Opposites Attract (9 page)

A beautiful body, she thought, both proud and admiring. Long and lean, with a network of muscle. She looked her fill as he rummaged through his closet for a robe. Strong shoulders, trim waist, narrow hips and long legs. An athlete's body or a dancer's. He was made to compete.

He shrugged into the robe, belting it carelessly. Grinning, he turned to her. Asher's heart lodged in her throat. “Ty, you're so beautiful.”

His eyes widened in astonishment. Torn between amusement and masculine discomfort, he headed for the door. “Good God,” he said, making Asher smother a giggle. She brought her knees up to her chest as he signed the check at the door. In some ways, she mused, he was a little boy. To his way of thinking, the word
beautiful
applied only to a woman—or to an ace. He'd been more insulted than complimented having it applied to him. Yet she saw him that way—not only physically. He was a man capable of lovely gestures, a man unashamed of his deep love for his mother, unafraid to show tenderness. He had no cruelty in him, though on the court he was unmerciful. His temper was explosive, but he was incapable of holding a grudge. Asher realized that it was his basic capacity for feeling that she had missed most of all. And still he had never, in all their closeness, in all the months of intimacy, told her that he loved her. If he had once said the words, she would never have left him.

“Where have you gone?”

Asher turned her head to see him standing beside a tray, a bottle of champagne in his hands. Quickly she shook her head and smiled again. “Nowhere.” She cocked her head at the bottle. “All that just for us?”

He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. “Did you want some too?” The cork came off with a resounding pop as she cuffed his shoulder. With an easy stretch he rolled the tray toward them. “Here, hold the glasses.” Without ceremony he poured champagne until it nearly ran over the rims.

“Ty, it'll spill on the bed.”

“Better be careful then,” he advised as he set the bottle back in the ice. He grinned as she sat cross-legged, balancing two glasses in her hands. The sheet was held in place over her breasts by arms pressed tightly to her sides.

She returned the grin with a glance of exasperation. “Aren't you going to take one?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Hooking a finger under the sheet, he nudged it downward, exposing creamy flesh.

“Ty, cut it out, I'll spill it!”

“Better not, we have to sleep here.” He urged the sheet a trifle lower. Frustrated, Asher looked from glass to glass. Wine swayed dangerously.

“This is a dirty trick, Starbuck.”

“Yeah, I like it.”

Asher narrowed her eyes. “I'm going to pour both glasses into your lap.”

“Terrible waste,” he decided, kissing her. “It's good stuff. I always found it strange,” he began, lazily kissing her face as he spoke, “that I was bred for beer and you were bred for champagne, but you haven't any head for it.”

“I have a perfectly good head for champagne.”

Chuckling, he brushed his lips over her throat. “I remember one very memorable night when we shared a bottle. Three glasses make you crazy. I like you crazy.”

“That's absurd.” The lift of brow challenged him. Without hesitation Asher brought a glass to her lips, losing the sheet as she drank it. Ty watched the linen pool into her lap before she drained the last drop. “That's one,” Asher announced, lifting the second glass. Ty plucked it from her fingers.

“Let's spread it out a little,” he advised, amused. He drank, more conservatively, then reached for the tray of caviar. “You like this stuff.”

“Mmm.” Suddenly hungry, Asher spread a generous amount on a toast point. Ty settled down to the bowl of cold shrimp and spicy sauce. “Here, it's good.” Though he allowed her to feed him a bite, he wrinkled his nose.

“Overrated,” he stated. “This is better.” He popped a shrimp into Asher's mouth.

“'S wonderful,” she agreed with a full mouth then chose another. “I didn't know I was so hungry.”

Ty filled her glass again. Could anyone else imagine her, he wondered, sitting naked in bed, licking sauce from her finger? Did anyone else know how totally open she could be? She was talking now, in fits and starts as she ate, replaying her match. Ty let her ramble, pleased just to hear her voice, to see her animation. She was satisfied with her serve, worried about her backhand volley.

