Fearless Maverick by Robyn Grady Page B

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