Triple Score

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

1 (#u2846af61-50b3-5b05-8c40-34a9bd169afd)

“THAT’S IT, JACE.” A female voice, thick and smoky, drifted through the closed door. “Perfect.”

A low, male moan followed. “Feels good.”

“Not too hard. Just a little more.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Noelle Nelson froze, one hand on the grip of her crutch and the other inches from the door marked “Physical Therapy.” The room was usually empty this time of night. But the couple in there clearly had a different kind of therapy session in mind.

Ewww.

She lowered her hand. Her nightly stretches would have to wait. She might not be able to do much with a torn knee ligament, but she’d be damned if she was going to let herself go. When her leg healed and she got the green light to dance again, she’d be ready. More than ready.

Noelle tightened her fists around the rubber crutch grips, fully intending to swing herself around and hobble back to her room. That was the right thing to do. Not lean in and press her ear to the door. But morbid curiosity wouldn’t let her leave without at least trying to figure out who the heck was in there. Maybe she could pick up a few pointers. It’d been a while since she’d gotten any action. Not that anyone at the rehab center had sparked her interest. No one had visions of mixing it up on the massage table dancing in her head.

“That’s far enough.” The woman’s voice pitched higher.

“Come on,” the man cajoled.

“Stop, Jace. I mean it.”

“Just a little further. I promise.”

“I said no.”

WTF? Noelle pressed closer to the door, straining to hear better. No more protests. No sounds of a struggle. Just clanking metal, like someone was using the free weights.

What in God’s green earth was going on in there?

She reached for the doorknob again. A little peek. That was all she needed to make sure the woman, whoever she was, was okay. Then she could walk—or limp—away with a clear conscience.

Noelle inched the knob to the right and pushed the door open a hair, then a bit more. Damn. Still not enough to see anything. She risked discovery and cracked the door open farther, leaning forward on her crutches to see far enough into the room to spot the mysterious Jace and his gal pal.

Finally, she caught a glimpse—two heads bent next to each other, one fair, one dark. She leaned in, holding her breath. One of her crutches wobbled. She grabbed at it, her pulse accelerating, but it slipped out from under her and clattered to the floor.

“Shit.” Teetering, she reached for the closest thing to her—the door—to steady herself. Instead, it swung open and she tumbled through the opening. Trying to muster as much dancer’s grace as she could, she threw down her other crutch and thrust out her hands. They met the scratchy indoor-outdoor carpet of the physical therapy room with a jolt, blessedly taking the brunt of the impact. She collapsed in a heap, her injured leg, in a brace from mid-thigh to just below her knee, extended out behind her.

“Shit,” she repeated, slowly raising her head and absorbing the scene in front of her. No strewn clothing. No naked bodies. No show of force. Nothing even remotely sexual or threatening. Just Sara, one of the therapists on staff, hovering over a man sitting on one of the exercise benches, all his energy focused on what looked to be a five-pound weight clutched in his fist.

And what a man.

Even with a brace from the middle of his upper arm to his wrist, Noelle could sense the power in his tattooed bicep. She’d spent her life being lifted and thrown by dancers toned and strong from intense, daily workouts. But they were more on the lean side. This guy was built like a linebacker, muscle on muscle on muscle. His tank top clung to his broad chest with well-defined pecs and his gym shorts hugged thighs he’d clearly spent hours bulking up with squats and lunges. Sweat beaded at the back of his bent head, dampening the thick, dark curls at the base of his neck, and he radiated a not-so-quiet determination.

“Ohmigod!” Sara’s shout broke Noelle out of her lust-induced stupor. The therapist rushed over to her, moving immediately to kneel beside her. With practiced hands, she manipulated Noelle’s injured leg, feeling up and down the brace. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Noelle struggled to sit up. “Nothing hurt except my pride.”

“Everything seems in place.” Sara nodded reassuringly. “You’re lucky.”

Right. She’d just fallen flat on her face in front of the only guy to get her hormones to wake up and do the cha-cha since Yannick had dumped her in front of the entire company six months ago. Six lonely, sex-starved months. Real lucky.

“Don’t move. Let me get an ice pack in case it starts to swell.”

“I’m fine, really,” Noelle insisted. “I don’t want to interrupt your session.”

“We’re through here.” Sara stood and shot Jace a warning look before crossing to the door. “Right?”

He shrugged and looked up, giving Noelle her first glimpse of eyes the color of fine, aged whiskey, tinged with what looked like concern. “If you say so.”

“I do. I only agreed to stay late so you could get acclimated to the facilities here, not work yourself to death on your first day.” Sara ducked into the hallway and Jace appeared in her place at Noelle’s side, all six-foot-something of him occupying the air above her in a way the tiny therapist never could.

“Lose something?” He held Noelle’s crutches out in front of him. Any concern she’d seen in those whiskey eyes had morphed into amusement.

“You could say that.”

“I just did.” He handed her crutches.

“Thanks.” She grabbed them and tried—unsuccessfully—to get to her feet. Normally, she wouldn’t disobey a direct order from her PT. And you didn’t get more direct than, “Don’t move.” But she had to get out of there and away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous. Fast. Well, as fast as she could in her present condition.

“Hang on.” The man in question reached down with his good arm and took hold of her elbow. Arousal zinged down her forearm to her fingertips. “Here. Lean on me.”

She shook him off, needing the tingles to stop. Six months celibate or not, she hadn’t flown across the country for a casual hookup, no matter how hot she found the hook-ee. She was there for one reason and one reason only—to get back on stage as soon as humanly possible. “I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself.”

“I’m sure you are.” His fingers curled around her elbow again and damned if the tingles didn’t start anew. “But why should you have to when you’ve got a strong, almost completely healthy male to help?”

Indeed.

“Fine.” She swallowed, moistening lips suddenly drier than Arizona in August. “But watch out for the leg.”

“Your wish is my command.” He gave a mock bow, wrapped his good arm around her waist and lifted her gently, pulling her flush against all those warm, hard, beautiful muscles as she inched upward. He smelled like sweat and soap and strong, healthy male, and she fought the nervous shudder building up inside her.

This was a bad idea. No, not bad. Monumentally stupid. Like trapeze-without-a-net stupid.