TWICE VICTORIOUS (5 page)

"Never mind. I was thinking of something else. I'd like to see the proofs of the
CycleWear photos when they're done. If they're as good as these..." He flipped through the
photos in Juliana's folder. "You're on a roll, big sister. Go for it."

She clasped her hands together above her head. "The winner!"

Part of Adam envied Juliana. Starting a new product line, even if it was one he
wanted absolutely nothing to do with, was exciting. She was having more fun than
enough.

He followed her out, turning toward his office as she headed toward the
advertising department. It really wasn't that important, but he'd just check and see if Rick
had heard how Stell was doing.

* * * *

"Keep going. ...G...H...I...J..." The stocky Physical Therapist kept his hand on her
calf, as if to lend her strength. "Don't stop now. You're doing great!"

Stell forced her big toe to sketch a cursive K in the air and started on an M. The
pain in her ankle shot up her calf and across her knee. With a faint moan, she let the leg
drop to the mat. "I can't." She buried her face in her hands. "I just can't, Carl." Tears stung
her eyes. Giving up was the last thing she wanted to do, but the darn leg simply wouldn't
do what she told it to.

"You did fine," he said, patting her shoulder. "Most of my patients don't do that
well the first time." His fingers found the source of the pain, just above her anklebone, and
massaged gently until it subsided into a now-familiar ache. She gasped in relief.

"I think that's enough for today. We don't want to overdo it." Carl went to the
counter along one side of the room and made notes in his chart.

"You mean that's all? What about my knee? And my hip?"

"Can you come in Monday? We can start on your knee then."

"You didn't answer me. What about my hip?" She winced as her foot touched the
floor. Just bearing her weight was painful, and bending her knee or her hip was enough to
make her want to swear.

"Stell, you can't hurry the healing process. I'll do all I can to help you recover
strength in your leg, but it won't happen overnight."

"I know that." She hated the querulous tone of her voice. "But I don't have a lot of
time. If I'm not back in training by June, I might as well give up the Sawtooth Classic for
two
years." Or forever, her mind added. Most of the women who competed at that
level had started in their twenties. She'd be thirty in ten months. Would she have what it
took if she had to wait another two years?

She wasn't willing to take that chance.

Once at home, she opened the refrigerator and stared inside. Nothing looked good.
It was all too healthy, too low fat, too sensible. "What am I doing?" she said, after a
moment. "I am
not
hungry, and I ate enough breakfast to last me all day." She
slammed the door and wished she could put a time lock on it. Not to be opened except
once a day.

Although the stairs were still difficult, she was getting down them better. She
simply hopped on one foot, holding tight to the rail.

"Whoof." An hour later she was wondering how she could have lost so much
muscle tone in just a few days. Stell lowered the dumbbells and let her arms hang limp.
Her biceps and triceps ached, her shoulders were quivering. But she felt good.

She lifted her heels to the edge of the bench, ignoring the twinge in her knee, and
put her hands behind her head. "One...two..." The rhythmic tightening and relaxing of her
abdomen told her again that she'd been lazy too long. She kept counting. "No pain, no
gain," might be an outmoded concept, but she didn't have time to pamper herself.

The doorbell rang on the fifty-first crunch. She relaxed a moment before rolling
over and pushing herself awkwardly to her feet. Sweat ran down her face and tickled
between her breasts.

The bell sounded again. "Good grief. Give me a minute, will you?" She wiped her
face on the towel she'd grabbed and hobbled to the intercom that Warren had set up for her.
"Yes? Who is it?"

"Adam Vanderhook."

Oh, no!
"What do you want?" He was the absolutely last person she
wanted to see this afternoon.

"May I come in?" His mild reply made her aware of just how rude she'd sounded.
Stell chewed her lip. She should finish her exercise session, but now that she was on her
feet, she was aware of just how shaky she felt. "I'm in the basement. Follow the path to the
left and around to the back. I'll meet you at the door."