Publicly she chose her words with care, and made certain there were few of them. If a reporter could see her now, Ty mused, he'd wear a pencil down to the nub. She was full of joy and doubt, fear and self-congratulation. Words tumbled out without discretion. Her face was animated, her hands gestured. By the time she had slowed down, her second glass was empty. Perhaps she was completely happy, because she wasn't even aware of the sensation. She was simply at ease, completely herself. Comfortably full, she toyed with the last of the caviar.

“Are you worried about playing Chuck in the finals?”

Ty bit into a shrimp. “Why?”

“He was always good,” Asher began, frowning a bit. “But he's developed over the past few years.”

Grinning, Ty tilted more wine into her glass. “Don't you think I can beat him?”

She sent him a long, considering look. “You were always good too.”

“Thanks.” After setting the caviar on the tray, he stretched lengthwise on the bed.

“Chuck plays a bit like my father did,” Asher mused. “Very clean, very precise. His talent's polished rather than raw.”

“Like mine.”

“Yes. That raw athletic ability is something every competitor envies. My father used to say that you had more natural talent than any player he'd seen in his career.” Over the rim of her glass she smiled down at him. “Yet he always wanted to smooth out your form. Then there were your . . . antics on the court.”

Ty laughed, kissing her knee through the sheet. “It used to drive him crazy.”

“I imagine he'd be more pleased if he saw you play now.”

“And you?” Ty countered. “How would he feel if he saw you play now?”

Asher shifted her eyes from his to stare into her glass. “He won't.”

“Why?”

As if to erase the question, she lifted her hand. “Ty, please.”

“Asher,” he said quietly, grasping her fingers. “You're hurting.”

If she could have held it back, she would have. But the words tumbled out. “I let him down. He won't forgive me.”

“He's your father.”

“And he was my coach.”

Unable to comprehend, Ty shook his head. “What difference does that make?”

“All the difference.” The pain slipped out. As if to numb it, she swallowed more wine. “Please, not tonight. I don't want anything to spoil tonight.”

Her fingers had tightened on his. One by one Ty kissed them until he felt the tension relax. “Nothing could.” Over their joined hands, dark, intense eyes met hers. Spontaneously her pulse began to race. “I never got you completely out of my mind,” he confessed. “Too many things reminded me—a phrase, a song. Silence. There were times alone at night I would have sworn I heard you breathing in the quiet beside me.”

The words moved her . . . hurt her. “Ty, those were yesterdays. We can start now.”

“Now,” he agreed. “But we'll have to deal with yesterday sooner or later.”

Though she opened her mouth to disagree, she knew. “Later then. Right now I don't want to think about anything but being with you.”

He grinned, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “It's difficult to argue with that.”

“Don't get cocky,” she told him, then tossed off the rest of her champagne. “That was three,” Asher said haughtily. “And I'm not the least affected.”

Ty had no trouble recognizing the signs—the flushed cheeks, the glowing eyes and misty smile. Whatever she might say, he knew the champagne was swimming in her head. And when they loved again, she would be soft and strong and passionate. He found himself wanting to simply look at her for a few minutes more. Once they touched, the fire would take them.

“Want another?” he offered.

“Sure.”

Wisely he filled her glass only halfway before he replaced the bottle. “I caught your interview today,” Ty commented. “It was on while I was changing.”

“Oh?” Asher shifted to lie on her stomach, propping herself on her elbows. “How'd I do?”

“Hard to say. It was all in French.”

She laughed, adjusting her position so that she could take another sip. “I'd forgotten.”

“How about a translation?”

“He asked things like, ‘Mademoiselle Wolfe, do you find any changes in your style after your temporary retirement?' And I said something like ‘I feel I've tightened my serve.'” She chuckled into her wine. “I didn't mention that my muscles beg for me to give them a break after two sets. He asked how I felt about playing the
young
Miss Kingston in the finals and I refrained from punching him in the mouth.”

“That was diplomatic,” Ty answered, slipping the glass from her fingers.

