Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

She hadn’t found it, at least not last night. She’d seen male admiration. He’d given her that much—and she recognized it well enough to know it hadn’t been part of his act—but he’d withheld approval. More aptly, he’d woven it into a red flag of sexual chemistry and waved it in her face. Then boom. She’d charged headlong into a brick wall of rejection.

Her skull pounded in agreement. To be fair, maybe she’d had it coming. No fitness consultant worth his fee would pat a client on the back for selecting champagne and molten chocolate cake for dinner. But last night, she’d still been on her time, not his, and was it really so weak to enjoy one final indulgence before submitting to six weeks of some unholy regimen?

Um…you also called him an arrogant fitness nazi with freakishly large muscles, a single-digit IQ, and the world’s smallest dick.

The memory pried a laugh out of her—one she immediately paid for when her headache flared. She bit her lip and inhaled a cautious breath through her nose. He’d had that coming, for being such a jerk when Eddie had called. Unwittingly insulting him to his face hardly qualified as her finest moment, but…whatever. He’d pigeonholed her as a narcissistic, neurotic actress, and nothing she did now was likely to change his closed little mind. She considered him an arrogant ass, because he was. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what they thought of each other. She was the client, and she was paying him—exorbitantly—to do a job. He could keep his personal opinions to himself. She toasted that with a swallow of water.

Her stomach rumbled, and she thought briefly about grabbing an energy bar from the goody basket, but with only a minute until nine, she didn’t have time. God forbid she arrive a second late for her first morning of supervised torture. Luke McLean would walk—which didn’t necessarily worry her—but then Eddie would murder her. And that would be a problem.

Contenting herself with another sip of water, she wound her way to the wall of soaring plantation shutters someone had been nice enough to open in preparation for her arrival. She stepped out onto the cobblestone patio surrounded by tall palms, curling ferns, and privacy walls covered in flowering vines. The scent of jasmine-infused air was so heavy, it made her want to stretch out on one of the lounge chairs surrounding the pool and do nothing more strenuous than watch paper-thin purple bougainvillea blossoms float across the glassy surface of the water. Instead she marched past the chairs to the smaller building on the opposite side of the courtyard. The little pool house looked like a charming bungalow, with its covered porch cooled by the lazy rotations of two woven rattan ceiling fans. But looks could be deceiving. She knew this from the self-guided tour she’d braved last night. Beyond the rustic slatted doors lay a room full of equipment and mirrors that promised to be her personal torture chamber for the next six weeks.

The doors opened as she approached, and there he was—her oppressor—in all his scowling, stone-jawed glory. Flinty eyes inspected her from her on-the-fly ponytail to the laces of her Puma Pulses.

“Right on time, Trouble. Come in, strip down, and we’ll get started.”

…

Dark blond brows arched over the reflective lenses of polarized aviators. “Maybe you should call a woman by her actual name before you tell her to strip?”

He’d expected a smart-ass reply. Not because he’d instructed her to remove her clothes—the modesty quotient tended to be pretty low with the actors and athletes he’d worked with—but because he’d instructed her at all. She didn’t think she needed him. She sure as hell didn’t respect his expertise, and she didn’t care to listen to anything he had to say. True respect had to be earned, but by the end of this session, she’d know she needed him. That would be lesson number one.

He shut the doors behind her, then turned to face her and crossed his arms. Many clients found it an intimidating experience, staring down six foot, three inches and 230 pounds of external motivation, but this one was an exception. She stood there in her slouchy gray-and-black zip-front hoodie and matching jogger pants, nearly a foot shorter than him and over a hundred pounds lighter, and deliberately took a long, slow drink from her water bottle before crossing her arms to mimic his pose.

“Maybe you should read the information my client coordinator se

nt you concerning proper workout attire, Quinn. But since you obviously didn’t, strip down to your underwear, and stand over there.” He pointed to one end of the workout room where a sand-colored wall formed a neutral background. “We’ll start with a photo session.”

And an assessment, but that was mainly for him. The photos were mainly for her. He didn’t airbrush, or aim for the most flattering angle. Despite how much time they spent in front of a camera, a surprising percentage of his industry clients found the straight, unfiltered truth eye-opening.

