Her Secret Fling

Damn it. Was it too much to ask for a few moments’ reprieve from his knowing, sarcastic eyes and smug smile?

She moved closer to the corner so there wasn’t even the remote chance of brushing shoulders with him.

His gaze flicked over her briefly. Suddenly she was very aware of her wet hair and the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She shifted uncomfortably and his gaze dropped to her carrier bag of goodies.

“Having a big night, I see,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He leaned closer. She fought the need to pull away as he hooked a finger into the top of the bag and peered inside.

“Chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips. Interesting combo.”

Up close, his eyes were so blue and clear she felt as though she could see all the way through to his soul.

If he had one.

“Do you mind?” she said, jerking the bag away from him.

He raised his eyebrows. She raised hers and gave him a challenging look.

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said.

“No, you weren’t. You were being a smart-ass, at my expense, as usual. So don’t expect me to lie down and take it.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked back to her face. She waited for him to say something suitably smart-assy in response, but he didn’t. The lift chimed as they hit her floor.

Thank God.

She stepped out into the corridor. He followed. She frowned, thrown. Then she started walking toward her room, keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye. As she’d feared, he was following her.

She stopped abruptly and he almost walked into her as she swung to face him.

“I don’t need an escort to my door, if that’s what you’re doing,” she said. “I don’t need anything from you, which I know probably sticks in your craw since your ego is so massive and so fragile you can’t handle having a rookie on the team.”

Jake cocked his head to one side. Then he smiled sweetly and pulled a key from his pocket. The number 647 dangled from it. Two rooms up from hers.

Right.

She could feel embarrassed heat rising into her face. Why did this man always make her so self-conscious? It wasn’t as though she cared what he thought of her.

She started walking again. She had her key in her hand well before her door was in sight. She shoved it into the lock and pushed her door open as quickly as she could. She caught a last glimpse of his smiling face as she shut the door.

Smug bastard.

She grabbed a spoon from the minibar and ripped the top off the ice cream. She needed to keep an eye on her temper around him. And she had to stop letting him get under her skin. That, or she had to somehow develop Zen-like mind-body control so she could stop herself from blushing in front of him.

Large quantities of chocolate-chip ice cream went a long way to calming her. She turned on the TV and opened the corn chips. An hour into the movie, she was blinking and yawning. When the movie cut to a love scene, she decided to call it quits for the night. She liked watching James run and jump and beat people up, but she wasn’t so wild about the mandatory sex scenes. She knew other people liked them, even got disappointed when they didn’t get enough of them, but she so didn’t get it.

She contemplated the issue as she brushed her teeth.

Sex, in her opinion, was one of the most overrated activities under the sun. She figured she was experienced enough to know—she’d had three lovers in her thirty-one years, and none of them had come even close to being as satisfying as George, her battery-operated, intriguingly shaped friend. Disappointing, but true.

Of course, it was possible that she’d had three dud lovers in a row, but she thought it far more likely that sex, like most anti-aging products and lose-weight-now remedies, was not all it was cracked up to be.

But that was only her opinion.

She spat out toothpaste and rinsed her mouth. Then she climbed into bed. Just before she drifted off, she remembered that moment in the hallway again. Next time she came face-to-face with The Snake, she was going to make sure she was the one who came out on top. Definitely.

THE NEXT DAY SHE CAUGHT A CAB to the airport for her flight home and discovered that while she and the bulk of Australia had been focused on the ups and downs, ins and outs of a red leather ball, the baggage handlers union had decided to go on strike.

The mammoth lines of irate and desperate-looking people winding through the terminal were her first clue that something was up. She collared a passing airport official and he filled her in. The strike was expected to run for at least three days. Most flights had been canceled.

“Damn it,” she said.

He held up his hands. “Not my fault, lady.”

“I know. Sorry. It’s just my uncle’s birthday is on Wednesday.”

She’d planned to drive to her parents’ place in Ballarat, about an hour north of Melbourne, for the party. But at this rate it didn’t look as though she was even going to be in the same state come Wednesday.

“Lots of weddings and funerals and births, too,” the official said with a shrug. “Nobody likes an airline strike.”

He moved off and Poppy stared glumly at his back. This was not the first time she’d been left stranded by an airline. As a swimmer, she’d been at the mercy of more than her fair share of strikes, bad weather and mechanical failures. Once, the swim team had almost missed an important meet in Sydney thanks to an airline strike, but their coach had had the foresight to hire a minibus and had driven them the thousand kilometers overnight.

A lightbulb went on in Poppy’s mind. If it was good enough for Coach Wellington, it was good enough for her. She turned in a circle, looking for the signs for the car rental agencies. She spotted the glowing yellow Hertz sign. Then she spotted the lineup in front of it. Well, she could only try.

Fingers crossed, she headed over to join the masses.

JAKE WOKE, FEELING LIKE CRAP. Headache, furry mouth, seedy stomach—standard hangover material. He groaned as he rolled out of bed and blessed his own foresight in ensuring he had an afternoon flight out of Brisbane and not a morning one. He’d played this game before, after all, and he’d known last night would be a big one. And it had been. He’d lost track of which bar he’d wound up in, and who he’d been drinking with. There had definitely been some disappointed Bears players in the mix, drowning their sorrows. And he could distinctly remember someone singing the Hawk’s club song at one stage.

Whatever. A fine time was had by all.

Well, not quite all. Some people had chosen to forgo the festivities and hole up in their room with chocolate-chip ice cream and nacho-cheese corn chips.

He rinsed his mouth out as the memory of Poppy’s uptight little “I don’t need an escort” speech filtered into his mind.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but he couldn’t seem to resist poking her with a stick. Maybe it was the way her chin came up. Or the martial gleam that came into her eyes. Or maybe it was the pink flush that colored her cheeks when he bested her.

He stepped beneath the shower and lifted his face to the spray. Oh, man, but he needed some grease and some salt and some aspirin. Big-time.

Of course, Ms. Birmingham wouldn’t be in search of saturated animal fats this morning. She’d had hers last night, in the quiet privacy of her room.

Someone needed to tell her that road trips were a good opportunity to bond with her colleagues. Especially when you were a newcomer to the team.

He shrugged. Not his problem. And she was unlikely to take advice from him, anyway.

He recalled the way she’d looked last night, hair wet, face devoid of makeup. Sans bra, too, if he made any guess. She had more up top than he’d expected. Definitely a generous handful.