TWICE VICTORIOUS (16 page)

She'd planned to be back on her bike by now. Instead she'd once more extended
her deadline for the resumption of training another two weeks. Maybe a month. She took
one last look around her bedroom, wondering what she'd forgotten to pack.

According to Carl, she might be able to ride short distances by the first of
September. According to her own schedule, the end of July would give her a dangerously
short time to get back into shape before beginning the winter's round of Cyclocrosses.
Absently she ran her hand along her left thigh. Soft! Soft and flabby. She was carrying
about ten pounds she should never have gained.

At least she was holding the depression at bay, now. Catching up on her neglected
accounting, working the races at PIR and the velodrome on weekends, and spending two or
three evenings a week with Adam kept her too busy to brood.

The doorbell sounded. Right on time. Grabbing her duffel and rain parka, Stell
hurried downstairs. It had been a long time since she'd simply walked the beaches and
poked around the tide pools. This weekend she wasn't going to think about cycling.

The house at Arch Cape sat right on the foredune, with a deck opening to stairs
descending directly to the beach. Stell had known Adam had money. KIWANDA
OuterWear was a successful business, after all. But this was beyond her wildest
expectations. Six bedrooms, a kitchen to delight the most avid gourmet cook, and an
unobstructed view of one of Oregon's loveliest beaches.

"I almost envy you," she said, standing in the middle of the living room, unable to
tear her eyes from the restless, hypnotic surf and the fiery clouds hiding the sinking
sun.

Coming up behind her, he slid his arms around her waist, nuzzled just under her
ear. "Almost?"

"I'd like the house, but not the property taxes," she admitted, leaning back into his
embrace.

"No kidding," he agreed. "If I had to pay them, I'd be in the poorhouse in a month.
But I don't. The house belongs to KIWANDA; I'm paying rent for the weekend." He
nipped at the back of her neck. "We use it for meetings, employee retreats, and quality
incentive programs." His hands crept up to cup her breasts. "And rewards for
excellence."

"And you earned a reward?" she murmured, trying to turn to face him, but held in
place. His erection was hard against her buttocks, his breath moist and hot on her
neck.

"I won first prize."

He took one step backwards, and another. Stell gasped as he fell, pulling her with
him. They landed amid the deep, overstuffed cushions of the long, half-circular sofa.

Adam turned Stell in his arms, pulling her atop him. He wanted her, but was
content to simply enjoy the feel of her in his arms. They had three days.

Three days to build their relationship into something that would sustain her when
she faced the fact of her inability to compete at the level needed for that damned race.
Three days to convince Stell that what they had was more than a substitute passion,
something to occupy her time until she resumed cycling.

He groaned inwardly, knowing that he had an uphill battle on his hands.
Obsessions were not easily relinquished, no matter how powerful the inducement.

As Stell's hands found the buttons of his shirt, he pushed concern aside. The best
way to convince her was to make this weekend one she would never forget, full of good
food, good times, good loving.

Now to start with the loving. He opened his mouth to her inquisitive tongue.

Their hands explored, seeking, finding sensitive flesh. With eager tongues
sparring, laving, teasing, they lifted each other onto a plateau of desperate wanting. When
at last their bodies convulsed in release, it was together, as if neither could find rapture
alone.

Later, as their appetites ebbed, sated, the crash of the incoming tide reminded
Adam of where they were. It was full night, with only the phosphorescent gleam of the surf
visible through the window. They must have slept, entangled together in the welcoming
depths of the sofa. Consciousness returned slowly, as he became aware of Stell's delicious
weight across his chest.

"Are you awake?" she whispered as he moved under her, trying to ease the
pressure on a tingling arm.

"Barely." He buried his nose in her hair, with its faint scent of apricots. "Did you
sleep?" Desire, which should have been mitigated for the time being, awoke.

She rolled off him, onto the floor. "Yes, for a while. Now I'm starved. And you
promised me a walk on the beach." She switched on a lamp.

He squinted against the sudden light. "Good grief! Have you no poetry in your
soul? I thought all women wanted to be cuddled, afterwards."

