by Nora Roberts
“You ask for too much,” he bit off as he released her. “Too damn much.”
She wanted to go to him, go back to his arms and beg him to forget the past. Perhaps it was possible to live for the moment if one wanted to badly enough. It might have been pride that stopped her, or the deeply ingrained survival instinct she had developed since that long-ago September afternoon when she had fled from him and the prospect of pain. Asher laced her fingers together and stared down at them. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Ty, we’ll only hurt each other.”
Tense and tormented, he turned back. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you, Asher. Not even when I thought I did.”
The ache spread so quickly, she almost gasped from it. Isn’t that what Jess had said that day? He’d never want to hurt you . . . never want to hurt you. Asher could hear the words echoing inside her head. “Neither of us wanted to,” she murmured. “Both of us did. Isn’t it foolish to do it again?”
“Look at me.” The command was quiet and firm. Bracing herself, Asher obeyed. His eyes were locked on hers—those dark, penetrating eyes that conveyed such raw feeling. Gently he touched her cheek. Without hesitation her hand rose to cover his. “Now,” he whispered, “ask me again.”
A long, shuddering breath escaped. “Oh, Ty, I was so sure I could prevent this. So sure I could resist you this time.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not sure of anything.” She shook her head before he could speak again. “Don’t ask now. Give us both some time.”
He started to protest, then managed to restrain it. He’d waited three years, a bit longer wouldn’t matter. “Some time,” he agreed, lowering his hand. But as she started to relax, he took her wrist. The grip was neither gentle nor patient. “The next time, Asher, I won’t ask.”
She nodded, accepting. “Then we understand each other.”
His smile was a trifle grim. “That we do. I’ll walk you back.” He drew her through the curtain of leaves.
Chapter 5
Fifth set. Seventh game. At the base line Ty crouched, ready to spring for Michael’s serve. The air was heavy, the sky thick with rain-threatening clouds so that the light was dreary. Ty didn’t notice. He didn’t notice the stadium full of people, some dangling through the railing, some hanging from the scoreboard. He didn’t notice the shouts and whistles that were either for or against him.
Tennis was a game of the individual. That was what had drawn him to it. There was no one to blame for a loss, no one to praise for a win but yourself. It was a game of motion and emotion, both of which he excelled in.
He had looked forward to meeting Michael in the semis. The Australian played a hot, passionate game full of dramatic gestures, furious mutters and pizzazz. There were perhaps five competitors Ty fully respected, Michael being one of them. Wanting to win was only a step below wanting a challenge. A fight. He’d grown up scrapping. Now the racket was merely an extension of his arm. The match was a bout. The bout was one on one. It had never—would never—be only a game.
The Australian was a set up, with his momentum still flowing. Ty’s only thought at the moment was to break his serve and even the match. Thus far he had spotted no weaknesses in his opponent’s game. Like a boxer, he watched for the opening.
He heard the sound of the ball hitting the sweet spot of the racket before it rocketed toward him. It landed deep in the corner of the service court, beautifully placed. Ty’s mind and body moved as one as he sprang for the return. Defense, offense, strategy all had to be formulated in a fraction of a second. Strength had to be balanced with form. Both men sprinted over the court for the rally, faces glowing with concentration and sweat. The roar of the crowd rose to meet the distant thunder.
Thus far, the ratio had been nearly ten to one in favor of ground strokes. Ty decided to alter the pace and go with power. Using a vicious left-to-right slice, he shook Michael’s balance. Ty blasted away at the attempted passing shot, barely shortening his backswing. Michael couldn’t reach the backhand volley, let alone return it. Love-fifteen.
Shaking the damp hair back from his face, Ty returned to the base line. A woman in the crowd called out what could have been a congratulations or a proposition. Ty’s French wasn’t strong enough to decipher the phrase. Michael’s serve sent up a puff of smoke. Before his return was over the net, Ty was at midcourt and waiting. A testing ground stroke, a sharp return. A tricky topspin, a slice. Michael’s decision to try to lob over Ty was a mistake. The smoking smash careened off the court and into the grandstands. Love-thirty.
Michael walked a complete circle, cursing himself before he took his position again. Casting off impatience, Ty waited. Crouched, swaying side to side, unblinking, he was ready. Both players exploited angles and depths with ground strokes. There was a long, patient rally as each watched for the chance to smash a winner. It might have been pure showmanship if it hadn’t been for the sounds of exertion coming from the two players.
A UPI photographer had his motor drive humming as he recorded the game. He framed Ty, arms extended for balance, legs spread for the stretch, face fierce. It crossed his mind as he continued to snap that he wouldn’t want to face that American on any playing field.
Gracefully, with an elegance belied by his expression, Ty executed a backhand with a touch of underspin. Michael’s return thudded against the net. Love-forty.
