Fearless Maverick (2 page)

 
          
Still,
there’d been some good times as kids growing up. Alex had surrendered to a
smile when Annabelle’s email also mentioned that Nathaniel, the youngest of the
Wolfe clan—or of the legitimate children, at least—was tying the knot. A talent
behind the lens for many years now, Annabelle was to be the official
photographer. Alex had followed recent news of his actor brother in the papers …
the night Nathaniel had walked out on his stage debut in the West End had
caused a terrific stir. Then had come his Best Actor win last month in LA.

 
          
Alex
absently rubbed his shoulder.

 
          
Little
brother was all grown up, successful and apparently in love. Made him realise
how much time had passed. How scattered they all were. He best remembered
Nathaniel when he was little more than a skinny kid finding his own form of
escape through entertaining his siblings, even at the expense of a backhand or
two from the old man.

 
          
Voices
filtered in and Alex’s thoughts jumped back. Across the room it seemed Jerry
and

 
          
Morrissey
had finished their powwow and were ready to join him again.

 
          
His
eyebrows knitted, the doctor removed his glasses. ‘I’ll attempt to reduce that
joint now. The sooner it’s intact again, the better. We’re organising transport
to Windsor Private for those follow-up tests.’

 
          
‘And
when the tests come back?’ Alex asked.

 
          
‘There’ll
be discussions with specialists to ascertain whether surgery’s needed—’

 
          
Alex’s
pulse rate spiked. ‘
Whoa
. Slow down.
Surgery?’

 
          
‘—
or
more likely some rest combined with a
rehabilitation plan. It’s not the first time this has happened. That shoulder’s
going to need some time,’ Morrissey said, tapping his glasses at the air to
help make his point. ‘Don’t fool yourself it won’t.’

 
          
‘So
long as I’m back in the cockpit in time to qualify in Malaysia.’

 
          
‘Next
weekend?’ Morrissey headed for his desk. ‘Sorry, but you can forget about that.’

 
          
Ignoring
the twist of fresh pain, Alex propped up on his left elbow and forced a wry
laugh. ‘I think I’m the best judge of whether I’m fit to drive or not.’

 
          
‘Like
you judged which tyres to kick off the race?’

 
          
Alex
slid a look over to Jerry Squires at the same time his neck went hot and a
retort burned to break free. But no good would come from indulging his temper
when the frustration roiling inside of him should be directed at no one other
than himself. No matter which way you sliced it, he’d messed up. Now, like it
or not, he needed to knuckle down and play ball … but only for a finite period
and largely on his own terms. Because make no mistake—if he had to miss the
next race, he’d be in Shanghai for Round Four if it killed him.

 
          
First
up he’d need to shake any press off his tail. After such a spectacular crash,
questions regarding injuries and how they might impact on his career would be
rife. The photographer jackals would be on the prowl, desperate to snap the
shot of the season—the Fangio of his time, the great Alex Wolfe, grimacing in
pain, his arm useless in a sling. Damned if he’d let the paparazzi depict him
as a pitiful invalid.

 
          
Privacy
was therefore a priority. Any recuperating would happen at his reclusive Rose
Bay residence in Sydney. He’d source a professional who understood and valued
the unique code elite athletes lived by. Someone who was exceptional at their
work but who might also appreciate a lopsided grin or possibly an invitation to
dinner when he was next in town, in exchange for which she would provide the
medical all clear needed to get him back behind the wheel in time for Round
Four qualifying.

 
          
As
the painkiller kicked in and the screaming in his shoulder became more a raw
groan, Alex closed his eyes and eased back against the gurney.

 
          
When
his shoulder was popped back in and those initial tests were out of the way, he’d
set his assistant, Eli Steele, on the case. He needed to find the right
physiotherapist for the job. And he needed to find her fast. He’d lost far too
much in his life.

 
          
God
help him, he wasn’t losing this.

 
          
AS
HER car cruised up a tree-lined drive belonging to one of the most impressive
houses she’d ever seen, Libby Henderson blew the long bangs off her brow and
again spooled through every one of her
‘I
can do this’
and
‘There’s nothing to
be nervous about’
affirmations.

 
          
As
her stomach churned, Libby recalled how not so long ago she’d been a supremely
self-confident type. Nothing had frightened her. Nothing had held her back.
That verve had propelled her to dizzy heights—a place where she’d felt secure
and alive and even admired. Twice Female World Surfing Champion. There were
times she still couldn’t believe that fabulous ride had ended the way it had.

 
          
From
an early age she’d taken to the surf. Libby’s parents had always referred to
her as their little mermaid. Growing up she’d trained every minute she could
grab—kayaking, swimming, body surfing, as well as honing her skills on a board.

 
          
Nothing
had felt better than the endorphins and burn she’d got from pushing beyond her
limits.

 
          
Being
a world champion had been the ultimate buzz—fabulous sponsors, high-end
magazine spreads, the chance to speak with and even coach youngsters eager to
surf their way up through the ranks. Out ahead, for as far as she could see,
the horizon shone with amazing possibilities. Her accident had changed that.

 
          
But,
thankfully, there’d been a life after celebrity and elite athlete status, just
a different life. When she’d overcome the worst of her accident, she’d thrown
herself into the study she’d previously set aside and had attained a Bachelor
of Health Sciences in Physiotherapy at Sydney’s Bond University. She was beyond
grateful her determination and hard work was paying off—today better than she’d
ever dreamed.

