‘Show me one more time.’

Grant’s eyes were locked on her. Her skin tingled everywhere his eyes travelled.

‘Of course.’

Jasmine pulled her shoulders back and relaxed her body into a perfect turn-out. Bending down, she extended her knees outwards and brought her feet into relevé, her ankles crossed as she balanced without a tremor of unsteadiness.

Grant stepped forward, his hand reaching out to touch her stomach in the same way she’d touched his. His full lips parted as he stepped close to her.

‘Yes, very stable.’

Jasmine held her breath. Grant moved his hand down to her waist, tilting his body in to hers so that their faces were only inches apart.

The air between them was thick with electricity, the gravitational pull unravelling her sensibilities. She so desperately wanted to touch him. Her mouth was dry. Anticipation was making her pulse race.

He placed his hands over hers and Jasmine jumped at the way her blood pulsed harder and harder.

‘Why so jumpy? Are you uncomfortable being alone with me?’

‘No,’ she whispered.

The problem was she was far too comfortable. As he stood close to her all she wanted to do was melt against him. She envisaged herself pressing against his broad chest and sturdy thighs. Her entire body crackled with excitement as they stood, merely inches apart, in the empty ballet studio.

Dear Reader

Have you ever felt so compelled to follow a dream that you would do anything you could to make it a reality? This book is my dream. After many a night tapping away at my computer—endless cups of coffee by my side—I’m thrilled to share my first novel with you, and even more thrilled to be part of the sparkly, flirty, fun-loving Mills & Boon® Modern Tempted™ series.

The story of Grant and Jasmine was inspired long ago, when I read an article about footballers who studied ballet to increase their agility and flexibility. When I decided on day one of National Novel Writing Month in 2012 that I would take a leap of faith, this idea came to life. I love the concept of an ‘opposites attract’ romance, where two people seem so different only to fall in love and discover all the things they have in common beneath the surface.

This country-boy turned football star and former soloist ballerina meet when they’ve just exited very dark places in their lives. Both Grant and Jasmine are damaged souls who are desperate to keep their dreams alive and wary of what others want from them.

Whether you’re a lover of the arts or a mad footy fan (or both!), I hope you enjoy watching Grant and Jasmine help one another on their journey to healing and happy-ever-after.

With love

Stefanie London

Only the Brave Try Ballet

Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

STEFANIE LONDON comes from a family of women who love to read. When she was growing up her favourite activity was going shopping with her nan during school holidays, when she would sit on the floor of the bookstore with her little sister and painstakingly select the books to spend her allowance on. Thankfully, Nan was a very patient woman.

Thus it was no surprise when Stefanie ended up being the sort of student who would read her English books before the semester started. After sneaking several literature subjects into her ‘very practical’ business degree, she got a job in Communications. When writing emails and newsletters didn’t fulfil her creative urges she turned to fiction, and was finally able to write the stories that kept her mind busy at night.

Now she lives in Melbourne, with her very own hero and enough books to sink a ship. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, French perfume, high heels and zombie movies. During the day she uses lots of words like ‘synergy’ and ‘strategy’. At night she writes sexy, contemporary romance stories and tries not to spend too much time shopping online and watching baby animal videos on YouTube.

This is Stefanie London’s first book for Modern Tempted™ and is also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Nan and Nonno for teaching me what it means to be brave.

To my amazing husband for his endless supply of love and support (and for always doing the dishes when I was stuck in the revision cave).

To my family for never thinking my dreams were crazy, or loving me enough not to say so.

To my editor, Flo, for seeing past the rough edges of my first submission and taking a chance on this story.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Extract

Copyright

ONE

What do a ballerina and a football player have in common? It was the question Jasmine Bell pondered as she watched the footballer in front of her struggling to master a plié. Discounting a need for flexible hamstrings...they have nothing in common. Absolutely nothing. Yet here they were.

She stood in the middle of the studio, wearing her usual uniform of a black leotard, tights and ballet shoes. These items were like a second skin to a dancer, but tonight she couldn’t have felt more exposed than if she were standing there butt-naked. She folded her arms tight across her chest.

‘Let’s take it from the top. Keep those shoulders down,’ she said, forcing a calming breath. She loosened her shoulders, rounded her arms into first position and turned her feet out to match. ‘Prepare...left hand on the barre and plié—one, two, three, four...’

The man in front of her smirked as he followed her instructions with a lazy swagger. Everything about Grant Farley got under her skin, from the cocky grin on his face to the way his thick blond brows rose at her when she spoke. He was a man designed to destroy a woman’s concentration.

Keeping her distance, she watched his movements and provided assistance verbally. Usually she helped her students by guiding them with her hands, but there was something about him that made her mind scream Look but don’t touch. Maybe it was because he moved with a self-assurance that she envied, or maybe it was because after her six months of celibacy he looked good enough to eat.

Much to her chagrin he was a quick learner, and rapidly gained ground despite his insistence on goofing around.

‘You’re doing well,’ Jasmine said as they paused between repetitions. She was determined to be the consummate professional, even if it was harder to pull off than the pas de deux from Don Quixote, Act Three. ‘I can see improvements already and it’s only your first lesson.’

‘It’s not exactly difficult,’ he responded, his blue eyes meeting hers and sending a chill down her spine. His tone dismissed her praise. ‘I’m bending up and down on the spot. A two-year-old could master that.’

Jasmine bristled. Only a beef-head Aussie Rules footballer would fail to see the importance of the step she’d taught him.

She pursed her lips. ‘That’s an over-simplification, don’t you think?’

‘Not really.’ He crossed his arms and leant back against the barre, appraising her. ‘You can give it a fancy French name if you want, but it’s just bending your knees.’

‘Well, I never thought a career could be made out of chasing a little red ball.’ She tilted her chin up at him. ‘But there you go.’

‘Our balls aren’t little,’ he drawled, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Her cheeks flamed. She ignored the innuendo and started the music, preparing herself to repeat the exercise facing him.

‘Once more from the top.’

As the music started he followed her lead, bending with his feet in first position. The teacher in her couldn’t ignore the fault of his technique, as he bent his hips moved out of alignment and his feet rolled inwards. She instinctively reached out to correct the error but retracted her hand when her brain kicked into gear.

‘I don’t bite.’

His wolfish grin seemed at odds with the promise of safety, but Jasmine wasn’t going to let some arrogant joker mess with her head. She was the teacher; she was the one in charge here.

‘You need to keep your hips steady.’ She stepped forwards and placed a hand on each hip. His muscles were tight and flame-hot beneath her palms. He bent down into plié once more and she guided him, ignoring the frisson of electricity that shot through her.

‘Make sure your core is pulled in. It will increase balance and stop you rocking forwards.’

‘Like this?’ He grabbed her hand and placed her palm against his stomach. She could feel the ripple of each muscle through his T-shirt. His sports tights moulded every curve of his muscle, every bulge...

Jasmine gulped, her blood pounding as though she’d run a marathon. Get it together.

‘Yes, like that.’ She withdrew her hand, the heat of him still burning her fingertips.

She was going to strangle Elise, her soon to be former best friend, for roping her into this disaster waiting to happen. She was going to—

‘Earth to Bun-Head.’ Grant waved a hand in front of her face, chuckling when she returned her focus to him. ‘I don’t see how this is helping my hamstring. Shouldn’t we be stretching or something? We need to speed up this flexibility thing. I’ve got an important game coming up.’

He shook his leg and rubbed at the muscle.

‘Flexibility is a slow process. You can’t turn up to one ballet lesson and expect to be a contortionist. It takes time.’

‘I’d settle for being injury-free,’ he replied. ‘But if you want to show me how you can put your ankles behind your head then be my guest.’

