The Fearless Maverick

by Robyn Grady

  He quizzed her eyes and the unspoken question hung between them. Then why not put it in your résumé?

  The uncomfortable silence stretched out. Feeling off centre—trapped—she forged a look at her watch. Way past time she was gone.

  ‘I should leave,’ she said, rearranging her bag’s shoulder strap. ‘I’ll be late for my next appointment.’

  After hesitating only a heartbeat, he nodded and agreed. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  He moved to take her elbow. Instinctively she jerked away. Too friendly.

  ‘No need,’ she said. ‘You lock up here. I’ll see myself out.’

  As she turned away, at the far end of the garage parked near a battered dartboard, a car caught her eye. Rusted, uncared for, the bonnet was buckled, as if the driver had slammed into a tree. What was that wreck doing among these trophies? But she wasn’t about to ask. This conversation had got way too personal already.

  Leaving Alex behind, she made a beeline for the garage’s exit.

  From now on she would keep her thoughts and questions to herself. And, as much as she could, her hands as well.

  Chapter Five

  Two weeks later, Alex was shunting a hand through his hair, pacing the floorboards of his home office. Libby Henderson had left thirty minutes earlier. As usual she’d been the consummate professional at their regular morning session. Had performed her duties with routine perfection.

  Alex stopped and glared at his feet.

  That woman was driving him mad.

  Not because she was inadequate with regard to his treatments. From time to time he might hint that things weren’t moving quickly enough, but in truth her slow and steady approach seemed to be paying off; his shoulder was twice as strong as it had been. His problem with Ms Henderson—what niggled him to the core—was far more complicated than that.

  Other than the brief time he and Libby had spent in his garage when they’d exchanged titbits about each other’s pasts, she was a clam. Tight-lipped, focused only on business and, more to the point, doing it all her way. Although he hadn’t wanted to commit to paper his confidential proposition with regard to China—fine fodder for blackmail should it fall into the wrong hands—he believed he’d been clear when they’d struck their deal. In conjunction with therapy, he needed her help returning to the track in not six but four weeks. In exchange for this service, he would pay an exorbitant fee and sing her praises the world over. She’d agreed they were on the same page. However, despite her verbal acceptance of his terms, he was far from convinced that Libby Henderson was anyone’s man, so to speak, but her own. That troubled him.

  But there was more.

  When they were together in the mornings, despite her pronounced reserve, he’d become more aware of a certain thrumming connection. The soothing sound of her voice. Her unconscious habit of curling hair behind an ear. The slant of her smile when he’d performed some exercise to her satisfaction. She’d grown on him, and the longer she maintained her emotional distance, the thicker the wall she put up, the more determined he was to knock it down. But neither charm nor mutual silence—not even obvious agitation—seemed to make a dent in her brickwork.

  The homemade medal, hanging on its ribbon on the wall, seemed to call. As usual, memories of his gratitude to Carter and earliest commitment to his sport swam up. Alex couldn’t change his mind about Round Four. He lived to race. To win. China meant valuable points that would tally toward this year’s championship. So what to do about Libby? Would she or wouldn’t she give him what he needed?

  Other than Annabelle, he’d never met a woman like her. Polite but also unremittingly cool. This morning he’d asked how often she surfed nowadays. The look she gave could freeze the Gobi. Was conversing with him so distasteful?

  Or was her reserve caused by something deeper … some past hurt perhaps? He’d never tried to penetrate Annabelle’s veneer; neither brother nor sister wanted to dig around those old wounds. But Libby …

  Filling his lungs, Alex hunted down his phone, punched in a speed dial and, mind set, waited to be connected. He’d been as good as locked away here, hell-bent on withholding any ammunition about his condition or imminent comeback to the press. But his arm was out of its sling. No one would guess anything was wrong with his shoulder. Frankly, he’d go stir-crazy if he didn’t break out and soon.

  He knew the perfect person with whom to share some R and R. The same person who needed to be asked a straight question and, in return, give a straight answer.

