Page 7 of Match Point

“That, and I work out four hours a day… on the tennis court… and an hour of cardio.” Air pushed through her lungs and she could no longer tell if it was rain or sweat that drenched her body. She’d been an athlete since puberty and had dated athletes because of her proximity to them. There was something about a hard-bodied guy that got her own blood pumping. But lately, the only time she’d felt that thrill was between the pages of a romance novel.

“No wonder you’ve fallen in the ranks. My grandmother gets more exercise than you do.”

“I don’t need you to lecture me on what’s the best work out. In ten years, I climbed to the top in my profession doing that routine and it served me well.” For so many years, she’d lived and breathed tennis. The more involved in the sport she’d became, the smaller and less diverse her world had become. Everybody in her sphere was driven to succeed, to be the best in whatever field they specialized in.

“You’re not a teenager, your body changes and you need to change with it. I’m barely breaking a sweat under all this rain and you can barely talk and run. Who’s got the bigger problem?”

“You do. If you haven’t guessed already, I’m not going to make this easy for you and not on purpose,” she said. Her father’s death had rattled her world. She’d lost her enthusiasm and drive until she’d discovered information on Miller from some papers she’d found in her dad’s office. Her mother had died when Sorcha was young, and her stepfather had raised her. He was her real dad—the only person to call her on her bullshit—and he was gone. “I’m used to people saying yes to me. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“You don’t say?” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

Sorcha stared at his straight back, the tattoo on his neck visible. She read the words David Pierce Ferrara and the dates the man was born and died in smaller script under the inked picture of a man’s face. “I’m trying to be honest with you and you’re acting the maggot.”

“Excuse me?” From the slope of his nose, the face on the tattoo was Leo’s father.

Father. The word brought unwelcome tears to flood her vision. She willed them back. Her dad had died the year before and his passing had sent her into a tailspin. She’d always been a bit of a diva, but it had worsened without his grounding presence. “It’s Irish slang for asshole, or… jerk, or… well, you get the gist. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t mean… to be a bitch… but a lot of times I am. And I’m whiny. Fuck this is hard. And I don’t see that changing any time soon.”

The trail they jogged up widened. He fell back to keep pace with her. The trace of a smile lifted his lips. “Irish slang. Were you raised in Ireland?”

“I’m from California, but I moved to Ireland to train and settled there. And yourself?” she asked out of politeness, each word a pant. If they were forced to be in each other’s pockets, she might as well learn more about him and, in turn, keep her mind off the fire in her chest.

“From all over, but since I like the mountains and the water, I live here.” He glanced at his watch and clicked on the screen. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

Like that was going to happen. Ignoring his dictate, she continued to trudge up the incline. “It’s beautiful here and reminds me a lot of Ireland. At least the rain does. Not that I make a habit of running in the rain, and I’m warning you now, I don’t plan on making it a habit in the future.”

“Plans have a way of changing.” He raced ahead of her, turning once he reached the top of the trail, and rested his hand on his lean hips.

Wide shoulders tapered to a taut waist, the jogging pants accentuating his thighs. Her nipples responded to the sight. She averted her gaze and willed her heavy legs to continue their upward trajectory. Leo in a suit was impressive; Leo casual was sexy. Athletic and easy on the eye. In another life, she’d pursue an affair, or at least a one-night stand.

Hair plastered against her head, she struggled up the last bit of terrain. The second she reached his side, she stopped and put her palms on her knees, her labored breath loud in the silent woods. “No change… of plans. Ever.”

“But don’t worry, you only have to put up with me for a month. I’m in the reserves and have two weeks of service time.”

A month too long.

He rolled the water bottle between his broad palms. “If the time on your run is any indication, you’re going to need every minute.”

“Do you know how to play tennis?” She bent at the waist, stretching her back to hide the silent scream. He was right, and she’d rather eat dirt than admit it to him.

“I don’t need to know how to play tennis to get you into shape. Tennis isn’t your problem; endurance is. How can you play at your peak when you can’t even run up a small hill?”

“A small hill? What do you call a large hill?” She opened her water bottle and drank deeply. Rain dripped off her nose and she blew it away, then regretted using up her resources.

“The mountain behind my childhood home. That was a mountain, this is a hill. But before you tear me a new one, check out the view.” He inhaled a visible breath, chest expanding.

She scanned the horizon where the clouds hung over the dense green landscape, the waters of the Puget Sound abutting the towering forests. “It’s lovely,” she said, smiling for the first time since the torture began. “What is that sweet smell?”

“Fir trees. Now that you’re warmed up, let’s do some lunges,” he said, averting his gaze.

He sure was moody, going from hot to cold. Sorcha wasn’t sure how to feel about that. They’d be working together, and she wanted to have some kind of rapport besides open hostility.

“How about we not?” she asked in a hopeful tone.

The grin he flashed transformed the stern cast of his jaw. “Nice try, but we’re here to work. But look on the bright side, you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful place to work out.”

She gave him a begrudging nod.

“Okay, just follow my lead.” He positioned his foot out in front of his knee and stretched his back leg out.

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