‘This is not Cirque du Soleil.’ Jasmine bit each word out through gritted teeth.

‘It might as well be.’ He checked the clock above them. ‘Though, shocking as it might seem, I’m not here for the laughs. I want to fix my hamstring and get back to spending my time on real training.’

Jasmine wasn’t ready to let him have the last word. Sure, she had her motivations for agreeing to take Grant on as a student, but that didn’t give him licence to be rude. ‘I’m not exactly here for enjoyment either.’

‘If you loosened up you might find some aspects of it enjoyable.’

She sucked in a breath and willed herself not to respond. Glancing at the clock, she held in a sigh of relief as the hand neared 8:00 p.m. Their hour together had hardly been successful. In fact she could chalk it up as her most frustrating lesson ever...and this was only the beginning.

‘Is it that time already?’

His amused tone set fire to Jasmine’s resolve to play cool, calm and collected. She wanted to slap the mocking look right off his ruggedly handsome face. He raised an eyebrow, as if to punctuate his question.

This was going to be her life two nights a week for the next six months, and she wasn’t looking forward to it one bit! Unfortunately these lessons weren’t about the ideal way to spend her free time. No, it all came down to dollars and cents. Once again she was in a position where she needed to play up to some arrogant guy who thought he owned the world to be able to pay her bills.

‘I think we can finally call it a night,’ she said.

‘Don’t sound too upset to be rid of me.’ He uncrossed his arms and leant forwards, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her.

‘The lessons are for one hour, Mr Farley.’ Her voice was tight and her lungs were arid and devoid of air. ‘If you want more time you’ll have to arrange it with the studio owner.’

‘One hour is plenty, Ms Bell,’ he teased, and raked a hand through his thick blond hair.

Why did he have to be so damn attractive? Her insides flipped as his hair sprang back into place. She headed towards the door to the waiting room and he walked with her, a little too close for comfort. The scent of his aftershave found its way to her nostrils and filled her head with unwanted though not unpleasant images. She shut her eyes for a moment, pushing away the desire that flared like the lighting of a match.

He wasn’t good-looking in the traditional, clean-cut way she preferred. But there was something about his rough-around-the-edges look that drew her in. He had a strong jaw and razor-sharp cheekbones; his nose was crooked, as though it had been broken at some point and hadn’t healed properly. She had a strange, powerful urge to run her fingertips over the bump, to confirm her suspicions.

She bit down on her lip. There was no way in hell she would let herself fall for a guy like him. Egotistical, cocky guys were a thing of her past, and she intended to keep it that way. It was strictly business, and after he paid her for the lesson she could go home and forget she was selling out. Forget that her dream had been reduced to this BS.

Grant walked over to his duffel bag and rifled through it, withdrawing a thick envelope. He thrust it in her direction.

‘This should cover me,’ he said. ‘Coach thought it’d be easier to pay up front since you only take cash.’

The rewarding heaviness of the envelope sat in Jasmine’s hands. It would cover her rent and bills for the next month or two, and give her a little breathing space. Relief coursed through her, immediately followed by a wave of shame as she tucked the envelope into her handbag. She didn’t bother to count it. A guy who earned more than a million a year, if you believed the papers, was hardly likely to scrimp on a couple of hundred dollars for ballet lessons.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered without looking at him, dropping onto one of the couches and peeling off her leg warmers.

‘Just so we’re clear, this is something I have to do to tick a box. I don’t have any secret dreams of wearing a tutu and getting up on stage. So don’t take it personally if I don’t crave your feedback.’

Self-important, arrogant, egotistical...

‘Fine.’ Untying her ballet shoes, she reached for her fleece-lined black leather boots. Her body was cooling down and her ankle ached. Grimacing, Jasmine rubbed at the soreness, feeling the rippled skin of her scar underneath her tights before sliding the boot on. ‘You’re here to tick a box. I’m here for the money.’

If he wanted to play it like that, then he could expect an equal response from her. Hopefully the weeks would pass quickly and then she could move on to figuring out what to do with her life.

As he pulled a pair of tracksuit pants from his bag Grant’s leg muscles flexed and bulged through his leave-nothing-to-the-imagination sports tights. She’d spent the whole hour forcing her eyes up and away from the tight fabric that stretched over his thighs and...well, everything.

Heat crawled up the back of her neck and pooled in her cheeks. She pulled her eyes away as he stood and turned to her, staring at the ground as she pulled on her boots.

‘See something you like?’ he asked, his smile indicating it was a rhetorical question.

Dammit.

* * *

He regretted the words as they came out of his mouth, but Jasmine Bell stirred something in him that made him want to bait her. She had this prickly demeanour that he found both frustrating and fascinating.

He was used to swatting the football groupies away with a metaphorical stick. But Jasmine...well, she was a different breed entirely. All long limbs and straight lines, she was sexy as hell in spite of her don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Or maybe that was exactly what he liked about her.

She glared at him as though she were mentally setting his head on fire. Her slender arms were crossed in front of her, as if trying to hide the lithe figure beneath. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. There was a small part of him that enjoyed the power struggle; it was a game he liked to play. Moreover, it was a game he liked to win.

Now he’d ticked her off royally, and that was fine by him. He needed to keep his distance. Women were not a permanent fixture in his life...people were not a permanent fixture in his life. The fewer people he saw outside his footy team, the fewer people had the opportunity to use him. So he kept his distance, and he would do the same with her.

‘Did becoming famous cause you to forget your manners, or is that the way you were raised?’

She smiled sweetly, her sarcastic expression stinging him as much as the intentional barb in her words. The tilt in her chin issued a challenge.

‘All I wanted was to play footy; the fame is an unfortunate by-product,’ he said, surprised by his own honesty. Her small rosebud mouth pursed, and her dark brows creased above a button nose. ‘As are the ballet lessons.’

‘Isn’t that what they call a first-world problem?’ She hoisted her bag over her shoulder and walked to the front door. He followed, holding back an amused smile. ‘Like Boo-hoo, I’m famous and it’s such a tough life.’

‘I’d be happy to swap for a day so you can experience it first-hand.’

‘As much as I’d love to see you in here, trying to wrangle a bunch of toddlers, you couldn’t handle my job.’ She held the door open for him, and offered another saccharine smile. ‘Besides, I have the most annoying student to teach.’

Grant couldn’t help it—a hearty laugh burst free. She was prickly, all right, but hot damn if he didn’t enjoy it. ‘Sucks to be you?’

He waited while she locked up, and then they walked to their respective cars. The lights on his Mercedes flashed as he pressed the unlock button. Inside the car was chilly, and the windows took a moment to clear.

By then Jasmine was gone. Within minutes Grant was zipping along the freeway, the street lights blurring orange outside his window as the car tore down the open road. It was late and the city had long cleared its peak hour congestion. He massaged his injured hamstring, the muscle aching under the pressure of his fingers.

Who would have thought something as prissy as ballet would be such a workout? Not that he would dare admit it to Jasmine or any of his team-mates.

His phone buzzed in the mobile-phone holder attached to his windscreen. The goofy face of fellow Victoria Harbour Jaguars player Dennis Porter flashed up. He swiped the answer button.

‘Den.’

‘How are the ballet lessons going?’ Even through the phone line Dennis’s mischievous tone was obvious. ‘I wanted to see if your masculinity is slipping away by the minute.’

Ballet lessons were far from Grant’s idea of fun, but a persistent hamstring injury meant the need for increased flexibility training, and who better to help with that than a ballerina? His physiotherapist had made it sound good in theory, but the reality was proving to be much more irritating—especially since it gave his team-mates more than enough fodder for locker room jokes.