  Phone ringing in his ear, Alex lowered into his chair, smiling.

  He only needed to create the right atmosphere.

  In her city practice, Libby sat at her desk, staring at a scramble of near-legible notes.

  Almost noon and she hadn’t got close to nutting out the speech she needed to give this time next month. A formal national dinner with her peers, she wanted her words on the podium to shine and inspire. And yet here she was, scrubbing her brow, wishing she could focus on her words.

  Instead she was thinking about the irascible Alex Wolfe and his penchant for being alternately charming or painfully difficult.

  Each morning she’d show up at Alex’s mansion, and just as routinely he would complain about whatever exercise she asked him to perform. Although his shoulder was free of its sling and they’d progressed to using resistance bands and light weights, clearly he considered the work needlessly repetitive and beneath him. But even demigods had to show humility and face their vulnerabilities sometime. Alex’s time was now. Either that or he might find himself in hospital again—this time, perhaps, under the knife.

  Lately, she felt at her wits’ end. After that day in his garage when personal details had cropped up to momentarily misalign their relationship, she’d let him know that she was there for business and business only, and yet no matter what she suggested or how she suggested it, he seemed more committed to challenging her efforts or creating a more casual atmosphere than anything else. Clearly he didn’t comprehend the possible consequences. But she wasn’t about to roll over and let him run her show, even if a part of her understood his reluctance.

  Doodling a shell alongside her speech salutation, Libby recalled a time when she hadn’t let anyone get through to her either. Where Alex was too ‘above it all,’ during the first weeks of her rehabilitation she’d been filled with anger and frustration. She’d lost the surf, her fiancé … heck, she’d lost a limb. To her mind she didn’t need to work at getting well. What was the point?

  Thank heaven that phase had soon passed and she’d come out the other end valuing, beyond anything, the perseverance of people who had not only stood by her, but had also said, with both patience and courage, how things needed to be if she wanted to get the most out of life. Like those people who had helped her, she wouldn’t give up on Alex, no matter what trivialising tactic he used to try to manipulate the situation. His recovery meant a lot to him. It meant a lot to her too.

  A harried padding of footfalls sounded on the corridor carpet. Short on breath, face flushed, Payton rushed into the room.

  ‘You’ll never guess who’s here!’

  Putting a lid on her surprise, Libby calmly set down her pen and sat straighter. ‘Given that blush, I’m guessing Alex Wolfe.’

  A tall broad-shouldered figure was already stalking up behind Payton. Then Alex was standing in her doorway, smiling that irrepressible smile. Her autonomic reaction to his presence never failed to astound Libby. Her stomach muscles contracted, her insides warmed and glowed and, immediately light-headed, her gaze soaked up the hypnotic message in his eyes, then dipped to appreciate the intoxicating masculine tilt of his lips.

  No wonder poor Payton was beside herself.

  Looking as if she were about to melt, Payton kept her gaze on their visitor. ‘I said you wouldn’t mind if he came straight through.’

  ‘That’s fine, Payton.’ Libby pushed up on slightly unsteady feet. ‘The front bell just rang, if you’d like to see who it is.’

&nbs
p; Edging around their visitor, Payton reluctantly headed off.

  When they were alone, Libby skirted her desk and, leaning against the edge, crossed her arms. ‘This is a surprise.’

  His brows shot up. ‘You don’t remember?’

  Libby stopped breathing. Did they have an appointment she’d forgotten? Not possible.

  ‘Remember what?’

  With that lazy delectable stride that sent her heartbeat racing all the more, he sauntered forward. ‘It’s our two-week anniversary.’

  Libby couldn’t help it. She laughed. In between being chronically difficult, Alex could also be infinitely charming.

  ‘So it is. Happy anniversary.’ Her eyebrows snapped together. ‘You didn’t drive here, did you?’ She’d told him this morning that another couple of days off from civilian driving was safest.

  ‘Although I’m sure I could,’ he told her, ‘I got a ride.’

  ‘A taxi?’

  ‘Limo.’

