Opposites Attract

by Nora Roberts

  of his shoulder.

  “A little. Where’s my chemise?”

  “Devoured.”

  She laughed, flinging her arms around him as though she would never let go. Free, she thought. How wonderful to be free—to love, to laugh. Supporting herself on his chest, she stared down into his face. For once his eyes were calm. A faint smile curved his lips. Beneath her his breathing was even and slow, to match hers. To match, her mind repeated. They had always been like two halves of the same whole.

  “Oh, God, I missed you, Ty.” On those words she buried her face against his throat. Empty, empty, she thought. It seemed like a lifetime of emptiness had been wiped away with an hour of fulfillment.

  “Asher—”

  “No, no questions. No questions.” Wildly she rained kisses over his face. “Just feel, just be with me. I need to laugh tonight, the way we used to.”

  He stopped her hurried movements by taking her head in his hands. There was a plea in her eyes and a light trace of desperation. No, he didn’t want to see that now. Pushing away the questions that drummed in his head, he smiled at her.

  “I thought you were going to buy me dinner.”

  Relief washed over her before she grinned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You asked me for a date.”

  Tossing her head back, she arched an elegant brow. “I asked you? You’ve been out in the heat too long, Starbuck.”

  “Dinner,” he repeated, rolling her over until he loomed above her.

  “As far as I can tell, you’ve already eaten a sixty-dollar silk chemise. Are you still hungry?”

  For an answer, he lowered his mouth to her neck and bit, none too gently. Laughing, she tried to twist away. “Food,” he muttered. “I have to eat.”

  Remembering a weakness, she found the spot on his ribs and squeezed. His body jerked, giving her the opportunity to slither away. She was giggling like a girl when he grabbed her and pulled her back. “How many people know the indomitable Starbuck is ticklish?” she demanded when he pinned her arms over her head. “What would the press pay to find out?”

  “About the same as they’d pay to find out elegant Asher Wolfe has a heart-shaped birthmark on her very attractive bottom.”

  Asher considered this a moment. “Even,” she decided. Her smile slanted seductively. “Do you really want to go out to eat?”

  Desire fluttered lightly in the pit of his stomach as he looked down at her. The light angled across her face, accenting the smooth, glowing skin and darkened eyes. The thunder was a distant rumble now, but he felt it vibrate in his head.

  “There’s always room service,” he murmured, tasting her lips. He kept her arms pinned as he dropped light, teasing kisses over her face. Nestling in the vulnerable curve of her neck, he used his tongue to stir and arouse.

  “Ty,” she moaned, unable to struggle against the captivity. “Make love to me.”

  His chuckle was low and he was pleased. “Oh, I am. This time,” he whispered into her ear, “we won’t hurry. Hours, love.” His tongue darted to her ear, making her squirm in agonized delight. “Hours and hours.” Then he shifted, bringing her close to his side. Cradling her, he felt her heart pounding against him. When he reached for the phone, Asher glanced up, puzzled. “Food,” he reminded her.

  She gave a weak laugh. “I should have remembered your stomach comes first.”

  His hand grazed over her breast. “Not necessarily.” Her nipple was already taut. He flicked his thumb over it lazily.

  “Ty—” With a kiss he silenced her.

  “Champagne,” he said into the phone while driving Asher mad with careless strokes and fondling. “Dom Pérignon. Caviar,” he went on, sending her a questioning look that she was powerless to answer. “Beluga.” He gave her a light kiss, running his hand down to the flat of her stomach. She quivered, turning into him. Legs tangled as he brushed his lips over her shoulder. “Cold shrimp.” He bit her tender bottom lip. “Mmm, that’ll do. Yes, for two.” As he dropped the phone back on its cradle, Asher found his mouth in a desperate, yearning kiss. “Food excites you?” he mumbled against the hungry lips. Struggling not to take her instantly, he ran his hand to her hip, kneading warm flesh.

  “I want you.” Her voice was low and throaty, her hands questing. “I want you now.”

  “Shh.” Slow, patient, his stroking aroused rather than subdued. “Relax. There’s time. I want to see you again.” He drew away from her. “Really see you.”

  She was burning for him. Now she lay naked and vulnerable under his gaze. As she watched, his eyes darkened, grew stormy. Her breathing quickened. When she reached out he took her hand, burying his lips in the palm.

  “You’re more beautiful than ever,” he said huskily. “It shouldn’t be possible. I’ve looked at you so many times and have been afraid to touch.”

  “No.” Asher pulled him to her until they were heart to heart. “I’m never more alive than when you touch me.” With a sigh Ty nestled down until his head rested between her breasts. Asher combed her fingers through his hair as contentment layered over desire. “Today, when I watched you playing Michael, I wanted you. Sitting there, surrounded by thousands of people in the middle of the afternoon, all I could think about was being with you like this.” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Wicked thoughts, such wonderfully wicked thoughts.”

  “So your invitation to dinner carried an ulterior motive.”

  “In your weakened condition I knew you’d be a pushover, though I had thought I’d have to take you out and ply you with food and wine first.”

  “And if I’d refused?”

  “I’d have come up with something else.”

  Grinning, he lifted his head. “What?”

  Asher shrugged. “I could have come up here and seduced you before you’d gotten your strength back.”

  “Hmm . . . I almost wish I’d said no.”

  “Too late. I have you now.”

  “I could get stubborn.”

  Slowly she smiled. “I know your weaknesses,” she whispered, running a fingertip up the nape of his neck. His shudder was quick and uncontrollable. Leaning up, she took his face in her hands. Lazily she rubbed her lips over his, then deepened the touch into a kiss—a long, draining taste that left him weak. Her tongue glided over his, then retreated.

  “Asher.” On an oath he crushed her beneath him, savaging her mouth with a need that had risen so quickly, it left him dazed. He didn’t hear the discreet knock on the door, nor did he understand her murmurs.

  “The door,” she managed. “Ty, it’s room service.”

  “What?”

  “The door.”

  Laying his forehead on hers, he struggled to recapture his control. “They’re awful damn quick,” he muttered. He found he was trembling. How could he have forgotten that she could make him tremble? After letting out a long breath, he rose. Asher pulled the sheets up to her chin and watched him cross to the closet.

  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 t
emper 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 Mis
s Kingston in the finals and I refrained from punching him in the mouth.”

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