“I'm a hell of a diplomat,” Asher agreed. Rolling over on her back, she looked up at him. He lounged just behind her so that she had to tilt her head at an odd angle to make eye contact. “You stole my glass.”

“Yes, I did.” After setting it on the tray, Ty gave the wheeled table a slight shove.

“Did we finish dinner?” Reaching up and back, she locked her arms around his neck.

“We've definitely finished dinner.” He allowed her to urge him down until his mouth hovered above hers.

“Got any suggestions about what we should do now?” She liked the strangeness of having his face upside down over hers. Playfully she nipped at his lip.

“No. Do you?”

“Got a deck of cards?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Then I guess we'll have to make love.” She gave a rich, low laugh before she kissed him again. “All night—just to pass the time.”

“It's something to do. Rainy nights are so boring.”

Eyes dancing, she nodded. “Mmm, yes. Let's make the best of it.”

Her lips were curved in a smile as his met them, but they parted eagerly. She found it strangely seductive to have his tongue meet hers this way. On a gurgle of laughter, she closed her teeth gently, capturing him. In response, he trailed his fingers over her breast until her moan freed him.

“I get dizzy kissing you upside down,” Asher murmured.

“I like you dizzy.” Leaning forward, he trailed moist kisses over her throat. The tip of his tongue picked up her flavor, then lingered over it. He could feel pulse beats both with his hand and his lips. Finding the curve of his neck vulnerable, Asher began to give him the same pleasure he was bringing her.

“I want to touch you,” she complained. “I can't touch you this way.”

But he continued to explore from where he was, enjoying the freedom his hands had over her body. The scent of the rich sauce still lingering in the air, and the zing of champagne clung to two tongues as they joined. The mattress groaned quietly as she shifted. Then she was on her knees, pressed body to body. In a quick move she had stripped the robe from him so he was as naked as she. With a half laugh, half sigh, she ran her palms up his strong back.

Entwined, enchanted, neither noticed that the rain had ceased. Inside the quiet room, pleasure built. Strong thigh pressed against strong thigh, hungry lips sought hungry lips. Their passion was equal, their needs the same. Together, they lay down.

Soft sighs became moans. Before long, gentle caresses became demanding. Both seemed desperate to touch and be touched, to have their own weaknesses exploited. With instinctive understanding they held back the final gift. The inner fire built, dampening their flesh, but still they lingered over each other. There was so much to make up for, so much time to recapture. Though passion was flaring, this thought hovered in the back of both their minds. Tonight was a fresh beginning. They wanted all of it.

Asher thought her lungs would burst. The combination of wine and passion buzzed in her head. A laugh, smoky with desire, floated from her as he gasped her name. She wanted to tempt him, torment him, give to him. His stomach was hard and flat with muscle, yet the touch of her fingertip could make it quiver. Asher had forgotten this sense of power and exulted in it. Her small hands could make him weak. Her shapely, serious mouth could drive him wild.

The power shifted so abruptly, she was helpless. He found her greatest vulnerability and used his tongue to destroy her last vestige of control. Half wild, she called for him, struggling to have more, desperate to have all. Arching, she pressed him closer, cresting on a wave of delight that had no chance to recede. She thrashed as if in protest, yet arched again in invitation. As she built toward a higher peak, Ty slid up her body. Greedy, she drew him inside of her, hearing his gasp for breath before there was only feeling.

Later, they still clung together, damp, spent, fulfilled. He shifted only to turn out the light. In the midnight darkness they molded to each other, drifting toward sleep.

“You'll move in with me.”

The murmur was a statement rather than a question. Asher opened her eyes before she answered. She could just see the outline of his face. “Yes, if you want me.”

“I never stopped wanting you.”

Without the light he didn't see the flicker of doubt in her eyes before he slept.

