by Denise Dietz
Maybe she had been Cleopatra and Gabe her Marc Anthony. Maybe he had been a swarthy pirate and she had played his innocent hostage. Maybe she had been a spinning-wheel-drugged Princess and Gabe her handsome Prince, waking her with a deep, tongue-thrusting kiss.
She and Gabe awoke before sunset to touch each other in wordless delight, and she was Hallie, and Gabe was Gabe, and that was the way they both wanted it.
Always.
TWENTY-TWO
Gabe’s arms and legs were moist.
His fingers opened, releasing the ball. His racket drew back then whipped through the air, its impact against the ball reverberating in the early morning’s stillness.
Except for a few Disney Dumbo crows, balanced precariously on nearby telephone wires, the courts were vacant, as if they’d been jilted by tennis lovers.
Hallie was hard-pressed to return Gabe’s serve. Stretching her strength to the limit, she almost performed a split in her eagerness to backhand the ball. With satisfaction, she saw it drift across the net, not far from the sidelines.
Gabe raced forward then watched the ball bounce twice. “Out of bounds?” he asked, his voice mock-hopeful.
“You wish!” Covertly, Hallie admired the way his white shirt clung to his chest and abdomen, outlining the muscles beneath. His hip bones pressed against his blue shorts. He was fatless and faultless. Well, maybe not faultless. He had double-faulted on more than one serve. “I win the match, Drac, six-three.”
“Knock off the Drac, Hallie. Vampires don’t play tennis in brilliant sunlight.” He grinned ruefully. “Did you let me win that last game on purpose?”
“No way! You’re very good.”
“I’m out of practice. That’s not an excuse,” he hastened to add. “It’s just that I haven’t picked up a racquet since…” He glanced down at his leg. “My knee feels a little stiff, but I think I can last through one more match. How do you feel?”
“Fit as a fiddle. I wonder why they always say that. I mean, why is a fiddle more fit than any other instrument? Why can’t someone be fit as a flute?”
Hallie’s laughter sounded like the trill of a flute. Gabe’s gaze traveled from her flickering dimple to her faded yellow button-down-collar shirt, which she said was her brother Neil’s and which was much too large for her. The shirttails were tied in front, emphasizing her flat stomach and a small waist that disappeared into white shorts, only to emerge below, beautifully transformed into a pair of legs that were firm at the thighs, firm at the calves, and, despite her bulky white socks, delicate at the ankles. She wore white sneakers and she made sneakers look sexier than high heels.
“Are you hungry?” he blurted, trying to erase the image of Hallie in high heels, only heels, nothing else.
“Gabe, I ate enough last night to sink a ship.”
“That was last night. We’ve metabolized since then.”
Her cheekbones turned a lovely shade of crimson, as if she were visualizing their pre-dawn, metabolizing work out. “Okay,” she said. “After I whip your butt in the next game, we can share a humongous brunch. Winner pays.”
“Deal. Even though I think you’re really Monica Seles.”
She implored the sky, then said, “Monica could whip my butt with one hand tied behind her back, and she uses both hands to swing her racquet.”
“So do you.”
As he toed the white line, Gabe remembered Hallie’s swinging motion when he’d cradled her body inside the bathtub. She had surrendered to him completely, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, he suddenly wanted to be with her in the tub again, rather than facing her across a sea of mesh-webbed net.
On the other hand, he liked this fiercely competitive Hallie. She clutched her racket tightly, waiting for his serve. Her dark curls shimmered and her dark brown eyes squinted against the sun’s glare. Right now her face was tense with purpose, but she had the best laughter he’d ever heard. Just listening to it made him happy. Hallie didn’t have a laughing place. She was a laughing place.
A sudden cloud hid the sun as Gabe remembered that B’rer Rabbit had led Br’er Fox down the garden path. Because B’rer Rabbit’s “laughin’ place” was a tangled cluster of needle-sharp thorns.
He shook his head at the fanciful notion, and, as the sun exited the cloud, he resumed his appraisal of Hallie.
When she wasn’t trancing, she was comfortable to be with. She seemed competent in just about everything she did, but her independence didn’t cost her one shred of femininity.
Her lithe body, however, was costing him more than a shred of concentration. Arching his back, he hit the ball as hard as he could.
Distracted by a man and woman walking toward them, Hallie hit a lob that floated lazily through the air. Gabe skipped in place, following the arc of the ball, his right arm suspended. This would be an easy point. Fifteen, love, my love, he thought.
A woman’s voice shouted, “Gabriel Q! I can’t believe it!”
Startled, Gabe hesitated, and now the ball was too low. He knew he should let it bounce. Instead, he swung, catching it on the wood of his racket. The ball landed safely across the net, but Hallie sprang forward. The thrust of her racket whooshed through the air, and Gabe could only watch as the blur that had once been a ball caught the corner of his back court.
“Love, fifteen,” he said. Then, with an effort, he stretched his mouth into a smile of acknowledgment. “Hi, Jenn.”
