes were character forming and invigorating for the pupils.’
‘Were they?’
‘Of course not. I hated swimming lessons. We all did. I think it put most of us off swimming for life.’
Miles looked at her for a few seconds, his eyebrows high, before giving a small cough.
‘Andy. Are you saying that …?’
She nodded. ‘Can’t swim. Scared of the water. Would you like another towel?’
Andy had only just finished speaking when the door to the changing room opened and an explosion of colour and laughter edged slowly out towards the steps at the shallow end of the pool.
‘Scared of the water?’ Miles replied, from behind her back. ‘I’ve been teaching people to swim all of my life. That’s why I worked this new programme into the schedule. Water confidence. It means working with the ladies one to one but it gets results.’
‘Of course it does,’ Andy said as she watched the ladies splash about in the warm water. ‘Because you want to share your passion. And something tells me that you would be very good at that.’ She turned back towards Miles, but took one step too far, colliding with his shoulder, sending his leg slipping on the moist slick floor.
She felt herself falling sideways with him, out of control, just waiting for the crunch as she hit the floor.
Only she didn’t hit anything.
Two hands grabbed her waist, and as she moved to push herself back up, his right hand moved instinctively to give her more support. And slid under her loose sweater onto her bare skin.
The effect was electrifying. In a second she was upright, one hand pressed against the muscles of his bare chest, her forehead in contact with his chin and neck, as he pressed her to his body so he could take her weight. She felt the raised stubble on the side of his face, a faint tang of a citrus aftershave and swimmingpool antiseptic and something else. Something essentially masculine. That combination of sweat, tension and musky personal aroma, which was driving cave girls wild thousands of years ago, and was working just fine right now.
She closed her eyes and revelled in the sensat
ion as his hand moved just a few centimetres higher on the skin at her waist. She wanted him to go higher, a lot higher.
Oh, God, this felt so right. So very right.
Neither of them spoke as she pressed herself into his neck, only too aware that his breathing was matching her own heart rate. Racing. Only she had stopped breathing, and her single breath broke the moment. Both of his hands lifted at the same time as she opened her eyes and pushed gently from his body.
And took three steps back, creating some space between them.
It had been a mistake coming here. Seeing Miles like this. A really bad mistake.
Because every cell in her body was screaming for her to give into this attraction and do something mad, like jump onto his lap and kiss him breathless. And where would that leave her?
Nowhere. Alone and discarded. And wouldn’t that feel good?
The whole incident had only taken a few seconds but she didn’t have the guts to look at him when she eventually spoke.
‘That was embarrassing. I almost needed your lifeguarding skills there for a moment.’
‘Are you okay?’
His voice was low, caring. Almost whispered. He was breathing as heavily as she was. Andy fought to put together a coherent response. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
But when Miles stepped forwards, he staggered back slightly and tried to massage his calf muscles into working, but then his knee seized up completely and he had to lean against the bench to relieve the pressure, wincing in pain.
‘Cramp?’ Andy asked.
‘Not exactly,’ Miles replied with a sarcastic shrug, then smiled and dropped his shoulders with the gentlest of touches on her arm. ‘Sorry. I sometimes forget that the rest of the world doesn’t have much interest in my surfing career.’
‘Ah, I don’t usually read the sports section of the newspaper. But I should imagine that professional sportsmen have a lot of injuries to cope with.’ She glanced down at his leg. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘More than Jason knows. And the painkillers knock me out. So I put up with it.’
He sniffed and hobbled over to the bench. ‘And you’re right, when you are pushing yourself to the limit, you do get injured. Which makes this—’ and he scrubbed even harder at his leg ‘—even harder to tolerate, because I didn’t fall off a board. I got hit by a truck.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘Of course. You mentioned it at the museum. How did it happen?’
‘I was in a small sports car. It was raining and the truck driver was so drunk he could hardly stand,’ he snorted. ‘I remember walking out of my girlfriend’s beach house on Tenerife into the rain with not a care in the world. And twenty-four hours later I woke up in a city hospital and most of my body was broken.’
Miles stretched out his leg, and began massaging the sinewy calf muscles. ‘I was too doped up on painkillers and sedatives to take much in at the time but I recall flashes of my dad’s face and people in white coats and words like fractures. Pierced lungs. Hip replacement. Pins. Then they knocked me out again so they could do what they had to do.’
She gasped and stopped breathing for a second. ‘What about the other driver—were they…?’
‘Cuts and bruises. The drunk was lucky. I wasn’t.’
Andy exhaled slowly and blinked at him. ‘How did you get through it?’
‘I didn’t. Good thing my parents understood that yelling at them was only a temporary phase. They were just pleased that I had survived.’
‘But you did it. You came out in one piece,’ Andy whispered and looked at him.
‘Several pieces. And you can still see the joins.’
Andy could not help it. She stared at the puckered red and white skin for several seconds. The scars ran from knee to upper thigh and she could see where the incisions and pins had been, but it was not gory or scary.
It was simply his leg.
‘Nice scars.’ She nodded, her lips pressed together.
He blinked, looked at his knee, then back at her face. ‘Nice scars? Is that it? The girls love my scars. I thought that at the very least you would be impressed and leap into my arms because I am a wounded hero.’
‘Over a few leg scars? Please,’ she replied in a nonchalant and relaxed voice. ‘But your family must have been scared for you.’
‘Damn right.’
