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Smiling to take the sting out of the refusal, she breathed a sigh of relief when Stan gave a regretful shrug and left.
Rebel slowly turned and stared around the glass-walled office that belonged to her father. Exhaling, she allowed herself to scrutinise the expensive polished-leather chair and mahogany desk, upon which items had been laid out in the meticulous way her father employed. Insides shaking, she approached his desk, her eyes on the single personal item that stood to the right side of it.
The picture, set in a childish pink and green frame, was exactly as she remembered it when she’d given it to her father on his birthday twelve years ago. At thirteen years old, laughing as she rode a tandem bike with her mother in the picture, Rebel had had no idea her family was about to be ripped apart a few short years later. Or that the decimating of her family would be her fault.
She’d had no cares in the world, secure in the love from a father who’d adored his wife and daughter, and a mother who had encouraged Rebel to pursue her dreams, regardless of any obstacles that stood in her way.
It was that relentless pursuit of her dream that had shattered her family. She knew that. And yet, she’d never been able to walk away from her dreams of pursuing a ski-jump championship. Deep in her heart, Rebel knew walking away would be betraying her vivacious and hugely talented mother, who’d never been quite able to achieve a championship win of her own.
Her heart ached as she passed her hand over the picture. Her father had never understood her need to keep chasing her dream. He’d been harsh and critical to the point where they hadn’t been able to stay under the same roof without endless vicious rows. But even then, Rebel had never imagined walking away would mean losing her father for this long. She’d never thought his condemnation and lack of forgiveness would be set in stone.
She dropped her hand. She was here now. She was about to undertake the most important challenge of her career. Before that happened, she needed to know whether there was a way to reconcile with her father.
Forcing the nerves down, she looked around, seeking clues as to his whereabouts. His computer was turned off, but his desk calendar was still set at a date two weeks ago. Unease spiked as she recalled Stan’s words. Deciding not to read too much into it, she walked to the far side of the vast office, and set her yoga mat and gym bag down. Another half an hour of pacing, and her nerves were screaming that something wasn’t quite right. After leaving yet another message on her father’s voicemail stating that she wasn’t leaving his office until he called her back, she put her phone on the coffee table along with her sweater, and rolled out the yoga mat.
The situation with her father, a bandaged but far from healed wound, had been ripped open by his letter, bringing fresh anguish. That anguish was affecting her concentration, something she could ill afford. Greg, her trainer, had commented on the fact today, hence the addition of yoga to her exercise regime.
She’d made it through the trials to secure herself a position on the championship-seeking team. She couldn’t afford to take her eye off the ball now, no matter how unresolved her issues were with her father.
Dropping onto the mat, she plugged her earphones back in, stretched and closed her eyes. Legs crossed in front of her, she took several breaths to centre herself, then began to move through her positions.
The first few tingles she attributed to her body dropping into a state of relaxation. One she welcomed after the turmoil of the past few weeks. But when they persisted, growing with each breath, Rebel rolled her shoulders, mildly irritated and more than a little anxious that she would truly find no avenue of relief until she spoke to her father.
Then the scent hit her nostrils: dark, hypnotic, with traces of citrus and more than a hint of savagery. At first she believed she was dreaming its complexity. But with each breath, the scent wrapped tighter around her senses, pulling her into a vortex of sensation that increased the tingling along her spine.
Slowly lowering herself from downward dog, she lay flat on her stomach and extended her left leg behind her, hoping the taut muscle stretch would dissipate the strange feeling zinging through her body. She repeated the exercise with her right leg, welcoming the burn.
But the distraction wasn’t sufficient. Her concentration slipped further.
Gritting her teeth, she sat up and stretched her legs wide, perpendicular to her body. She aligned her torso to one leg, then the other, then leaned forward on her elbows and slowly raised her pelvis off the floor.
The curse was thick and sharp enough to pierce the cocoon of her music.
Rebel’s eyes flew open.
Sensation hit her like a charging bull. The air knocked clean from her lungs, Rebel gaped at the imposing man who sat with one leg hitched over the other and his arms crossed over a wide, firm chest.
