by Nora Roberts
His adrenaline was still flowing. Neither the shower nor the massage had taken it from him. Wimbledon always affected him this way. As long as he played, winning there would be his first goal.
Now, the demanding games behind him, the win still sweet, he felt like a knight returning home victorious from the wars. His woman waited. But she wouldn’t throw herself into his arms. She was going to scratch at him. Oh, yes, he was looking forward to it.
Grinning, Ty turned the knob. He had no more than shut the door behind him before Asher stormed out of the bedroom.
“Congratulations, Face,” he said amiably. “Looks like I get first dance at the ball.”
“How dare you say those things to me in the middle of the match?” she demanded. Eyes glittering, she advanced on him. “How dare you accuse me of tanking?”
Ty set his bag and rackets on a chair. “What do you call what you were doing?”
“Losing.”
“Quitting,” he corrected her. “You might as well have put up a sign.”
“I’ve never quit!”
He lifted a brow. “Only for three years.”
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face.” Raising both hands, she shoved him. Instead of being offended, he laughed. It pleased him enormously that he could rattle her control.
“You did good,” he reminded her. “I couldn’t take a chance on your losing.” He gave her cheek an affectionate pinch. “I didn’t want to open the ball with Maria.”
“You conceited, overconfident louse!” She shoved him again. “Gramaldi almost took you. I wish he had.” She shouted the lie at him. “You could use a good kick in the ego.” With the intention of storming back into the bedroom, she whirled. Catching her wrist, Ty spun her back around.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“No.”
“Aw, come on, Face.” He grinned appealingly. “Give us a kiss.”
For an answer Asher balled her hand into a fist. Ducking the blow, Ty gripped her waist and slung her over his shoulder. “I love it when you’re violent,” he said huskily as she pulled his hair.
To her own surprise—and annoyance—she had to choke back a laugh. “Then you’re going to get a real charge out of this,” she promised, kicking wildly as he threw her on the bed. Even though her reflexes were quick, Ty had her pinned beneath him in seconds. Breathless, she struggled to bring her knee up to his weakest point.
“Not that violent.” Wisely he shifted to safety.
She twisted, squirmed and struggled. “You take your hands off me.”
“Soon as I’m finished,” he agreed, slipping a hand under the blouse that had come loose from her waistband.
Refusing to acknowledge the sensation of pleasure, Asher glared at him. “Don’t you touch me.”
“I have to touch you to make love to you.” His smile was reasonable and friendly. “It’s the only way I know how.”
I will not laugh, she ordered herself as the gurgle rose in her throat. She was angry, furious, she reminded herself.
Ty recognized the weakening and capitalized on it. “Your eyes get purple when you’re mad. I like it.” He kissed her firmly shut mouth. “Why don’t you yell at me some more?”
“I have nothing more to say to you,” Asher claimed haughtily. “Please go away.”
“But we haven’t made love yet.” Lightly he rubbed his nose against hers.
Refusing to be charmed, she turned her head away. “We aren’t going to.”
“Wanna bet?” With one swift move he ripped her blouse from neck to waist.
“Ty!” Shocked, Asher gaped at him, her mouth open.
“I nearly did that when you were on Centre Court today. You should be glad I waited.” Before she could react he tore her shorts into ragged pieces. Thinking he might have gone mad, Asher stayed perfectly still. “Something wrong?” he asked as his hand moved to cup her breast.
“Ty, you can’t tear my clothes.”
“I already did.” Soft as a feather, his hand roamed down to her stomach. “Want to tear mine?”
“No.” Her skin was beginning to quiver. She tried to shift away and found herself held prisoner.
“I made you angry.”
Her head cleared long enough for her to glare at him. “Yes, and—”
“Angry enough to win,” he murmured, trailing his lips along her throat. “And when I watched you I nearly exploded from wanting you. All that passion simmering just under the surface. And only I know what it’s like when it escapes.”
She gave a little moan as his fingers stroked the point of her breast but tried to cling to reality. “You had no business saying I was tanking.”
“I didn’t say that, I only planted the idea.” When he lifted his head, the look in his eyes had her drawing in a quick breath. “Did you think I’d stand by and watch him get to you like that? No man gets to you, Asher, no man but me.”
With a savage kiss he cut off all words, all thoughts.
***
It always surprised Asher that Ty could project such raw sexuality in black tie. Conservative, formal dress could do nothing to alter his air of primitive masculinity. The material could cover the muscles, but it couldn’t disguise the strength. There had been times Asher had wondered if it was his earthiness that had drawn her to him. Glimpsing him in a room filled with elegantly attired men and women, she knew it was more than that. It was all of him, every aspect, from temper to humor, that had made her his.