‘Ha!’ Grant scoffed. ‘Even if it was you wouldn’t be in with a chance. You’re not my type.’

‘Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the ladies say. So tell me that at least your teacher is hot?’

‘Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it.’

He’d been expecting someone older, more severe...maybe with a Russian accent. He’d had to keep his mouth firmly shut when a willowy beauty with a long black ponytail and porcelain skin greeted him at the studio.

‘Maybe I’ll have to pop in to one of your lessons.’

A surprising jolt of emotion raced through Grant’s veins at the thought of letting Den anywhere near Jasmine. He shook off the strange protective urge and forced his mind back to the present. ‘I know you want to see me in action.’

‘The whole country wants to see you in action. It’s going to be a good season. I can feel it.’

‘Me too.’

A drawn-out pause made Grant hold his breath.

‘Do you think all that other stuff is behind you now?’ Den asked.

Part of him wanted to answer truthfully. He didn’t know if it would ever be behind him. How could you forget the moment you almost flushed your life’s work down the toilet? Considering football was all he had, it was a damn scary thought. But Den was only a buddy, a mate...and as one of the more junior guys in the team he was not someone to whom Grant could show weakness.

‘Of course. You know me—I’m practically invincible.’

He hung up the phone and allowed his mind to drift back to Jasmine. She was a curious case, seemingly unaffected by him in the way other women were. How much did she know about his past? Was that why she eyed him with such wariness?

Regret coiled in his stomach. Gritting his teeth, Grant turned up the stereo and shook his head. The beat thundered in his chest and made his eardrums ache, yet he couldn’t drown out the thoughts swimming like sharks in his head. Around and around they circled, occupying the space—scaring off any semblance of peace.

He slammed his palm against the sturdy leather-covered steering wheel. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of his ballet lessons, even with a teacher who was a walking fantasy. He had better things to do with his time...like figuring out how he was going to get his team to victory.

Given his not-too-distant fall from grace, he had a lot to prove and a reputation to rebuild. In particular he had to convince his coach, his team and the fans that he was at the top of his game again. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by a woman. If it were any other girl he’d simply scratch the itch and move on, but that wasn’t going to be possible given the ongoing nature of their lessons.

Groaning, he pressed his head back against the headrest. He had a bad feeling about her; there was something about her that set his body alight in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. And the way she’d been staring at him after the lesson...talk about an invitation to sin. Warning bells were going off left, right and centre.

He couldn’t do it—not now that he was finally making progress in clearing the mud from his name. This was going to be his season. Nothing was going to distract him; nothing was going to stand in his way.

* * *

‘No!’

Grant sat bolt upright, rigid as though a steel rod had replaced his spine. Perspiration dripped down the side of his neck, his face, along the length of his spine. He felt around in the dark. The sweat-drenched sheets were bunched in his fists as he held on for dear life.

He was alone.

His breath shook; each gasp was fire in his lungs. His chest heaved as he sucked the air in greedily. More. More.

His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out the lines of the furniture around him. City light filtered through the slats of his blinds, creating a pattern on his bed. The apartment was silent; the rest of the world was sleeping while he shook.

Slowly his heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm. The tremors would take a while longer to go away—he knew that from experience. It was only a dream. The dream. The one he had over and over and over—the one that woke him with a fright every single time.

Flashbulbs disorientated him, microphones were shoved in his face.

‘Grant! Grant! Is it true you put a man in hospital? Is it true you beat him to a pulp?’

Shaking his head, he disentangled himself from the bedsheets and strode out to the living room. Starlight streamed in through the window and the city twinkled a silent tune. It was a surreal feeling to be in close proximity to thousands of people and yet be completely and utterly alone.

Opening the lid of his laptop, he settled onto the couch. His personal email showed the same sad scene it did every day: zero new messages. Even Dennis, the closest thing he had to a friend, hadn’t sent him anything...not even a stupid Lolcats photo. He clicked on the folder marked ‘family’ and sighed at the measly three emails that he couldn’t bear to delete. The last one was dated over six months ago.

He checked the spam folder, wondering if—hoping that—maybe a message had got caught in the filter, that maybe someone had reached out to him. No luck. The folder was empty.

He’d never regretted leaving the small country town where he’d grown up to pursue football and success in the big smoke, despite the verbal smack-down he’d got from his father. He could remember with clarity the vein bulging in his father’s forehead as his voice boomed through their modest country property. Those three little words: How could you? How could he desert them? How could he abandon the family business? How could he put a pipe dream before his father and sister?

Those wounds had only started healing, with the tentative phone calls and texts increasing between him and his sister. The old bonds had been there, frayed and worn but not completely broken. Not completely beyond repair. Even his father had provided a gruff enquiry as to Grant’s life in the city.

But all that was gone now. Those fragile threads of reconciliation had been ripped apart when he’d brought shame to the family name. They were his father’s words but he couldn’t dispute them. He didn’t have the right to be mad. He was alone because of his own actions, because of the mess he’d made. And, knowing his father, he wouldn’t get a second chance.

All the more reason to make sure the Jaguars were on top this year. If his career was all he had left he’d give it everything. He would not fail.

Slamming the lid of the laptop shut, he abandoned the couch to grab a drink from the fridge. If sleep was going to be elusive he might as well do something to pass the time.

TWO

‘Dammit,’ Jasmine muttered as she battled with her large pink umbrella. The blustery weather meant it was virtually useless to ward off the sideways rain as it pelted her in the face and soaked her jeans.

Her hair streaked around her, the dark strands blocking her vision as she wrestled it into submission. She dashed across the busy street, feet sliding on the slick pavement. Panting, she hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder and ducked under the shelter of the doctor’s clinic. She shook the umbrella, flicking droplets of water all around her, and walked through the automatic doors to the clinic’s reception.

‘Hi, Jasmine.’ The receptionist greeted her with a familiar smile. ‘Dr Wilson will be with you momentarily.’

Jasmine sank into a chair and wound her rain-drenched ponytail into a bun. Water dripped down the back of her neck and her ankle throbbed inside her boot, a constant reminder that the accident was not yet behind her.

Another one of the staff members gave her a friendly wave as they walked through the reception area. She was practically part of the furniture here.

After a brief check-up and lecture from her doctor Jasmine left, a fresh prescription in her hand since she’d fed the last one to her shredder. She hated taking the painkillers he’d prescribed; along with her inability to heal, they felt like another sign of weakness.

The doctor had again broached the topic of her seeing a psychologist...as though her problems were all in her head. But they weren’t—they were real. Her ankle would never again be strong enough to sustain her en pointe, and without ballet she had nothing...was nothing. She wrapped her arms around herself as she made her way to the reception desk.

God she missed it—the glitter of stage lights reflecting off sequins, the thunder of the audience’s applause, the thrill of mastering a new part. What could she do with her life now that all those things were gone? Every time she tried to think about it her mind went blank. There was nothing else in her heart except ballet, nothing else she was passionate about. It was ballet or bust...and she was definitely going bust.

Rain thundered outside the clinic and a bright flash lit up the windows, signalling that the storm was raging on. She regretted catching public transport; there was no way she’d get home dry. Stupidly, she’d come without the car she sometimes borrowed from Elise’s mother, thinking perhaps she could save money if she stuck to buses and trams. In hindsight it was a doomed plan, given that Melbourne’s public transport system was prone to failure when the weather turned. But without the cash for her own set of wheels she’d be rocking the drowned rat look on a more frequent basis.

Cursing, she signed the appointment form and paid with the notes from the envelope in her bag. It had her name scrawled across the front in Grant’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

‘Jasmine?’

A familiar voice demanded her attention. Speak of the devil.

