by Robyn Grady
Ms Henderson was an attractive prospect, particularly with those large amber-coloured eyes that seemed to both cloak her emotions as well as swirl with boundless possibilities. Her hair, which flowed past her shoulders in soft waves, was a captivating silvery blond, a consequence, no doubt, of a lifetime spent in Australia’s surf-and-sun conditions. Of medium height, her lithe figure had curves in all the right places. If she’d tried to hide that fact beneath her designer business suit, she’d failed and she knew it.
Perhaps best of all, he thought as he watched her car disappear beyond the auto iron entry gates, Libby Henderson had spunk.
She’d as good as accepted his offer—to work here on him, with him. However, she’d let him know that he didn’t intimidate her, even if they were aware of each other in a primal man-wants-woman way. When her palm had cupped his fist, she’d felt the zap as much as he had. But her comeback regarding the insignificance of what clothes he did or did not wear during their sessions had been priceless. Few people could pull him up like that. Coming from Ms Henderson, he couldn’t say he minded.
Clearly, she was the right person for the job. With his past, he didn’t wait around for miracles, nevertheless he had faith that Libby Henderson’s clients believed she could work them. Regardless, he would have little trouble persuading her and, as a consequence, others that he was indeed fit to drive again when he deemed it should be so. And if she needed a hand in helping her decision along, he wasn’t opposed to the idea. In fact, now that he’d met her, he was more than intrigued by the prospect.
Recalling the natural wiggle in her walk, he pushed off the column.
Until that time, he needed to focus elsewhere. Needed to keep busy. Tomorrow midday, a videoconference with the Australian CEO of his bestselling signature-brand aftershave was scheduled. Before then, he’d go through projection figures for an additional anticipated range. Along with earnings from his extensive investment portfolio, he certainly didn’t need the money, but a man would be a fool not to strike when his iron was hot. Current and potential sponsors agreed: Alex Wolfe was steaming. He intended to keep it that way.
About to head in, he pulled up. Eli Steele’s sleek black sports car was slinking up the drive. Grinning, Alex crossed back to the patio’s edge. Not only was his assistant smart in a business sense, he had a good head for cars. Eli wouldn’t be working for him if he didn’t.
‘I take it that was your physiotherapist driving off,’ Eli said, easing out the driver’s side door. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Well.’ After Eli made his way up the steps, Alex clapped his friend on the back with his free hand. ‘You did a fine job finding her.’
Eli drove a set of fingers over his scalp, ruffling his neat dark hair. ‘So she’s on board?’
‘I’ve explained I need to be back in the seat no later than Round Four.’ Two weeks shy of the six weeks the team doctor had insisted upon, which would leave him in a good position to retain his title.
Inside the vestibule, they hung a right and sauntered down the hall which led to Alex’s home office.
‘And she said she can accommodate?’ Eli asked.
‘Was there any doubt?’
‘Only on my part, it seems.’
Frowning, Alex stopped. ‘Run that by me again?’
Eli kept walking. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m convinced she does great work, but from what I’ve read she seems to have a granite mindset as well. I didn’t think she’d roll over and agree to your time frame that easily.’
Outside the billiards room, Eli waited for his boss to catch up.
Digesting the information, Alex began to walk again. ‘You sound unhappy about her being onside.’
‘You want to race,’ Eli explained, ‘and you want to win. Clearly you can handle pain.
But, Alex, you don’t want to risk this injury getting worse. This is the second time that joint has given you trouble. Third time it’ll be easier to damage still. If that happens you could be out for a lot longer than six weeks.’
They entered the office, its walls lined with framed shots capturing some heady moments on the track as well as the winner’s podium—holding up a plate at Monaco, shooting champagne over an ecstatic crowd. Alex’s favourite trophy by far was a homemade medal, which hung on a haberdashery store’s dark blue ribbon. Made out of an inexpensive key ring and a portion of a wheel spike, the good-luck charm had been given to him many years ago by his mentor, a man to whom Alex owed everything—Carter White.
