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Frustrated to the point of pain, she wrapped the two sides of the shirt across her torso and near snarled as she said, “Honestly, would it kill you to take five minutes to change into something more comfortable?”
Just to make her feel more foolish, from behind his back he brought forth a gym bag. And it wasn’t even new. It was pretty bruised and beat up in fact, with grass stains and sweat marks, as if the guy wasn’t always immaculate, as if he knew how to get down and dirty if the situation called for it.
Nadia jerked her head towards the only bathroom at the far end of the hall. With a nod Ryder strolled away, one hand in his suit trouser pocket, pulling the fabric tight across his most excellent derriere.
Nadia whipped a couple of buttons through the holes of her shirt before yanking the tails into a tight knot above her belly button. She glanced at the clock. She couldn’t even growl at him for being late. She’d find a reason soon enough.
She wouldn’t be her mother’s daughter if she didn’t have a steel spine and a smart mouth. Both of which might have got them into trouble during their lives, but at least they always landed on their feet. Well, her mother had anyway; now retired and married to a mining magnate and living in an awful mansion in uber-posh Toorak.
Nadia, on the other hand, had spent her life climbing, reaching, happy to take her mother’s scraps if it meant getting a lick of attention from the woman. But now all the climbing was done, and she was perched on the highest, thinnest branch, waiting for her moment to take the big leap into her own life. Nobody’s scraps, no more. And nothing was going to stop her!
The far door creaked and she glared at Ryder as he walked her way, his suit now hung from a hanger in perfect straight lines. But as for the rest of him...
His feet were encased in battered trainers. Above them the calves of a runner, golden brown and covered in a smattering of dark hair. Knees lost beneath cut-off cobalt-blue track pants, the edges frayed from where they’d been hacked away. A long navy tank-top hung low and loose from shoulders gleaming with muscle.
Nadia swallowed right as her gaze hit his mouth, meaning she didn’t miss the moment it kicked into a knowing smile.
“Lose the shoes,” she spat, turning and walking the hell away, ostensibly to find the remote for the stereo. “We’re not playing hoops here, Ryder. This is dance class. Which means you need to be grounded. Connected to the music, to your partner, to the floor. And with the heat cooking this place tonight—” and the mood she was in “—you’re gonna sweat more than you have in your entire life.”
“Sweat I can handle.”
“Yeah?” she threw over her shoulder. “Tell me so again in an hour.”
His smile cocked higher, sending the pulse thudding through her straight to her belly.
He dumped the bag at the base of the chaise, hung his suit from a nail on the wall, and nudged his shoes off by their heels.
Oh, yeah, she thought with a secret smile of her own. A decade and a half of yoga had taught her the kind of pain that felt good when you were doing it, but kicked in with a screaming vengeance when your muscles came out of their trance thirty-six hours later. And he was going to feel each and every one.
That’d teach him to kiss and run. That’d teach him to mess with a Kent.
She pressed the requisite buttons. No more soft and swishy Norah Jones to make it easy on him. The hard thrash metal song chosen by a firm of accountants who’d hired her to choreograph a flash mob for their CFO’s birthday thundered through the speakers, and for good measure she cranked it up.
As if the music wasn’t making the building shake, Ryder ambled to their usual spot, near the centre of the room, beneath the soft glow of an ancient chandelier, and then held a hand to her.
As if that kiss had actually changed things. As if in giving her his jacket the other night he had shifted the balance of power his way.
Screw yoga, she thought, ignoring the temptation of that hand. Maybe she’d just stamp on his toes.
She was going to wipe that sexy smile off his sexy face, whatever it took. Because if the past few days proved anything, it was that if she didn’t take control of this thing it would take control of her. And if she wasn’t completely on her game come audition day, before she could say “Cyd Charisse” her reliability, her determination, her reputation as a serious dancer would be in question and any chance of a first-class professional dance career would be in ruins.
Nadia cranked the music up louder still, and, hands on hips, sauntered his way. Her eyes slid over him, as if she was trying to decide which part of him to hurt first as she worked him over and good.