  Libby’s head kicked back. Hardly the transport of a man who wanted to remain inconspicuous.

  ‘I thought you wanted to lay low?’

  He shrugged. ‘My accident is old news now.’

  She understood his point; today’s headline was tomorrow’s back page small print.

  Although she couldn’t imagine any member of the paparazzi passing on the chance to catch a celebrity of Alex’s stature off the clock.

  Then again Alex might have decided that now his arm was sling-free and stronger, he wouldn’t mind a spot of positive publicity. Either way his rationale on that subject had less than nothing to do with her.

  Casually inspecting her office walls—her degrees, photos and that black-and-white aerial of Sydney circa 1960, predating the Opera House—he strolled further into the room.

  ‘Are you busy?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m always busy.’

  ‘But you’ll need to stop to eat.’

  ‘I usually get in a sandwich,’ she said, vaguely suspicious now.

  He rotated to face her. ‘No sandwich today. Grab your coat.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m taking you to lunch.’

  Libby’s hands fell to clasp the edges of the desk either side of her hips. Not for one moment had she imagined this visit was linked to anything other than his therapy. Since that day in the garage, she’d avoided any talk of a private nature. Having him acknowledge a two-week anniversary was curious enough. Now he was inviting her to lunch? She was near speechless.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate that our relationship should include

  …’

  But her words trailed off. Was that a puppy-dog face he was pulling?

  ‘You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you, doc?’

  ‘Feelings,’ she announced, ‘have nothing to do with it.’ She rounded the desk and lowered purposefully back down into her seat. When their eyes met again, that knee-knocking smile had only spread wider.

  ‘Would it help if I said please?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Collecting her pen, she pretended to focus on her notes. ‘But I have work to do.’

  ‘Client appointments?’

  ‘Guest speech.’

  ‘I’m good with speeches. We can discuss it over lunch.’ From beneath her lashes, she saw him saunter across and her heartbeat began to flutter. ‘Or I can organise take-out. We can have a picnic in here.’ His attention zeroed in on a photo framed behind her. He squinted, then chuckled. ‘Hey, that’s you.’

  Libby groaned. This is why she’d never wanted him in here. Questions. The answers of which were her business and nobody else’s.

  Nevertheless, she acknowledged what was obvious. ‘Yes, that’s me, but a long time ago.’

  She braced herself, waiting for him to ask about her current surfing habits again like he had this morning; she’d rather not discuss it. Instead his gaze swept over and he smiled.

  ‘C’mon, doc. The limo’s waiting.’

  She reclined back and studied him for a drawn-out moment. Finally she huffed.

  ‘You’re not giving up, are you?’

  ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked these past two weeks. We deserve some time-out.’

  ‘You’ve done everything I’ve asked?’

  At her unconvinced look, he let slip a grin. ‘Well, sometimes you might’ve needed to ask twice …’

  A runaway smile stole across her face. Then her gaze fell to her disarray of notes.

  She’d vowed to have this first draft down by the end of the week. But her stomach did feel empty. Maybe her brain would work better after a good meal. And that was the only reason she was going. Although to believe conversation wouldn’t vie toward the personal was naive.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d heard from his sister about his mysterious brother again.

  Giving in, she unfolded from the chair, raised her chin and stipulated, ‘One hour.’

  ‘One hour?’ Alex broke into a broad smile. ‘We’ll discuss it over lunch.’

  Twenty minutes later, Alex’s chauffeur-driven limousine parked outside a quaint-looking restaurant. The high-pitched ornate roof and rattan features suggested an oriental bent. Then Libby caught a whiff of spicy aromas and saw the establishment’s name.

  Malaysian Pearl.

  As the uniformed driver assisted her out, Libby sent Alex a look. ‘Is this place supposed to be a hint of some kind?’

  ‘I figure since I missed the race in Sepang I ought to enjoy some of the flavours of the country I won’t get to visit this year.’

  ‘You’re a fan of Malaysian food?’