She was standing in the open doorway when he came around the big
rhododendron at the corner. As usual, he looked like he'd just stepped off the pages of the
REI catalogue--sharp-creased chinos, a Madras shirt in shades of gold and green over a
bronze turtleneck, an emerald parka with the KIWANDA logo on the chest, and hi-tech
sneakers. His thick chestnut hair sparked with droplets from the 'Oregon sunshine' that had
been falling all day, a fine, misty rain.

"I just dropped by to..." He took in her sweaty face, her ratty T-shirt and faded
jogging shorts and his smile turned to a concerned frown. "You're going to get chilled.
Why don't you go shower and then I'll tell you why I came?"

Stell's hackles rose. What business was it of his whether she got chilled or
not?

Before she could open her mouth, he said, "I'll bet those stairs are a challenge." He
slipped an arm around her. "With three good legs, this should be a piece of cake."

She was so taken by surprise that they were halfway up the stairs before she
thought about arguing. By then it was easier to cooperate. Besides, it would have taken her
twice as long to go up on her own, and she'd have looked ridiculous doing it.

"What do you want?" she said again. "I'm really busy, and I haven't changed my
mind." She shivered. Sweaty as she was, she probably smelled to high heaven.

"I brought you something," he said. "But your lips are turning blue. Go get into
warmer clothes and I'll show you."

She shivered again. "All right. Wait in the living room. I won't be long."

Once in her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was
plastered to her head with drying sweat, and her T-shirt stuck to her still-damp torso. Her
sports bra kept her decent, but did absolutely nothing to conceal her erect nipples. Heat
flooded her cheeks. "I do need a shower," she muttered, pulling the shirt over her head.
He'd suggested it. So let him wait.

Clean, combed, and even perfumed, she opened her closet. But instead of pulling
out her last clean pair of jeans, she reached for a rich royal purple velour jumpsuit. It was a
lot more comfortable for lounging than the jeans, and always made her feel softly
feminine.

Of course, the jumpsuit demanded her silver hoop earrings and a touch of lipstick.
And silver thongs instead of her usual fuzzy bedroom slippers. Stell caught a glimpse of
herself in the mirrored hall closet as she approached the living room. Except for the light
knee brace, she looked as feminine as she felt. For a moment she almost went back and
changed into her jeans. What was she trying to prove, anyway?

She wasn't going to model for him, no matter what. She didn't have time, even if
she'd wanted to. Just getting back in shape was going to take all the time she could spare
from work.

Adam Vanderhook had certainly made himself at home. Her insulated carafe sat
on the coffee table beside two of the delicate china cup-and-saucer sets her mother had
collected. She hadn't bothered with them for months, even though she'd always enjoyed the
feeling of elegance she got when sipping from one of the ornate cups. They didn't go in the
dishwasher, and she had eliminated all inefficient activities from her life long ago.

"I didn't know if you took sugar or cream?" Adam gestured at the tray, and she
had to chuckle. The cream was in her only pitcher, but the sugar was in a cereal bowl. Dad
had broken the matching sugarbowl years ago.

"Just black." She sat on the sofa and settled her leg on the cushion he'd placed
beside the tray.

"I hope you didn't want caffeine in your coffee?" He handed her a steaming
cup.

"Only a cup in the morning." She often bought a cup of hi-test coffee at the
neighborhood convenience store after her morning ride, even though she wouldn't have it
in the house.

He took the wing chair again, sprawling out as if he lived there. "For a jump
start?"

She couldn't help but smile back at him. At the same time, she wished he weren't
so darned attractive. Staying irritated with him was virtually impossible, yet she needed to.
Her life held no room for boy-girl games right now.

They sipped their coffee in silence, until Stell realized she still didn't know why he
was here. "What do you want?" she said, for the third time.

Picking up a package from beside his chair, he held it out to her. "I brought you
this."

Stell took it, curious. A little suspicious.

"Go on, open it. Nothing will bite you," he said.

She tore the paper open. Silky fabric fell out, slithered off her lap and onto the
floor. Before she could reach down, Adam had picked it up. "Thanks," she said, holding it
up.

