Fearless Maverick (12 page)

 
          
‘You
said you’d already worked out this morning.’ She crossed to her bag, retrieved
her apricot kernel oil and moved to the massage table. ‘Can you come over here
and lie down?’ She added over her shoulder, ‘Shirt off again, please.’

 
          
‘Libby,
I don’t want a massage.’

 
          
She
tried to ignore the ripple of frustration in his tone. Whether this morning was
awkward was inconsequential. He’d overdone his exercises and a remedial massage
was the right call. If he wanted to get back on track, he’d best suck it up and
do as he was told.

 
          
‘Sounds
as if you’ve overexerted the muscles,’ she said. ‘I’m going to work over the
accumulation of trigger points—those painful knots—that are restricting your
range of movement.’ His chin down, he exhaled and continued to glare the other
way. She fisted her hands on her hips. ‘Do you want to get back as soon as
possible or don’t you?’

 
          
His
penetrating gaze hooked back onto hers at the same time his palm slid up his
right arm. She wondered if his ego was dented enough that he might be done with
it and order her out. But then he shrugged back out of his shirt and joined
her.

 
          
Her
stomach muscles squeezed like they did whenever he was near—particularly when
he was half naked—but she clicked her mind onto professional mode, uncapped the
oil and arranged some towels, which were laid on a tray near the table.

 
          
‘Spread
out,’ she said. He hoisted himself up and lay down. ‘Now just relax and we’ll
have those muscles loosened up in no time.’

 
          
Starting
lightly, she kneaded the area to warm up the tissue. After finding several
trigger points, she used her thumbs and fingers to press and manipulate,
gradually applying more and more pressure. Five minutes in, when she began to
drill a particularly stubborn knot, he jumped.

 
          
‘
Aahh!
You’re a bit vigorous there, doc.’

 
          
‘Stay
with me,’ she said. ‘We’ll work out these problems, then you’ll need to drop
down your exercises for a few days and start back with lower repetitions.’

 
          
‘I
don’t have that time.’

 
          
Setting
her jaw, she stopped rubbing.
Enough
.

 
          
‘If
you’d prefer, I can help you find someone else.’

 
          
Dammit,
she knew what she was doing and he could either work with her or find another
physio. She was over the tiptoe show, on every level. It was difficult but if
she could control her inappropriate feelings toward him, surely Alex could
shelf his as well.

 
          
The
tension locking his scapulas loosened. He faced the sheet once again and
muttered, ‘Do what you have to.’

 
          
Half
satisfied, Libby applied more oil and soon she was in the zone again, doing
what she did best—letting her fingers work their magic, giving a client’s
impaired muscles new life.

 
          
Alex
lay on that table like a good patient, gritting his teeth as Libby kneaded and
rubbed and slid her hands over his apricot-scented knot-infested back. When she
hit a spot that shot a hot bolt screaming through to his chest, this time he
curled his toes and bit off the groan. He and remedial massages weren’t
strangers but he could tell
this
technique was truly hitting the mark. Not only that. The touching and rocking
was also expelling barrel loads of all kinds of endorphins. Given he’d decided
it wiser not to pursue those feelings where Libby was concerned, this was not a
good thing.

 
          
For
Libby’s part, he knew this time was strictly about his shoulder. Nothing lay
behind her tactile attentions other than her need to do the best she could for
his recovering injury and rectify the setback he had brought about; trying to
work Libby and memories of that kiss out of his system, he’d pushed himself too
hard with the bands this morning. From
his
current position, however—a purely male point of view—her organic manipulations
were working more than one kind of wonder.

 
          
He
and Libby had touched before. Yesterday when they’d embraced, he’d dwelled on
how good it would feel to experience more. Now, through this ultra hands-on
method, he’d got a big insight into that and the buzz was having its effects in
places he couldn’t control.

 
          
‘How
does that feel?’ she asked.

 
          
Eyes
closed, he sighed. To be honest? ‘Fabulous.’

 
          
Her
palm gave one last glorious sweep of his warmed skin. ‘Make sure you rest over
the weekend.’

 
          
Frowning,
he cracked open one eye. It was over?

 
          
‘You
can’t leave yet.’ He groaned, groggy—aroused—then, knowing insistence wouldn’t
work, he appealed to her professional sense of compassion. ‘There’s still a
twinge in my traps.’

 
          
Her
brows jumped. ‘Oh?’

 
          
She
inspected the area, shook out more oil and then her hands were working over his
back again and that delicious buzz circulating through his system grew stronger.
Burned brighter.

 
          
After
a few moments, she asked, ‘Does that feel better?’

 
          
With
his cheek rubbing against the sheet, he hummed out a smile. ‘Definitely.’

