‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She kept her voice professional, pushing aside the prickle of irritation left over from their first lesson together.
‘The club gets remedial massage here.’ He signed his own form with a scrawl. ‘These tight calves are giving me hell.’
She couldn’t stop the spread of an evil smile across her lips. Her calf exercises were notorious for punishing new students and she felt a small tingle of satisfaction that he was no different.
‘Cry-baby,’ she said, wrapping a fluffy orange scarf around her neck and preparing for the onslaught of the rain.
He chuckled. It was a sound designed to make a woman’s stomach flutter, and hers did...right on cue. She cursed her body for its mindless response.
He walked beside her, and a frosty blast of air hit them as the automatic doors slid open to reveal a wet and miserable winter’s day. ‘What are you here for?’
‘An old injury.’ She paused under the awning of the clinic. She undid the clasp on her umbrella and opened it against the wind, wincing as the material flapped in protest. Turning to walk away from the car park, she waved. ‘Well, I’d better run.’
Grant raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. ‘You didn’t drive?’
She couldn’t blame him for thinking she was mad—even she was thinking she might have gone loopy. Who would choose to give up a car with seat warmers on a day like this? Her bones were already chilled to their core, and a five-minute walk to the bus stop was only going to make things worse.
She shook her head.
‘I’ll give you a lift. You can’t walk in the rain.’
Grant set off towards the car park without waiting for her to accept his offer. She paused, her brows furrowing. Another blast of cold air made her shiver as she followed him. Indignation at his demanding tone wasn’t going to force her to give up a free ride today.
Grant’s long strides made quick work of the car park. He walked with his head bent to the wind, not looking to see if she’d followed him. She quickened her pace, her boots splashing through puddles as she jogged. The car’s lights flashed as it was unlocked and Jasmine scampered around to the passenger side, eager to get out of the wet.
Slamming the door behind her, she shivered. Droplets of water had flicked all over the pristine leather seats, and the windows fogged from their breathing. Grant turned over the engine and flicked on the demister. They waited while the glass returned to its normal transparent state.
His eyes were on her.
* * *
Her pale skin was flushed from the cold. A strawberry colour stained her cheeks and, even as dishevelled and rain-soaked as she was, Jasmine was still the most stunning woman Grant had ever encountered.
‘Where am I taking you?’ He started the engine and let the car idle while it warmed up.
‘To the ballet studio.’ Blowing on her hands, she rubbed them together and shivered in her seat. ‘Please.’
Grant turned up the heater, flicking the centre vent so that it blew in her direction. He could smell the combination of perfume and rain on her skin. Water droplets slid down her neck, disappearing beneath her scarf. For some reason he found that indescribably erotic.
‘So you’re dealing with an injury?’ He forced his mind onto another topic. Injuries were safe, unsexy. ‘From dancing?’
‘Yeah.’ Her voice sounded tight and she didn’t elaborate.
He stole a glance at her profile as he turned to the rear window, easing the car out of its spot. She shot him a rueful smile, a dimple forming in her cheek. His eyes flickered over her small but full-lipped mouth.
‘I bet you get more injuries in football, though—like a broken nose, perhaps?’ Her voice held a slight sense of mischief.
Most girls wouldn’t be so quick to point out that he had a crooked nose. But, then again, he could see she was different in every way from the women he met on the football circuit. She wasn’t fake tanned and bleached to the hilt. She didn’t have that artificial look that was the uniform of the WAGs. She was an authentic beauty—a rarity. Her long black hair was wound into a neat bun, and the only skin that showed was on her hands and face. She had a certain primness about her that Grant found appealing—a polished elegance that made her look every bit the perfect prima ballerina. And she gave him attitude left, right and centre.
‘Yes to the broken nose, but it didn’t happen on the footy field,’ Grant said, returning his eyes to the front. ‘I had a fight when I’d barely turned eighteen. It was my first night out drinking and I got into a fight at a bar.’
At one point that memory would have filled Grant with a sense of macho pride, as though it were a rite of passage for a young male. Now it made him queasy, with memories bubbling to the surface. Many women liked the whole ‘bad boy’ thing—hell, he’d used it to his advantage time and time again—but those days were well and truly over. Not that anyone believed him.
‘That was a long time ago.’
He kept the mood light, but Jasmine wasn’t letting him get away that easily.
‘I don’t understand why guys fight.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to beat your chest to attract the ladies, you know.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like?’
‘I was young, thought I had to prove something.’ He forced a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t always this way.’
‘What do you mean?’
He was at a loss for words. People usually didn’t ask personal questions—well, not those beyond what his bank balance was. They never showed any interest in him as a person, never cared about who he was...where he came from.
He shrugged, grappling for a response. ‘In charge.’
‘I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself,’ she said, a soft smile on her lips. ‘But being macho isn’t the way to go about it.’
Perhaps she’d seen the media fuss that had erupted after the incident. There had been an awful paparazzi shot of him doing the rounds on the internet for months afterwards. Luckily the media moved on quickly. Sports stars behaving badly were a dime a dozen. Grant had experienced a sense of guilt when it died down so quickly, though the story still popped up on gossip sites whenever there was a slow news day.
‘You don’t get ahead in AFL by being a softy.’
‘I don’t know. I reckon you might be a big softy on the inside.’ She laughed, poking him in the ribs. ‘You’re like one of those mean-looking dogs that rolls over for a tummy scratch.’
‘I’m at the top of my profession, sweetheart.’ He wanted to come across as controlled, but the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Defensive. ‘I’m not in it for the belly scratches.’
‘So what are you in it for?’
‘I’m in it for the game.’
‘You like to win?’
‘Hell, yeah, I like to win.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Depends on your definition of winning, I guess.’
A dark shadow passed over her face and for a moment he caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface of her warm brown eyes.
She moved on before he could probe deeper. ‘Why weren’t you always in charge?’
Of course she’d latched on to that little statement. Memories flickered at the edge of his consciousness. He didn’t want to talk about this. He’d never told anyone about what he’d left behind, about the guilt