Chapter Six
SIX AFTERNOONS LATER, Ethan cut across the WillowGlen grounds on his return from the caretaker’s cottage after dropping off a parcel.
He’d volunteered to pick up groceries and a package from the post office, needing to clear his head and create some distance from Ivy, after their morning meeting when he’d found it hard to concentrate on anything other than her.
He’d taken his sports car into the village, but once he’d returned had made the most of the clear weather and walked over to the cottage nestled on the edge of the estate.
Suddenly a sound broke through the quiet of the calm afternoon. He scowled. Was someone on the lone tennis court?
Changing direction, he headed that way, turned a corner and stopped.
Ivy stood on the baseline, sending a ball flying over the net, just as the next one shot out of the automatic launcher and she raced to meet it.
She effectively dealt with the rapidly firing balls. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that bounced as she sprinted, and her black tights and a zip-up jacket moulded curves that dried his throat and injected heat straight into his bloodstream.
He shifted his feet, yet couldn’t tear his gaze away, because it was one of the few times he’d seen her casually dressed and sans make-up, he tried to convince himself.
The difference to her usual dressed to the nines look was profound.
This was the real Ivy, skin glowing from exertion and the cold, as she sped around the court with the grace of a natural athlete.
That’s why his body refused to obey his instructions and continue his journey back to the Manor.
He’d satisfied himself that the sound drawing him here wasn’t anything untoward.
There were no intruders, no-one on the grounds who shouldn’t be.
Just Ivy, a tennis racket and a never-ending stream of balls.
He remained rooted to the spot for a few minutes then headed towards the tennis court and pushed open its squeaky gate.
Ivy spun around.
Shock, confusion and self-consciousness crossed her face in quick succession, and for once, her ability to shield her feelings was non-existent. And he liked it. A little too much.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a remote control, stopping the machine as silence descended on the court.
Frowning, she tugged at her hair.
She wiped a wrist sweatband over her forehead and dropped her arm. Then, like she was stepping into a role, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and Ivy Flame returned.
Disappointment flooded him. He should be happy she’d reminded him who she really was, which was not this unaffected woman he’d spied on the court. Yet he wasn’t, and he wasn’t going to examine that too closely.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, raising a brow.
Want? Something deep inside him bubbled, begging to be released, that had every nerve ending on high alert.
‘Ethan, what’s wrong?’
Wrong? If only he knew. Because she wasn’t the only one surprised to find him here.
Still, he didn’t move. Because it had been Annie who’d drawn him here, as much as he hated to admit it, and kept him here.
Just like the day of the party, and increasing moments over the past week.
He was drawn to her in a way that no good could come from.
He glanced away, trying to gather his wits and spotted the launcher.
‘You bring it with you? I don’t remember seeing it before.’ He nodded at the impressive machine, grateful for the distraction from his relentless internal tug of war.
‘This one I got last year. It’s usually kept in the tennis shed.’
‘Fancy a game?’ he asked, completely unprepared to do any such thing. But once the question was out, it felt right. Because maybe it’d extinguish the inconvenient and unwanted draw towards her that he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how much he tried.
And maybe it would make Annie appear again, a voice whispered, as much as he tried to drown it out.
‘What! Now?’
‘Sure, why not? We’ve done our morning session and got the afternoon free.
’ A week into their daily meetings and they were no closer on a decision.
Three hours per day in her presence as they thrashed out the options and he got acquainted with her razor-sharp mind.
Three hours of constantly being caught off guard by his attraction to her, despite his internal monologues that he couldn’t be attracted to anyone who performed for the cameras and didn’t bother about collateral damage.
Because, more often than not, he kept forgetting that.
‘How often do you play?’ she asked.
‘Last time was right here with Cam and Luc, back when we were in school.’ He smiled at the memories. ‘We’d reenact Wimbledon, especially during the summer, complete with meltdowns and arguing about whether shots were in or not.’
Ivy’s eyes widened before she pressed her fingers against them.
His mouth dried. She’s going to say no. Infuriated that he even cared, still he braced himself.
She dropped her hand, her expression shuttered. ‘Full disclosure, I practice, a lot.’
‘Not play?’
‘No.’ Her lips flattened.
