Bent Out of Shape by Bebe Balocca Page A

Paul was even more of a cranky male diva.
    The man had been schooled by private tutors and educated at prestigious and fiercely private schools in Europe. Even as a teenager he’d been camera-shy, which is why the only public photos of him were a few snapshots from the 1990 Academy Awards. The picture of the shrimpy freckle-faced little boy, wedged in-between Julia Roberts and Meryl Streep at the Vanity Fair Oscars Party, had been cropped and publicised widely, but no one knew what the man looked like today. Probably a ninety-pound nerd in a hipster clothes, Jamie figured, but as long as he writes the checks, he can be as geeky as he wants to be. Marcus Paul, already a wealthy hotel heir, had grown his sizable inheritance to a jaw-dropping fortune by the time he was twenty-two. Who knew that internet dating, coupon sharing and bargain fashion sites could be so lucrative?
    Marcus Paul, that’s who.
    When she’d replied to the online ad for the job, she’d had no idea that it had originated from Twisted Fork Ranch. The position was an opportunity she hadn’t been able to refuse. ‘Private daily yoga classes for a group of no more than ten adults on site in a secure and luxurious environment’ sounded pretty awesome, and it paid twice what she earned for her classes at Village Yoga. Jamie had been delighted and somewhat surprised when she’d been chosen for the job. After all, there were teachers at her studio with many years’ more experience. Ruth Davis had taught yoga for over thirty years and Joshua Martin owned the facility. Both were total pros, and she knew for a fact that they’d applied for the job as well. She’d been even more astonished to learn that she’d be conducting the classes at Marcus Paul’s estate.
    Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jamie had happily submitted to a background check and agreed to a strict privacy clause. No photos, no interviews, no media—no problem, Mr Paul. She parked in front of the exercise studio, which was three times as large as her own tiny bungalow, and removed her bag and portable stereo from the car.
    Knock, knock, knock.
    Jamie plastered a perky smile on her face and waited. The grounds of the ranch were peaceful, but she caught snatches of a finch’s warble and the rat-a-tat-tat-tat of a woodpecker. Her bag and stereo grew heavy in her arms.
    Knock, knock, knock.
    She placed her things beside her feet, rolled her shoulders and checked her watch. Five after nine. The assistant who’d set up the class, Peter Fletcher, had stressed the importance of punctuality for her arrival, but evidently that wasn’t a reciprocal obligation. Jamie, feeling tension rising in her body, began to bend and stretch to ward off the negativity. “Who cares if my students are late?” she told herself. “I’m being paid for my time.”
    Five minutes later, while thrusting her rear up to the sky in downward dog asana , the door opened at last. “Hey there,” a man said. “I’m Peter Fletcher. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Come in, won’t you?”
    Jamie rose and shook his hand. He was adorably rumpled and unassuming, which somehow increased his hotness level by several degrees. In a fitted T-shirt, knee length athletic shorts and bare feet, he looked like a sweet college athlete who’d been around the block a time or two. Mr Paul must like having a rugged assistant for when he crawls out of his techie hermit cave. No one, even a surly billionaire, could help but feel invigorated with a body like that around. Jamie was glad that she had exertion to blame for her flushed cheeks.
    “Where is everyone?” she asked as she stepped inside. “Is the class cancelled?” Polished hardwood floors stretched in front of a mirrored wall, with a Stairmaster, treadmill and weight machines off to one side and a hallway that led to the rear of the building. The room was clean, modern and utterly empty.
    “Mr Paul wanted me to take the first lesson solo. He asked me to report back to