‘Lengthen up through the crown of your head,’ the yoga teacher intoned in her breathy Zen-like voice.
But it was no use. Dell’s concentration was shot. Why was he here? The more she tried to balance on one shaky leg, the more impossible the pose seemed. How the heck did you lengthen through the crown of your head anyway? In spite of all efforts to stay upright, she tilted sideward, heading for a humiliating yoga wipe-out.
A strong, masculine hand gripped her elbow to steady her. Him. ‘Whoa there,’ came the deep voice others might find attractive but she had only found intimidating and arrogant.
‘Th...thank you,’ she said, her chin down and her eyes anywhere but at him, pretending to be invisible. But to no avail.
His grip on her arm tightened. ‘You,’ he said, drawing out the word so it sounded like an insult.
Dell turned her head to meet his hawk-like glare, those eyes so dark they were nearly black. She tilted her chin upwards and tried without success to keep the quiver from her voice. ‘Yes, me.’
Her final encounter with him burned in her memory. Outside the courthouse he had stood on the step above her using his superior height to underline the threat in his words. ‘The judge might have ruled in your favour but you won’t get away with this. I’ll make sure of that.’
In spite of his loss since then, she had no doubt he still meant every word.
‘What are you doing here?’ His famously handsome face contorted into a frown.
‘Apart from attempting to learn yoga?’ she asked with the nervous laugh that insisted on popping out when she felt under pressure. ‘Resting, relaxing, those things you do when you come to a health spa.’ She didn’t dare add reviewing this new resort.
This was the tycoon hotelier who had chosen to do battle with her. She was the food critic who had dared to publish a critical review of the most established restaurant in his empire. He’d sued the newspaper that had employed her for an insane amount of money and lost.
Alex Mikhalis had not liked losing. That he was a winner was part of the ethos he’d built up around him—the hospitality mogul who launched nightclubs and restaurants that instantly became Sydney’s go-to venues, wiped out his competitors and made him multiple millions. ‘Playboy Tycoon with the Magic Touch’—her own newspaper had headlined a profile on him not long before her disputed review.
After the scene on the courtroom steps, she’d been careful to stay out of his way. Then he’d disappeared from the social scene that had been his playground. Even the most intrepid of her journalist colleagues hadn’t been able to find him. And here he was.
‘You’ve hunted me down,’ he said.
‘I did no such thing,’ she said. ‘Why would I—?’
‘Please, silence.’ The yoga instructor’s tone was now not so Zen-like.
‘Let’s take this outside,’ he said in a deep undertone, maintaining his grip on her elbow.
Dell would have liked to shake off his hand, then place her hands on his chest and shove him away from her. But she was a guest at the spa—here at the owner’s invitation—and she didn’t want to cause any kind of disruption.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed to the instructor as she let herself be led out of the room, grateful in a way not to have to try any more of those ridiculously difficult poses.
With the door to the yoga room shut behind them, Dell took the lead to one of the small guest lounges scattered through the resort. Simple white leather chairs were grouped around a low table. It faced full-length glass windows that looked east to a view of the Pacific Ocean, dazzling blue in the autumn morning sun filtered through graceful Australian eucalypts.
Now she did shake off his arm. ‘What was that all about?’
‘My right to privacy,’ he said, tight-lipped.
Dell was struck again by how different the tycoon looked. No wonder she hadn’t immediately recognised him. Back then he’d been a style leader, designer clothes, a fashionable short beard, hair tied into a man bun—though not in court—flamboyant in an intensely masculine way. She’d often wondered what his image had masked. Now he was more boot camp than boutique—strong jaw clean shaven, thick dark hair cropped short, pumped muscles emphasised by grey sweat pants and a white singlet. Stripped bare. And even more compelling. Just her type in fact—if he had been anyone but him.
‘And I impinged on your privacy how?’ she asked. ‘By taking a yoga class that you happened to join? I had no idea you were here.’
‘Your newspaper sent you to track me down.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No. It didn’t.’ The fact she no longer worked for the paper was none of his concern. ‘I’m a food writer, not an investigative journalist.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Does that matter? To the media I make good copy. No matter how hard I’ve worked to keep off the radar since...since...’
He seemed unable to choke out the words. She noticed tight lines around his mouth, a few silver hairs in the dark black of his hair near his temples. He was thirty-two, three years older than her, yet there was something immeasurably weary etched on his face.
Another shiver ran up Dell’s spine. How did she deal with this? This wealthy, powerful man had been her adversary. He had threatened her with revenge. She was convinced his attack on her newspaper had led in part to her losing her job. But how could she hold a grudge after what he had endured?
‘I know,’ she said, aware her words were completely inadequate. Just a few months after his unsuccessful court case against her, his fiancée had been taken hostage by a crazed gunman in one of his city restaurants. She hadn’t come out alive. His grief, his anger, his pain had been front-page news. Until he had disappeared.
Wordlessly, he nodded.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I...wanted to let you know that when...when it happened. But we weren’t exactly friends. So I didn’t. I’ve always regretted it.’
He made some inarticulate sound and brushed her words away. But she was glad she had finally been able to express her condolences.
She was surprised at the rush of compassion she felt for him at the bleak emptiness of his expression. He had lost everything. She didn’t know where he had been, why he was back. His colourful and tragic history made him eminently newsworthy. But she wouldn’t make a scoop of his secret by selling the story of her encounter with him. In spite of the fact such a story would bring her much-needed dollars.
‘Be assured I won’t be the one to reveal your whereabouts,’ she said. ‘Not to my press contacts. Not on my blog. I’m here for the rest of the week. I’ll stay right out of your way.’
She left him looking moodily out to the waters of Big Ray beach and had to slow her pace to something less than a scurry. No way did she want this man to think she was running away from him.
* * *
In theory, Alex should not have seen Adele Hudson again. The Bay Breeze spa was designed for tranquil contemplation as well as holistic treatments. In the resort’s airy white spaces there was room for personal space and privacy.
But only hours after the yoga class he encountered her in the guest lounge, still in her yoga pants and tank top, contemplating the range of herbal teas and chatting animatedly to an older grey-haired woman who was doing the same. He was on the hunt for caffeine so did not back away. Not that he was in the habit of backing away. He’d always thrived on confrontation.
Alex had always regarded the sassy food critic as an adversary—an enemy, even. Back then he had been implacable in protecting every aspect of his