The Wimbledon ball was as traditional as the tournament. The music, the lights, the people. It was always an evening to remember for its beauty and tastefulness. Asher counted the hours until it would be over. Scolding herself, she tuned back into the conversation of her dance partner. She’d always enjoyed a party, always found pleasure in quiet well-run affairs. But now she wished she and Ty could have shared a bottle of wine in their room.
She didn’t want the spotlight this evening, but candlelight. Over the heads of the other dancers her eyes met Ty’s. It took only one brief glance to know that his thoughts mirrored hers. Love threatened to drown her.
“You’re a lovely dancer, Miss Wolfe.”
As the music ended, Asher smiled at her partner. “Thank you.” Her smile never wavered as it ran through her head that she had completely forgotten the man’s name.
“I was a great fan of your father’s, you know.” The man cupped a hand under her elbow to lead her from the dance floor. “The Golden Boy of Tennis.” With a sigh he patted Asher’s hand. “Of course, I remember his early days, before you were born.”
“Wimbledon has always been his favorite. Dad loved the tradition . . . and the pomp,” Asher added with a smile.
“Seeing the second generation here is good for the soul.” In a courtly gesture he lifted her hand to his lips. “My best to you, Miss Wolfe.”
“Jerry, how are you?”
A stately woman in silk brocade swept up to them. Lady Mallow, Eric Wickerton’s sister, was, as always, elegant. Asher’s spine stiffened.
“Lucy, what a pleasure!”
She offered her fingers to be kissed, sending Asher a brief glance as she did so. “Jerry, Brian’s been searching for you to say hello. He’s just over there.”
“Well then, if you ladies will excuse me.”
Having dispatched him, Lucy turned to her former sister-in-law. “Asher, you’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Lucy.”
She gave Asher’s simple ivory sheath a brief survey, thinking that if she had worn something so basic, she would have blended in with the wallpaper. On Asher, the muted color and simple lines were stunning. Lucy gave her a candid stare. “And are you well?”
A bit surprised, Asher lifted a brow. “Yes, quite well. And you?”
“I meant that as more than small talk.” Lucy’s hesitation was brief, as was her glance to determine if they could be overheard. “There’s something I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time.” Stiffening, Asher waited. “I lov
e my brother,” Lucy began. “I know you didn’t. I also know that throughout your marriage you did nothing to disgrace him, though he didn’t return the favor.”
The unexpected words had Asher staring. “Lucy—”
“Loving him doesn’t blind me, Asher,” she continued briskly. “My loyalty is with Eric, and always will be.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
Lucy studied Asher’s face a moment, then she seemed to sigh. “I gave you no support when you were my brother’s wife and I wanted to offer my apologies.”
Touched, Asher took her hand. “There’s no need. Eric and I were simply wrong for each other.”
“I often wondered why you married him,” Lucy mused, still searching Asher’s face. “At first I thought it was the title, but that had nothing to do with it. Something seemed to change between you so soon after you were married, hardly two months.” Asher’s eyes clouded for only a moment under Lucy’s direct gaze. “I wondered if you’d taken a lover. But it became very obvious in a short time that it was Eric, not you, who was . . . dallying. Just as it’s become obvious that there’s been only one man in your life.” Her gaze shifted. Asher didn’t have to follow it to know it rested on Ty.
“Knowing that hurt Eric.”
“Knowing that, Eric should never have married you.” Lucy sighed again, a bit indulgently. “But then, he’s always wanted what belonged to someone else. I won’t speak of that, but I’ll tell you now what I should have told you long before—I wish you happiness.”
On impulse, Asher kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Lucy.”
Smiling, she glanced over at Ty again. “Your taste, Asher, has always been exquisite. I’ve envied it, though it’s never been right for me. It’s time I joined Brian.”
As she turned away, Asher touched her hand. “If I wrote you, would you be uncomfortable?”
“I’d be very pleased.” Lucy moved away, silks rustling.
Smiling, Asher realized she had been right. Wimbledon was her turning point. Another layer of guilt had been lifted. She was coming closer to discovering who she was, and what she needed. Feeling a hand on her arm, she turned to smile at Ty.
“Who was that?”
“An old friend.” Asher lifted a hand to his cheek. “Dance with me? There’s no other way I can hold you until we can be alone.”
Chapter 9
Asher knew she had made great strides when pressure from the press no longer tightened her nerves. Her habitual terror of saying the wrong thing, or saying too much, faded. She still had secrets. Before coming to Australia she’d promised herself a moratorium. Whatever decisions had to be made would wait. For the moment she wanted to concentrate on happiness. Happiness was Ty—and tennis.
There were good memories in Australia—wins, losses. Good tennis. The people were relaxed, casual. The friendliness was exactly what Asher needed after the tension of England. Aussies remembered The Face, and welcomed her. For the first time since her comeback Asher found the winning taking second place to her enjoyment.
The change in her was noticeable even during the early rounds. Her smiles came more frequently. Though her play was no less intense and concentrated, the air of being driven was fading.