"This woman wants to be fed." She grabbed his leg and, without warning,
pulled.

He bumped onto the floor, grateful for the deep plush throw rug protecting his
bare butt from the cold, hard tile. "Hey! Watch it!" Rolling sideways, he grabbed for her
legs, but she danced out of his reach.

"No you don't. Here." She tossed his discarded clothing at him, managing to
shroud his head. By the time he'd untangled himself, she was gone. Soon he heard water
running. The thought of her, lean and slippery wet, tempted him, but he decided to cook
instead.

His housekeeper had prepared and frozen a pasta casserole-for-two. With a
quickly assembled green salad, he was able to announce dinner as Stell walked through the
door from the bedroom wing.

She was wearing a black sweatsuit, trimmed in gold. An emerald-eyed tiger
gleamed on the top, his footprints shone along her left leg. Matching golden thongs barely
shod her slim feet, calling his attention to the hot pink polish on her toenails.

He'd always thought painted toenails were sexy.

"Yum! Whatever it is, it smells delicious." Stell seated herself at the breakfast bar
and lifted the tall goblet beside her plate. She sipped its blush contents and smiled
approvingly.

Lifting his glass, Adam saluted her. "To us."

Her smile faded. "To us," she agreed.

He did his best to ignore the shadow that momentarily darkened her eyes.

* * * *

Saturday they lingered over coffee until almost noon. More than once Stell told
herself that she ought to be out walking, instead of letting her body sink ever deeper into
the soft, enfolding cushions of the overstuffed sofa. Each time she found inertia
overcoming good intentions.

Finally Adam said, "I'm hungry."

She tore her gaze from the restless, hypnotic surf. Her stomach growled. "Now
that you mention it, so am I." Stell pushed herself from the sofa's embrace and strolled to
the refrigerator. Leaning on the open door, she stared inside, seeking inspiration. "I feel
like cooking," she said, "if there's anything
to
cook."

"There are some burritos in the freezer," Adam said, from his chair. "I saw them
last night, when I put the ice cream in."

Stell looked. Sure enough, behind the foil-wrapped pan of crab crepes she should
have set out to thaw hours ago, there was a package labeled 'Ch-burrs.' She set the crepes
on the table and carried the burritos over to the sink. From the looks of them, they'd been
in the freezer a while. Ice crystals lined the plastic wrap, so that it looked more like a
chunk of old ice than food.

With shredded cheese and some picante sauce she found in the cupboard, Stell
made the burritos edible, although the corn tortillas were only slightly more flexible than
good shoe leather. Salad left from the night before and some icy pink zinfandel rounded
out the meal.

"That was good," Adam said, gathering up the dirty dishes. "You know your way
around the kitchen."

"I used to like to cook, but anymore I never seem to have the time to. So many of
the races start at 6:30, so I take a sandwich to eat while I'm there. Then when I get home,
it's often too late to cook anything." Dividing the last of the wine between their glasses, she
sat at the counter and watched him work.

"How many times a week do you sit down to a meal?"

She thought about it. "Now? I eat breakfast and lunch at home. And dinner,
whenever we go out." Guiltily, she realized that he had been feeding her at least twice a
week recently, and had provided all the food for this weekend. Maybe she should invite
him to a home cooked meal one of these days.

"And the other days?"

"Dinner? Sandwiches," she admitted sheepishly. "But my breakfasts and lunches
are well-balanced and nourishing."

Right. Yesterday it was pickled herring and Wheat Thins for lunch. The day
before peanut butter cookies and ice cream.

"Mostly," she amended.

Adam finished wiping the counters. "Ready for a walk?" His voice was even and
noncommittal, but she could almost hear him thinking.

We're lovers, that's all. What I eat is none of his business.

They walked the length of the long, flat beach and back, ending up in the tide
pools near the arch. Stell wasn't inclined to conversation, but simply gave herself up to the
sensual rasp of fine sand on her bare feet and the fresh wind in her hair. Adam, too, was
quiet, answering only when spoken to. Yet Stell was comfortable with him. Beach walking
shouldn't be a social event, she decided, as they slipped their scuffed sneakers back on so
they could explore the rocky tide pools. It was a contemplative experience, much like
ironing and weeding.