Angry and shaken, Michael punched his first serve into the net. Having no choice at game point, he placed his next serve carefully. Ty went straight for the volley and took the net. The exchange was fast and furious, the players moving on instinct, the crowd screaming in a mixture of languages. Ty’s wrist was locked. The ball whipped from racket to racket at terrifying speed. There were bare seconds between contact, making both men anticipate flight rather than see it. Changing tactics in the wink of an instant, Ty brought the racket face under at the moment of impact. With a flick of a wrist he dropped a dump shot over the net. Risky, experts would say. Gutsy, fans would claim. Ty would ignore both. Game and set.
“Oh, Mac!” Jess leaned back and expelled a long breath. “I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to watch Ty play.”
“You watched him just a few weeks ago,” he pointed out, using a damp handkerchief to wipe his neck. The wish for his air-conditioned office flitted only briefly into his mind.
“On television,” Jess returned. “That’s different. Being here . . . can’t you feel it?”
“I thought it was the humidity.”
Laughing, Jess shook her head. “Always down to earth, Mac. That’s why I love you.”
Her smile seemed to open just for him. It could still make his blood sing. “Then I intend to stay there,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles. Feeling her hand tense, he looked up, puzzled. Her eyes were aimed over his shoulder. Curious, he turned, spotting a few tennis faces he recognized. Among them was Asher Wolfe. It was on her that his wife’s gaze was locked.
“That’s the former Lady Wickerton, isn’t it?” he asked casually. “She’s stunning.”
“Yes.” Jess tore her eyes away, but the tension in her fingers remained. “Yes, she is.”
“She won her match this morning. We’ll have an American going into the women’s finals.” Jess said nothing as Mac stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “She was away from the game for a while, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Intrigued by his wife’s flat answer, Mac probed. “Didn’t she and Ty have something going a few years back?”
“It was nothing.” With a nervous swallow Jess prayed she spoke the truth. “Just a passing thing. She’s not Ty’s type. Asher’s very cool, much more suited to Wickerton than to Ty. He was attracted to that for a while, that’s all.” She moistened her lips. “And it was obvious she wasn’t serious about him, otherwise she’d never have married Wickerton so quickly. She was making Ty unhappy, very unhappy.”
“I see,” Mac murmured after a moment. Jess had spoken too quickly and too defensively. Studying his
wife’s profile, he wondered. “I suppose Ty’s too involved in his career to be serious about a woman?”
“Yes.” The look Jess gave him was almost pleading. “Yes, he’d never have let her go if he’d been in love with her. Ty’s too possessive.”
“And proud,” he reminded her quietly. “I don’t think he’d run after any woman, no matter how he felt about her.”
Feeling her stomach roll, Jess said nothing. She turned to watch her brother take the position for his first serve.
Instead of the hazy afternoon she saw a brilliant morning. Instead of the clay of Roland Garros she saw the newly empty grass courts of Forest Hills. Ty was leaning over the rail, staring out at center court. She had a fanciful thought that he looked like the captain of a ship with his eyes on the open, endless sea. In her world she loved no one more than him, could conceive of loving no one more. He was brother and father and hero. He’d provided her with a home, clothes and an education, asking nothing in return. As a result, she would have given him anything.
Crossing to him, she had slipped her arm around him, nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder.
“Thinking about this afternoon?” she murmured. He was slated to face Chuck Prince in the finals of the U.S. Open.
“Hmm?” Distracted, Ty shrugged. “No, not really.”
“It must feel odd to compete against your closest friend.”
“You must forget you’re friends for a couple hours,” Ty returned.
He was brooding; she sensed it. And unhappy. There was no one, including her mother, Jess felt more loyalty to. Her grip around him tightened. “Ty, what is it?”
“Just restless.”
“Have you fought with Asher?”
Absently he tousled her hair. “No, I haven’t fought with Asher.”
He lapsed into silence for so long that Jess began to suspect he wasn’t telling the entire truth. She was already worried about him and Asher. The relationship had lasted longer than was habitual for Ty. Jess saw Asher’s reserve as coldness, her independence as indifference. She didn’t hang on Ty as other women did. She didn’t listen raptly to every word he spoke. She didn’t adore him.
“Do you ever think back, Jess?” he asked suddenly.
“Think back?”
“To when we were kids.” His eyes skimmed over the manicured courts, but didn’t see them. “That crummy apartment with the paper walls. The DeMarcos next door screaming at each other in the middle of the night. The stairwell always smelled of old garbage and stale sweat.”
The tone of his voice disturbed her. Seeking comfort as much as to comfort, she turned her face into his chest. “Not often. I guess I don’t remember it as well as you. I hadn’t turned fifteen when you got us out.”
“I wonder sometimes if you can ever escape that, if you can ever really turn your back on it.” His eyes were focused on something Jess couldn’t see. She strained to share the vision. “Old garbage and stale sweat,” he repeated quietly. “I can’t forget that. I asked Asher once what smell she remembered most from her childhood. She said the wisteria that hung over her bedroom window.”
“Ty, I don’t understand.”
He swore softly. “Neither do I.”
“You left all that behind—” she began.
“I left it,” he corrected her. “That doesn’t mean I left it behind. We were having dinner last night. Wickerton stopped by the table and started a conversation about French impressionists. After five minutes I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”
Jess bristled. She knew because Ty had sent her to college. She knew because he had provided the opportunity. “You should have told him to get lost.”
