‘Think of the racquet like a windscreen wiper,’ Marcus said, executing a perfect backhand that looked nothing like the ones I was producing. ‘Like this, see?’
I was already sweating and out of breath. How did Marcus play for four hours straight again? It was mortifying that I was so unfit and so I did my best to cover it up by commenting on the warm weather and taking fake water breaks, just so I had the chance to catch my breath.
‘Right. Let’s try a serve,’ said Marcus.
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ I said, thinking of the complicated movement I’d seen him doing out on court, feet sliding here, arm swinging there.
‘Not in the slightest,’ he said, striding over to my side of the court. ‘It’s easy when you know how.’
He was suddenly perilously close. What was he doing?
‘The paparazzi are here,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Dean must have arranged it. Don’t look.’
‘You do know that when somebody says “don’t look”, it’s really hard not to?’ I said.
In order to avoid inadvertently making eye contact with one of the photographers, I was forced to keep my eyes on Marcus, which was a little disconcerting. I didn’t think I’d been this close to him face on since we sat together on the plane, and even that had been from a weird angle, and also I’d had more pressing matters on my mind.
‘Can they hear us as well as see us?’ I asked, lowering my voice. Did they have listening devices as well as telescopic lenses, I wondered, their microphones primed and ready to capture some controversial snippet of conversation?
‘I very much doubt it. So we can basically say anything to each other, as long as it looks like we’re ...’
I waited.
‘We’re . . . ?’ I prompted.
‘Into each other? I don’t know.’
‘Are you going to have to touch me again, then?’ I asked, realising that had come out much flirtier than intended. On the other hand, if we were supposed to look as though we couldn’t wait to rip each other’s clothes off, I didn’t think talking politely about the weather or the state of world politics was going to cut it.
‘Would you like me to touch you again, Ava?’ he asked.
For some reason, the thought of him gettinganycloser sent an intense fizzing sensation shooting down my spine. Annoyingly, the same thing had happened when he’d held my hand last night, and now here we were again – him with his golden tan and his perfectly trimmed beard and his pink lips that looked as though he might just have bitten down on them, sending blood pumping into that billowy raspberry-hued flesh. Damn. This whole thing would be much easier to manage if Marcus was, say, twenty-five per cent less attractive.
He took another step towards me, running his thumb along my cheek, cupping my jaw with his warm, soft palm, looking deep into my eyes.
‘Is this authentic enough for you?’ he asked.
I cleared my throat. ‘You’re actually quite good at this,’ I said.
‘And you’re not, for the record. You’re looking terrified, and as though I’m about to murder you, not kiss you.’
‘Do not kiss me, Marcus Taylor.’
‘Or what?’
I swallowed hard.
‘Please tell me you’re acting right now?’ I said to him.
‘Of course I’m acting,’ he said, his voice gravelly and low. ‘And it would be wonderful if you could at leasttryto do the same.’
My cheeks flushed. I’d show him.
I reached out, hesitantly at first, and hooked my finger into the belt loop of his shorts, pulling him closer to me.
‘Still questioning my acting skills?’ I asked, looking at him defiantly.
‘This is definitely an improvement,’ he said.