Grant stood in the centre of the waiting room, dressed in his training gear. He looked infinitely more relaxed than the last time she’d seen him, his face open, though he hadn’t lost any of the arrogance in his swagger. People in the clinic—mainly women—admired him openly and whispered to one another behind their hands.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She kept her voice professional, pushing aside the prickle of irritation left over from their first lesson together.

‘The club gets remedial massage here.’ He signed his own form with a scrawl. ‘These tight calves are giving me hell.’

She couldn’t stop the spread of an evil smile across her lips. Her calf exercises were notorious for punishing new students and she felt a small tingle of satisfaction that he was no different.

‘Cry-baby,’ she said, wrapping a fluffy orange scarf around her neck and preparing for the onslaught of the rain.

He chuckled. It was a sound designed to make a woman’s stomach flutter, and hers did...right on cue. She cursed her body for its mindless response.

He walked beside her, and a frosty blast of air hit them as the automatic doors slid open to reveal a wet and miserable winter’s day. ‘What are you here for?’

‘An old injury.’ She paused under the awning of the clinic. She undid the clasp on her umbrella and opened it against the wind, wincing as the material flapped in protest. Turning to walk away from the car park, she waved. ‘Well, I’d better run.’

Grant raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. ‘You didn’t drive?’

She couldn’t blame him for thinking she was mad—even she was thinking she might have gone loopy. Who would choose to give up a car with seat warmers on a day like this? Her bones were already chilled to their core, and a five-minute walk to the bus stop was only going to make things worse.

She shook her head.

‘I’ll give you a lift. You can’t walk in the rain.’

Grant set off towards the car park without waiting for her to accept his offer. She paused, her brows furrowing. Another blast of cold air made her shiver as she followed him. Indignation at his demanding tone wasn’t going to force her to give up a free ride today.

Grant’s long strides made quick work of the car park. He walked with his head bent to the wind, not looking to see if she’d followed him. She quickened her pace, her boots splashing through puddles as she jogged. The car’s lights flashed as it was unlocked and Jasmine scampered around to the passenger side, eager to get out of the wet.

Slamming the door behind her, she shivered. Droplets of water had flicked all over the pristine leather seats, and the windows fogged from their breathing. Grant turned over the engine and flicked on the demister. They waited while the glass returned to its normal transparent state.

His eyes were on her.

* * *

Her pale skin was flushed from the cold. A strawberry colour stained her cheeks and, even as dishevelled and rain-soaked as she was, Jasmine was still the most stunning woman Grant had ever encountered.

‘Where am I taking you?’ He started the engine and let the car idle while it warmed up.

‘To the ballet studio.’ Blowing on her hands, she rubbed them together and shivered in her seat. ‘Please.’

Grant turned up the heater, flicking the centre vent so that it blew in her direction. He could smell the combination of perfume and rain on her skin. Water droplets slid down her neck, disappearing beneath her scarf. For some reason he found that indescribably erotic.

‘So you’re dealing with an injury?’ He forced his mind onto another topic. Injuries were safe, unsexy. ‘From dancing?’

‘Yeah.’ Her voice sounded tight and she didn’t elaborate.

He stole a glance at her profile as he turned to the rear window, easing the car out of its spot. She shot him a rueful smile, a dimple forming in her cheek. His eyes flickered over her small but full-lipped mouth.

‘I bet you get more injuries in football, though—like a broken nose, perhaps?’ Her voice held a slight sense of mischief.

Most girls wouldn’t be so quick to point out that he had a crooked nose. But, then again, he could see she was different in every way from the women he met on the football circuit. She wasn’t fake tanned and bleached to the hilt. She didn’t have that artificial look that was the uniform of the WAGs. She was an authentic beauty—a rarity. Her long black hair was wound into a neat bun, and the only skin that showed was on her hands and face. She had a certain primness about her that Grant found appealing—a polished elegance that made her look every bit the perfect prima ballerina. And she gave him attitude left, right and centre.

‘Yes to the broken nose, but it didn’t happen on the footy field,’ Grant said, returning his eyes to the front. ‘I had a fight when I’d barely turned eighteen. It was my first night out drinking and I got into a fight at a bar.’

At one point that memory would have filled Grant with a sense of macho pride, as though it were a rite of passage for a young male. Now it made him queasy, with memories bubbling to the surface. Many women liked the whole ‘bad boy’ thing—hell, he’d used it to his advantage time and time again—but those days were well and truly over. Not that anyone believed him.

‘That was a long time ago.’

He kept the mood light, but Jasmine wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

‘I don’t understand why guys fight.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to beat your chest to attract the ladies, you know.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘I was young, thought I had to prove something.’ He forced a hand through his hair. ‘I wasn’t always this way.’

‘What do you mean?’

He was at a loss for words. People usually didn’t ask personal questions—well, not those beyond what his bank balance was. They never showed any interest in him as a person, never cared about who he was...where he came from.

He shrugged, grappling for a response. ‘In charge.’

‘I have no doubt that you can take care of yourself,’ she said, a soft smile on her lips. ‘But being macho isn’t the way to go about it.’

Perhaps she’d seen the media fuss that had erupted after the incident. There had been an awful paparazzi shot of him doing the rounds on the internet for months afterwards. Luckily the media moved on quickly. Sports stars behaving badly were a dime a dozen. Grant had experienced a sense of guilt when it died down so quickly, though the story still popped up on gossip sites whenever there was a slow news day.

‘You don’t get ahead in AFL by being a softy.’

‘I don’t know. I reckon you might be a big softy on the inside.’ She laughed, poking him in the ribs. ‘You’re like one of those mean-looking dogs that rolls over for a tummy scratch.’

‘I’m at the top of my profession, sweetheart.’ He wanted to come across as controlled, but the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Defensive. ‘I’m not in it for the belly scratches.’

‘So what are you in it for?’

‘I’m in it for the game.’

‘You like to win?’

‘Hell, yeah, I like to win.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Depends on your definition of winning, I guess.’

A dark shadow passed over her face and for a moment he caught a glimpse of something beneath the surface of her warm brown eyes.

She moved on before he could probe deeper. ‘Why weren’t you always in charge?’

Of course she’d latched on to that little statement. Memories flickered at the edge of his consciousness. He didn’t want to talk about this. He’d never told anyone about what he’d left behind, about the guilt that racked him for abandoning his family only a year after his mother had passed away.

‘Let’s just say I was a late bloomer.’

‘And now?’

‘Like I said, I’m at the top of my game.’ His eyes flickered over to her. ‘Belly scratches not required.’

There was no way she’d understand. Her face was neutral, giving nothing away. She kept her gaze trained on the front window, her hands folded primly in her lap.

‘If you’re at the top of your game then why are you concerned with my opinion?’

‘What exactly is your opinion?’ He steered the car around a corner and forced his eyes to stay on the road. He wanted to see her expression, watch for a hint of how she really felt.

Why did he even care?

‘Like you said to me the other night—don’t take it personally... I don’t understand why football is such a big deal. I mean, you chase a ball around a field until someone kicks it between two posts. It’s not rocket science.’

‘We live the life of a dedicated athlete, we give up the things regular people take for granted.’

‘I’m sure keeping up with the constant partying and bedding groupies is a real sacrifice.’

‘Yeah, it’s hard to keep up with the groupies, but I try my best.’ He winked at her while they were stopped at a red light. ‘It’s good for building stamina.’

‘You’re unbelievable.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘So I’ve been told.’

Deflecting her away from the personal stuff with OTT arrogance wasn’t his finest hour, but it had steered her away from the dark parts of him and it had made her laugh. As far as he was concerned it was a win.

She huffed and shook her head. Grant couldn’t help but notice the pink flush that had spread from her cheeks down her neck, and she squirmed under his gaze.

