had long ago soaked his grey T-shirt black, and the muscles of his calves and thighs had given up protesting and now simply burned.
This was the bit he loved. This time after he’d conquered the arguments from both his brain and body and simply kept on going.
He’d been like this since his late teens, since the sudden death of his father. He’d gone for his first run immediately after his mum had told him the terrible news—an impossibly long run fuelled by intense, raging grief. And that run had triggered a near addiction that had him craving the adrenalin rush of exercise, craving the burn, and craving the pain.
He had no issue admitting that one of the reasons he’d joined the army was so he could be paid to reach this high. On some days he couldn’t believe his luck that he earned his living effectively living out many a childhood fantasy—the helicopters, the firearms, the boats, the tactical training...
Angus shook his head as he ran, shifting his focus back to his body.
Running on a treadmill was not his preference. Here in the gym at the barracks, he’d much rather be lifting weights, or, even better, completing a punishing PT session with the rest of his squadron.
But when it came down to it, the method was irrelevant. Winning the battle over his body was what mattered. Especially now, especially while injured.
Technically he was on medical leave, but clearly losing physical condition wasn’t an option in his job. He’d been down at the barracks daily, excluding that weekend in Bali. Even there he’d made locating the hotel gym a priority.
Except the morning after the wedding. That morning he’d slept in.
Despite the sweat and the screaming of his muscles, Angus grinned.
Ivy must have worn him out.
He reached out to slow the speed on the treadmill, reducing his pace from near sprint down to a brisk walk as he cooled down.
It wasn’t the first time the beautiful billionaire had popped into his head. It surprised him. There had been no question as to what that night had been. Neither he nor Ivy wanted anything beyond those few...admittedly incredible...hours on that beach.
Angus smiled again as he remembered the way Ivy had taken charge as they’d walked back to the hotel.
If anyone asks—I was in my suite, working.
He’d grinned then, too. And how would I know that?
She’d just glared at him, and protested silently when he insisted on walking her to her room. He had, of course, checked that no one would see them.
He wasn’t a total jerk, after all.
Although kissing her on her doorstep had not been gentlemanly—or planned.
He’d seen it in her eyes—and felt it in her body—that she’d been about to invite him in. But she hadn’t.
And he would’ve declined, anyway. He was sure.
It was for the best.
In his experience, keeping things simple was always for the best.
Later, after his shower and as he walked across the car park, he felt his phone vibrating in the backpack slung over his shoulder. Automatically he fished it out, then, on seeing it was an unknown number, considered for a moment whether he should bother answering.
Work-related numbers weren’t stored on his phone, of course—but then, no one was going to be calling him while he was on leave.
But could it be to do with his mum?
So he answered it, if a bit gruffly, and was certainly not expecting the contradictory soft but firm—and familiar—female voice he heard.
‘Is that Angus Barlow?’
‘Ivy Molyneux,’ he replied, and then smiled when she gave a little sound of surprise.
‘Uh—yes,’ she said. A pause. ‘I asked Evan for your number.’
She was nervous, her words brisker than normal.
‘That wasn’t very discreet,’ he said.
Hell, it didn’t bother him. Ivy could’ve announced the fact they’d had sex on the beach to the whole wedding reception and he wouldn’t have cared.
But he knew she did.
Unease prickled at the back of his neck.
‘No, it wasn’t discreet at all,’ Ivy said, her words pancake flat.
Then there was a long, long pause.
‘Why did you call me, Ivy?’ He was gruff now.
She cleared her throat. ‘Are you free tonight?’ she asked, much more softly.
Relief washed over him. He’d continued walking as they’d been talking, and now he propped a shoulder against the side of his black SUV.
He smiled. He remembered that tone from that night. That soft, intimate—almost shy—voice. So different from the brash confidence of Ivy Molyneux, mining executive.
He was jumping at shadows. Ivy Molyneux was a woman who went after what she wanted. This phone call was nothing more. Unexpected, but also—not unwelcome.
‘I’m free,’ he said. ‘How about we meet at Ms Black at eight?’
A wine bar in Subiaco he’d visited with the rest of his squadron after they’d returned from their latest assignment—before they’d quickly relocated to the pub next door. It was sophisticated, intimate, stunning. Very Ivy.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I—uh—guess I’ll see you there.’
‘Ivy—’ he said, before she had the chance to hang up. ‘I’m still not after anything serious.’
He felt it was important he was honest.
But judging by her almost shriek of laughter before she ended the call, he had nothing to worry about on that front, regardless.
* * *
How had she let this happen?
For what felt like the hundredth time, Ivy had to stop herself fidgeting. So far she’d swivelled her bar stool, kicked her heels against the foot rest and attempted to tear a coaster into a million pieces.
She’d counted every step she’d made tonight. From her house to her car, and then from where her driver dropped her right outside this incredibly trendy bar to this seat. It was ridiculous.
In front of her sat an untouched glass of champagne.
She didn’t even know why she’d ordered it. Out of habit?
Or denial?
Ha!
As if