  Joining her, he set his palm lightly on the small of her back and winked. ‘The hotter, the better.’

  Libby moved away from his touch. She wasn’t certain he was speaking about curries.

  They moved up the timber plank path, past the peaceful trickling of a rock pebble water feature. Inside they were seated in a private corner, which was cloaked by palm fronds, bamboo dividers and bordered by generous windows overlooking the blue silk-stretched waters of the bay. The interior reflected Eastern symmetry, simplicity and serenity—a smiling Buddha sat on a podium facing the entrance, authentic wooden lamps featured on each table and background music offered the tranquil strains of flutes and tinkling bells.

  Settling in, Libby set her bag aside. ‘You enjoy your stays in Malaysia?’

  ‘I don’t usually see much outside of Sepang. That’s the town and district where the race is held each year. It’s a hop from the international airport to the circuit.’

  Alex sat back while a waiter, who had already seen to the placement of Libby’s linen napkin, now laid a starched white square on the gentleman’s lap. As Libby took in the surrounds and her compelling company, a thought struck her. This was the first time she’d been with Alex in public and she sensed others in the room absorbing and reacting to his appealing air of authority too.

  Was it that some people in the restaurant, including the waiter, recognised Alex out of his racing gear? Or was it as she suspected? That no matter where he might be, Alex Wolfe radiated a presence that commanded attention. Even deference.

  As the waiter moved off, Alex continued. ‘I plan to visit Malaysia purely for a vacation one day.’

  ‘Ever get tired of living out of a suitcase?’ she asked, feeling the beat of her pulse increase at the way his big tanned hand brushed the white tablecloth. His eyes searched hers and he considered her words.

  ‘That’s an interesting question coming from one who would know about such things.’

  A wistful feeling drifted through her. She didn’t think often of those days, travelling the world over for her sport. Better to concentrate on the blessings she’d kept and new opportunities she’d created. But she could easily admit, ‘I loved the travel. Around Australia as much as around the world.’

  His grey eyes glittered. ‘Your favourite port?’

  ‘Brazil is awesome. Malibu for the nostalgia. But … M
aui.’ Remembering the thrill of riding those two and a half metre barrels, she smiled. ‘Yeah. Definitely Maui.’

  ‘Sounds as if you were Australia’s answer to Gidget.’

  She smiled at the connection. ‘A lot of people don’t realise the girl from that old movie and series was based on a real person.’

  ‘The first female world champion?’

  ‘ Gidget was written in the fifties.’ Libby still owned the copy she’d picked up at a second-hand store the summer she’d turned thirteen. ‘The first female championship wasn’t until 1964. Won by a Sydneyite,’ she noted with pride. ‘She was awarded two hundred and fifty dollars, a new surfboard and several packets of cigarettes.’

  He laughed, an easy sound that made Libby feel as if they’d known each other for years. ‘The things you learn on a date with your physio.’

  Libby’s smile fell at the same time her heart rolled over. This wasn’t a date. This was lunch with a client. A handsome client with incredibly strong features and soft grey eyes that seemed to be inviting her in.

  Shifting in her chair, Libby collected her food menu, although she suddenly felt so flustered she couldn’t concentrate on the words.

  Alex collected his menu too, and after a time commented, ‘I rang my brother.’

  Her gaze shot up and menu went down. ‘Jacob?’

  ‘Think I told you we haven’t seen each other since he left all those years ago.’

  ‘That must have been hard. Your oldest brother leaving without a word.’

  ‘I don’t think he had any option.’

  When he beckoned the waiter over, Libby leaned forward. Elbows on the table, she laced her fingers and rested her chin on the bridge. After that day in his amazing garage when she’d learned Alex knew of her surfing history, she’d been taken so off guard, had felt so undercut, she vowed never to talk personal again. And she’d stuck to that.

  But so what if the fact she’d had an accident happened to come up? It would make no difference to her attitude or commitment to their sessions, and shouldn’t she give Alex the benefit of the doubt that he would still value her abilities as a physio? As a human being?