He drove the car down the street that led to the ballet studio. Automatically he felt his shoulders tense as they drew closer. The feeling of dread that he experienced each time he came to the studio kicked in as he pulled into the car park. It was as if his body associated the studio with the pressure he was putting on himself—a manifestation of the fine line he walked with each game this season.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Jasmine gathered her bag and umbrella from beneath her feet. ‘That rain would have been awful to travel in.’

‘No problem.’ He tried to keep his eyes forwards, but he couldn’t help stealing a glance as she stepped out of the car. The clingy fabric of her pants showed off one magnificently tight, toned ass. He gulped.

‘See you tomorrow.’

Jasmine practically bounced from the car to the studio, her pink sports bag swinging against her hip while her pert behind wiggled enticingly. Grant gave himself a moment to let his breath settle before he peeled out of the car park.

Don’t even think about it.

* * *

A quiet studio was not what Jasmine needed right now. The silence encouraged thinking, and sifting through the questions in her head was not productive...not when she had to focus on work. She stood at the barre, rolling her ankle around in a slow circle. The joint protested, the tendons tugging sharply as she pushed herself to flex or point a little more. If only she could push it a little farther each time...

Years of stretching had given her a perfect curve en pointe, but now she could barely rise up onto the balls of her feet. They refused to stretch, refused to flex and curve as they once had.

Gritting her teeth, she attempted a few moves from an old routine. Her feet thumped against the floor, clumsy in their poor imitation of how she had once danced. She wanted so badly to be able to go back to the way she’d been before the accident, before she’d stranded herself in this horrible place known as dancer’s limbo—where you were too broken to move forwards, too proud to go backwards and too engrained to go anywhere else.

She missed dancing with an ache that felt as if it split her chest wide open every time she failed to flex her feet properly. There were times when she feared that her soul might wither up and die if she went much longer without dance.

Voices from the waiting room pulled her out of her dark thoughts; she whipped her head around.

Grant stood in the waiting room, talking to her best friend and owner of the studio, Elise Johnson, but his eyes were undeniably on Jasmine. Even from a distance she could see the fire burning in their ice-blue depths. He nodded in response to something Elise said but he didn’t tear his gaze from her...not even for a second. Stomach fluttering, she crossed the studio. Their muffled voices became clearer as Jasmine reached the waiting room.

‘How come your girlfriend doesn’t come and watch you practise?’

Elise batted her eyelashes at Grant as Jasmine poked her head into the waiting room. She bit down on her lip to stop herself from groaning; the girl was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

‘No girlfriend.’ Grant shook his head, catching Jasmine’s eye and winking.

‘Wife?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Interesting.’ Elise cocked her head to one side and smiled at Jasmine conspiratorially as she turned to grab her coat and bag. ‘Well, I’m off. Enjoy your lesson.’

Her smile was sweet as a cupcake piled high with frosting. Jasmine stifled a laugh at Grant’s get-me-out-of-here expression. Elise was full-strength girlie—none of that watered-down diet stuff. As Grant came forwards Elise shot Jasmine a thumbs-up behind his back. Her face sparkled.

Despite the fact that Elise was single herself, she’d made it her mission to try and set Jasmine up, no matter how many times she protested.

She held open the door to the waiting room. ‘Shall we get lesson number two over with?’

‘It’s going to feel even longer if you count down every single lesson,’ Grant said, walking past her, close enough that she could smell the faint aftershave on his skin.

‘You were the one who wanted to speed up the results,’ she said, focusing her attention on the mirrored wall as they walked over to the barre. Each breath had to be forced in and out of her lungs, as though she might forget to breathe if she were near him for too long.

‘Do I need to wear these stupid things every lesson?’ He pulled at the fabric of his sports tights and allowed it to snap against his thigh. ‘At least at footy I can wear shorts over the top.’

‘Are you worried about your modesty?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’

She put on her most serious teacher voice. ‘I need to see how your muscles work while we’re going through the exercises.’

Heat crawled up her neck and she forced her eyes to stay on his face. She would not look down. She would not look down.

‘My muscles? Right.’ He drew the last word out, barely containing his laughter.

‘I think you should consider taking these lessons a little more seriously, Grant. Preventing injury is no laughing manner.’

‘God, you sound like an insurance commercial.’

He was pushing her on purpose, and he seemed to be getting an immense amount of pleasure out of it. Since this was her lesson, she could pay him back.

‘Why don’t we get started with some calf raises?’

He rolled his eyes and groaned, as though she’d told him he needed to climb a mountain with one hand.

‘Suck it up, Grant. If there’s one thing you should know about people who’ve studied ballet it’s that we have discipline beyond anything you could imagine.’ She sounded smug, sure, but he totally deserved it.

He shook his head and laughed. ‘You’re not selling the ballet ideal very well.’

‘You don’t think you’ve got what it takes?’ She cursed herself. She shouldn’t be baiting him. No doubt he’d be the kind of guy to enjoy a little verbal sparring. But the words had slipped out before she could stop them. It was too...fun. And she needed a little fun right now.

He grinned at her, confirming her fears. ‘If I want something, there ain’t a force in the world that will stop me from having it.’

Jasmine gulped. His pointed look sent liquid fire through her veins. There was no doubt in her mind that she was on his list of things to want. She had to remind herself that this was business and—fun as it might be, she was only after a pay cheque. But that grin...the crooked, self-assured way he smiled...it was like a fist through her stomach.

No, this would not work on her. She wasn’t another airhead groupie, ready to fall at his feet.

‘You can’t have everything you want. That’s not how the world works.’ And didn’t she know it.

He raked his eyes over her. ‘Watch me.’

Awareness tingled on her skin. She could feel his gaze so keenly that it might as well have been the brush of his fingertips or the rasp of his tongue for what it was doing to her insides. She bit down on her lip, trying unsuccessfully to blank out the flickering reel of R-rated images in her mind.

‘Since you’re so strong of mind, why don’t you focus some of that energy on this lesson?’

After Grant had made his way through the warm-up she moved them on to a new exercise, facing him at the barre.

‘We’ll start the tendu à terre in first position. Watch me.’ She extended her right leg forwards until only the tips of her pointed toes touched the ground.

Looking as out of place as one would expect from a footballer in a ballet studio, Grant struck an angled version of first position with his working arm, his shoulders bunched up around his neck.

Jasmine rested her hand on the tense muscle. ‘You have to loosen up from here or you’ll never relax into it,’ she said, running her hands down his arm and shaping it into the proper position. Her fingertips brushed his hard, curved biceps. Her breath quickened while her heart bounded like an over-excited puppy. ‘Now, extend your working leg forwards slowly. Point your foot and keep it on the ground.’

He shifted as he moved his leg forwards, tipping his hips out of alignment. Her hands automatically went down to put them back into place. Her fingers fluttered involuntarily against his hipbone. Through the thin fabric of his running tights his muscular thighs were perfectly visible. The fitted garment didn’t leave much to the imagination...and, speaking of imagination, hers was running wild.

From the sharp intake of his breath and the flare of his pupils he must have felt it too. And the jolt of electricity that made her whole body feel like a live wire—could he feel that as well?

She stepped back and instructed him to complete the exercise on his own. Using her remote, she played classical music so he had timing to work with. He fought to keep his posture straight and Jasmine clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out to touch him again.

‘That’s looking good. If we can get those hips to stay square, then you’ll master this in no time. The tendu leads on to a lot of other steps in ballet.’

She was babbling—a side-effect from the onslaught of lust. God, it had been far too long since she’d been with a man, it must be the hormones making her crazy. That’s all it was, a perfectly reasonable and natural response...absolutely nothing to do with him. She needed a break. Now.

