before pulling back onto the highway. Immediately he leaned across and turned the radio on. Static hissed and he fooled around with the dials until he found some music.
Johnny Cash’s deep voice filled the car. Poppy forced her shoulders to relax. Jake Stevens got on her nerves. She wished he didn’t, but he did. As she’d already acknowledged, she needed to get a grip on her temper when he was around.
It would also be good if she wasn’t quite so aware of him physically. Her gaze kept sliding across to where his long legs were stretched out into the footwell. And she kept remembering that flash of flat male belly. It was highly annoying and disconcerting. She didn’t like him. She didn’t want to be aware of him.
She slid another surreptitious glance his way and tensed when she caught him looking at her. More specifically, at her breasts.
She glared at him until he lifted his gaze and met hers. He had the gall to shrug a shoulder and give her a cocky little smile.
“Hey, what can I say? I’m only human.”
“Subhuman, you mean.”
“Staring at a woman’s breasts is not a capital offense, last time I checked,” he said.
“Maybe I don’t want you looking at my breasts. Ever think about that?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.”
She stiffened. What was he saying? That he didn’t like her breasts? That he didn’t consider them ogleworthy? She glanced down at herself and frowned.
“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.
She could have bitten her tongue off the moment the words were out of her mouth. She could feel the mother of all blushes working its way up her neck.
She kept her eyes front and center as he looked at her.
“Relax,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Men check out women all the time. It’s basic biology.”
“I am relaxed,” she said through her teeth. “And I didn’t think you were about to propose because you checked out my rack. I might not be used to having boobs, but I know that much.”
She didn’t think it was possible, but her blush intensified. She couldn’t believe she’d made such a revealing confession to The Snake.
There was a short silence before he spoke.
“I wondered about that,” he said. “All the photos I ever saw, you looked about an A cup.”
“You made a note of my cup size?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Sure. I’m not blind. So, what, you stopped training and puberty kicked in, is that it?”
He spoke conversationally, as though they were talking about the weather. As though it was perfectly natural for him to go around guessing women’s breast size. And maybe it was—but not hers. She didn’t want him looking at her and thinking about her like that. It made her feel distinctly…edgy.
She clenched her hands on the wheel. “We are not talking about my breasts.”
“You brought it up.”
“I did not! You were staring at me!”
“Because you changed into that teeny, tiny tank. I could hardly pretend I didn’t notice.”
“The air-conditioning is broken and I was hot and you could have tried. A gentleman would have,” she said.
He laughed. “A gentleman? Baby, I’m a journalist. I wouldn’t have a job if I was a gentleman. Something you better learn pretty quick if you want to survive in this game.”
She held up a hand. “Spare me your sage advice, Yoda. You’re about three weeks too late to apply for the position of mentor.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I will, thank you.”
“Always have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Thank you for proving my point.”
She pressed her lips together, even though she was aching to fire back at him.
He angled his seat back and stretched out, his arms crooked behind his head. “Do you miss it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Swimming. Training. Being on the team. Do you miss it?”
She made a rude noise in the back of her throat. “Just because we’re stuck in a car for a few hours doesn’t mean we have to talk.”
“It’s a long drive.”
“I’m not here to entertain you.”
He was silent for a moment. She flipped the visor to the side to block the sun as it began its descent into the west.
“Okay, what about this? I get a question, then you get one. Quid pro quo.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I don’t want to play.”
“Why? What are you scared of?”
She shifted in her seat. He was goading her, daring her. She knew it was childish, but she didn’t want him thinking he could best her so easily.
“Fine,” she said. “Yes, I miss swimming. It was my life for twenty-five years. Of course I miss it.”
“What do you miss the most?”
“You think I can’t count? It’s my turn. Why haven’t you published a follow-up to The Coolabah Tree?”
She could feel him bristle.
“I’m working on one now,” he said stiffly.
“What’s it called?”
“Nice try. Why do you want to be a journalist?”
“Because it’s not swimming. And because I feel I have something to offer. How long did it take you to write your first book?”
“Two years, working weekends and nights.”
“How many drafts did you do?”
“Three. And that was two questions.”
“You answered them.”
He shrugged. “Do you ever think about the four-hundredmeter final at Beijing? Wish you could go back again?”
She should have known he’d bring that up. The lowest point in her swimming career—of course he’d want to stick his finger in the sore spot and see if she squirmed.
She
