TWICE VICTORIOUS (3 page)

"Darn," she breathed. She'd deliberately banished all thoughts about Adam
Vanderhook every time they popped into her mind, which they had, far too often. Her
resistance was low, that's what it was. That and his warm, soothing voice had made her
feel...well, cherished.

She'd always had a weakness for warm baritones. They were comfortable and
restful voices, reminding her of Santa Claus and Grandpa.

"Yeah, right," she muttered. The trouble was, she got goosebumps every time she
thought of him. Just standing in her living room, he'd reminded her of things that had no
place in her training regimen. He'd bewitched her senses, with his great body, his crooked,
engaging smile, and his shivers-up-the-spine voice.

Not to mention what he'd done to her libido.

Adam approached the door to Estelle McCray's house reluctantly, yet with a
certain anticipation. He'd quit resisting KIWANDA's venture into sportswear. Sometime in
the past few days, he had acknowledged that he didn't have to be involved, that Juliana and
Roger were perfectly capable of overseeing that branch of the business. As long as he
concentrated on the OuterWear Division, he didn't have to be constantly reminded of a
period in his life he wanted to forget. He was just helping his sister by keeping tab on
Stell's recovery. It would be too bad if the CycleWear photo sessions were delayed.

He was still not completely convinced that using amateurs in KIWANDA's
advertising campaign was either practicable or doable. He needed a guarantee from each
and every one of them that they'd fulfil their contracts, contracts that put no cash in their
pockets. And he knew what would happen the first time one of the athletes had to make a
choice between a photo shoot or a personal appearance and competing. If it weren't that
Estelle McCray would look so great in KIWANDA CycleWear, he wouldn't be here.

The curtain in the narrow window beside the door twitched, and he pasted a
winning smile on his face. Like it or not, he was bringing bad news today, but there was no
reason he couldn't let her down easy.

She opened the door. "I've still got scabs," she said, before he could say a
word.

Not the most cordial greeting, but looking at her, Adam understood. She was in
pain. He could read it in the lines around her mouth, the tightness at the corners of her
eyes. And she was still on crutches, which didn't surprise him. He hadn't believed she'd be
back on a bicycle this soon, no matter what she'd told him.

"Yes, I see you do. Some of them are quite dramatic." He waited a beat, then went
on, "May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."

Her brows drew together, but she clumsily moved aside. He could see that she was
somewhat more adept with the crutches, but still fighting them.

Why wasn't he surprised?

She led him into the living room and waved toward the wing chair where he'd sat
before. Without waiting for him to sit, she lowered herself onto the sofa and stretched out
her leg, wincing as she did so. There were sweat stains on her shirt and her hair was matted
over her forehead. She'd been exercising, and he'd bet she'd overdone it.

He would have.

"What was it you wanted?"

Adam realized he'd been staring at her for several minutes. "Sorry," he told her. "I
was trying to decide how to say this."

"Generally the best way is to just speak the words." Her tone was dry. Those
straight, dark eyebrows of hers made her look as if she were scowling, but he saw the
quick flash of a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

He couldn't help but smile in return. "I really hate being the bearer of bad news,
but I haven't much choice. The schedule for the ad campaign hasn't any slack in it. So
we're going to have to find another woman cyclist to use. I realize this is a disappointment,
but--"

Her laughter stopped him. "What?"

"Sorry. I couldn't help it. You were apologizing so nicely. As if it really mattered
to me." Again that dimple. No, two. One at each corner of her mouth.

Adam stared. "Doesn't it?" He couldn't imagine an amateur who didn't want the
kind of exposure KIWANDA's ads would give. Fame brought sponsors, a necessity to an
amateur athlete who needed the same sort of financial support any professional did, but
was prohibited from earning it in competition or exhibition play.

"Adam, I was dreading every second of it. I really hate being the center of
attention. The thought of having to pose gave me nightmares." She patted her cast. "The
only--
only
--good thing about this is that it's given me a graceful excuse to
decline."

