No Secrets in Spandex

by Toni Jones

  No Secrets in Spandex

  Toni Jones

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Toni Jones

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5995-3

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5995-2

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5996-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5996-9

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  For Chelsea, the redhead, and for Steven, the racer.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  When Ariel Hayes entered the lobby of the Alpenhof Hotel in Vail, Colorado, she stopped short. What was the word she was looking for? Oh, yeah.

  Wow.

  Her boss, Theo, might have economized on her plane ticket, but he’d made up for it in spades by putting her up in one of the most luxurious hotels she’d ever entered, let alone stayed in. Of course, thought Ariel wryly, Theo hadn’t had much of a choice. If she was going to break a story on pro cyclist Jacob Hunter, they needed to stay at the same hotel. Things happened in the wee hours at hotel bars. Lounging in the Alpenhof would afford her priceless opportunities to catch Hunter with his guard down.

  But when she’d heard “Alpenhof” she’d pictured a rustic chateau with cuckoo clocks. Maybe some wooden skis mounted over a little fireplace. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. An alpine palace. She hadn’t realized that pro cyclists in training lived like princes.

  A bellboy immediately relieved her of her suitcase and matching carry-on, and Ariel moved, in a daze, up to the marble-topped reception desk. Glancing around her as the pretty, trim woman behind the desk looked up her reservation, she tried not to gape at the grandeur of the lobby. At the bank of brass-doored elevators along the wall. At the plethora of blooming flower arrangements and the golden candelabra. At the sumptuously upholstered couches and armchairs arrayed around multiple fireplaces filled with cheerfully crackling flames.

  Ariel felt self-conscious, gawking at the rich décor like she was still a country girl from a one-stoplight town, where the biggest building was the 4-H tent at the county fair. She’d worked hard to put that country girl far behind her. She recovered her poise and assumed the cool, slightly impatient expression that characterized the faces of her urban colleagues, most of them Manhattanites by birth. Theo always told her she was a very good actress, and it seemed he was right. The reservationist gave her a conciliatory smile.

  “Thanks for your patience, Ms. Hayes,” she said. “You’re in the Trillium Suite, number six-twelve. The restaurant is on the second floor, and there’s a bar on the eighth with beautiful views of the valley. You can order room service until midnight. The pool’s on the roof — you’ve missed open hours for tonight, but for the remainder of your stay you’ll be able to use it between eight A.M. and ten P.M. The gym on the floor below is open twenty-four hours. If you need anything at all, my name is Charlotte. I’ll be happy to assist you in any way I can.” Her smile widened.

  Ariel was charmed by the sincerity, the openness, of the woman’s smile. People were friendlier once you got outside city limits, she suddenly remembered, surprised that she’d forgotten. When was the last time she’d even left Manhattan? She’d covered a fairly dreadful story about a senior senator and a high school page in D.C. when she’d first been hired at X-Ray Magazine last spring. But muckraking on Capitol Hill didn’t exactly afford her the opportunity to reacquaint herself with the friendliest, most sincere and open-hearted segments of the U.S. population.

  Ariel couldn’t help but beam back at the woman, her face lighting up as she let herself smile without a hint of urban reserve.

  It felt good. It felt good to smile like that.

  Maybe I’ll like Colorado, she thought.

  • • •

  At first, she’d been resistant to every aspect of this assignment.

  She had never heard of Jacob Hunter, had never thought twice about cycling (when she thought of bicycles the first image that sprang to her mind was her childhood neighbor, ancient Nancy Matthews, wobbling slowly up the street on a massively fendered Schwinn, the front basket holding a dozen eggs, the newspaper, and more often than not, Shirley, Nancy’s club-footed Tabby … not exactly ESPN material) before Theo called her into his office the week before.

  It was the end of the workday. Usually, she didn’t mind putting in extra hours, particularly for the prospect of a juicy byline, but that Wednesday she’d been eager to get outside. By 5:45 she’d had it. She felt restless, claustrophobic. Maybe it was her rural upbringing. Maybe it was her early training as a dancer. But sometimes, after sitting all day in recycled air on the eighth floor of a skyscraper, she felt like she was going to explode. Like she needed to run out of the building, move her limbs, expand her lungs.

  She knew what she was going to do. As she abandoned her cubicle, she was already anticipating her trajectory. First walk a block north to the fruit seller on the corner for a bag of plums and a bunch of grapes, then head west to the Hudson River. Walking alongside the Hudson, looking out at the solemn, dark ripples in the water, she always felt tranquil. So what if New Jersey hunkered unbeautifically on the other side of the river? In her mind, she could replace the dull buildings across the water with oak trees and the Coast Guard ships with summer swimmers. She could trace the Hudson north toward its source, through upstate New York, all the way to the sleepy town where she was raised. The Hudson River connected her hometown to the big city. It connected her with her past. With her father, whose ashes were sprinkled not far from one of this very river’s gentle curves. The water she saw glistening beneath the George Washington Bridge had flowed through the fishing holes her father had taken her to as a girl.

