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Two weeks later, body pent-up with denied desire and charged energy, he’d been asked by a reporter on CNN if he thought female MX riders were as good as their male counterparts. The reporter had pointed out Sami came close to beating him in the charity ride.
Eli had said no to the notion.
He’d wanted an excuse for Sami Charlton to contact him. To confront him. To give him a piece of her feisty, fired-up mind.
She hadn’t. Instead, she’d called him a fuck-knuckle live on air during an interview.
Settling back in his seat now, he watched her throw up her hands at Rutledge. Watched her utter words he couldn’t hear with lips he ached to taste again.
Had Jay tasted them?
His ex-mechanic had had a thing for her for a long time, ever since she first appeared on the international circuit—a risk-taking rider with a trashy mouth and a hot body.
Jay didn’t think Eli knew about his desire for the woman, but Eli did.
On screen, Sami threw her helmet straight at Jay’s chest, spun on her heel and stormed out of the camera’s f
rame, leaving her mechanic with a scowl on his face.
It would appear Rutledge had lost the argument.
“Care to comment, Jay?”
Eli smiled as the reporter—Michael something or other—shoved his mic in Rutledge’s face.
Rutledge rolled his eyes. “To borrow my boss’s words: my arse, your lips.”
And with that, he walked out of the shot. But not before Eli saw him yank his cell from his pocket.
On a small table beside his chair, Eli’s phone rang.
His heart thumped harder in his throat. His groin throbbed.
Waving a dismissive hand at Dianne as she reached for the ringing phone, he waited.
A few moments later, silence filled the room.
A second after that, the voice mail alert sounded.
“Why don’t you get yourself a coffee, Dianne,” he said with a smile for his personal assistant.
“Thank you, Mr. Swanson. Do you want anything?”
He shook his head, and then waited until she had exited the private box—provided today by one of his minor sponsors—before retrieving his cell and listening to Rutledge’s message.
“Sam says you’re on.”
Eli returned his phone to the table.
He thought of the way she’d responded to his surprise kiss a year ago, of the wild, almost uninhibited way she rode a circuit. Of the insane tricks she pulled when freestyling. Thought of the heated venom she used when talking about him to reporters.
And then, chest tight, groin tighter, he allowed himself to think of the foolish bet she’d made but a few moments ago.
Anything. She’s bet anything she could beat him.
He smiled again, an expression he knew people would label smug. Let’s see how true to her words—and how confident in her skills—she really is.
Settling back in his chair, he rested his ankle on his knee and took a sip of mineral water from the sweating glass in his hand. Savored the icy-cold liquid as it flowed down his throat. Focused on it.
