Interview with the Daredevil Page 7

  Him? The guy who’d jumped off more buildings, more cliffs, more bridges than any other competitor in his field, the guy who held the skydiving, free-diving and scuba-diving records, the guy who’d mastered hang-gliding and snowboarding and street luge by his early teens?

  He didn’t do nerves. Ever. So why this uncertain, edgy feeling that just wouldn’t quit?

  He knew the reason behind it; he just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  Ava.

  Why the hell was he blurting little truths to her when he’d shut away those parts of him long ago? How was she getting under his skin so easily, a skin he’d deliberately thickened years ago?

  He couldn’t figure it out. What was it about the sweet, reserved girl that had him wanting to blurt out private thoughts best left unsaid? Had to be his lack of social life lately. For a guy who dated widely and extensively he’d been so wrapped up in his mum’s problems he hadn’t had time.

  Not good.

  He loved women. Loved the thrill of the chase, the appreciation they showed him, the attention, and while his dalliances never went past a few dates he enjoyed the closeness being with a woman brought.

  Until now.

  Being with Ava somehow moved beyond closeness, her unerring ability to home in on his innermost thoughts bordering on an intimacy he’d shied away from his entire life.

  The smart thing to do would be to leave her a list of answers to common questions he’d been asked by the press in the past, then do a runner. Easy. He could have the jet refuelled and a limo ready with a few phone calls.

  But the memory of Ava’s blue eyes, glittering with excitement, dazed with passion, sparkling with anticipation, was difficult to ignore let alone forget and he cursed, flinging himself into a chair. He couldn’t leave, not when her fledgling writing career hinged on her interviewing him.

  He’d been where she was, a newbie in the field, used to feeling unloved and unwanted and not good enough, needing the vindication of his career to feel something other than crappy and he’d be damned if she continued to wallow.

  He’d lost himself in the adrenalin rush of extreme sports to forget, to gain the recognition he craved and deserved.

  But how would Ava get it when she was using a pseudonym and still looking over her shoulder for lurking paparazzi?

  No, he couldn’t leave. And once she’d written the article…if indulging Ava in the fling she wanted brought her half the rush free-falling from ten thousand feet brought him, she’d be on her way to shrugging off her past and embracing her future.

  Ava sighed with pleasure as she sank into a comfy sofa in her deluxe suite. She’d stayed in hotels the world over from a young age but none had quite the impact of this one.

  It was more than the impressive foyer or her lovely suite, decorated in rich royal blues and plump cushions and the signature ornate Versace filigree edging everything from the ceiling to teaspoons.

  It was the overall ambiance, a general feeling of understated elegance, of subtle class, that enveloped her the moment she stepped through the doors and only intensified as she wandered through the hotel.

  Of course, having Roman alongside to share the experience didn’t hurt; though she’d been grateful to step into the privacy of her own room and out of his commanding, overwhelming presence. For that was how he made her feel at times: overwhelmed.

  Everything seemed brighter and sharper and larger than life when she was with him and for a girl used to living in the shadows by choice lately it was almost too much. He was so…so…vibrant.

  The creative part of her brain imagined him as the sun, with everyone in his sphere revolving around him. Corny, maybe, but he was that kind of guy. The last type of guy she could ever see herself with, which was why he was perfect for her now.

  A fun, no-holds-barred fling was exactly what she wanted.

  If there was one thing she’d learned over the last few weeks since the divorce it was to value her independence and no way would she give that up again in a hurry.

  She had no aspirations to enter into another relationship, so a transient, hot, half-Greek adventurer entering her life for a brief moment in time seemed fortuitous.

  Imagine her, Ava Beckett, daughter of the great Earl Beckett, having a fling?

  Eighteen months ago she would’ve filed the thought away alongside her other pie-in-the-sky dreams like writing for a career. Thankfully, Leon had broached the subject they’d been avoiding since early in their two-year marriage: it wasn’t working and did she want out?

  She could remember the day so clearly: they’d been to a civilised afternoon tea at Government House, celebrating bravery honours for worthy recipients. She’d worn an understated, bland, below-the-knee ivory sheath dress; he’d worn his favourite suit.

  They’d smiled and shook hands and said all the right things to all the right people but as the afternoon wore on so did her brittle façade.

  How many of these functions had she attended, first as the prime minister’s daughter and later as a politician’s wife?

  How many canapés and chardonnays had she consumed?

  How many fake pleasantries and shallow conversations shared?

  Too many to count and that afternoon something deep inside had cracked. Not that she’d said anything but Leon, usually more tuned in to his constituency than her, picked up on it and when they’d returned to their apartment he’d confronted her.

  There’d been no harsh words, no accusations, just a clear-cut stating of facts. They’d fallen into an easy relationship in their late teens and fallen just as easily into a comfortable, expected marriage as young twenty-somethings.

  There were no recriminations, no what-ifs, and for that she’d been grateful.

  She’d been liberated while Leon had been exiled to a foreign post in Belgium. Not totally unexpected, considering the major fit her dad had when he learned of their plans to separate. But all her dad’s bluster and temper had been no match for Leon’s calm rationale and when Mum had nodded knowingly and laid a hand on Dad’s shoulder, Ava had known everything would be okay.

