Fearless Maverick (25 page)

 
          
WHEN
Libby’s cell phone rang, she reached to pick up. Then she saw the ID and her
hand snatched back.

 
          
She
had no appointments this morning. She’d told Payton she’d be in late—her
bookkeeping needed attention and she could do that away from the office. After
dressing, she’d packed up her laptop, took a walk and had ended up here, at the
café where she and Alex had breakfast together those weeks before. She’d
ordered pancakes and had forced her mind upon work. Too much time had been
wasted on the frustrating question of Alex Wolfe.

 
          
Whenever
thoughts of the weekend they’d spent together seeped in, she thrust them away.
Two weeks on, those couple of days simply didn’t seem real. If she hadn’t kept
the magazine shots and pearl charm, she might think that time with Alex was
nothing but some fantastic dream.

 
          
The
public must have thought so too. After the day that obnoxious reporter had
hounded her, the paparazzi’s interest had died. Instinct must have told them
there wasn’t an ongoing story and instinct was right.

 
          
So
why was Alex calling now? What did she have that he could possibly want? After
the way he’d treated her, she sure as hell wanted nothing from him.

 
          
By
the time her mind stopped spinning, the phone had quit ringing, and the smell
of coffee and natter of early-morning café patrons filtered back. With a pulse
drumming in her ears, Libby retrieved the message. As she listened to the rich
timbre of his voice, her head began to tingle and, after a time, she remembered
to breathe.

 
          
Alex
wanted her to come to his Rose Bay home. He was there, waiting for her now. He
could send a car if she preferred. Then his voice deepened and he said that he
was sorry for the way he’d behaved, the way he’d dismissed her when she’d
obviously felt so bad about what had happened.

 
          
Libby’s
back went up.

 
          
He
was sorry?

 
          
So
he
should
be.

 
          
But
then she wondered. Today, Friday, was the first qualifying round in Spain. In
the paper, on the sports news, everyone had been saying that Alex Wolfe was
back and ready to take pole position this Saturday in Catalunya. And yet he was
here in Sydney?

 
          
Libby
quarrelled with herself for another ten minutes before she packed up, slid into
her car and drove to Rose Bay with her fingers clenching the wheel and her
heart in her throat the whole way. If he wanted to see her, hey, she wanted to
see him too, but not for let’s-kiss-and-make-up time, if that’s what he
expected. She could think of only one reason for Alex being here rather than in
Spain. He’d re-injured that shoulder during practice and had decided to
reinvest in his original blindly trusty physio. To even
think
he believed she would roll over and do his bidding after the
way he’d cast her off made her blood boil.

 
          
When
she pulled up at his lavish home, memories of that fateful first day
resurfaced. Unbelievably, the nerves mixing in her stomach were even worse
today. But that wouldn’t stop her from finally giving Alex a piece of her mind.
He’d better have hold of his seatbelt.

 
          
Stealing
herself, Libby moved up those front steps, pressed the doorbell and, counting
her heartbeats, impatiently looked around. About to press again, the door
fanned open. She thought she was prepared for this meeting, but standing framed
by that soaring doorway, Alex looked so regal and fresh and handsome and …

 
          
Near
.

 
          
Coming
back, Libby straightened and balled up her hands. She would
not
let herself be distracted. She had a
score to settle—an ego to cut down to size—and this was the time to do it.

 
          
Libby
nodded a cool greeting. ‘How are you, Alex?’

 
          
‘I’m
good. Great actually.’ With his usual casual grace, he stepped aside. ‘Please,
come in.’

 
          
‘I
thought you’d be busy on the track,’ she said with remarkable poise as she
skirted around and moved inside.

 
          
As
he shut the door, she turned, ready to tell him that if his shoulder was still
troubling him, he had better find someone else because she was no longer
available. And if purple pigs had begun to fly and he was after some female
companionship, he could wind out his string and go fly a kite. But before she
could start, Alex was explaining about Spain.

 
          
As
they stood in the massive foyer’s soft fans of light, he recalled the
excitement in the Spanish pits and how his team manager had watched and
re-watched his spectacular crash. He admitted that, although his shoulder had
been cleared in time for Spain, at the last moment he accepted that his current
weakened condition wouldn’t do his team any favours. And so, unbelievably, he’d
stepped aside from racing until further notice. Then he described a young boy
he’d met in Pit Row. A boy who dreamed of racing and being just like his hero,
Alex Wolfe.

 
          
Despite
her agenda, as Alex’s story unfolded, Libby found herself absorbed.

 
          
‘I
gave Carlos, that boy,’ he explained, ‘my medal from Carter White.’

 
          
Libby’s
head kicked back. The medal his mentor had made and given him all those years
ago? It meant so much to Alex. She couldn’t accept that he’d handed it over to
a stranger.

 
          
‘But
why?’ she asked.

 
          
‘It
was time.’