 
          
When
her fingers lingered, then trailed slowly away, he wondered if a smidgeon of
private pleasure had leaked into her professional sphere as well. After that
kiss he didn’t buy that she wasn’t interested in him in a XY kind of way. He
was close to certain she wouldn’t stymie his return to the track earlier than
Morrissey had subscribed. Therefore he didn’t need to worry about building up
more of a rapport … doing what he could to make certain she was on his side. In
fact, he’d decided trying to push the intimacy point now might prove
detrimental to his primary goal.

 
          
Better
for everyone concerned if he simply backed off, no matter how his current
testosterone levels might object.

 
          
She
left off to wipe her hands. ‘All the bumps are gone now,’ she said.

 
          
That
wasn’t entirely true, he thought as he pushed up and gingerly swung his legs
over the table’s side. Beneath his shorts, his erection was of the opinion that
all this rubbing was deeply personal. Grabbing a towel off the tray, he let its
tail hang and cover the front of his shorts as he fake-rubbed his chest.

 
          
‘Drink
plenty of water.’ Recapping her oil, she gave a practiced smile. ‘I’ll see you
Monday.’

 
          
As
she crossed to her bag, still holding his towel, he edged off the table. No
question, he should let her be on her way. Then maybe he could call up a few
friends, organise a weekend in Paris or Milan. Anywhere away from here. All
this tension … He merely needed to shake loose and get out.

 
          
So
what was stopping him?

 
          
He
took two steps toward her, stopped, then, driven, took another.

 
          
‘About
yesterday …’ he began.

 
          
‘It’s
in the past. There’s nothing to say.’ She stuffed the plastic bottle away and
lobbed the bag over her shoulder.

 
          
He
exhaled. Absently rubbed his chest again. She was right. He even said it aloud.

 
          
‘You’re
right.’

 
          
‘Remember,
take a rest until I see you next.’

 
          
Clutching
that towel, he walked forward to see her out. ‘I won’t lift a single weight,’
he confirmed. ‘I won’t even think of this room.’

 
          
I definitely won’t think of you
.

 
          
Her
brow slowly creased; she’d noticed him advancing and took a step back. ‘I can
see myself out.’

 
          
‘If
you prefer. There’s just one thing.’

 
          
‘What’s
that?’

 
          
‘What
happened …’ His hand fisted in the towel before he tossed it aside. ‘It’s not
in the past.’

 
          
Her
eyes rounded with alarm. ‘Alex, you agreed. There’s nothing more to say.’

 
          
‘Correct.
I’m all done talking.’

 
          
With
his good arm, he reached and drew her near. He saw her eyes flare and knew a
moment when she might have told him to back off and let her be. But then the
breath seemed to leave her body, her lids grew heavy and he saw her heart
glistening there in her eyes. He was right. This situation—this maddening push
and pull—couldn’t go on. Now was the time to end it. And end it his way.

 
          
Even
as Alex’s head slanted over hers and Libby drifted off into the caress, some
weak, desperate part of her cried out that this should not,
could
not, happen. But as the kiss
deepened and her head grew light, eventually she forgot the reasons why. The
slow velvet slide of his tongue over hers, the way his hands pressed her
gloriously near … she could only wonder at the amount of strength it had taken
yesterday to tear herself away.

 
          
This
may be dangerous, but it felt so infinitely right. This minute she only knew
she was absorbed by sensation. Absorbed, and lifted up, by him.

 
          
Her
palms ironed up over his bare hot chest at the same time his hands pressed down
over her back. His head angled as he curled over her, his touch sculpting her
behind, hooking around her thigh and urging it to curl around his hip as his
pelvis locked with hers. She felt the perspiration building on his skin, the
glide of his hand scrooping around her thigh, sliding lower toward her knee—

 
          
Breathless—terrified—she
yanked away.

 
          
Oh,
God, she’d vowed this wouldn’t happen again.

 
          
She didn’t want him to know
.

 
          
‘This
is a working relationship,’ she grated out, trembling.

 
          
‘Who
says it can’t be more?’

 
          
Alex
gathered her in and the next she knew they were kissing again, and this time he
wasn’t playing. Now he delivered his full punch, and the effects left her
reeling, helpless. Giddy. He whipped up a hurricane inside of her, a dark
powerful storm that tossed her off course and hurled her places that promised
such blissful satisfaction. But the edges of her mind were still calling. As
much as she might want to—and she wanted to so badly—she couldn’t go through
with any of this.

 
          
This
time when she broke the kiss, their lips remained close. She couldn’t get
enough air. Couldn’t stop the hot flood of emotion.

 
          
‘You
don’t … don’t understand.’

 
          
His
brow furrowed and eyes turned dark. He shook his head. ‘No, Libby, I’m afraid I
don’t.’ He searched her eyes. ‘Has someone hurt you?’

 
          
She
wanted to tell him everything. Say, yes, as a matter of fact she
had
been hurt and deeply. She’d had a
wonderful life, what she thought had been a wonderful fiancé, then the world
had crashed in and she hadn’t been with a man since. When Scott had rejected
her—when his tight expression had told her the thought of touching her repelled
him—it had left scars that made her leg injury seem like a scratch.