lay in a tangle on the unmade bed. A pair of jogging pants and flip-flops rested on the floor next to an over-stuffed couch, and beyond the bed, a second door led to a bathroom with stone floors.
A series of clangs drew Chelsea’s attention and she moved down the hall. She passed several empty rooms and stopped in the doorway of the last room on the right. It was filled with a big home gym, a workout bench, and rows of free weights. She knew that he worked with a physical therapist up there, but today he was alone.
Mark sat at the leg press, pushing the bar with his feet, while he watched his progress in the wall of mirrors. Soundgarden poured from hidden speakers and filled the room with “Black Hole Sun.” Sweat dampened the hair on his head and bare chest. He wore a pair of gray cotton shorts and white running shoes. An ugly pink scar gouged the skin of his left thigh to his knee. For several moments, Chelsea watched him through the mirror, his powerful legs pressing out a steady rhythm. She lifted her gaze to the moist, hard planes of his muscular chest and shoulders, to the determined grimace flattening his lips.
She reached for the control switch next to the door and turned down the volume of “Black Hole Sun.” The weights dropped with a loud clang as Mark jerked his head around and looked at her. His dark gaze landed on her face. He stared at her for several heartbeats before he asked, “What do you want?”
She held up the papers in her hand. “I just wanted to give you some information I printed out about the houses you were interested in seeing.”
He lowered his feet to the floor, grabbed a bar in front of him with his good hand, and stood. He pointed to the workout bench a few feet away from him. “Leave them there.”
Instead of doing as he asked, she rolled up the papers and tapped them against her leg. “Have I done something today to make you angry?”
He reached for a white towel and wiped his throat. His brows lowered as he watched her from across the room. “Today?” The corners of his mouth turned down and he shook his head. “No, but the day isn’t over.”
She moved to the weight bench and set the papers on top. She had to talk to him about a few things. He would call it prying. She called it doing her job. “Did you get an invitation to the big Stanley Cup party?”
He scrubbed his face. His muffled “Yes” came from within the towel.
“Are you going?”
He shrugged one big, bare shoulder. “Probably.”
“Do you have a suit?”
He chuckled and hung the towel around his neck. “Yeah. I gotta suit.”
She sat on the bench next to the papers and crossed one leg over the other. Today she’d worn an orange lacy tunic, a brown leather belt, and a pair of beige capris. Sedate for [s. her. She wondered if he’d notice. “Do you need a car service to pick you up?”
“You’re not going to insist on driving me?”
“I don’t work weekends.” She shook her head. “But even if it wasn’t on a Saturday night, I’m going with my sister.”
“The mini sisters.” One brow rose up his forehead. “That should be interesting.”
She wondered if he meant “interesting” in a good way. She decided not to ask. “Have you given any more thought to the charity golf tournament?”
He tilted his head to one side but didn’t answer.
“Coaching youth hockey?”
He held up his bad hand, and she noticed he wasn’t wearing his splint. “Stop.”
“I just hate to see you sitting around when there is so much more you could be doing.”
Mark reached above his head and grasped the chin-up bar. His right middle finger pointed toward the ceiling, and damp curly hair darkened his armpits. “Let’s talk about you for a change.”
Chelsea placed a hand on the front of her blouse. “Me?”
“Yeah. You want to get all up into my life. Let’s get into yours.”
She grasped the bench with her hands and locked her elbows. “I’m just your average, ordinary girl.” Staring at fine pecs covered in short, dark hair. Normally Chelsea wasn’t a huge fan of chest hair, but looking at Mark, she could become a convert. The fine hair growing on his chest surrounded his flat male nipples, then tapered to a fine line running down his bare sternum to his navel. Just like in the sports drink ad.
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s not a lot to get into.” He’d lost the defined edges of his eight-pack, but his belly was still tight as a drum. Defined ab muscles bracketed his stomach. A thin slice of white elastic was visible just above the waistband of the shorts hanging low on his narrow hips.
“Let’s get into it anyway.”
The kind of elastic that meant he wore briefs. More likely a pair of boxer briefs because she just couldn’t picture him in tightie whities. Not that she should be picturing him in his underwear. That wasn’t right. She worked for him. Well, maybe not technically, but…
“You think that I should do something with my life. What are you doing with yours?”
“At the moment, I’m your assistant.”
“Isn’t there ‘so much more that you could be doing’ other than driving me around and butting into my life?”
She raised her gaze before her interest wandered lower and she started to speculate about his magnum package—again. “I have plans.”
“Like?”
She looked up into his brown eyes. “I’m working and saving money.”
With his good hand he motioned for her to continue. “Saving for?”
“I’d rather not say.”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Something personal?”
“Yes.”
“There are only a handful of things that a woman won’t talk about.” He lifted a finger off the bar. “The actual number of past lovers for instance. You all want to know the exact number of women that a man has had sex with, how often, and every juicy detail. But you don’t want to share the same information.”
“That’s because there is still a double standard when it comes to casual sex.”
He shrugged one shoulder and leaned forward, still holding on to the bar above him. “I get that, but women shouldn’t ask me about my sex life if you all don’t want to talk about yours.” He straightened and dropped his hands to his sides. “Some things are private.” He moved to the weights and lowered the pin. “Maybe I don’t want everyone to know my personal business.”
Too late. That letter from Lydia Ferrari had been posted in the guest book for several months before Chelsea had deleted it. She figured she should probably tell him about it because someone else might. “Do you know a Lydia Ferrari?”
His brows lowered, and he moved to the seat he’d been in when she’d come into the room. “Like a car?” He grabbed the bar above his head and lowered himself.
“No. At least I don’t think so. She wrote a letter on your guest book page.”
He spread his hands wide and pulled the bar to his chest. “I don’t know her.”
“She claims that you met her at Lava Lounge, had sex with her at her apartment in Redmond, then didn’t call.”
The weight stopped mid-air, and he looked at her through the mirror. “What else did she write?”
“That it was the best sex of her life and her feelings were hurt when you didn’t call her back.”
He raised the bar and lowered it, the muscles in his arms and back hardened and flexed. “She was a freak.”
“You do know her.”
“I remember her. Hell, it’s hard to forget a woman with that many sharp body piercings.” His jaw tightened as he pulled the weight.
“Where was she pierced?”
“All over. I was half terrified I’d end up with some missing skin and lasting scars.”
“Obviously the terrified half wasn’t below your waist.”
A deep chuckle escaped the smile cracking his lips. “Is the letter still posted?”
“I deleted it.”