Chapter 7

She was afraid of London. Lady Wickerton had lived there—hostessing parties in the elegant three-story house in Grosvenor Square, attending the ballet at the Royal Opera House, the theater in Drury Lane, shopping in the West End. Lady Wickerton had played bridge with members of Parliament and had sipped tea at Buckingham Palace. Lady Wickerton had been a quiet, dutiful wife, a woman of intelligence, breeding and control. She had nearly suffocated in London.

Perhaps if Ty hadn't come between Jim Wolfe's daughter and Eric Wickerton's wife, Asher would have accepted her role with ease. She'd wanted to, had struggled to. Too much passion simmered inside her. It had been there all of her life, but the months with Ty had liberated it. Controlling something dormant was entirely different from harnessing something that pulsed with life. There had not even been her profession as an outlet for the energy that drove her.

Coming back to London was the most difficult step yet. There she would not only have to face memories of Ty, but the ghost of a woman she had pretended to be. It was all so familiar—Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, the smells, the voices. Even the anticipation of Wimbledon couldn't block them out. There would be faces here that would remember the coolly elegant Lady Wickerton. And there would be questions.

Publicly she would remain aloof, distant and uninformative. Asher felt she owed Eric that much. She would simply refuse to discuss her marriage or its demise. Her early training, her years of following her father's rules, would serve her now more than ever.

She would give them tennis. With two straight championships now under her belt, Asher would have been spotlighted in any case. It was up to her to sway the press away from her personal life toward her professional resurgence. What was growing between her and Ty was still too fragile to be shared.

Happiness. She had nearly forgotten how simple and overwhelming the feeling was. Lazy midnight talks, crazy loving, quiet walks. They shared a hotel room and made it home for the days and nights they were there. She felt as much a gypsy as he, and was content to be so. Once she had looked for roots, stability, commitment. She'd learned that they meant nothing without the fullness of love. His spontaneity had always fascinated her. This time Asher would resolve the lingering fear of it and enjoy.

“Aren't you dressed yet?”

At the question Asher stopped tying her tennis shoe and glanced up. Ty stood in the doorway between the small parlor and bedroom. Fully dressed, impatient, he frowned at her. His hair fell over his forehead as unruly as ever and still slightly damp from his shower. Waves of love radiated through her.

“Nearly,” Asher tossed back. “Not everyone can move quickly in the morning, you know—especially on six hours sleep.”

The frown became a grin. “Something keep you up?” He caught the shoe she hurled at him in one hand, his eyes never leaving her face. Apparently the late night hadn't affected him. He looked well rested and full of barely controlled energy. “You can always take a nap after morning practice.”

“Awfully pleased with yourself this morning, aren't you?”

“Am I?” Still grinning, he came toward her, tossing her shoe lightly. “It probably has something to do with trouncing that British kid in the quarterfinals yesterday.”

“Oh?” Lifting a brow, Asher looked up at him. “Is that all you're pleased about?”

“What else?”

“Let me have my shoe,” she demanded. “So I can throw it at you again.”

“Did you know you have a poor morning attitude?” he asked, holding the shoe out of reach.

“Did you know you've been insufferable ever since you won the French?” she countered sweetly. “Remember, it's only one quarter of the Grand Slam.”

He moved the shoe farther out of reach as she made a grab for it. “For you too, Face,” he reminded her.

“The rest's on grass.” In an attempt to hold him still, Asher grabbed the waistband of his warm-up pants.

“The woman's insatiable,” he sighed. Diving, he pinned her beneath him on the bed.

“Ty! Stop!” Laughing, Asher pushed against him as he nuzzled at her neck. “We'll be late for practice.”

“Oh. You're right.” Giving her a quick kiss, he rolled away from her.

“Well,” Asher muttered as she sat up, “you didn't take much persuading.” Even as she started to tidy her hair, she was spun back into his arms. Her startled exclamation was smothered by his lips.

Long, deep, infinitely tender, smolderingly passionate. His arms circled her. Asher felt her bones soften, then dissolve. Her head fell back, inviting him to take more. Cradling her, Ty went on a slow exploration of her mouth. For the moment he enjoyed the sense of total domination. If they continued, he knew she would begin her own demands. Then it would be power for power. The knowledge excited him. Still, he laughed against her lips. There was time. A lifetime.