Her little, dimpled chin came up a notch. “I dance in clothes like these all the time.” She tossed her empty water bottle into the bin beside the door. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing, Mr. McLean?”

“Luke,” he corrected, and slid the sunglasses off her face.

“Hey…” She blinked, and took an automatic step back, nearly falling over a workout bench before he wrapped a hand around her upper arm and caught her. “This place is a death trap,” she muttered, and then shot him a glare when he didn’t release her.

“It can be. Which is why we have rules.”

“Rules…right. I remember your rules from our lovely conversation in Eddie’s office. Keep my neurosis and narcissism under control and don’t expect you to cater to my whims. I think that sums it up.” Her eyes went wide and innocent. “Gosh. I don’t remember the part where I agreed to let you dictate what I wear.”

Her voice could freeze a man’s balls off, but her expression revealed traces of weariness he felt sure she didn’t realize she showed. He stifled a sigh, released her arm, and hung her sunglasses from the neck of his T-shirt. Yes, her attitude sucked, but part of the reason was because of him. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, thanks to Eddie’s call—and his uncensored reaction to discovering his friend had coerced him into precisely the kind of job he’d sworn off. He’d founded McLean Fitness to help regular people overcome weight management challenges, and make real, lasting changes in their lives. Catering to overprivileged, appearance-obsessed clients no longer fulfilled him.

Still, none of that was her doing. The neurotic, narcissistic bit had been a generalization meant to convey to Eddie how frustrated he was with the whole request. It hadn’t been directed at Quinn personally, and it certainly hadn’t been intended for her ears. But, of course, she had taken it personally, and immediately labeled him an adversary. Normally, he didn’t give a shit what label he wore, as long as he got results. And adversarial relationships could produce dramatic results, as any drill sergeant would attest, but not if it meant she fought him every step of the way.

And she was definitely fighting him. Every. Damn. Step.

Those tired, distrustful eyes only confirmed that…as well as the fact that this morning she was paying for her champagne binge last night. She needed some decent nourishment, at least one more bottle of water, and a couple additional hours of sleep. Aside from the water, she’d have to get the others on her own time. But he could give her an explanation, if for no other reason than to demonstrate he wasn’t being an arbitrary wardrobe dictator.

“There are several problems with what you’re wearing.” He turned her around and marched her through a jungle of Precor machines until they stood facing one of the mirrored walls. “First, loose clothes are a hazard in the gym. They can get snagged on equipment”—he tugged on the pocket of her hoodie hard enough to pull her off-balance, and then took hold of her shoulders and righted her—“or caught in the moving parts. In either case, you end up injured. I refuse to let that happen. Next, we both need to be able to see your body during workouts.” He unzipped the hoodie and drew it down her arms, revealing a small black sports bra that showed off all the generous cleavage he remembered from yesterday evening at the hotel bar, and from the dreams he’d tossed, and turned, and groaned his way through last night.

“Like what you see?”

Everything about her provoked—the question, her arched brows, and the hint of a smile curving her lips. He ignored all of it. Most of him did, at any rate, because rising to the provocation went against every professional and personal ethic he possessed. But it shouldn’t have been so painfully difficult, goddammit. He’d worked with many spectacularly beautiful women over the years. Quinn Sheridan was just another one in a long list. A client. End of story. Luckily, her body blocked a view of the part of him finding the limits of their situation hardest to ignore.

To buy another moment, he draped her jacket over a rack of free weights, and then turned to face her in the mirror again. “I like being able to see if you’re doing the moves properly, so I can correct you if necessary.”

“And this requires me to run around in next to nothing?” Her gaze narrowed. “Give you a free show over the next six weeks? That’s a nice bonus for you.” She turned to face him, and dialed the smile up a notch. “What bonus do I get out of it?”

Okay, they needed to clarify this right here, right now. “Over the next six weeks I’m going to see and handle damn near every inch of you, but that’s not a bonus for either of us. That’s me doing my job. I’m your medic, chiropractor, and physical therapist all rolled into one. Before we’re done, I’ll also be your shrink, your coach, your cheerleader, and your taskmaster, but what I will not be, Quinn, is your fuck toy. That is not part of the services you’re paying me to perform. Are we clear?”