  Sometimes she still needed to feel close to him.

  She was passing Theo’s door when she heard his rich baritone, that unwelcome, cajoling note throbbing in his voice: “Do I hear the footfalls of my star reporter?”

  She paused. Fatally. The plums and grapes, the long, leisurely stroll by the water, the tranquility … she saw it all vanish. Not today.

  “You’ve got a minute, don’t you? Come in here.”

  She sighed, her whole body slumping before she pulled herself together. Over the past year, she and Theo had developed a warm, easy, bantering friendship, but he was still her boss. She couldn’t blow him off, citing her deep urge to commune with a river. That wasn’t how the world worked.

  “You’re going to love it,” Theo said as soon as she’d stepped into his office. Her
heart sank as she glimpsed the tower of files on his desk.

  “Hmmmm … ” She raised an eyebrow. Theo’s smiling, preemptive reassurance was triggering all of her alarms. He leaned back in his chair, tipping his head, fingertips pressed together, one of his favorite poses. He was definitely having his fun with her.

  “It’s wonderful,” he said. “Pure Americana. The classic story of small town boy makes good. The stuff dreams are made of. Life affirming. Heartwarming.”

  Ariel snorted. She was still a fairly new hire, but she’d worked for X-Ray Magazine long enough to see through Theo’s games — X-Ray was hardly known for its heartwarming stories. Ariel dropped into the room’s other chair. Patience, she told herself. The river isn’t going anywhere. Sunset happens every day.

  I’ll go tomorrow, she vowed. Then she wilted. At this rate, she had a lot of things to do “tomorrow.” She tried not to review the mental list, but the items scrolled through her mind, little pleasures she kept putting off.

  Walk by the river. Go to yoga. Take a bath. Cook a delicious meal. Read a book. Go to the Met. Run in Central Park. Make a dinner date with Jenna. Make a dinner date with a man … an intelligent, kind, attractive man willing to put up with her crazy schedule.

  This man was out there. Jenna Pierce née Kain, her busy, successful, high-strung and now happily married college roommate, had assured her of this the last time they’d managed to find time to get together for a quick happy hour drink. Jenna had met her own husband, David, at a Yankees game and was now an indefatigable champion of serendipity, true love, and “getting yourself out there.”

  Jenna just didn’t understand that it wasn’t so easy. Ariel wasn’t being stubborn, as Jenna often exclaimed in disgust. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to meet the man of her dreams. It was just that she needed to invest so much time and energy into building her name as a journalist that other activities — like parking herself in areas with a high level of foot traffic of eligible bachelors — fell by the wayside. She didn’t have time to make a rendezvous with destiny. She would have to worry about finding Mr. Right … tomorrow.

  Tomorrow. When Little Orphan Annie said it, it sounded so hopeful. For a woman inching toward her thirties, it had the ring of doom.

  Theo paid no attention to Ariel’s pained expression. He was gloating. With unconcealed relish, he handed her a glossy 8 × 10. A publicity shot. A blond man distractingly encased in skin-tight cycling gear, standing in front of a bike with a look of predatory arrogance on his handsome face. Theo tapped the photo significantly, and Ariel almost expected him to say, “Behold!”

  She looked at the blond man, his taut body, his insanely snug outfit leaving nothing to the imagination. “He is heartwarming,” she said.

  “Jacob Hunter,” said Theo almost reverently, hamming it up.

  Ariel let the silence stretch out. Jacob Hunter. Not ringing any bells. “Nope,” she said finally. “Never heard of him.”

  Theo rifled through his stack of files and flipped open a Vogue. “But you’ve seen him before?” he asked. “Yes? Think hard.”

  The golden-eyed, impossibly chiseled spokesman for the new Emanuel Ungaro sunglasses line — some of the most expensive men’s eyewear on the market. Who hadn’t seen him? He was pasted on twenty-foot high billboards in Times Square.

  Oh hell, thought Ariel.

  “I think he was on the side of the bus I took to work today,” she said. She examined the publicity shot and the Vogue ad, glancing back and forth between the two. In the ad, he wore the same look of cocksure challenge, as if he expected to dominate anyone who strayed into his path. The same razor-cut swath of straw blond hair swept over his forehead, hanging over his left eye. The power of his stare was in no way mitigated by this partial concealment. Jacob Hunter looked like he could and would crush anything — or anyone — who opposed him.

  “Feeling fluttery?” Theo grinned and Ariel batted him with the Vogue.

  “Is this where we bond over our taste in boys?” she said dryly. Theo was always trying to tease and goad, and he flirted with her outrageously. His being in a fulfilling, committed, long-term relationship with a handsome orthodontist named Richard helped him to get away with it.

  “Of course not,” he rolled his eyes. “I have a much darker agenda. Listen. Jacob Hunter grew up in nowhere, Colorado. Every day, he rode his bike up and down abandoned gold rush wagon roads, until he got up the nerve to enter his first race at nineteen. Suddenly, he’s the hottest pro cyclist in the world. It’s a fairytale story.”

