Free Proud Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 2) by Phoenix Sullivan Page B

hadn’t been abused in months. Years, maybe. Of course it hurt. But I wasn’t going to let him know that.
    “The more we do this, the easier it’ll get,” he assured me. “Relax into it.”
    I exhaled, long and slow, feeling all the way to the burn in the backs of my thighs as that last inch disappeared.
    “Ready?” he whispered.
    How foolish had I been to agree to this in the first place? Still, I nodded, my forehead knocking my knees as I held the arches of my feet.
    Stretches done, I followed Chris into the thrust of the workout, only just keeping up with the slower pace he set. By the time we got to the push-ups, the only fantasies I could muster were of him calling time and me doing a controlled collapse before my arm muscles gave out.
    “Right knee up in a lunge. Hold it—one…two…three…and…we’re done,” he said at last.
    I half-staggered to the water bottle by the camp stove, swigging at in a vain attempt to cover my exhaustion. Shorts and shirt clung to me in places that might have been provocative if not for the pools of sweat and my half-strangled gasps for air.
    I wasn’t too worn out, though, to notice Chris had indeed restructured his workout to accommodate my skill level, and we had finished far sooner than he usually did on his own. When I brushed the sweat out of my eyes to find him lighting the stove and starting the coffee, I also noted he hadn’t even broken a real sweat this morning. Could someone break a sheen? I wondered. How fair was it that he could come out looking so sexy and appealing while I no doubt looked, and stunk, like a warthog in its wallow.
    He pressed a mug of coffee into my hands, then clinked his cup to mine. “You impressed me, Deidre Young. Brains, balls, and a killer body—with that kind of stamina, think of the fun we could have.”
    “Thanks.”
    “For what?”
    “For dialing it back a notch so we could both pretend I was keeping up.”
    “I didn’t have to pretend too hard.”
    Vain, arrogant men who strutted around like they were God’s gifts—I knew the type well. I’d watched friends spiral down in those kinds of relationships. Relationships that burned hot for a few days, a few weeks at most, just long enough and hot enough that the women thought they had a chance, led on by lies and pretenses.
    Chris Corsair fit the stereotype, I had been sure of that the moment I saw him. Yet each day I knew him brought new surprises, new dimensions to the man. The arrogant idol with the suave sunglasses and cocky attitude didn’t interest me in the least—well, except in that superficial, primal way nature ensured the survival of the species. The man I was offered only glimpses of, that was a man who could pique my interest. That was a man I wanted to know. If he would only stay around long enough for me to get to know him.
    He slid a heated and reconstituted Western omelet my way along with a plastic fork. I could get used to being waited on, I thought. In fact, if I wasn’t so anxious to see how Caesar was doing, I could see myself enjoying a long morning of being catered to.
    Two bites into my omelet the wind shifted.
    When I saw Chris’ eyes narrow and nostrils widen as he scented the air, I knew the acrid odor wasn’t my imagination.
    “We get fires in the hills outside of LA and the smoke drifts into the city,” he said. “It smells just like this.”
    Pieces of information niggled at my brain for attention. “Veldt fire! Like a forest fire—they can be as hot, as big and as deadly. The lightning last night must have triggered one.”
    I scanned the sky for signs of smoke. To the east, wreathing the low hills, a yellow-gray haze filtered the light from the rising sun. Throwing a handful of dry grass into the air, I watched the stalks swirl back down, lazy and directionless. Calm winds now, but they would likely pick up later. Which way would they blow?
    “Think it’ll burn this way?” Chris asked. “Smoke seems a long away off except for