‘Does it affect your swimming?’ Andy asked in a completely natural voice with a smile on her lips. Oblivious to the knife she had just slipped up into his heart.
Miles froze, his gaze scanning her face, but saw only genuine concern staring back at him. Not disgust that he was broken and useless, or pity for what his body had been like.
‘Not in classes like this, no.’
She sniffed and nodded. ‘Good, because, I have to tell you, those ladies are a real handful. You are going to need all of your expert coaching skills to keep the girls in check today.’
Coaching skills?
Miles coughed. And then stilled. She had a point. He had always loved teaching, no matter what age the beginners were. He could do that. Leg or no leg.
The old light switched back on inside him, warmed by the grin on Andy’s face as she waved at the ladies.
Time to complete his side of their bargain. ‘Speaking of families. Would you like to come back to the Cory Sports building this evening and meet some of my team? Jason is in the mood to cook and he loves having people around. It would be nice to help you celebrate your success at the museum.’
‘You want me to come to your apartment?’
Andy’s heart was pounding. She would be alone in an apartment with two single men she had only just met. Now that was more than a little scary.
Miles must have heard her thoughts because his next words were, ‘Jason’s apartment. And don’t be scared. My brother has many skills and cooking is one of them. I left him in the kitchen peeling oranges. I think this is a good sign. Plus I’ve already mentioned your artwork to our website designer, Peter. He’ll be there with his wife, Lisa, tonight so there is at least one more creative person in the room. And then there is your umbrella. A sad case. It is missing you terribly.’
He paused and exhaled slowly. ‘So what shall I tell Jason? Does he set another place at the table?
‘One question. Would I have to do the washing up?’
She heard him chuckle, deep and resonant, and the rich sound filled her head.
‘No. All taken care of. Your job will be to enjoy yourself. Prepare to be positively pampered. I’ll even come along and pick you up if you like.’
‘Well, in that case, I would be delighted to eat home-cooked food. Thank you. But it would be easier if I took a cab to your office.’
‘You got it. Oh—and, Andy.’
‘Yes?’
‘Just so that you know. I would never stand you up. Never.’
And with that he pushed himself to his feet and strolled over to the cluster of ladies at the shallow end of the pool, who instantly mobbed him like fan girls meeting a pop star. Twenty seconds later they were all laughing like teenagers and splashing in the warm water. Having the time of their lives.
And all the time Andy was sitting on the bench, watching him in the water. Just watching him.
From: Andromeda@ConstellationOfficeServices
To: saffie@saffronthechef
Subject: Dinner with the Gibson Twins
Saffie, you are terrible. Jason might be an excellent cook.
Of course I know that they are millionaires and probably have their food pre-prepared by chefs and supplied in posh microwave dishes, but Miles did say that cooking is Jason’s hobby. And, yes, I shall give you a full report of what we ate and how it tasted. And, no, I will not take photographs of the penthouse or the food. Unless I really have to, because otherwise you wouldn’t believe me.
This means I am bound to show myself up.
Thanks again for the loan of your posh cashmere.
Wish me luck
Andy the terrified.
‘More c
heese, Andy? I tried to save you the last slice of the quince membrillo but I was too late—the amazing eating machine here got to it first.’
Jason gestured with the cheese knife towards Miles, who threw his hands up into the air in protest. ‘Hey—can I help it if I have a healthy appetite? Anyway, you’re one to talk. I only turned my back for two minutes to help Lisa on with her coat and what was left of those fancy chocolates Peter brought had done a magic disappearing act.’
Jason sniffed and flung his head with a dramatic twist. ‘Cook’s perks.’ He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Sweet tooth. I confess. Happy now?’ And dodged the napkin that Miles threw at him.
Andy laughed and sat back on the lovely cream leather sofa and patted her stomach. ‘Thanks, but I couldn’t eat another thing. And don’t forget—I have to have that recipe for the pork with ginger and orange. It was the most delicious thing I have ever eaten.’
Jason abandoned his tray and lifted Andy’s hand and kissed the back of her knuckles. ‘Praise indeed. Thank you, kind lady.’ Then he peered at Miles with narrowed eyes. ‘See. Did you hear that? Everybody else liked my cooking. According to Peter my menu was inspired. Beat that if you can. Seeing as you can barely use a kettle.’
‘Champagne sorbet? Please. That’s way too girly. I was expecting at least a chocolate tart or one of those creamy cake things.’
‘Don’t listen to a word Miles says,’ Andy tutted and smiled up at Jason. ‘It was a wonderful meal and I feel positively pampered. And very guilty. Are you sure I can’t help you with the washing up?’
Jason gestured for her to sit back down with both hands palm down. ‘Dishwashers. Marvellous things. You just sit back and relax and try the coffee while this one keeps you company—if you can stand it.’
Then in a flash he had loaded up a tray with the flatware and was off behind the marble slab that separated the kitchen from the dining area of the huge open-plan apartment.
Andy indulged in a secret snigger and raised the tiny espresso cup to her nose and inhaled deeply.
‘Oh, that is so wonderful. I love good coffee.’
‘Here. Allow me.’ Miles got up from the dining table so that he could top up her cup with the fragrant piping-hot brew. ‘Jase knows the grower in the West Indies. There are a few specialist shops in London who import the beans but he insists on grinding them to his own specification every time. It takes longer but that’s my brother for you. Things have to be just right or it bothers him like mad.’