‘Why don’t you grab a drink?’ She walked to the front of the studio where her water bottle sat next to the MP3 player and her mobile phone. ‘We’ll get started again in a few minutes.’

They had another half an hour to go—how was she going to keep herself in check for that long? She took a swig of her water and relished the cool liquid sliding down the back of her throat.

‘Did you ever think about going pro with your dancing?’ His voice caught her off guard and she stiffened.

Busying herself with the MP3 player, she grappled for a response. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘I’m not sure if any ballerinas would refer to it as “going pro.”’

‘Picking on my slang is an excellent way to avoid the question,’ he said. ‘But I’ll rephrase. Did you ever think about dancing professionally?’

‘Yes.’ Not a lie, but not an invitation either.

‘And?’

She bit her lip and sighed. The last thing she needed was for him to pity her...or, worse, want to help in some way. She always dealt with problems by herself; she preferred it that way. Dealing with things on her own meant there was no one pushing their ideas on her, no one convincing her to do something outside her comfort zone and no one controlling her.

But how could she get around this topic for the rest of their time together? At some point it would come up again and she’d have the same dilemma: lie or expose herself.

‘I was a soloist with the Australian Ballet.’ She kept her voice even, unemotional. ‘I trained in ballet my whole life and have wanted to be a professional ballerina ever since I was eight years old.’

‘Then why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit.’ The word tasted dirty in her mouth. She would never have stopped dancing if her hand hadn’t been forced. ‘I was injured in a car accident and now I don’t have full movement in my foot and ankle. I can’t dance en pointe anymore.’

She opened her mouth to continue but the words died in her throat. Her lips were parched and her tongue was heavy, as if physically resisting the truth. She couldn’t mention the constant pain. The mental torment. The shame of how it had happened.

She couldn’t talk to anyone about that—not even her best friend.

Grant was silent, lines forming at the centre of his forehead. His thick brows were knitted together. Out of nowhere his left hand reached out and clasped hers. Jasmine jumped at the unexpected touch. Her hand was tiny in his grip. Fragile.

THREE

He clasped the fragility of her hand between his fingers, her bones feeling tiny and delicate and perfect. She gasped, her lips opening and closing, before she clenched her jaw. She’d been hurt before, and she wore it like a warning sign that read Stay the Hell Away.

She frowned, her rich brown eyes narrowing at him as she withdrew her hand from his grip. He wasn’t even sure why he’d touched her, but something stirred deep within him. Everything about her was restrained, from her not-a-hair-out-of-place bun to her neatly filed pink fingernails. She had a carefully constructed veneer that held him at arm’s length, and while he had no interest in getting closer she looked as though she could use the comfort. Yeah, he was comforting her...it had nothing to do with the strange ache in his chest.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Not as sorry as I was.... You’re here to work on your flexibility, remember?’ Her voice wobbled slightly but she retained control. ‘You’re here to work.’

The way her eyes glittered and her cheeks were stained pink told him he’d unintentionally hit a nerve. How interesting. A woman with a mystery was his personal weakness, and there was a hell of a lot more to her story than she was letting on. He was drawn in by the opportunity to uncover her secrets, to peel away the layers of complexity that shrouded her. He would pick his moment, when she wasn’t so raw, so exposed. He would find out what had hurt her more than a shattered dream.

‘I mean it.’ She walked towards him and stopped barely inches from where he stood. ‘Back to work.’

The air between them sizzled. Grant’s heart thudded an erratic beat in his chest. Her power seemed to come from nowhere. She’d frozen him on the spot with a single look. Her eyes blackened, pupils engulfing the ring of warm brown around it. She stood in front of him, close enough to touch. He could feel every damn millimetre between them and he wanted desperately to close the gap, to draw her to him with force.

But she was playing the same game he was. Testing the boundaries. Pushing to see how far they could go.

She returned to the barre, seemingly unperturbed. ‘Let’s keep working on your tendu for now.’

Jasmine settled her body into the starting position and waited while Grant did the same. She demonstrated where the turn-out should be coming from by touching the tops of her thighs where they connected to her hips, her hands inches from the place he wished his own hands were...or maybe his mouth.

Grant swallowed. She looked at him through her thick curly lashes as though she was completely aware of how difficult he was finding it not to stare. Damn her, she was doing it on purpose.

‘Extend forwards.’ She completed the move facing him, so that their feet met in the centre.

Her words counted out the beats of the music and he trained his eyes on her legs, making a poor imitation of her movements. He should leave her well alone, but something kept pulling him in. Something in the way she held him at arm’s length made his blood pulse harder and hotter in his veins.

‘Try again.’

She started the music—the same strains he’d listened to over and over that lesson. His feet moved in time, the steps less foreign to him now.

Neither of them spoke while he completed the exercise. She stood stock-still, observing him. There was something strangely sensual about the complete silence except for the whisper of their feet against the floor. The air crackled between them.

Her eyes flicked over his body. Was she assessing or admiring?

‘You need to rotate your turn-out more,’ she said, walking to him. She placed her hands on his upper thighs, smoothing the muscles outwards. ‘Otherwise you’re putting a lot of strain on the knees.’

Her hands lingered on his thighs, all too close to where his body cried out for her touch. He stirred and bit down on his lip. There was no way he’d be able to hide an erection in these damn tights.

At this distance he could see that her eyes were not merely brown but a medley of chocolate shades: milk, caramel and dark cocoa. Her skin was porcelain-white. She lacked the flaws—freckles and scars—that years on the field had given him. Her lips were rosebud-pink, parted and moistened by the gentle swipe of her tongue.

‘If you leave your hands there I take no responsibility for what happens.’ He leant in, closing the gap between them.

Her eyes flickered up to him, her lips pursing. God, he wanted to taste her. Was she game?

‘Lucky for you I have no problem with taking responsibility,’ she said, withdrawing her hands. ‘You should try it some time.’

Damn.

As they cooled down and stretched out she kept her distance, eyeing him as one might a large dog that wasn’t on a lead. He was momentarily distracted by the sharp pull in his hamstring. Stifling a groan, he leant into the stretch but couldn’t get enough from it. This damn injury was affecting his game and it was pissing him off.

‘Do you want a hand with that?’ She pushed up onto her feet and came closer.

He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I want a hand—’

‘Finish that sentence and you’ll get nothing,’ she warned.

Jasmine Bell wore the prissy schoolteacher look better than he’d thought possible.

He kept his mouth shut and she knelt down in front of him. ‘Lie flat on your back and put your right leg up. I’ll give you a little push.’

Was it his imagination or did a subtle flush of pink rise up her neck as she instructed him? She leant her shoulder into the back of his thigh and eased forwards. With her body too close to his, he should have been revelling in the fantasy.

Unfortunately the muscle was so resistant he had to blow out a long breath and focus his energy on allowing it to lengthen. For once he couldn’t even voice the innuendo.

Cold fear trickled down the length of his spine. What if his injury couldn’t be fixed? What if he couldn’t lead the Jaguars to victory? He’d bet everything on his career, and if he lost he’d have nothing at all.

* * *

At the time of her next lesson with Grant, Jasmine was in the studio, choreographing a routine for the teachers of the EJ Ballet School. Looking sexy as hell in a leather jacket over his hoodie and jeans, he stood about in the waiting room, watching her through the viewing mirror. He was early...for once.

Instead of heading straight out, Jasmine had the sudden urge to put on a show. She stretched out at the barre, determined to show off the best of her flexibility. Inside, her head sensibly protested that he was not the kind of guy to encourage. But the thought that he might up the ante of their teasing sent a shiver down her spine. Their last lesson had thrown her into a spin. His questions, the genuine concern in his voice, the tenderness of his touch...it was enough to make even the most sensible girl fantasise. And sensible was Jasmine’s middle name.