For a moment he stared at her, not believing she was serious.

Her expression convinced him. "But the publicity, the sponsorship..."

Leaning back, she moved her leg into a different position. "I may be crazy, but I
believe that if I can't win without a lot of media attention, then I shouldn't be competing.
As far as the sponsorship goes, didn't I hear that Jeff Reynolds had signed on with
KIWANDA?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"He's on my team." She grinned, and the dimples flashed, just as he'd
remembered. "There are half a dozen women cyclists in town who would jump at the
chance to model for you, and one who'd rather have a root canal. Use one of them."

But I want you!
Adam forced himself to return her smile. "I won't deny
that our schedule is tight. We've already interviewed a couple of other women, but we were
hoping that you'd recover in time."

"My recovery is not the issue," she said, her tone sharp. "I really don't want to
model for you, Mr. Vanderhook." She reached down beside her chair and picked up her
crutches. "Now, if you'll excuse me...."

Adam rose, but deliberately watched as she struggled to her feet. After two weeks,
she should be more adept at managing the crutches. Was she fighting them? He'd bet on
it.

"I can find my way out," he said.

"I have to check the mail." She followed him down the hall.

This was no way to leave her, not with both of them annoyed. While he had no
intention of going beyond friendship with Stell McCray, he did want that much. He might
not approve of her obsession, but he admired her determination and he liked the person
he'd seen so far. Maybe he could help her, having faced the same decision she must
make.

Stell opened the door for him, intending to give him a polite goodbye. As she
moved aside so he could step across the threshold, her cast got tangled with one crutch and
she started to fall.

He caught her as she swayed, held her solidly, her breasts flattened against his
chest. Somehow one of his legs was between hers. She gasped, and he felt suddenly
breathless. Her mouth was less then two inches from his, her hot breath wafted across his
cheek.

Adam found himself drowning in a sea of desire. Her scent was floral and spice,
her lithe body was spring steel under a layer of soft flesh and sweet curves. He forgot why
he had come to her house, forgot that he had a plane to meet in a little more than an hour,
forgot that the sun was shining and the spring wind smelled of growth and rebirth.

The world narrowed to this time and this place. His awareness was captured by
changeable hazel eyes almost hidden by thick lashes on slumberous lids, by pink and juicy
lips inviting him to sample their taste. His body burned wherever she touched it, all down
his chest, across his belly, around his thigh. He groaned with the ache of burgeoning
arousal as he took the mouth he'd wanted to kiss since forever.

He tasted, he devoured. He drank of her delicious mouth, nibbled at her ripe lips.
He left her mouth, to trail biting kisses along her velvety cheek, to explore the delicate
shell of her ear with a tongue hungry for more.

Her hands were tangled in his hair, and her body was pliant in his arms.
Responsive, as if she would follow wherever he led, willingly cooperate in whatever he
suggested. Her eyes were closed, her head was drooping like an elegant flower over his
encircling arm. Her lips were half-parted, inviting, tempting, promising.

Adam's mind returned from whatever void it had wandered into when instinct and
lust took command. What an idiot he'd been. Here she was, all but disabled, and he'd
mistaken her inescapable clumsiness for a come-on.

"I'm sorry," he said, hearing how inadequate it sounded. He slipped an arm around
her waist as she sagged against him, involuntarily aware of how supple it was, and how
slim.

Her chin was lowered and her face turned away from him. "So am I," she
half-whispered. But she didn't try to escape his grasp and she didn't reach for the crutches that
had fallen on either side of her when he took her into his arms. "The living room." She
gestured with her hand. "I need to sit down."

So did he. The emotions he'd just experienced had drained him, left him as
emotionally limp as the proverbial dishrag.

"Can you hand me my crutches?"

"I'll do better than that." Without waiting for her to object, he swung her up
against his chest. She was heavier than she looked, and he did his best not to grunt. If he
was going to act like a swashbuckler, he'd damn well play the role. He couldn't imagine
Sinbad or d'Artagnan grunting and groaning as they carried their ladies fair off into the
sunset.