Encouragement, belief. Carter had given the rebel teen Alex had once been the tools needed to succeed, which included the gift of a caring father figure Alex had sorely lacked at home. He really ought to pick up the phone and call Carter sometime.
Crossing to his desk, Alex collected the documents he’d received from that CEO and the bold Alex Wolfe logo caught his eye. Everyone was eager to see how far his brand-name net would fly and Eli was great to bounce new ideas and strategies off. He was more than an assistant; Eli was a first-class friend. They’d known each other only three years and yet Eli was closer to him than any of his brothers. Not that Alex blamed anyone for that … or, rather, he blamed no one other than the man who had single-handedly torn his own family apart: William Wolfe, may he rot in hell.
And he was seriously giving too much thought to all this lately but, for once, he couldn’t seem to avoid it.
Staring blindly at those documents, Alex recalled how he’d waited until he’d left the hospital to reread Annabelle’s email and compose an adequate reply.
Great to hear about Jacob’s return and Nathaniel’s upcoming nuptials, it had said.
Can’t believe he’s old enough to tie the knot! Will be in contact again soon. Hope you’re well. Love to you, Alex.
He’d thought about phoning; he had her number. But he knew Annabelle favoured email. Frankly, in this circumstance, so did he. Not that he and Annabelle didn’t speak every couple of years or so … but never about that night. Not about what a different girl Annabelle was now from the lively chit she’d once been.
Alex lowered into his high-back leather chair, only half hearing Eli’s last remark.
‘… I’m sure Libby Henderson explained that to you.’
Alex’s thoughts slid all the way back. Eli was talking about the increased chance of incurring a similar injury to his shoulder in the future.
‘I’ll keep up the exercises,’ Alex said, ‘and whatever else she prescribes.’
‘As long as you don’t screw it up permanently in the meantime by going back to the track too soon.’
Alex tossed a wry look around the walls, covered with victory memorabilia. ‘I think I’ve done fairly well so far.’
But when Eli’s dark blue gaze dropped and he rubbed the scar above his temple the way he did whenever he had something more to say, Alex blew out a breath and set the document down on the desk with a slap.
‘Spit it out.’
Eli edged a hip over the corner of the polished rosewood desk and gave a shrug that said he was perplexed. ‘I guess I’d expected Libby Henderson to put up at least a half-decent fight.’
In truth, Alex had expected that too. She’d almost agreed too easily to his generous offer. Nevertheless, ‘Money’s a strong motivator. With that kind of dosh on the table and the endorsements I’ll flick her way, she’d be a fool not to jump at this chance.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d be motivated by money any more than you are.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You seriously don’t recognise the name?’
Alex rolled it over in his mind and came up a blank. ‘Sorry.’
‘Elizabeth Henderson was World Surfing Champion a few years back.’
Alex recalled her radiant can-do glow, the determined look in those swirling amber eyes, not to mention the alluring beach-babe hair and tan. Elizabeth Henderson, world champion surfer? He grinned. Sure. It fit.
‘I had no idea,’ he admitted. ‘Water sports aren’t my thing.’ He and Libby had eve
n had that discussion.
‘I don’t much follow female sport either. Do they televise women’s surf championships?’
With a sardonic grin, Eli collected the document Alex had set aside. ‘For a smart man, you’re one hell of a chauvinist.’
Alex held his heart. ‘You’ve wounded me.’ Then he offered up a conciliatory smile.
‘Don’t worry. I’m on top of it. When Libby Henderson sets her mind to something, she does it her way and leaves the rest for dead. Which can only bode well for her performance as a physio.’
Dark brows knitted, Eli was flicking through the document, sifting through data. Eli was a hound for tracking down and assimilating facts. Which begged the question …
Eyes narrowed, Alex swung his chair one way, then the next. Finally he asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Libby Henderson’s past first-up?’
