Fearless Maverick (3 page)

 
          
‘We’ll
talk in the sunroom.’ Stopping before a set of double doors, he fanned open one
side and she moved through.

 
          
After
he’d closed this door too, he headed for a U-shaped group of three snowy-white
leather couches. Beyond soaring arched windows sat that magnificent outdoor
pool she’d imagined as well as a glamorous spa and stylish white wicker setting.
A pool house, which mimicked the main building’s design, looked large enough to
accommodate a family of four as well as friends. Positioned beyond the pool
area was a massive storage block—she suspected a huge garage. All the world
knew Mr Wolfe liked his cars.

 
          
He
gestured to the closest couch. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

 
          
Libby
lowered back against the cushions and set her feet neatly together. Rather than
taking up position on the opposite couch, Alex Wolfe settled down alongside of
her. A flush crept up her neck and lit her cheeks. This man’s magnetism was a
tangible, remarkable thing. His proximity to her on this couch couldn’t be
deemed as inappropriate—at least an arm’s length separated them—and yet she
couldn’t ignore the
pull
. Not that Mr
Wolfe would purposely be sending out those kinds of vibes. He was simply …
well, he was only …

 
          
Oh,
dammit, he was
sexy
—beyond anything
she’d ever experienced before.

 
          
As
a film of perspiration cooled her nape, Libby edged an inch away while, holding
the sling’s elbow, Alex stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. His feet
were large, the shoes Italian. She noticed those things nowadays.

 
          
‘So,
Ms Henderson, what do you have for me?’

 
          
‘I’ve
studied the MRI scans,’ she began, her gaze tracing the line of that sling, ‘as
well as the orthopaedic surgeon’s report outlining the details of the injury.
Seems your shoulder didn’t suffer a complete dislocation, but rather a
subluxation. Do you know what that means?’

 
          
‘My
shoulder didn’t pop completely.’

 
          
She
nodded. ‘In layman’s terms, that’s precisely it.’

 
          
When
that amazing subtle smile lighting his eyes touched his mouth, Libby’s tummy
fluttered and she cleared her throat.
Yes,
he’s an incredibly attractive man but, for God’s sake, concentrate!
Her goal
here wasn’t to get all starry-eyed but to have Alex Wolfe walk away from this
episode fully recovered and bursting with glowing reports of her services.
Hopefully, then, more of his ilk would follow and her reputation in her present
career would be secured.

 
          
When
she’d returned to her studies, she’d decided she wanted to work with elite
athletes, that special breed that needed someone who not only understood how
their bodies worked but also their minds, and who were prepared to do whatever
it took to get back on top. Libby only wished she’d been given that option.

 
          
Centring
her attention again, she threaded her fingers and set them on her lap. ‘Your
medical records outline ligament damage to that shoulder in your teens.’

 
          
His
eyes clouded over for an instant, so stormy and distant she might have
mentioned the devil. But then his smile returned, and more hypnotic than
before.

 
          
‘I
came off a motorbike.’

 
          
She
nodded. A natural thrillseeker, of course he’d have started out on two wheels. ‘I
see.’

 
          
‘Do
you like motor sports?’

 
          
‘I
was more a water girl.’

 
          
‘Swimming?
Skiing?’

 
          
That
flush returned, a hot rash creeping over the entire length of her body. Feeling
colour soak into her cheeks, she glanced down, unclasped her hands and smoothed
the centre creases of her trousers. They weren’t here to discuss her history.

 
          
‘I
have another appointment this afternoon, so perhaps we’d best stay on point.’

 
          
His
gaze sharpened, assessing her, and he sat back. ‘I imagine your practice keeps
you busy, Ms Henderson.’

 
          
‘Busy
enough.’

 
          
‘But
not on weekends.’

 
          
‘I
work some Saturdays.’

 
          
‘Not
Sundays?’

 
          
She
blinked. ‘You think you’ll need me Sundays too?’

 
          
‘Let’s
make it every weekday for now.’

 
          
‘Much
of the work you can do without my help. Every second day would be sufficient.’

 
          
‘Every
week day,’ he reiterated before smiling again. ‘Don’t worry, Ms Henderson. I
promise my current predicament is extremely short-term.’

 
          
Libby’s
breath left her lungs in a quiet rush. This man was a living legend. Revered by
millions all over the world. He was the sporting hero that boys chasing one
another in parks pretended to be. Was he being intentionally snide? Or just
plain ‘I am invincible’ arrogant? Libby knew better than most.

 
          
No
one was invincible.

 
          
‘We
were discussing your previous injury,’ she went on in an implacable tone, ‘which
could well have made you more susceptible to subsequent injuries. Let me
explain.’ She shifted back against the cushions. ‘A joint dislocation, or
luxation
from the Latin, occurs when
bones that join become displaced or misaligned usually through a sudden impact.
The joint capsule, cartilage and ligaments become damaged. A subluxation, as
occurred in your situation, Mr Wolfe, is a partial dislocation, which can occur
as a result of previous damage to the surrounding structures of the shoulder.
Either way there will be a weakening of the muscles and ligaments which need
physiotherapy to help stabilise the joint.’