With a laugh Ty kissed her cheek. “That was my first thought.” Abruptly he sobered. “Then I watched them. They understand each other, speak the same language. It made me realize there are some fences you just can’t climb.”
“You could if you wanted to.”
“Maybe. I don’t.” He let out a long breath. “I don’t really give a damn about French impressionists. I don’t give a damn about the mutual friends they have that are distant cousins of the queen of England, or who won at Ascot last month.” Storm warnings were in his eyes, but he shrugged. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t fit into that kind of life because I’d always remember the garbage and sweat.”
“Asher has no business encouraging that man,” Jess stated heatedly. “He’s been following her around since Paris.”
Ty gave a grim laugh. “She doesn’t encourage or discourage. Drawing room conversation,” he murmured. “Ingrained manners. She’s different from us, Jess, I’ve known that all along.”
“If she’d tell him to get lost—”
“She couldn’t tell anyone to get lost any more than she could sprout wings and fly.”
“She’s cold.”
“She’s different,” Ty returned immediately but without heart. He cupped his sister’s chin in his hand. “You and me, we’re the same. Everything’s up front. If we want to shout, we shout. If we want to throw something, we throw it. Some people can’t.”
“Then they’re stupid.”
This time his laugh was warm and genuine. “I love you, Jess.”
Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him fiercely. “I can’t bear to see you unhappy. Why do you let her do this to you?”
Frowning, Ty stroked her hair. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. Maybe . . . maybe I just need a shove in the right direction.”
Jess held him tighter, searching her mind for the answer.
***
Seventh set. Tenth game. The crowd was as vocal, as enthusiastic and as hungry as it had been an hour before. Leaning forward in his seat, his eyes glued to the ball, Chuck sat between Asher and Madge.
“You’ve got something riding on this one, don’t you, cowboy?” Madge commented dryly though her own heart was pumping. Chuck would face the winner in the finals.
“It’s the best match I’ve seen in two years.” His own face was damp, his own muscles tense. The ball traveled at such speeds, it was often only a white blur.
Asher spoke to neither of them. Her objectivity had long since been destroyed. Ty enthralled her. Both men on court possessed the raw athletic ability competitors admired and envied. Both were draining the other’s resources without mercy. But it was Ty, always Ty, who ripped the emotion from her.
She could admire Michael, admit his brilliance, but he didn’t cause that slow, churning ache in her stomach. Had she not once been Ty’s lover, had she not even known him, would she still be so drawn? Controlled rage. How was it a woman raised in such an ordered, sheltered existence would be pulled irresistibly to a man with such turbulent passion? Opposites attract? she wondered. No, that was much too simple.
Sitting in the crowded stadium, Asher felt the thrill of desire as clearly as though she had been naked in his arms. She felt no shame. It was natural. She felt no fear. It was inevitable. Years made up of long, unending days vanished. What a waste of time, she thought suddenly. No, a loss, she corrected herself. A loss of time—nothing’s ever wasted. Tonight. The decision came to her as effortlessly as it had the first time. Tonight they would be together. And if it was only once—if once was all he wanted—it would have to be enough. The long wait was over. She laughed out loud in relief and joy. Chuck sent her an odd look.
“He’s going to win,” Asher said on a second laugh. Leaning on the rail, she rested her chin on her folded hands. “Oh, yes, he’s going to win.”
***
There was a dull ache in his racket arm that Ty ignored. The muscles in his legs promised to cramp the moment he stopped moving. He wouldn’t give in to them any more than he would give in to the man across the net. One thing hadn’t changed in twenty years. He still hated to lose.
A point away from the match, he played no less tigerishly than he had in the first game. The rallies had been long and punishing. The ball whistled. Sweat dripped. For the last twenty minute
s Ty had forsaken artistry for cunning. It was working.
Power for power, they were in a dead heat, so Ty chose to outmaneuver the Australian. He worked him over the court, pacing him, some might say stalking him. The game went to deuce three times while the crowd grew frantic. An ace gave him advantage—a screeching bullet that brought Ty the final impetus he needed. Then Ty played him hotbloodedly. The men drove from side to side, their faces masks of effort and fury. The shot came that he’d been waiting for. Michael’s awesome backhand drove crosscourt to his southpaw forehand. The ball came to Ty at waist level. Michael didn’t even have to see the return to know it was over.
Game, set and match.
The heat hit him then, and the fatigue. It took an effort not to stagger. Simply to have fallen to his knees would have been a relief. He walked to the net.
Michael took his hand, then draped his free arm around Ty’s shoulder. “Damn you, Starbuck,” he managed breathlessly. “You nearly killed me.”
Ty laughed, using his opponent for balance a moment. “You too.”
“I need a bloody drink.” Michael straightened, giving Ty a glazed grin. “Let’s go get drunk.”
“You’re on.”
Turning, they separated, victor and vanquished, to face the press, the showers and the massage tables. Ty grabbed the towel someone handed him, nodding at the questions and congratulations being hurled at him. Behind the cloth he could hear the click and