‘That gives me more of a chance then, because you obviously know your way around the court.’
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Ivy agreed.
Her eyes met his, held, and even at this distance he could see hers darken, as the intangible thread between them that defied all logic pulled taut.
‘Right! I’ll get this out of the way.’ Ivy made for the automatic launcher. ‘While you grab a racket.’
Two hours later, despite considering himself fit, Ethan’s legs and lungs burned as he crouched, waiting for Ivy to serve on match point. Her match point.
He had no idea how long she’d been hitting shots before he arrived, but it hadn’t affected her ability to send him racing across every inch of the court.
It wasn’t like he’d been hustled. He’d seen she was good, yet now he had an even greater appreciation for her ability, agility and sportswomanship.
A layer of sweat on his back plastered his lightweight hoodie to his skin and as much as he wanted the torture to end, his competitive spirit wouldn’t let him give anything other than a hundred percent.
Ethan forced himself to concentrate on the ball, not Ivy poised to serve, before she sent the ball screaming towards him. Sprinting forward, he swung his racket and hit his shot straight into the net.
He groaned in disappointment, and in relief.
‘Game, set, match. Well done.’ He clapped and, although exhausted, there was a spring to his step as he made for the net to shake her hand, because during their match she’d given everything, and so had he.
It hadn’t prevented any discussions about what was in and what wasn’t being lighthearted and easily resolved.
He realised how much he missed playing, and it had been far too long between his teenage games with Cam and Luc, although they’d mostly been based on power hits, horsing around and lots of ribbing.
She hesitated, then walked towards him.
‘You don’t want to jump over the net as the victor, like we’d do back in the day?’ he teased.
Ivy’s easy laugh washed over him. ‘I’ll pass. I don’t think I have the energy.’ She didn’t look worn-out, she looked invigorated, and the sheen of perspiration only added to her appeal.
‘I think that’s my line. You wiped the floor with me,’ he intoned good-naturedly.
‘You haven’t played in years, and it’s my favourite form of exercise,’ she confessed.
‘You won fair and square, Ivy,’ he said, desperately trying to delete the images that sprung to mind of what his favourite form of exercise with her could be.
Her lips inched upwards. ‘Thank you.’
Reaching the net, he extended his hand. She wrapped hers around it and, like a fire had been ignited by her touch, it scorched through him.
Hands locked, he took in her heaving chest, dewy skin.
Clawing, aching need drew him closer.
He itched to haul her into his embrace, plunder her mouth and strip them both bare until they were hot, sweaty and breathing roughly for another reason.
She inched forward and Ethan swore his breath stopped as he stood as still as the Virtues, although he felt a million miles from virtuous.
She gnawed her lip. A growl escaped from his.
Time stopped, heavy and full of anticipation, until suddenly she jolted backwards and broke free.
Ethan fisted his hands to stop himself reaching for her as blood roared in his ears.
How could he let Ivy play him? Again!
Where the hell had his head been, while his body took charge?
Sickened, confused, still he didn’t move, because as much as he wanted to flee from what had just happened, almost happened, he was standing his ground. She was not going to play him again, get the upper hand or ever see how much that almost kiss, and her withdrawal, had undone him so completely.
* * *
Mortified, Ivy had to stop herself turning and running for her life to hide from the self-disgust and temptation that threatened to swallow her in equal measure.
Because as soon as they’d touched, she’d been transported into a fantasy world, where there’d been no guilt, no pact, no past between them, only a shimmering connection that flowed through her like a molten heaven.
His low growl had only intensified the dream.
She’d been so close to launching herself at him, until the real world had trickled, then flooded in, making it impossible to ignore as much as she longed to.
Now she was torn between being grateful that sanity had prevailed and wishing it hadn’t.
But she wouldn’t share anything with Ethan, who stood with his arms folded, legs apart. Instead, she called on every acting skill in her arsenal and held his hooded gaze.
The pulsating attraction she could have sworn she’d seen reflected in Ethan, which had drawn her forward, was now completely obliterated, forcing her to face reality.
Just because they’d spent two hours on the court, nothing had changed.
Except she’d forever have a visual of Ethan, his total concentration on her.
No, not her. The game.