Eli continued analysing the pages. ‘I wanted you to meet her without any preconceptions.’
‘I don’t see how knowing about her sporting acumen could hurt.’
When Eli kept his focus on the document, Alex’s antennae began to prickle. Had being cooped up without driving privileges brought out a paranoid streak? Or was there something more to Libby Henderson? Something that Eli, for some curious reason, preferred his boss not discover?
He’d set out to hire someone who would be malleable to his needs. That objective hadn’t changed. And yet after a single meeting he couldn’t deny he was intrigued to learn more about this former surf queen turned sports star physio. Was his curiosity in part due to the fact that Libby reminded him of his sister? She and Annabelle conveyed a similar almost regal reserve, although Alex well remembered his sister in her younger years—open and vibrant. So eager to experience all life had to offer. He’d wager Libby harboured a more effervescent side as well. Either way …
Eli leaned over to point out some anomaly in the document but Alex found his thoughts still on Libby.
An attractive option. Boundless possibilities.
Yes. When Ms Henderson visited next, he’d be certain to dig deeper.
Chapter Four
Half an hour later, Libby walked through the entrance of her city office. Behind the front desk, her twenty-one-year-old receptionist, Payton Nagle, flicked back her waist-length chestnut hair and beamed out an enthusiastic smile.
‘So oooo … how was the superstar?’
Containing a grin, Libby crossed over and scooped up the morning mail from the counter’s top shelf. ‘Still shining bright.’
‘What’s he like?’ Eyes round, Payton tipped for ward. ‘Is he as sexy in real life as he is on the TV?’
‘I’d have to say sexier,’ Libby replied, matter-of-factly. The man was so sexy, it was criminal.
Falling back in her seat, Payton sighed long and hard at the ceiling. ‘That strong square jaw, that deep to-die-for Brit accent … Honestly, Libby, I don’t know how you stopped from swooning.’
‘I’m a professional, Payton,’ Libby said, shuffling through letters and invoices.
‘Professionals aren’t allowed to swoon.’ Or rather they weren’t allowed to let those kinds of unprofessional feelings show.
She set down the mail and drilled her receptionist with her most serious gaze.
‘Remember, not one word about my appointments with Alex Wolfe to anyone. He wants the press to think he’s flown back to the UK or the paparazzi would be all over this. He doesn’t want the situation with his shoulder made out to be any worse than it is.’
Didn’t want to be projected as a cripple.
Shaking off that thought, Libby stretched toward the keyboard to check her email account while Payton crossed her heart to seal the promise. ‘Did you tell him about your surfing?’
Libby recalled her thoughts from earlier, when she’d left Alex Wolfe and his premises.
Other than the everyday reminder below her left knee, ‘That part of my life’s behind me.’
Payton’s brows tugged together. ‘But being a world champion … it’s something you’d have in common.’
‘I’m not there for chitchat.’
Or here, for that matter.
Setting her mind squarely back on business, Libby moved toward her office. A long low whistle, the sound of a missile falling, came from behind.
Hands on hips, Libby rotated back.
Payton was twirling a thick strand of hair around an index finger. ‘You really like him, don’t you?’
Libby’s eyes bugged out. Like him?
‘Payton, he’s impossibly arrogant. Consumed by his own celebrity. And besides that
…’ Libby’s fists loosened, her inflexible look melted and, beaten, she exhaled. ‘Besides that, any woman with her full quota of hormones couldn’t help but like him.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s drugging. Same way honey is to a bee.’
‘I wonder …’ An eyebrow arched as Payton twirled more hair. ‘Are you the honey or the bee?’
Libby coughed out a laugh. If Payton was suggesting that Alex Wolfe found her irresistible …!
‘I’m neither,’ Libby replied in an end-of-conversation tone. ‘I’m a physiotherapist who has a full day ahead of her. As does her receptionist.’
