Scene 2

Dillon didn't stay for the medal ceremony or after party, instead slipping back to the hotel alone. She emptied the resort's ice bin into the jacuzzi-sized bathtub and proceeded to soak away her frustrations in the frigid water.

It was the first time she hadn't finished top ten in longer than she could remember.

She hadn't expected to win the Hamoa Beach standard. Not after getting sent arse over tits over the hood of a car two days earlier.

But it wasn't a satisfactory excuse. She'd been fit enough to compete, and as the current number-one-ranked professional triathlete in the world, coming in thirteenth out of a lousy field of forty—in a race that wasn't even sanctioned—wasn't acceptable. Borrowed bike or not. Car or no car.

But whatever. It was water under the bridge. She could lick her wounded pride over the rest of offseason, and apply her focus to winning the races that actually mattered—continuing to do whatever it took to make it clear to British Triathlon that, even at twenty-eight, she was still their leading contender to bring home a gold medal. The Los Angeles Olympics were three years away. Her previous wins of bronze and silver weren't enough to show for a lifetime of dedication to a sport that had taken more from her than it had ever given.

Wincing as she dragged herself out of the tub, she paused in the mirror to take a brief assessment of the state of her body: pruned road rash from ankle to shoulder, bruising along her ribs, swelling from hip to clavicle. She had to hand it to herself—just the fact that she'd managed to swim, bike, and run in that condition was no walk in the park.

She leaned closer to the mirror, examining the start of a black eye. As if the damage from the bike accident hadn't been enough, she'd been kicked in the face by another competitor at the beginning of the swim. It was definitely going to turn color.

All said, maybe finishing thirteenth wasn't so bad after all.

Without bothering to grab the towel folded into a fancy origami sea turtle, she gingerly pulled on a pair of running shorts and top, and left a puddle of footprints as she crossed the bungalow to the balcony. There, a hot tub steamed into the balmy autumn air, the panoramic view dissolving into the sleepy island coastline.

At least her sponsors hadn't skimped on the accommodations.

Her coach, Alistair, would have scolded her for going straight from an ice bath to the heat of the jet-streamed water, but he was seventy-two hundred miles away, back in London. Which meant she could do damn well as she pleased.

There hadn't even been enough time for the stiffness of her muscles to thaw before a pounding at her hotel door echoed to the balcony. She didn't bother with an acknowledgment, knowing it was Kyle, who would let himself in without any indication she desired company.

"Well, not floating belly up, I see," he strolled to the railing and leaned over the side, sucking in the ocean breeze as if he hadn't been born in the coastal town of Withernsea.

Dillon rolled her eyes. She knew he was only half kidding. It was true, she took losing harder than she should. She always had.

Show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser , Henrik had instilled in her.

Henrik .

Her first coach.

The person she detested most in all the world.

She pushed the thought aside. What did it matter what he had ever said?

Kyle turned to face her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Sinc. It's not like you DNFed."

DNF—did not finish . Never in her pro career had she dropped from a race. It simply wasn't an option.

"Shut you! You're only going on because you coursed a decent time."

"Decent?" he grinned, more than eager to talk about his own race results. "Fourth out of seventy-four—"

"One placing shy of a meaningful check," Dillon pointed out, disbelieving how anyone could be thrilled with falling just short of the podium. If she'd missed a top-three payout by thirty seconds, she'd be outraged at her performance. This was their profession, after all. Their livelihood.

But he was Kyle Wood. Nothing ruffled him. Nothing got in the way of his love of the race. Win or no win. Big check, little check, no check. He simply rolled with the punches. First or last, he'd find a reason to pat his back all the way home to Yorkshire.

"Don't you worry, duck—I'll wave to you from the podium in Los Angeles while you're sitting in the cheap seats."

"In your wildest fantasy," Dillon splashed a palmful of water at him. They both knew, of the two of them, she was the more accomplished athlete. Kyle was a strong competitor, but he held none of the accolades of Dillon's illustrious career. World titles. Cup championships. Course records. It never stopped them from taking the piss out of one another, however, a habit formed since the day they'd met more than a decade earlier.

"Oh yeah?" Kyle kicked off his flip flops. "I'm not the one who came in thirteenth place, beat by a bunch of village locals, in little more than a fun run."

Before she'd worked out a rebuttal, Kyle launched his pencil-thin frame into the hot tub, sending a tidal wave of water over the top of Dillon.