  “Doesn’t sound too dark,” commented Ariel skeptically.

  “Fairy tales are always dark,” said Theo. “Also, you can’t believe them. Jacob Hunter is no Disney prince.”

  “What’s the angle?” asked Ariel cautiously and Theo leveled his eyes at her.

  “Last year, Jacob Hunter came out of nowhere to upset the top European racers,” said Theo. “He’s so fast, so good … ”

  “He’s too good,” finished Ariel, getting into the spirit of things. “Too good to be true.”

  “Rumor has it the small town hero is getting help,” said Theo.

  “Performance enhancing drugs?” asked Ariel.

  Theo nodded. “It’s a major issue in professional sports. Maybe the major issue. X-Ray has never run a sports story, but, really, sports have never been more controversial. Breaking a story on Jacob Hunter will give us the perfect opportunity to reach a broader audience … ”

  “While at the same time exposing a social problem that can serve as an indicator of our nation’s attitude toward health,” said Ariel dutifully. Theo loved to take the nation’s pulse. If he didn’t talk so much about men and wine, she’d worry it was his favorite thing. He gave her a mock glare.

  “Am I that predictable?” he asked.

  “No.” Ariel sighed. “I’m just that well-trained.” And she’d gone straight home — no river — to begin her research on Jacob Hunter.

  Before she knew it she was on the plane to Colorado. It hadn’t seemed real until the nose of the plane lifted and the wheels left the ground. She’d looked out the window and seen the borough of Queens spread out beneath her, rows and rows of houses shining dimly through the gray mist. She’d seen the grid of city streets, crosscut by expressways and parkways, millions of cars and cabs and buses and delivery vans racing over them. After a while, there’d been nothing to see. Only empty air all around, empty air grading into white distance.

  Now she was here, pleasantly surprised by the Alpenhoff. Ready for a challenge. Excited for a challenge.

  I might as well as enjoy this trip, she thought as she headed to her room. Maybe the mountain air and the friendly people would work wonders. As for the assignment itself … well, that might be fun, too. Given what she’d learned so far about unpredictable, violent, and impossibly arrogant Jacob Hunter, taking him down had begun to seem very enjoyable indeed.

  Chapter Two

  The Trillium suite fulfilled all the promises of the lobby below. It was gracious. Expansive. Tastefully decorated. The tub was larger than the entire bathroom of her meager Manhattan apartment, and the bed was bigger than her kitchen. She sat down on a loveseat, trying to collect her thoughts. Theo had been in touch with Jacob Hunter’s sponsors and had arranged an interview for noon the next day. A few hours later, Hunter would be competing in an exhibition criterium for the Colorado Classic.

  Ariel opened her tidy binder of Jacob Hunter related photos and articles and reread an article describing the race. The Colorado Classic was brand new and promised to be the most grueling race on the circuit.

  Competitors were to ride well over a hundred miles through stupendously mountainous terrain. They would have to endure extreme temperature fluctuations. Thinning air. Road surfaces that ranged from rutted pavement to gravel. Snow squalls could happen at any moment in Colorado, even in the su
mmer — white outs that made it impossible to see the curves of the winding roads.

  Ariel shuddered. White outs. She didn’t want to think about the kinds of accidents that could happen in unexpected blizzards. She flipped forward in the binder and looked again at pages torn from an upscale men’s magazine. The pages displayed an artfully staged photo spread by a prominent photographer. Jacob appeared in a sumptuous luxury suite surrounded by attentive models — impossibly leggy women with the kind of bone structure Ariel had always wished for and never had a chance of attaining. In one photograph, Jacob lounged in a Jacuzzi. He looked bored, martini in hand, staring into space while the girls lathered and shaved the tanned, incredibly muscular leg he’d thrown over the side of the tub.

  When Ariel had first noticed that particular shot, she’d taken the magazine straight to Theo. “Theo,” she said. “Help.”

  Theo laughed. “Cyclists shave,” he said. “It helps when they crash and mangle their legs on the pavement.”

  Of course.

  “Why aren’t you doing this piece,” she’d muttered, “since you actually know something about competitive cycling?” She leaned over and dug a handful of raisins and pumpkin seeds out of the bag of organic trail mix on his desk. Theo leaned back in his chair, watching her resentful munching with an expression of amused complacency.

  “Why you know something about competitive cycling is a mystery to me,” Ariel continued, swallowing. Her fit of pique was already subsiding, but she could tell from Theo’s indulgent posture that he was enjoying her complaints. She took another handful of trail mix, pouting. “Watching someone ride a bike is about as interesting as watching paint dry,” she said, dropping into a chair.

  Theo was watching her, delighted.

  Sadist, she thought, her grumpiness tinged with affection.

  “I love it when you get all gingery.” Theo pressed his fingertips together. “And there is nothing I like more than watching a wet chartreuse lighten over several hours to a summery dry lawn green on a bedroom wall.”