Her heart fluttered as she stretched, excitement dancing along her nerves. What was wrong with her? She shook her head and forced herself to focus. Abandoning the barre, she set her shoulders straight and drew a deep breath.

Elise got to Grant before Jasmine made it to the waiting room. She was throwing all her charm at him—flipping her wispy blond ponytail and offering him a smile that could power a small city. Something twisted in Jasmine’s gut—a strange pang that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She pushed it aside and walked out in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation.

‘That would be amazing!’ Elise’s voice was high-pitched. Buoyant. ‘Did you hear that? Grant is going to get us access to the Long Room for Friday’s game. We can watch him in action.’

A warm heat flared in Jasmine’s chest. Access to the Long Room was more than a couple of general admin tickets. It was a sweet gesture, and for some strange reason it made her tummy flutter. Whether that was from the generosity of his act or the thought of seeing him in his element, she didn’t know.

‘Isn’t that exciting?’ Elise nudged Jasmine in the ribs with her elbow, a hint of warning in her voice.

‘That’s extremely generous,’ Jasmine said.

However, as the warm flush of excitement faded she realised what his invitation meant. Access to the Long Room was kind of like an insider event in the art world—filled with people who knew one another, who dressed the same way, who belonged. And she didn’t belong with the other halves of football’s elite.

Her heart sank. ‘Of course I’ll have to make sure I don’t have anything else on.’

‘You don’t have anything else on,’ Elise said pointedly, her elbow once again digging into Jasmine’s ribs. ‘We’ll definitely come and watch.’

Relax, she told herself, it won’t be like the art community. Sport is inclusive, right? Her stomach pitched. Her ex had dragged her around to all manner of gallery openings, VIP exhibitions and artist previews. She’d never fitted in. Everyone at those events had been able to afford the art hanging on the walls. She’d had more in common with the paintings themselves than the people she’d been paraded in front of.

‘Great.’ Grant flashed them both a smile. His eyes lingered for longer than necessary on Jasmine. ‘Elise has given me your number so I’ll text you the details.’

‘Great.’ Jasmine fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Of course Elise had given him her number—why would she expect anything less?

An amused smile played on his lips. The two women watched him walk into the studio, both of them locking on to the way his hips rolled in their lazy, sensual gait.

‘I can’t believe you gave him my number.’ Jasmine glared at her friend as soon as the door swung closed behind him.

‘I’m doing you a favour, Jazz,’ Elise said, positioning her hands on her hips. ‘He’s drooling over you during class and you’re too chicken to do anything about it.’

‘That’s not true. He’s practically a celebrity—he could have any of those red-carpet bimbos by his side.’

‘Yes, but he’s looking at you.’ Elise sighed. ‘You’re too blinded by your own stubbornness to see it.’

‘I am not stubborn.’ But even as she said it Jasmine knew it was a lie.

‘Right.’ As if on cue, Elise cocked her head and rolled her eyes. ‘You know not every guy is like Kyle. Grant is different. He—’

‘Stop it.’ Jasmine shut her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

She loved Elise, but this was crossing the line. She didn’t want anyone pushing her towards Grant—especially when she was having a hard time controlling herself around him as it was. There was something about him that drew her like a magnet.

Magnetic attraction or not, she knew a relationship with him would never work because she didn’t belong in his world. She’d had her time in a glamorous community filled with extreme wealth, cliques and persistent paparazzi. She’d promised herself she’d never go there again. But something pulled her to Grant—something deep and inexplicable.

She watched him through the viewing window while he warmed up at the barre. Against her better judgement, she didn’t look away.

* * *

The pre-game rush was what had drawn Grant into the world of football back in his childhood. Some guys lived for the relief that came when the siren sounded, others purely for the swell of the crowd’s cheer upon victory. But Grant was all about the build-up, the anticipation...and this match had it in spades.

He told himself it was because the Jaguars were playing their fiercest rivals. But deep down he knew the jangling of his nerves was caused by two things: Jasmine, and the niggling sensation in his hamstring. He couldn’t let it get the better of him today...not when so much was at stake.

‘Bloody hell, you’re a space cadet today.’ A hand slapped down onto his back, the sound barely registering above the locker room din.

‘Huh?’ Grant turned to see his team-mate, Archer, standing beside him, shaking his head. He was a small guy, as rovers tended to be, but he had a larger than life personality. His eyes glittered with mischief.

‘You seem light on your feet lately, mate. I should start calling you Twinkle Toes.’

‘Now, now...’ their coach warned, his voice booming above the noise.

‘I thought Grant might be able to share some of his experiences with the team.’ Archer looked up at Grant, unperturbed by the half a foot height difference between them. ‘How are the pirouettes going?’

‘You don’t want to go there, Arch.’ Grant stretched up to his full height. ‘Even doing ballet I’m still twice the man you are—mentally and physically.’

‘Short jokes...clever.’ Arch rolled his eyes as he stretched out his quad.

‘Nothing wrong with getting in touch with your feminine side, is there Grant?’ Another player chimed in.

‘Back off.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a bad sport.’ Arch elbowed Grant in the ribs. ‘I’d say pink is your colour.’

‘You’re just jealous, Arch.’ Grant felt the frustrations of the past year building, but he remembered the breathing exercises and calming techniques he’d learnt. Unclenching his fists, he let out a slow breath. ‘I get one-on-one time with a hottie ballerina and you’re going home to your old lady. I know who I’d rather be.’

Den Porter came up to the two guys and clapped them both on the back, chuckling at Grant’s joke. ‘Can’t argue with that, can you, Arch?’

Archer muttered a retort but left Grant alone. The locker room buzzed around them, pre-game jitters filling the air with a crackling, unpredictable energy.

‘You have been a bit of a space cadet,’ Den echoed, taking a long swig from his water bottle.

‘I’ve got things on my mind.’ Grant shrugged.

‘They’d better be game-related things,’ the coach said as he walked past. ‘This season is your chance, Grant. An opportunity for redemption.’

‘He sounds like a goddamn evangelist,’ Grant muttered as the coach disappeared from earshot. ‘He’s got the memory of an elephant too.’

‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you dragged the club into your personal life.’ Archer’s voice was stony. ‘You cost us that season.’

‘If I remember rightly, you didn’t score a single goal that game,’ Grant said through gritted teeth.

‘Who could concentrate, with you stumbling all over the place? You were a mess.’

Grant slammed his locker shut, enjoying the loud crack. He’d been on the straight and narrow for over six months now, but his team would never pass up the opportunity to have a go. They thought he’d cost them a winning season—their first winning season—and that his antics had distracted the team.

He’d given up the partying, he’d given up the booze, he’d even given up the groupies. But it wasn’t enough; in everyone’s mind he was the reason for their failure. He could still remember the last call he’d had with his father in the days after the story had hit the media. ‘Now you’re a deserter and a drunk. You’re no son of mine.’

‘You whinge like an old woman, mate.’ Den rolled his eyes at Arch.

The coach approached Grant, his weathered face drawn into a stony expression. ‘Don’t forget you promised me this season would be a winner, Farley. When I agreed to give you a second chance you told me you’d give me a winning season.’

‘I will.’

‘You’d better not have any distractions this time.’ Two hard eyes bored into him. ‘I make it a rule not to give third chances.’

Message received.

* * *

Jasmine and Elise arrived early to the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where all the big AFL games were held, to collect their tickets. As they were gaining access to the most exclusive part of the MCG they hadn’t been able to dress down like the rest of the fans who were streaming into the stadium. Amidst the black-and-green Jaguar guernseys, and the occasional fan sporting the red and yellow of the away team, they looked out of place.