“You awake yet?” he asked her as he ran a hand lightly over her breast.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Good. Let's go.” After setting her on her feet, he gave Asher's bottom a friendly pat.

“I'll get you for that,” she promised. Needs stirred inside her, not quite under control.

“I certainly hope so.” With an easy smile Ty slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You need to work on your backhand volley,” he began as they walked from the room.

Insulted, Asher tossed her head back. “What are you talking about?”

“If you'd shorten your swing a bit more—”

“Shorten your own swing,” she retorted. “And while you're at it,” she continued, “you weren't exactly Mr. Speed yesterday.”

“Gotta save something for the finals.”

Asher snorted as she punched the elevator button. “Your conceit never wavers.”

“Confidence,” Ty contradicted. He liked seeing her this way—relaxed, but ready to laugh or to slap back. Briefly he wondered if she realized she was even more beautiful when she forgot caution. “What about breakfast?”

“What about it?”

“Want to grab some eggs after practice?”

She slid her eyes to his as the doors opened. “Is that your best offer?”

Ty lifted a brow as he followed her into the elevator. Asher exchanged a polite nod with a middle-aged couple in tweed.

“Maybe you'd like to take up where we left off last night?” Ty lounged against an elevator wall as Asher gaped at him. “What did you say your name was again?”

Asher could feel two pairs of shocked and interested eyes boring into her back. “Misty,” she replied, allowing a trace of cockney to color her voice. “Will you spring for champagne again, Mr. Starbuck? It was ever so good.”

He recognized the light of challenge in her eyes and grinned. “So were you, sweetie.”

When the doors opened to the lobby, the older couple moved out reluctantly. Asher punched Ty in the arm before she followed.

In less than an hour they were both concentrating on form and speed and the capricious bounces a ball could take on grass. Was she playing better? Asher wondered as she sprang for Madge's slice. She felt looser, less encumbered. Indeed, she felt as though losing were not even a possibility. At Wimbledon she could forget the city of London.

Instead, she could remember the qualifying games at Roehampton, with their anything-goes attitude. Both bad language and rackets had flown. It was a contrast to the elegance and glamour of Wimbledon. Here both the players and the crowd were steeped in tradition. Hydrangeas against a backdrop of rich green grass, ivy-covered walls, limos and chauffeurs. Colors were soothing, mauve and green, as if time itself had sobered them.

Here spectators would be well-mannered, quiet between points, applauding after them. Even those in standing room would behave, or the chair judge would tell them politely to quiet down. No one hung from the scoreboards at Wimbledon. It was as revered as the changing of the guards, as English as double-decker buses.

There was no doubt, as one gazed around the immaculately tended velvet lawns, the pampered roses, the dollhouse kiosks and the stands that could accommodate more than twenty-five thousand, that Wimbledon
was
tennis. It was here former players migrated to. It was here future players aspired to. Asher remembered Ty telling her about watching the matches one long-ago July Fourth and making a vow. He had kept it, not once, but four times. More than anything she had wanted before, Asher wanted them to both walk away from Centre Court as champions.

Behind the base line, Asher stood with a racket and a ball, staring off into space.

“Had enough?” Madge called out.

“Hmm . . . what?” Asher's head snapped around. Seeing Madge standing with her legs spread, hand on hips, had her laughing. “I suppose I have, I was daydreaming.”

From opposite ends of the court, they walked toward their bags and jackets. “No sense asking if you're happy,” Madge began conversationally. “You look absolutely miserable floating two inches off the ground.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“I won't pretend not to be pleased,” Madge added smugly. “I've always thought you two made a great team. Going to make it official?”

“I— No, we're just taking it one day at a time.” Asher kept her eyes lowered as she packed her racket. “Marriage is just a formality, after all.”