  Besides, a small part of her wondered if her dad’s horror had been more about how his daughter’s failed marriage would reflect on him than about any real caring for her feelings.

  Though he’d been out of office a while, once a politician always a politician and her dad valued appearances above all else. It was why she’d gone into hiding once the story of her divorce had first broken, when the media vultures had descended, hounding her every second of every day, thrusting microphones into her face, hurling questions and later accusations.

  Was Leon having an affair?

  Was she seeing anyone else?

  Could she not have children, was that the problem?

  Horrible, intrusive questions that intensified the longer she remained silent and that was when they really notched up the heat, smearing her reputation with their invented lies.

  She didn’t blame Leon for heading to Belgium, the farther the better from the merciless, repetitive questioning. But she did blame her dad every time he got asked a question and he eyeballed a camera, muttering his usual stoic ‘no comment’.

  Why hadn’t he defended her? Stood up for her?

  He’d done it for the party faithful, fellow politicians who’d indulged in real-life scandals, yet couldn’t say one word in his daughter’s defence?

  It hurt almost as much as the rubbish the press had printed about her, if not more. Crazy thing was using a pseudonym now wasn’t just a show of independence without the pull of the Beckett name but out of a respect for the man who was still her dad, no matter how much his career had ruled her life growing up.

  Pressing the pads of her fingers against her eyelids, she blinked several times, opened her eyes, her gaze landing on the carved Versace face above a king-size bed in the bedroom opposite.

  Its expression benign, it seemed to be smiling at her, encouraging her to follow her dreams and with an uncharacteristic whoop she leapt to he
r feet and danced around the room, truly excited by her prospects for the future.

  Freedom. Anonymity. There was nothing like it and she intended on making the most of every second with her new man for however long it lasted.

  As for her new job, once she stopped bopping around, she’d better flip open her laptop and start flexing her fingers. Making a list of strict, factual questions was the only way she’d keep Roman on track.

  Or was she the one with a deep-seated fear of being derailed?

  Patting her belly, Ava groaned. ‘That was categorically the best seafood buffet I’ve ever had.’

  And the best dinner companion she’d ever had as she gazed across the table, the candlelight casting alluring shadows across Roman’s handsome face, making her fingers itch to reach out and stroke his cheek.

  ‘Agreed,’ he said, forking the last piece of chocolate cake into his mouth. ‘Though how I’m going to fit into my wetsuit after this is beyond me.’

  Wetsuit…moulding to his body…

  Her heart gave an odd little pitter-patter as she remembered exactly how his body looked without anything at all.

  Raising her wine glass, she leaned forward. ‘If you need a hand?’

  He laughed at her outrageously lame attempt at flirting.

  ‘Only if you promise to come wake-boarding with me.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  He tsked-tsked. ‘You’re a sporting neophyte.’

  Feigning outrage, she waggled a finger. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve taken great interest in Aussie Rules since I’ve moved to Melbourne. And I watch the tennis. And the occasional golf.’

  He snorted. ‘That’s because you like perving on broad-shouldered men in tight shorts.’

  Laughter twitched her lips. ‘Okay, so you’re onto me. Maybe I’ll come watch you get pulled behind a boat on a ridiculously small board? Let me know whether to pack my binoculars or not.’

  He shook his head. ‘Neophyte and a perv.’

  She loved this, the smiles and laughter and lighthearted quips. Dinner with Leon had consisted of routine questions—how was your day? What are your plans for tomorrow?—and expected answers: ‘fine’ and ‘work, the usual’. There’d been no banter or jokes or flirting, just two people co-existing in the same house.

  Considering how warm and fuzzy being with Roman made her feel, she should’ve got out a long time ago.

  Snapping her fingers, she said, ‘This neophyte is going to paint you in a very favourable light in her article if you’re lucky, so be nice.’

  He saluted. ‘Got it. Don’t want to get the journo offside.’

  Disgust twisted her gut at being lumped in with the bloodhounds that’d made her life a misery over the last month but she hid her discomfort behind a small smile.

  No way would she ever be like them: inventing drivel when they couldn’t get the truth, printing rubbish disguised as fact. Uh-uh, when she wrote her freelance articles she’d stick to verifiable data all the way.

  She liked that Globetrotter was a respected magazine, read worldwide for its travel articles and interesting interviews. The fact she’d been given the job of writing one of those interviews blew her away. And if she nailed it…writing on a regular basis, writing for a job, would be incredibly, stupefyingly brilliant.

  ‘This journo has a huge list of questions to ask you, the first being why you need publicity anyway.’

  A shadow passed over his face before his characteristic charming smile was back, making her wonder if she’d imagined it.

  ‘You said you’d seen some extreme sport games on television?’

  ‘You mean that Olympic-style event for crazy people who want to break their necks jumping off buildings and bridges?’

  His eyes narrowed but he couldn’t dim the amused glint.

  ‘You’re mocking me.’

  She held up her thumb and index finger an inch apart. ‘Maybe just a little?’