He managed to stride into the living room and place her carefully on the sofa
before he collapsed. He even managed to resist the need to take deep, gasping breaths until
he was out of her sight, fetching her crutches from the hall.

It must be the cycling. She looked almost delicate in loose pants and sweatshirt,
but he knew, from holding her and running his hands over her delightful, slim body, that
she was all muscle. He'd expected a softly feminine burden, and he'd lifted a finely tuned
cycling machine.

The residue of desire left him as if it had never existed. Each reminder that she
was a serious athlete brought him back to reality as effectively as a bucket of ice water in
the face.

Stell let him carry her into the living room without protest. She wasn't sure she
could stand steady, anyway. Not on one foot, at least.

Good grief! She hadn't been kissed like that since she was in college. If then.

When Adam Vanderhook kissed a woman, he gave it his total attention, and it
showed. He hadn't been thinking of KIWANDA, or of the modeling job he'd wanted her
for. She didn't think he'd even been calculating his chances of getting her into bed, as many
men she'd dated would have been doing.

She would bet he hadn't been thinking at all, except about the tastes and touches
and inner sensations inherent to the kiss. She'd never seen such total concentration devoted
to anything but winning.

What a great competitor he'd make. He had the necessary drive. According to
Rick, he'd built KIWANDA OuterWear from a cottage industry into one of the Pacific
Northwest's major clothing manufacturers.

He had the body. She'd rarely seen such natural grace, such carefully leashed
strength and coordination.

He'd look great in cycling shorts, too.

She looked up as he brought the crutches to her. "I hope you aren't taking that--"
she gestured vaguely toward the hallway, "seriously."

His grin was sheepish, but still packed a wallop. "I won't if you won't."

"I'm taking very little seriously these days." She shrugged, not wanting to explain
about waiting for her life's pieces to fall back into place. "Would you like something to
drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks. How about you? Can I get you anything?"

She had to chuckle at that. "This is my house, remember. I'm supposed to be the
hostess."

"But I've got two good legs," he told her, "and it's hard to carry a cup of coffee
when you've got crutches in both hands."

"Don't I know it."
Or anything else.
She'd been having a heck of a time
getting anything from one room to another. Finally she'd learned that if she piled stuff on a
towel, then dragged it behind her as she stumped about the house, she could manage.

"So, can I get you something?" His grin was mocking, but kindly.

She capitulated. "I'd love a Coke. They're in the 'fridge."

His eyebrow raised, and she realized he'd never been beyond the living room.

"That way." She pointed. "At the end of the hall. Glasses are beside the sink."

While he was gone, she let herself wonder about him. Was that unforgettable kiss
a fluke, or could it be repeated? And did she want to repeat it? The last time she'd got
involved with anyone, it hadn't lasted through the cycling season. He hadn't understood
that everything had to take second place when she was in training. If she wanted to be the
best, she had to give it everything she had, not take a day off whenever he got a notion to
go out and play.

Would Adam? Or would he feel that he deserved at least as much of her energy
and attention as she gave her cycling?

Stell leaned back and closed her eyes. Listen to her! All he'd done was kiss her
and she was worrying about how he would fit into her future. He hadn't even showed signs
of wanting to do it again.

He'd been the one to break it off, not she. And he'd been the first to apologize.

Suppose he didn't want her at all. Suppose his kiss had been the natural reaction of
a healthy man to an unspoken invitation. After all, she'd practically fallen into his arms,
hadn't she? What had he been supposed to do with her? Drop her?

By the time he returned with two glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola, she had
herself in hand. "Thank you," she said, taking hers. She shifted her brace to rest on a
magazine on the coffee table and tucked the other leg beneath her. "This is nice. I'm getting
tired of having to sit in the kitchen whenever I want something to eat or drink. When I'm
not on crutches, I have my dinners in here."

Again that raised eyebrow. "While you watch the news? That's bad for the
digestion."