From the first row of the stands Ty watched her in early morning practice. He’d just completed two hours of his own. Now, his legs stretched out, he studied her from behind the protection of tinted glasses. She’d improved, he mused . . . not only as an athlete. He remembered how important athletic ability was to her. The fact that she was a strategist and a craftsman had never been enough. Always, she had striven to be recognized as a good athlete. And so she would be, he thought, as she raced to the net to slap a return with her two-fisted backhand. Perhaps in some ways the years of retirement had toughened her.
His face clouded a moment. Consciously he smoothed the frown away. This wasn’t the time to think of that or to dwell on the questions that still plagued him. Whys—so many whys hammered at him. Yet he recognized that she was grabbing this time to be carefree. He’d give her that. He would wait. But when the season was over, he’d have his answers.
When her laughter floated to him he forgot the doubts. It was a rich, warm sound, heard all too rarely. Leaning back, Ty chugged down cold fruit juice and looked around him.
If Wimbledon was his favorite stadium, the grass of Kooyong was his favorite surface. It was as hard as a roadbed and fast. A ball bounced true here, unlike other grass courts. Even at the end of the season, when the courts were worn and soiled, the surface remained even. Even after a deluge of rain, the Australian grass was resilient. Kooyong was a treasure for the fast, for the aggressive. Ty was ready for just such a match. Through half-closed eyes he watched Asher. She was ready, too, he decided. And ever more ready to enjoy it. A smile touched his mouth. Whatever questions there were, whatever answers, nothing could harm what was between them now.
Noting the practice session was winding up, Ty jumped lightly down to the court. “How about a quick game?”
Madge shot him a look and continued to pack up her rackets. “Forget it, hotshot.”
He grabbed a racket from her, bouncing a ball lightly on the strings. “Spot you two points.”
With a snort Madge snatched the ball, dropping it into the can. “Take him on, Asher,” she suggested. “He needs a lesson.”
Catching her tongue between her teeth, Asher studied him. “Head to head,” she decided.
“You serve.”
Asher waited until he had taken his receiving position. Cupping two balls in her hand, she sent him a smile. “Been a while, hasn’t it, Starbuck?”
“Last time we played you never got to game point.” He gave Madge a wink. “Sure you don’t want that handicap?”
Her ace answered for her. As pleased as he was surprised, Ty sent her a long look. Removing the tinted glasses, he tossed them to Madge. “Not bad, Face.” His eyes followed the trail of the next serve. He sent it to the far corner to brush the service line. Ty liked nothing better than to watch Asher run. The range of her backhand was limited, but perfectly placed. He was on it in a flash. The last time they had played he had beaten her handily even while holding back. Now he scented challenge.
Asher lined the ball straight at him, hard and fast. Pivoting, Ty slammed it back. The ball whistled on her return. With a powerful swing Ty sent her to the base line, then nipped her return so that the ball brushed the net and died in the forecourt.
“Fifteen-all.” Ty feigned a yawn as he went back to position.
Narrowing her eyes, Asher served. The rally was a study in speed and footwork. She knew he was playing with her, moving her all over the court. Aware that she was no match for his power, she chose to catch him off guard. The ball thudded. She raced. It soared. She followed. The sounds of rackets cutting air had a steady, almost musical sound. A rhythm was set. Patiently she adhered to it until she sensed Ty relaxing. Abruptly she altered the pacing and slapped the ball past him.
“Getting crafty,” he muttered.
“Getting slow, old-timer,” she retorted sweetly.
Ty slammed her next serve crosscourt. After the bounce, it landed somewhere in the grandstands. Under her breath Asher swore pungently.
“Did you say something?”
“Not a thing.” Disgusted, Asher shook her hair back. As she readied to serve, she caught the look in Ty’s eyes. They rested not on her ball or racket, but on her mouth.
All’s fair, she mused with a secret smile. Slowly and deliberately she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Taking a long, preliminary stretch, she served. Distracted, Ty was slow to meet the ball. Asher had little trouble blowing the return past him.
“Game point,” she said softly, sending him an intimate smile. Keeping her back to him, she bent to pick up a fresh ball, taking her time about it. She could almost feel Ty’s eyes run up the long length of her legs. Smoothing a hand down her hip, she walked back to the base line. “Ready?”
He nodded, d
ragging his eyes away from the subtle sweep of her breasts. When his eyes met hers, he read an invitation that had his pulse racing. His concentration broken, he barely returned her serve. The rally was very short.
Victorious, Asher let out a hoot of laughter before she walked to the net. “Your game seemed to be a bit off, Starbuck.”
The gibe and the laughter in her eyes had him wanting to strangle her . . . and devour her. “Cheat,” he murmured as he walked to meet her at the net.
Asher’s look was guileless and she was faintly shocked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words were hardly out of her mouth when she was pulled against him, her lips crushed under