  ‘Anyway…’ he made a zipping motion over his lips; yeah, as if that would shut her up when she was enjoying sparring with him ‘…marketing companies get behind it, competitors love it, fans flock in droves.’

  ‘So the article?’

  ‘My employer wants to run something along similar lines in Europe so the more I get my head on the TV, radio and print media, the better.’

  Another shudder rippled through her. What he’d just described was her biggest nightmare.

  ‘You’re the face of your sports’ governing body?’

  The shadow reappeared, darker this time, looming over him like a storm cloud, creasing his brow, clenching his hands, which he quickly hid beneath the table.

  ‘Yeah, so I need all the good publicity I can get, which is where you come in.’

  The investigative writing side of her brain had a hard time damping down her curiosity. He loved his sports, loved his job from all accounts when they’d first met so why the reluctance to discuss the publicity angle? Had Roman been burned by the paparazzi too?

  From what she’d learned last night, doubtful. She’d looked him up on the Internet to get a feel for what questions to ask him and the amount of hits on his name was staggering. The guy was a serious media hound, attracting coverage the world over. Considering his looks and physique, not terribly surprising, but from the scope of articles in everything from sporting journals to gossip mags it looked as if he seriously encouraged publicity. Why the recalcitrance now?

  ‘I hear you.’ Eager for the twinkle in his eyes to return, she pretended to ponder. ‘What you’re saying is you want me to highlight you against a backdrop of extreme sports, highlighting how variables aren’t always constant, like rock quality for climbers, snow conditions for snowboarders, wave height and shape for surfers, that kind of thing.’

  She laughed at his comedic incredulity.

  ‘You lied about being a neophyte.’

  ‘Yep.’

  His speculative gaze swept over her, his lips curving as if he liked what he saw.

  ‘With this much cheek, who knows what you’ll write about me?’

  ‘Just the facts.’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’

  His shoulders relaxed and the crease between his brows faded, his relief obvious and confirming her earlier suspicions. Had some journo done a number on him too? She’d found nothing terribly damning during her online search last night but maybe he’d had it pulled? A guy in his position, as CEO of a sporting governing body, couldn’t afford bad press. But would he have that much influence to have a nasty article removed from cyberspace?

  She’d heard that once something hit the cyber-world it was there for ever and though she’d deliberately not searched herself on the Internet she knew what she’d find if she did: not the numerous charity benefits she’d attended or the money she’d raised, not the kids’ halfway house she was a patron of and regular visitor. Oh no, she’d find those disgusting, slanderous articles on her divorce front and centre.

  They’d painted Leon out to be the slighted husband, cuckolded by a cold, frigid ice maiden.

  ‘No wonder he left, she’s the ice princess’ was one of the nicer things they’d printed. She knew why too.

  She’d resented being under the spotlight her entire life; resented the press intrusion every time she stepped out of the front door with her family, resented the constant keeping up of appearances, resented her lack of a normal teenage life.

  She’d resented it all and she’d never been comfortable in the media spotlight, had gone out of her way to stand back and let her dad, and later Leon, deal with the press.

  While they’d been jovial and effusive, she’d been reserved and aloof, happy for them to do all the talking. She’d shunned countless interview offers from newspapers and magazines, valuing what little privacy she had.

  Somehow, when her marriage had hit the wall, those same news hounds had decided it was payback time, persecuting her for her years of silence with invented garbage that still stung despite her efforts to forget it.

/>   ‘What you thinking about?’

  Annoyed she’d allowed herself to be distracted, she shook her head. ‘Mentally running through the list of questions I’ve got lined up for you.’

  He reached across the table and smoothed a finger between her brows. ‘By that frown, should I be scared?’

  Laughing off his concern, she swiped at his hand. ‘Terrified.’

  ‘How about I save you some time?’

  He held up a hand and ticked off points. ‘Favourite food is moussaka, favourite song Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away”, favourite sport is B.A.S.E. jumping.’

  Unexpected apprehension quivered through her at the thought of this amazing guy jumping off anything with only a parachute to break his fall.

  ‘Don’t you have to do at least one jump from a building, antenna, bridge and cliff to qualify as a B.A.S.E. jumper?’ She swallowed her nausea at jumping off anything other than the edge of a pool.

  ‘Yeah, cool, huh?’

  His smile warmed her better than the sticky date pudding and hot caramel sauce she’d had for dessert.

  ‘I can think of other words to describe it.’

  ‘Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.’

  She held up her hands and shook her head. ‘No way. I can’t even look at a roller coaster without feeling sick.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘You don’t like fast rides?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  He beckoned her closer and she leaned forward, savouring the subtle scent of sunshine clinging to his skin.

  ‘Maybe you’ve just had the wrong guy at the helm all those other rides?’

  Smiling at his cockiness, she laid a hand on his chest and gently shoved him back.

  ‘I don’t care who’s at the helm, I’m not getting on any death traps to begin with. And I’m certainly not leaping off anything higher than a footstool.’

  ‘Bet you’ll change your mind.’

  ‘Bet I won’t.’

  He tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Never bet against an adrenalin junkie. Everything’s a challenge to surmount.’

  ‘Well, good luck with this one because the closest you’ll get me near the top of a cliff is watching it on the telly.’