“And pigs fly,” Madge countered calmly. When Asher glanced up with a cautious smile, she went on. “For some, yes, you're right. Not for you, Face. Why did you stay in an unhappy marriage for three years?” When Asher started to speak, Madge lifted a hand. “Because to you marriage is a promise, and you don't break promises.”

“I failed once,” she began.

“Oh, all by yourself? Isn't that being a bit self-absorbed?” Impatient, Madge settled her hands on her hips again. “Listen, you aren't going to let one mistake keep you from being happy, are you?”

“I am happy,” Asher assured her, punctuating the statement by touching Madge's shoulder. “Ty's all I've ever wanted, Madge. I can't risk losing him again.”

Her brow puckered in confusion. “But you left him, Asher, not the other way around.”

“I'd already lost him,” she said flatly.

“Asher, I don't—”

“It's a new day,” she interrupted, then took a deep breath of scented morning air. “A fresh start. I know what mistakes I made and have no intention of repeating them. There was a time in my life that I thought I had to come first, before this.” Holding up the small white ball, Asher examined it. “Before anything. I looked on tennis as a competitor, his family as a rival. That was stupid.” Dropping the ball into a can, Asher closed it.

“That's funny,” Madge mused. “There was a time in my life I thought The Dean's work came first. He thought the same about me. It wasn't true in either case.”

With a smile Asher slung her bag over her shoulder. “Ty won't ever forget that tennis took him out of that tenement. Maybe he shouldn't. That's the thing that brings fire to his game.”

She knows him so well in some ways, Madge thought, and not at all in others. “And what brings the ice to yours?”

“Fear,” Asher answered before she thought. For a moment she gave Madge a blank look, then shrugged. Saying it aloud made it seem rather unimportant. “Fear of failure, or exposure.” Laughing, she began to walk. “Thank God you're not a reporter.”

The gravel crunched underfoot as they moved down the path. It was a sound Asher associated with the tidiness of English courts. “Remind me to tell you sometime what goes through my head five minutes before a match.”

With a sigh Asher hooked her arm through her old partner's. “Let's hit the showers.”

***

There was no dream. Asher slept as deeply as a child, with no worries, no nagging fears. The curtains were drawn closed so that the afternoon sun filtered through lazily. Traffic sounds muffled through it, coming as a quiet drone. She wore only a short terry robe and lay on top of the spread. Ty would come back to wake her so that they could spend some time sight-seeing before nightfall. Because they were both scheduled to play the following day, they would go to bed early.

The knock on the door wakened her. Sitting up, Asher ran a hand through her tousled hair. He'd forgotten his key, she thought groggily. She stepped from the dim bedroom into the brighter parlor, wincing against the change of light. Absently she wondered what time it was as she opened the door. Shock took a moment to penetrate.

“Eric,” she whispered.

“Asher.” He gave her what was nearly a bow before he elbowed his way into the room. “Did I wake you?”

“I was napping.” She closed the door, trying to recover her scattered wits. He looked the same, she thought. Naturally he would. Eric would see no reason to change. He was tall, slim, with a military carriage. He had a sharp-featured European face, a bit haughty and remote. Dark blond hair was cut and groomed to indicate wealth and conservatism. Light eyes in a pale face—both romantic yet intelligent and cold. Asher knew that his mouth could twist into a hard line when he was crossed. As a suitor he had been charming, as a lover, meticulous. As a husband he'd been unbearable. She drew herself straight. He was no longer her husband.

“I didn't expect to see you, Eric.”

“No?” He smiled. “Did you think I wouldn't drop by while you were in town? Lost a bit of weight, Asher.”

“Competition tends to do that.” Years of training had her gesturing toward a chair. “Please, sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

There was no reason to be upset by him now, she told herself. No need to feel fear or guilt. Divorced couples managed to be civilized more often than not. Eric, Asher thought with a grim smile, was a very civilized man.

“Have you been well?” She poured his scotch neat, then added ice to Perrier for herself.