"Arsehole!"

"All day, every day," he flashed a knavish grin, shaking out his dripping hair like a wet dog.

"Isn't there some party you should be at, trying to convince one of the local girls you're Prince William's long lost cousin?"

"You're just jealous my disinherited royal act is bound to snag me a shag. Which is a whole lot better than you're going to do looking like Freddy Krueger." He nodded toward the gruesome length of mangled skin visible along her forearm.

"Rubbish—I guarantee any girl of your choosing would still rather go home with me."

"Care to bet today's winnings? Oh, wait," he wagged a dark eyebrow, "that's right, you didn't earn a paycheck. I made enough to spot you a tenner if you want?" He yelped as her heel connected with his shin, but the good nature of his teasing faded when he caught sight of her ribcage. "Jesus, Sinc. Are you sure you shouldn't have that looked at?"

Dillon yanked her shirt down, covering the Jeep Wrangler hood-induced bruising.

"For what? Some quack to pound me full of percs and tell me to kick up my feet for a while?" She lifted herself onto the ledge of the hot tub, determined to downplay the reality her entire body felt like she'd been pummeled by a sledgehammer. "Hard pass."

"Would some time off really be that bad?" Kyle hopped up beside her. "You could go home, have yourself a little holiday, be ready for the beginning of the season—"

"Don't be twp. I've got Key West in three weeks. Sydney after that. I'm not about to go home and mope around for the winter." The last thing she wanted to do was fly back to the grey skies of London and sit around her empty flat. She wasn't a believer in an offseason, preferring to race all year long. It kept her head in the game. Kept her sharp. She'd see her mam and Seren soon enough when she headed to Wales for Christmas. For now, she just needed to turn her focus to Key West. A race she knew she could win.

"You know, a little rest never killed anyone." He lugged himself to his feet.

Dillon could tell from his grimace she wasn't the only one feeling the wear and tear on her body. A career in endurance racing wasn't for the faint of heart. Not with what they put themselves through. Willingly.

"Oh," he turned from where he stood dripping at the railing, "speaking of killing someone—I saw that little twit by the pool. She must be staying here."

"Who?"

"The bint who ran you over. I gave her another piece of my mind. Scared her into believing you were going to make a complaint."

"That girl?" Dillon's head snapped up. "What the fuck, Kyle?" They'd been over it half a dozen times. He wanted her to call the authorities. For what, Dillon wanted to know. She hadn't been driving recklessly. She hadn't been soused. She'd just been a careless holidaymaker. It wasn't the first time Dillon had been clipped on the road. It probably wouldn't be the last.

"She could have killed you, for fuck's sake!"

She knew it was his guilty conscience driving his choler. He'd been the one who wanted to go on a cooldown ride along the winding highway. She'd insisted it was too late—too dark. She'd been right.

"Well, she didn't—so come off it!"

"I heard the receptionist say she was an actress or something—here from Hollywood. You never know, maybe she really could afford to buy you a new bike. Not much of an actress, however, if you ask me—when I told her you were going to bring a claim, she looked like she was going to cry."

"You made her cry? You can be such a bastard, Kyle—!"

"And you're suddenly the Queen of Forgiveness? How's the view up there on your high horse, Mother Teresa? Next thing I know, you'll be calling the little numpty, apologizing to her for denting her car, and asking her to dinner."

"It'd be better than listening to you whinge about it, that's for certain." She popped to her feet, regretful of the sudden motion. "Don't you have a shag to find?" she asked over her shoulder, disappearing into the bungalow.

When he had gone and the serenity of her afternoon resumed, Dillon lay on the tile floor, sharing the space with the centipedes and geckos. She worked a massage gun deep into the muscles of her calves, still annoyed by Kyle's intrusion. It was just like him, sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Why he'd had to start some unnecessary drama with that stupid girl—he just never could manage to keep his mouth shut.

Tossing the percussion gun aside, she hoisted herself onto the bed, and picked up the phone receiver.

Fuck Kyle and his meddling.

She dialed the front desk, fishing out a pen and notepad from the bedside table drawer.

The woman who answered greeted her with too much enthusiasm. She was a big fan, she'd told her the day she checked in, offering her a coy smile. A big, big fan .

Dillon schooled her voice into what she hoped was something equally chipper.

"Hiya, Mikala! Can you do me a favor?"