 
          
‘Time
for what?’

 
          
‘To
accept the past and move ahead with my future.’

 
          
He
said this boy, Carlos, had no father. Alex had set up a personal sponsorship to
help with the boy’s education and passion for cars. While he was on sabbatical
he intended to scout for more talented teens who could use a little help.

 
          
When
he took her hand, Libby was so taken aback by all she’d heard, she lacked the
presence of mind to pull away.

 
          
‘I
came back, Libby. I’ve missed you.’ He searched her eyes. ‘I was hoping that
you’d missed me too.’

 
          
He
looked at her with such intense emotion. With obvious desire. But instead of
being moved the way he so obviously hoped she would be, all the feelings she’d
unintentionally put on the back-burner since stepping into this house came
bubbling up in a thick hot rush. Tears prickled behind her eyes. How dare he
lay all that on her, then tell her that he missed her, as if he hadn’t
discarded her so callously before he’d left. As if he truly cared.

 
          
‘You
haven’t mentioned the note you had Eli deliver to me,’ she said, struggling to
keep her voice level. She was angry. Hurt. And, dammit, justified in feeling
that way.

 
          
He
looked sheepish. ‘I needed to get back on track.’

 
          
‘Pity
you didn’t quite manage it.’

 
          
His
eyes flashed before he stepped closer and she had to arch her neck to look into
his stormy gaze. ‘Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? Don’t you know why
I’m here?’

 
          
‘Not
to have me work on your shoulder?’ she mocked.

 
          
His
brows drew in. ‘Of course not.’

 
          
‘Then
I’m guessing you’d like to sleep with me again.’

 
          
‘Don’t
reduce it to that,’ he growled.

 
          
Emotion
swelled and clogged her throat. ‘You shut the door in my face,’ she ground out,
‘flicked me away like a fly, and you honestly think I’ll throw my arms around
you now?’

 
          
‘I
said I was wrong,’ he stated. ‘I apologised.’

 
          
She
glared at him, then turned to leave.

 
          
Apology not accepted
.

 
          
But
he caught her wrist. When her fiery gaze met his, his expression was set,
assured … and at the same time wary.

 
          
He
almost smiled. ‘You don’t want to go.’

 
          
‘You
don’t know what I want.’

 
          
‘Then
I’ll tell you what
I
want.’

 
          
He
scooped her close, and before she could think to wind away, his mouth was
covering hers and all the nights she’d spent dreaming of him, all the times she’d
wanted to cry, came leaping up. He’d left her. She’d thought he was never
coming back, and yet here he was, holding her, kissing her, telling her that …

 
          
That he still wanted her
.

 
          
She
didn’t want to kiss him back. She wanted to break away.
Run
away. She had more self-respect, more moral strength, than
this.

 
          
But
as the kiss deepened, and the flames licking at her veins multiplied and
spread, gradually, somehow effortlessly, she felt her arms lift, circling and
helping to press her body against his. If this was a dream, God help her, she
never wanted to wake up.

 
          
An
eternity later, the kiss ended softly but the heat of his lips remained close.
He murmured one simple word.

 
          
‘Stay.’

 
          
Her
heart squeezed. Despite everything she knew and feared, she wanted to. But she
couldn’t. She couldn’t let her heart railroad her head when she knew later she’d
regret it. She shouldn’t have kissed him back. She should never have come. She
dropped and shook her head.

 
          
‘No.’

 
          
He
folded hair back from her face. ‘What’s stopping you?’

 
          
‘Sanity,’
she said. ‘Pride.’

 
          
‘They’re
both overrated.’

 
          
She
gave into a grin but then swallowed it back down. ‘Dammit, Alex, I’m not
supposed be amused. I’m supposed to be—’

 
          
But
when his lips grazed hers, the tail of that thought evaporated as a tingling
wondrous thrill ripped through her. The final bricks of that wall crumbled and
fell, and any remaining doubt or annoyance were replaced by an energy of a
different kind—an awareness so consuming and overpowering that the battle was
all over.

 
          
She
was lost.

 
          
Taking
soft slow kisses, he kneaded her upper arms, making her blood heat and hum. He’d
missed her.

 
          
She
sighed against his lips.

 
          
She’d
missed him more than air.

 
          
Seconds
melted into scorching minutes. As he gathered her closer, she ironed her palms
over his shoulders, his chest. Her fingers twined around his shirt buttons
while their kisses grew steamier still. With him leading her, they blindly
headed for the stairs. His shirt fell halfway up, her shirt followed close
behind. At the top of the stairs, breathing laboured, his mouth broke from hers
long enough to smooth the pad of his thumb sensually over her lower lip, then
guide her into the master suite.

 
          
The
room was cool and dark and predictably large. The carpet and satin spread on
the king-size bed were steely grey. The sheets were already folded down and the
heavy curtains pulled against the morning sun.