When she got a good look at what she held, she almost laughed. Tights, of a
heavy, slick knit, about the size her nine-year-old cousin might wear. She looked at Adam,
whose lips were quivering, as if he was about to burst out laughing. "Uh, Adam, I don't
think--"

"They'll fit," he told her. "They might even be a little big."

"I don't think so." She laid them against her. The bottom of one leg barely reached
past her knee, and she thought one of her thighs might fit nicely inside the waistband.

Adam's chuckle made her look across at him. "Okay, what's the joke?" She was
not amused.

"No joke. These are a product we're testing. A new fabric with a lot more stretch
than Lycra. It's made from a tightly coiled monofilament, and it will-- Never mind the
technical details. The important thing for you is that they should work like good support
hose, giving when you bend, tightening when you straighten. They'll enhance blood flow
in your legs and keep your feet from swelling when you sit a long time. They're cool to
wear, because the fabric breathes. Best of all, they should make your leg feel better, less
tired at the end of the day."

Again she held the tights up and looked at them. They still looked like they were
made for a small, very skinny child. "And you think these will fit me?"

"My sister, who's taller than you, but not quite as...as muscular, loves hers.
They're the same size."

"And you want me to be another guinea pig?" Actually, the tights sounded like
just what she was looking for. Her cycling tights were not comfortable for everyday wear,
and they were far too warm.

"Actually, yes. Do you mind? We have a couple of dozen people testing them, but
they're all using them for active sports. I'm hoping you'll tell us they're just as good
for...well, someone who isn't quite as active."

She bristled. "A couch potato, you mean?"

"I mean someone who is temporarily unable to be as active as she'd wish." His
voice was level, with just a hint of exasperation. "I want to know if they ameliorate some
of the stress on your knee."

So did she. At this point she'd try anything that might help. "Thank you, Adam. I'll
wear them often and will give you a full report."

He leaned forward and refilled their cups. "Just don't think the tights can take the
place of your brace."

Like it's any of his business.
"I really don't need it when I'm not walking,
but my wearing it keeps my Physical Therapist happy."

One eyebrow rose. "I see. So your leg isn't as badly damaged as they thought at
first."

"Oh, you know how conservative medical people are," she said, waving her
hand.

Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Not smiling in response, he said,
"Yes, they can be. Maybe you should be a little conservative, too."

All her bottled-up frustration burst forth. "I haven't got time! Every day I waste
means lost conditioning, lost strength."

His eyebrow went up again.

"Oh! You don't understand!"

"Try me."

"If you'd ever competed, you'd know why I can't afford to be off my bike for any
length of time." The very thought of weeks, even months without being able to ride scared
her worse than anything ever had before.

His mouth twisted, as if he were in pain. "Obsessions are unhealthy," he said, his
voice flat, lacking its characteristic warmth and timbre. "Isn't it about time you did
something worthwhile with your life?"

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why...what...you...you
meddlesome--" Biting her lip, Stell stood and tried to pace. The elastic support still
restricted her knee's motions somewhat, making her limp instead of stalking. The uneven
motion frustrated more than it relieved. A couple of turns and she came to a stop in front of
him.

"What makes you think you can evaluate what I do with my life?"

He spread his hands placatingly. "I can't."

"And who told you it was your business, anyhow?"

"No one. Yet."

The third word was soft, almost inaudible. It sat between them like a thrown
gauntlet.

"I suppose my cycling might look like an obsession to someone like you." She
ignored his sudden scowl, cut him off before he could speak. "But it's not. Not like, oh,
wanting to be filthy rich, or collecting all the Faberge in the world. Those are obsessions."
It seemed very important to make him understand.

"Cycling is my life right now, but it won't always be. Just until after the Sawtooth
Classic. I'll slack off then, put cycling back in perspective."

"I wonder." Before she could explode at his doubt, he smiled. "What got you
started in bicycle racing?" It wasn't an apology, but it was a peace offering.

She decided to accept it. "I got into it more or less by accident," she recalled,
staring at the portrait of her parents over the mantel. "When I went to work for Wilkins,
Wasatch, and McGonigle, I was fresh out of college and I hadn't been on a bike since I was
a kid."