 
          
He
was looking at her, his head slightly angled, a peculiar, flattering gleam in
his eyes.

 
          
‘I
see.’

 
          
She
held her breath against an unbidden flare of emotion, cleared her throat and
focused again. ‘With your hands on the wheel, the impact from the accident
jarred your right humerus, which then sat anteriorly from the—’

 
          
His
deep soft laugh interrupted her. ‘Rewind a little, doc.’

 
          
‘I’m
not a doctor.’ She wanted to be clear on her qualifications. ‘I have a Bachelor
of Health Sciences with honours and am a member of the Australian Physiotherapy
Association.’

 
          
‘And
for now you are the lady who holds my future in the palm of her hand. I’ll call
you “doc.” With your permission, of course.’

 
          
Libby
stiffened. Talk about pressure. But then, he was paying the bill. She gave a
hesitant half-shrug.

 
          
‘I
suppose … if it makes you feel more comfortable.’

 
          
His
gaze dipped to her lips, then caught her eyes again. ‘So—
doc
—you were saying.’

 
          
‘Your
humerus—’ She stopped and bunched one hand to demonstrate. ‘The
ball
slid partially out of its joint and
needed to be manipulated back into the centre of your glenoid cavity, or
socket.’ She cupped her palm, pushed her fist in and locked the ‘ball,’ then
disengaged it again.

 
          
‘Right.
The ball—’ his own hand bunched ‘—goes into the socket.’ He fit his big hard
hot fist inside her still-elevated palm.

 
          
At
the instant of contact, Libby’s internal alarm blared and she jerked away.

 
          
Their
eyes locked—his questioning, hers, she knew, wide and exposed. That tingling in
her belly had intensified and the suddenly sensitive tips of her breasts
tightened and ached.

 
          
But
when one corner of his mouth hooked up the barest amount, Libby was brought
back. As casually as possible, she scooped some hair behind an ear and willed
her cantering heartbeat to slow. Crazy to even consider but …

 
          
Was
he
flirting
with her? She couldn’t be
sure. He was a superstar and …

 
          
It’d
been such a long time.

 
          
Her
last intimate relationship had ended four months after her accident. She’d
thought fellow pro surfer Scott Wilkinson had been the sexist man alive, but
Scott was an amateur compared to Alex Wolfe. This man’s power to captivate with
a simple look, the slightest touch, was palpable. She’d like to meet the woman
who was immune to the magic of that smile. Charm was as instinctive to this man
as his taking a corner at death-defying speeds. That wasn’t to imply he would
in any way be interested in checking her track out, so to speak.

 
          
More
to the point,
she
wasn’t interested
in a quick spin with him either.

 
          
Schooling
her features, Libby straightened her spine and focused on business. ‘We’ll need
to concentrate on a series of strengthening rehabilitative exercises.’

 
          
‘Sounds
good.’

 
          
‘When
would you like to begin, Mr Wolfe?’

 
          
‘Call
me Alex.’

 
          
A
perfectly reasonable request, she decided, noticing how his grey eyes seemed to
sparkle at her nod of accent. ‘What if I set up a timetable—?’

 
          
‘I
thought we could start tomorrow.’

 
          
‘Tomorrow’s
fine.’ Her voice lowered to a serious note. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you
that we’ll need to work hard. Consistently.’

 
          
‘I’ve
no doubt you’ll bring me through in time.’

 
          
Frowning,
she cast her mind back. Had she overlooked something?

 
          
‘In
time for what?’

 
          
‘I’ll
miss Round Three this weekend.’ A muscle in his cheek flexed twice. ‘Can’t be
helped, I’m afraid. Round Four’s three weeks subsequent to that.’

 
          
Libby
almost laughed. He was joking. But while his expression might be relaxed, the
set of his square jaw was firm. He’d never been more serious in his life.

 
          
‘I
was told you’d been declared unfit by your team’s doctor to drive
professionally for at least six weeks.’

 
          
‘We’ll
prove him wrong.’

 
          
She
sat forward. He should be set straight.

 
          
‘Your
trackside physician wasn’t able to perform the reduction. As you’d have been
told many times now, delay can cause complications. An axial view showed stripping
of the inferior glenoid and rotator cuff tearing …’

 
          
Her
words dropped away as any patience she’d seen in his eyes on the subject
cooled.

 
          
‘My
assistant informs me,’ he said, ‘that your clients think you perform miracles.’

 
          
‘I’m
not a saint, Mr Wolfe.’

 
          
‘
Alex
. And, believe me, I’m not after a
saint.’