They returned to the house in the late afternoon. Stell dropped her shoes on the
porch and brushed sand from her sweatpants. As she opened the door, she yawned. "Gosh,
I'm sleepy."

"It's all that fresh air and sunshine," Adam told her, following her inside. "No
smog, no carbon monoxide. Just good, clean salt air."

"Whatever." Another yawn. "If you don't mind, I think I'll take a nap." She sank
into the sofa's embrace, was dimly aware of Adam draping an afghan over her.

For an hour and more, Adam watched Stell sleeping. She looked younger, he
decided, less intense. When awake, her expression always seemed to hold determination,
as if she were directed toward a goal.

Of course she was. She was determined to ride that crazy race. He realized he
wasn't even sure which race her goal was. Nothing was going to stop her.

Nothing? Not even her own body?

He very much feared she would sacrifice future good health for immediate
success.

Good health and everything else. In Stell McCray's scale of importance, he might
rate fourth or fifth, he decided. After bringing her body back to peak fitness, racing, going
to races, reading about racing, officiating at races, and maybe even her business.

It was not an easy position to be in.

That night he made an effort to pull out of the mild depression he felt, but must
not have been successful. Stell seemed to withdraw, and finally, about ten, she said, "I
must be catching up for months of restless sleep. I can't keep my eyes open. If you don't
mind, I'll head for bed."

"I'd like to finish this chapter. I'll be up soon." He returned her kiss, with as little
passion as she had put into it.

That night they slept together, but they did not make love. When he awoke in the
morning, she was gone. "Walking the beach," said the note on her pillow.

In a way he was relieved. His feelings about Stell were confusing, to say the least.
Until he sorted them out, maybe he'd better cool things a bit.

And how far are those good intentions going to take you, the next time she's in
your arms?

* * * *

"I feel like I ought to be entertaining you," Adam apologized Sunday afternoon,
"instead of boring you to sleep."

She had been asleep again, Stell realized, seeing how low the sun was. It had been
such a comfortable sleep, with the warmth of Adam at her feet, the sumptuous sofa pillows
enfolding her. Yawning, she forced herself to sit upright. "I can't believe I've been here
most of the day." She knew she should feel guilty, but somehow she couldn't. Having
deliberately left her worries and her fears behind in Portland, she'd been able to relax as
she hadn't in years. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six. Hungry?" He set aside the folder of papers that had been resting on
his knees.

"How could I be? I haven't done a thing to work up an appetite." She arched her
back and reached for the ceiling, knowing she should be on the floor, stretching in her
daily routine. Not today. It sounded too much like work.

"How about a walk on the beach? The wind's died and the tide's out."

"Just let me get my shoes." They were still damp from yesterday. She slapped
them together, dislodging most of the sand that coated them. Shoes in one hand, she
gingerly made her way across the foredune and onto the beach. Adam was right behind
her.

"I'm afraid I'm poor company," she said as they walked slowly toward the rocky
headland that gave Arch Cape its name. "I just can't seem to keep my eyes open. All I have
to do is sit on that darned sofa and it grabs me and puts me to sleep."

"Sometimes I'll do that when I come to the beach," he said. "It's as if my body
says, 'Enough. Time out,' and just turns me off for a while."

She bit her lip. Overdoing it was the last thing she'd done, these past couple of
weeks. Following Carl's advice to the letter was just about the most difficult thing she'd
ever done. But it was paying off, however slowly. Her hip was better. This week he'd told
her that she could walk a mile a day, as long as she stayed on the level.

I must have walked farther than that yesterday, though. And I don't hurt a bit.
Maybe...

No! She wasn't going to bargain with her body any longer. If she'd walked beyond
the imposed limit, it had been a one-shot. Tomorrow she'd follow orders again. "What was
that you were reading when I woke up?" she asked Adam, remembering the folder he'd
held.

"Oh, just some budget figures. We'll have to do some expanding if the ActiveWear
line catches on. We'll be looking at options for the next few months, so as to be ready
when decision time comes."