 
          
As
she swerved around the top end of the drive now, Libby recalled this morning’s
unexpected phone call. None other than Alex Wolfe, the British-born motor
racing champ who’d come to grief at the weekend, had requested her services. Mr
Wolfe’s assistant, an efficient-sounding man by the name of Eli Steele, had
relayed that he and Mr Wolfe had researched specialists in her profession
extensively and had decided that her credentials best suited Mr Wolfe’s current
needs with regard to the shoulder injury he’d sustained.

 
          
Libby
had to wonder precisely what credentials Eli referred to.

 
          
She
worked almost exclusively with injured athletes but she’d never treated anyone
near as renowned as this man. Perhaps Alex Wolfe, or his assistant, was aware
of her former life, Libby surmised, slotting the auto shift into park and
shutting down the engine. But had they dug deep enough to unearth how the final
chapter of that part of her life had ended?

 
          
After
opening the car door, Libby swung her legs out. Pushing to her feet, she
surveyed the magnificent ultra-modern home as well as the surrounding pristine
lawns and gardens. Rendered white with ultramarine and hardwood trims, the Rose
Bay double-storey mansion spanned almost the entire width of the vast block.
She imagined numerous bedrooms, each with their own en suite and spa bath. An
indoor heated pool would provide luxurious laps during winter while an
Olympic-size outdoor pool with trickling water features and, perhaps, a
man-made beach would be the go during Sydney’s often scorching summer months.

 
          
Straightening
the jacket of her cream and black-trim pants-suit, Libby craned her neck. A
grand forecourt, decorated with trellised yellow-bell jasmine and topiaries set
in waist-high terracotta pots, soared around her. Her eyes drifting shut, she
inhaled nature’s sweet perfume and hummed out a sigh. In her sporting heyday,
she’d earned good money but nothing compared with this unabashed show of
wealth. Of course, the lucrative runoffs from the Alex Wolfe range of
aftershave, clothing and computer games would contribute handsomely to his
fortune. Charm, money, movie-star looks. Hell, Alex Wolfe had it all.

 
          
A
thoroughly sexy voice, with a very posh English accent, broke into her
thoughts.

 
          
‘I
agree. It’s a cracking day. Perhaps we ought to chat out here.’

 
          
It
started in her belly … a pleasant tingling heat that flooded her body in the
same instant her eyes snapped wide open. On that extensive front patio,
directly in front of her, stood a man.
The
man.

 
          
Alex
Wolfe.

 
          
An
embarrassing eternity passed before her stunned brain swam to the surface.
Frankly, she’d never experienced a sight—a
vision
—quite
like the one openly assessing her now. His lopsided grin was lazy, carving
attractive grooves either side of a spellbinding mouth. His hair was a
stylishly messy dark blond, the length of which curled off the collar of a teal-coloured
polo shirt. And what about those shoulders! Mouthwateringly broad.
Ubermasculine.

 
          
And
let’s not forget, Libby warned herself, sucking down a breath, the
only
reason she was here.

 
          
Stopping
long enough to think about which foot to put forward first, Libby pinned on a
warm but businesslike smile and moved to join her newest client, whom, she
noticed now, also wore a navy blue immobiliser sling.

 
          
‘I
believe you were expecting me. I’m Libby Henderson. I was just admiring your
home and gardens.’

 
          
He
surveyed the vast front lawns and nodded as a gentle harbour breeze lifted dark
blond hair off his brow. ‘I always enjoy my stints in Australia,’ he said. ‘The
weather’s brilliant.’ Gorgeous soft grey eyes hooked back onto hers as he
cocked his head. ‘I’d offer you my hand but …’

 
          
‘Your
right shoulder’s giving you problems.’

 
          
‘Nothing
too serious,’ he said, stepping aside to welcome her in.

 
          
Entering
the foyer, which gave the modest size of her Manly apartment a decent run for
its money, Libby considered his last comment. If Mr Wolfe’s in jury had been
enough to land him in hospital and warrant subsequent intensive treatment
ordered by his team doctor, clearly it was serious enough. Her job was to make
certain that full range of motion and strength returned and, despite any
downplaying on his part, that’s precisely what she intended to do. Men like
Alex Wolfe wanted to get back to it, and
now
.
She understood that. Unfortunately, however, sometimes that wasn’t possible.

 
          
Forcing
herself not to gape at the storybook multi-tiered staircase or the
mirror-polished marble floors, Libby instead turned to her host as he closed
the twelve-foot-high door. She suppressed a wry grin. Must be the butler’s day
off.

 
          
‘Can
I offer you a refreshment, Ms Henderson?’

 
          
As
he passed to lead her through the spacious white, almost austere vestibule,
Libby’s thoughts stuck on what should have been a simple question. But his tone
implied that rather than coffee, any refreshment he offered might include
something as social as champagne.

 
          
‘I’m
fine, thank you,’ she replied, unable to keep her gaze from straying to the
fluid style of his gait in those delectable custom-made black trousers as he
moved off. Would he detect any peculiarities in her stride if their positions
were reversed—she in front, he behind? But surely a man who’d dated super
models and at least one European princess wouldn’t be interested enough to
notice.