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‘You know...those things you mild-mannered tax accountants do for a bit of relaxation...swimming, cycling, running? Hawaii Ironman?’ she crunched out. ‘Am I ringing any bells here yet, Mr Aw-gee-shucks-I’m-so-helpless James?’
Luke’s chest contracted under his sweat-soaked singlet, his arms cording as he lifted the weight back onto the rack above him with only a faint grunt of effort. He sat up and swung his legs off the bench, using the small towel around his neck to blot his damp face and throat. ‘That was your opinion. I never claimed to be helpless.’
Rosalind slapped her hands onto the hips of her ribbed cotton shorts. ‘Oh, right,’ she agreed with acid disbelief. ‘And I suppose you’d never windsurfed before yesterday either!’
He had the grace to look guilty. ‘Only once or twice, although I did quite a bit of board-surfing when I was young. We lived near a beach and I was a member of the local surf club. That’s where I first got interested in triathlons...’
An ex-surfie! Rosalind ground her teeth, thinking of all the time she had spent trying to get him to balance upright on the board.
‘I suppose in triathletes’ parlance “once or twice” means you did a return crossing of the
Pacific!’ she said, sarcasm dripping from every word as her suspicions were confirmed. ‘So you were deliberately having me on yesterday.’
‘Well, maybe just a little,’ he admitted, carrying out a few discreet warm-down stretches against the bench as she stood glowering at him, her lemon-yellow shorts and vest-top shimmering with her heaving outrage. When Rosalind’s temper was sparking she didn’t hold anything back.
‘Fair’s fair, Rosalind—you’ve been having plenty of fun at my expense ever since we met,’ he pointed out. ‘And you never asked me if I played any sport. I told you I had a full life but all you seemed interested in was my lack of cultural and social pursuits.’
She hated it when he used logic to make her feel in the wrong. ‘Triathletes don’t play at what they do,’ she countered. ‘I’ve read all about it. It’s not a sport, it’s an obsession.’
‘Not for me. I just do it as a hobby—for fun.’
‘Fun?’ She stared at him, her anger eclipsed by her horror. If his idea of fun was to try to push himself beyond the limits of human endurance then he was even more socially deprived than she had thought! Maybe this new perspective of him wasn’t so different from the old one. How typical of Luke to choose a solo sport. The tightness inside her loosened further as she contemplated all the solitary hours he must spend in training. No wonder he didn’t have time for any other activities.
‘You needn’t look as though I’ve admitted to some gross depravity.’ His eyebrows quirked in amusement. ‘You ought to try it some time, Roz—the running part, I mean. There’s no drug that can match the natural high it gives you.’
She smothered an unwilling grin. ‘Since I don’t do drugs I wouldn’t know,’ she said, exploding another colourful media myth. ‘As a matter of fact I have my own version of a natural high...I get it from performing in front of a live audience.’
‘You must be suffering a few withdrawal symptoms by now, then,’ he said, with more accuracy than he could know. He glanced down at the trendy white designer sports shoes she was wearing. ‘Look, since you’ve cut short my programme, why don’t you come on a little run with me now, along the track at the back of the beach?’
‘Ha! What do I look like—a masochist? You’d run me into the ground!’
‘I’ll go at your pace,’ he offered. ‘Come on; if your connection with your twin is putting your body under stress you could probably do with a little extra conditioning.’
She snapped at the challenge. ‘I’m in perfect shape for my lifestyle, thank you very much!’
It was meant as a haughty rejection, so how was it that half an hour later she was bending over against the drunken U-shape of a wind-distorted palm tree at the side of the trail, desperately trying to suck another breath into her shattered lungs?
‘Do you think you’re going to be sick?’ The fact that Luke’s words were crisp and even, without the slightest hint of a puff, added insult to injury as far as Rosalind was concerned.
‘This isn’t morning sickness, it’s exhaustion!’ came tearing out of her throat between whistling breaths. ‘I told you you’d run me into the ground.’
‘But I was pacing myself to your stride—’
‘Yes, well...I was showing off, wasn’t I?’ she wheezed, giving up on her dignity.
‘Can’t you catch your breath? Here, try this way.’ Luke stood behind her and looped his arms under hers, lifting them straight up over her head so that she was forced into an upright, shoulders-back stance. ‘Now try slow and deep rather than fast and shallow.’
Immediately the tightness in her chest eased and she found that her breathing slowed enough for her to joke, ‘I guess that’s me off the team, huh?’
‘I should have realised you were pushing it, but you acted OK with the pace right up until you stopped.’ His voice was rough with self-accusation.
‘You’ve only now figured out what a great actress I am?’ She tipped her bright head back against his shoulder, feeling the smooth power of his raised bicep brush her cheek. She could feel the heat and dampness of his chest through her thin top. His heart, she was chagrined to register, was barely skipping a beat, while hers was still going crazy.
‘Do you ever switch off or are you always on, always acting a part for the person you’re with?’
She stiffened at the unexpected thrust and tried to pull her arms down. ‘You can talk.’
His breath was hot on her nape as he steadied her in position. ‘Not yet; just wait until your heartbeat slows a little more. Trust me—you’ll feel better in a minute.’