The winter air bit right through Jasmine’s coat and boots, a fine mist of rain dampening her exposed neck. She shivered and huddled closer to Elise. They moved with the crowd, searching for the ‘Members Only’ area.

Following the signs, they eventually ended up in the Long Room, with its floor-to-ceiling views of the ground. It was another world. Away from the crowds and coloured flags of the general admission area. Away from the manic cheering, meat pies and scarf waving. Away from the ‘real’ football experience.

Up here men wore tailored suits and women dressed in all manner of finery, toting handbags that probably cost more than a month’s rent. The sound of dramatic air kisses and tinkling laughter rose above quiet conversation.

‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’ Elise looked around, dazzled.

Jasmine shifted on the spot and removed her coat, slinging it over one arm. She smoothed her free hand down the front of the vibrant emerald dress she wore over thick black tights and boots. She’d changed a dozen times before leaving, even though she knew she was unlikely to see Grant after the game. Still, she’d fussed over endless combinations until she’d ended up back in the first outfit she’d tried on. Last minute, she’d thrown a long strand of onyx beads around her neck to try and fancy up what essentially was a plain cotton dress.

She looked even more out of place here than she had in the crowd. Elise loved being amongst the rich, but Jasmine hated it. Such wealth flung around, while she could barely scrape together enough money to keep her electricity turned on. She felt frumpy and juvenile next to these elegant swans in their silk dresses and needle-thin heels.

Worse, she’d been here before. The glitz and the glamour of the arts world wasn’t so different—though there was a distinct lack of fake tan and fake boobs where ballet and art were concerned.

She’d been on the arm of a wealthy man—the son of a financier—who’d thought his family’s bank balance meant that he owned her, that he could control her as he controlled the investments in his portfolio. His family had money equivalent to the GDP of a small nation.

And it had ended badly...very badly. Her stomach churned.

‘Champagne, miss?’ A waiter held out his silver tray, four delicate flutes of bubbling wine catching the light in front of her.

‘No, thank you.’

‘I will.’ Elise reached for a flute and smiled.

The waiter drifted into the crowd and they found a spot to stand in front of the mammoth glass window. Outside the seats were filling up. A sea of black and green engulfed the stadium, and excitement was palpable in the atmosphere. Inside the clinking of champagne flutes and muted chatter filled the air.

‘I would have thought you’d be OK to have a drink by now.’ Elise took a delicate sip from her flute.

Her blond hair was piled on her head, with wispy strands loose and alluring around her pixie face. A chunky strand of grey pearls offset her steel-coloured eyes. Even Elise looked more as if she belonged than Jasmine did.

‘It’s not like I’m working hard to resist it,’ Jasmine said.

‘You’re missing out—this is the good stuff.’ She winked. ‘The French stuff.’

‘I don’t want it.’

Elise watched her, assessing her as she sipped again. Her tongue captured a stray droplet of the fizzing liquid. Jasmine forced a smile; she didn’t want to ruin what would be an exciting night for Elise.

‘One glass won’t kill you,’ Elise went on. ‘I’m driving, so you don’t have to worry about safety.’

‘I don’t want one.’ She couldn’t keep the frost out of her voice.

Elise sighed. ‘I’m not trying to push you. I’m just saying that it’s OK to let your hair down every once in a while. You know—live a little. Maybe act like you’re twenty-seven instead of seventy-seven.’

‘I’m sure there are seventy-seven-year-olds who are more fun than me.’

Both girls laughed, and Elise hooked her arm through Jasmine’s. ‘Yeah, I’m going to trade you in at a nursing home on the way back.’

The room filled up around them. A woman in a knee-length indigo shift stood next to them. Jasmine was sure she’d seen her in the society pages, possibly mentioned as the wife of one of the Jaguars players. She was so close the headiness of her perfume made Jasmine breathe deep. The scent was rich. Refined. French to match the red soles of her designer shoes.

Elise nudged Jasmine and pointed out another woman who’d walked past—a semi-celebrity, famed for the high-profile sports-star boyfriends she turned over frequently. Her tanned skin glowed as though she’d returned from the Maldives that day. She probably had.

‘Why don’t we sit outside? We can’t take Grant’s tickets and then stay in here all night.’ Jasmine motioned for the door to the balcony. Her chest felt squeezed tight, as though two hands were crushing her ribcage, pushing all the air out of her. She gripped her handbag to her stomach, wishing the swishing sensation would stop.

Mercifully, Elise downed the last of her champagne and they stepped out into the members’ balcony area.

The vibe outside was entirely different, and the din that rose up from the crowd was full of excitement and anticipation. Jasmine’s heart immediately slowed, the pressure in her chest easing as she located two spare seats. She wrapped her coat around her shoulders and crossed her arms as she sat, popping the collar to protect her neck from the chill.

‘You OK?’ Elise touched her arm.

Jasmine nodded. Now that she was outside, away from the dismissive glances and claustrophobic atmosphere of the Long Room, she felt marginally better.

Still, she’d prefer to be at home with a blanket, a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. Not here, freezing her butt off in a dress that seemed to be too dressy and yet not dressy enough. But Elise could be a bulldog when she wanted to; sometimes it was easier to give in rather than indulge her Goldilocks complex about her wardrobe.

More members piled out of the Long Room and into the balcony seats. They were mostly men in suits; the women seemed to be staying inside, except for a group of younger girls with extra-long hair extensions and too-short dresses. They occupied the front row, giggling and pointing as the players took to the field.

It was match time, and the fans were chomping at the bit. The Jaguars had won the coin toss and the players now jogged into position. The noise level in the stadium swelled. Even Jasmine couldn’t help but get caught up in the rush...just a little.

For some reason her stomach fluttered at the thought of seeing Grant out there. She jumped as the siren sounded and the game began. A centre bounce set the ball into play and the crowd was on the edge of their seats from the first few seconds.

‘It’s going to be a close game,’ Elise said, her tone serious. ‘The Jags lost by a point last time they played the Suns, and only by two or three points the time before that.’

‘Since when are you such a football expert?’

‘Since there are hot guys in tiny shorts.’ She laughed.

Jasmine nodded. ‘Where’s Grant?’

She scanned the ground, looking for a familiar head of thick blond hair since that was about all she’d be able to see from the balcony. The players were quick, running at full speed as the ball flew from the centre towards the goalposts at one end. There was a mad scramble and the ball went out of play.

‘He’s the full forward.’ Elise pointed to the other end of the field. ‘Number eighteen.’

Jasmine spotted Grant’s hulking frame, his arms bulging in the sleeveless Jaguars guernsey. His muscles rippled as he moved, tense and ready to spring into action. She noticed one of his shoulders was covered in tattoos—something she hadn’t seen beneath the T-shirts he wore to her lessons. His blond hair shone under the stadium lights, and even at such a great distance she could see the focus on his face.

Her stomach clenched.

He was so masculine out there. So powerful. He moved with all the strength and grace of the big cat his team was named after. Each movement was practised and precisely executed. He tracked the other players effortlessly, moving to cover and dodge with incredible agility.

She swallowed, pushing down the attraction humming through her. He was so...virile.

The ball hurtled towards Grant. He sprang into action. It bounced, there was a flurry of arms and legs, and then he got his hands on it. He kicked. The ball sailed into the air, straight through the goalposts in a single graceful arc.

Around her the crowd roared; flags and scarves waved in a blur of black and green. She jumped to her feet and cheered. The air rushed out of her lungs as she shouted his name.

The players clapped one another on the back and Grant looked up towards the members’ area. Jasmine was certain he was looking straight at her. OK, so maybe she did get the appeal of the footballer...

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