Moving into her office, Libby shut the door and took two calming breaths to rein in the cantering pace of her heartbeat. She and Payton might be friends but foremost she was the younger woman’s employer. Someone Payton should be able to hold up as an example.
Revealing a vulnerable side—the purely female side that found Alex Wolfe absurdly attractive—had been foolish. And a onetime mistake.
Crossing to her desk, Libby told herself that Mr Wolfe had fleets of starry-eyed admirers the globe over, women who dreamed about being with him, talking to him, doing for him. They would also dream about how that kissable mouth might feel sensually closing over theirs, or the way he might move when he made hot, unhurried love deep into the night.
Resigned, Libby dropped into her chair.
Hell, she wasn’t so different to those other mesmerised hoards. And that had to stop.
She knew Alex Wolfe’s type. World Number Ones were all about staying on top. He would use anything and everything within his means to have her capitulate, wave her physio’s green flag and get himself back on the track whether his injury was sufficiently healed or not.
But no matter how distracting Mr Wolfe’s looks and charm, she would not let herself be manipulated. There was only one thing for it.
Spine straight, knees together, she swept up her schedule.
From now on she would be nothing but objective in his company. Ruthlessly ethical. A consummate, non-sexual, iron-willed professional.
Ready to sort through the papers on her desk, Libby had collected a pen when a pang in her chest had her catching her breath. The thought had crept up on her like a frost on nightfall, and now that the reflection was formed she couldn’t blot it out. Couldn’t shake it off.
After her accident she’d thrown herself into study, then the practice. No energy was left over for window-shopping for knee-high dresses she would never wear or wondering if sometime, somewhere, she might meet someone new. She was too busy—too focused—and she preferred her life that way.
Now, for the first time in so long, she gave into the impulse, closed her eyes and remembered what it was like to be kissed by a man. How wonderful it could feel to be desired. She remembered the swell of want when tender words were whispered and steaming hungry flesh met flesh. Then she recalled the pure elation of spearing through a saltwater mountain and shooting free the other side. Her mind joined the two and drew a picture of a tall strong man, the lacy fringes of ocean waves swirling around his ankles, grey eyes smiling.
Squeezing the pen, Libby bowed her head. As well as she knew her own name, she was certain she would never return to the ocean. As much as she missed the water that was one challenge she didn’t need to face. But would she ever know romantic love again?
She hadn’t let herself dwell before now but,
in truth, she missed the company, the sense of sharing, the special warmth of intimacy. And as silly as it sounded, she couldn’t help but wonder …
What would it be like to have all that with Alex?
The next morning, her professional mask firmly in place, Libby arrived at Alex Wolfe’s elite address smack on nine. As he had the day before, Alex greeted her at the door, escorted her inside, then led her into a spacious room—an elaborate home gym toward the rear of the enormous house.
Libby almost gasped. She’d seen licensed gyms less equipped than this. Every type of weight equipment, three state-of-the-art treadmills, six rowing machines, various balls, mats, presses and bars. A small double-glazed window set in an adjacent wood panelled wall indicated a sauna. Did the man host boot-camp parties? That indoor pool she’d imagined must be close by. Not that they’d be using it. She would always love the smell and look of water any way it came—sea, chlorinated or fresh from the sky. But her mermaid days were long over.
Arm in its sling, Alex sauntered over to join her. ‘Should we start with a cup of strong tea before getting into the tough stuff?’
As usual that deep accented voice seeped through Libby’s blood, making her syrupy warm all over. Ignoring the heat, aware of the dangers, she steeled herself, met his gaze and set her work bag on a nearby table. He might be king of his profession but during these sessions, like it or not, she was in charge.
‘We’ll begin with a full assessment.’ She nodded at his immobilised arm. ‘Now that we’ll be concentrating on strengthening your shoulder, there won’t be a need for that.’
With a speculative smile, Alex reached for a fastener. ‘My shirt will need to come off too, I presume.’
‘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.