“Hello, Gabe.” She flounced toward him, her short tennis skirt flipping with every flounce. “This is the last place I ever expected to find you.”
“Why? We’ve played here before and I’ve kept my membership dues up to date.”
“Darling, we haven’t played tennis since your patriotic accident.”
“Damn it, Jenn, my accident wasn’t patriotic. I just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Unable to resist, he performed a couple of deep-knee bends and was sorely tempted to kick out like a Russian folk dancer.
“As you can plainly see,” he continued, “I’m on my way to a full recovery. You should have waited a few more days before breaking off our engagement.”
Hallie had circled the net and was walking toward Gabe and the gorgeous woman who resembled Joshua Quinn’s Beauty. Now she halted, her breath catching in her throat. Engagement? Gabe had neglected to mention that little fact.
In fact, she knew very little about his personal life.
I know more about Knickers and Gabriel.
Bilge water! She knew that Gabe was infinitely tender and compassionate and dependable, and she loved him.
After all, he was her dream man, her perfect man.
Gabe watched Jenn beckon toward a heavily bearded guy whose mesh tank top and ragged cut-offs displayed a set of bulging muscles.
“Cyclone darling,” she cooed, “I’d like you to meet my fiancé.”
“Ex fiancé,” Gabe muttered.
“Gabe darling, this is Gusty Cyclone, the wrestler,” she said, ignoring Gabe’s modification. “Most people call him ‘The Wasp.’”
“I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” The Wasp bragged, tilting the brim of his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. “I didn’t make that up myself,” he added.
Gabe sincerely doubted the wrestler could float. Waiting until Hallie joined them, he said, “Jennifer Bernadette Dominger Greengart and, er, Wasp, this is Hallie O’Brien.”
“The artist?”
“Jenn,” Gabe said through clenched teeth, “why do you have to designate every name with a profession?”
Her eyes blazed, but she merely stroked The Wasp’s bulging forearm.
“Cyclone darling,” she said, “This scowly man is Gabriel Q, the famous porn photographer.”
The Wasp’s small eyes widened. “That’s great, dude,” he said. “I don’t know nothin’ bout cameras, but I’d sure like to see ya work, if ya get my drift.”
Where on earth had Jenn found this lunkhead? Gabe wondered. And why was she wasting he
r time with him?
As if he’d read Gabe’s mind, the lunkhead said, “Jenn here wants to teach me tennis. She says I ain’t got no grace. But I say who needs grace when they hand over a six-figure check after every performance.”
Hallie said, “Performance?”
“I meant wrestling match, Miss.”
“Please walk Cyclone to the base line and show him how to hold a racquet, Gabe darling,” Jenn said, her voice a plea. “Pretty please? With sugar on top?”
* * *
Shading her eyes with one hand, Jennifer Bernadette Dominger Greengart watched Gabe stride toward the back court, The Wasp lumbering a few paces behind. Then she stared at Hallie. “Gabe and I had a little spat,” she said, her voice sweet as sugar. “I tried to give him back his engagement ring but he insisted I keep it.”
Hallie said, “When?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When did you spat?”
“Last Saturday. When did you arrive?”
“Arrive?” Hallie decided to give Jennifer Bernadette etcetera a taste of her own medicine. “Oh, you mean come.” She giggled. “Come, get it?”
“No, I don’t get it. Aren’t you Hallie O’Brien, the famous artist? Don’t you live in New York?”
“Dang, that Gabe’s such a kidder. Guess he thought he’d impress you with some big shot named Cally-fornia Brine, huh?”
“No, not California. Hallie. Hallie O’Brien, not Brine.”
“Whatever.” With her racquet, Hallie nudged Jenn in the ribs. “My name’s Michelle Bouché, Micki for short. Spelled M-i-c-k-i, not M-i-c-k-e-y, like the, you know, mouse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t beg, dear, it lacks grace. I’m an artist, but I’m Micki Bouché, the famous striptease artist. Gabe shot me—” She giggled again. “Shot pictures of me last Monday. No, Tuesday. What’s today? Friday? Saturday? It’s so easy to lose track of time when you don’t have a clock. I guess you can always glance up at the skylight, but that only tells you when it’s day or night, not what time it is. Your face looks funny, Miss Greengart. Not funny funny. Funny strange.”
“Skylight. No clock. You were in Gabe’s bedroom!”
“Very good. You catch on quick.” Hallie heaved a mock sigh. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Gabe clicked his camera and we clicked. He said I reminded him of his fiancé, his ex fiancé, which is a hoot now that I’ve met you. We don’t look anything alike.”
“Cyclone darling,” Jenn yelled, “let’s get out of here!”
Hallie said, “Don’t you want to play a game?”
“I thought we were playing games.”
“I meant tennis, dear.”
Jenn smoothed her short designer dress, a dress that might have given Venus Williams pause. Her index finger lingered at the embroidered WIMBLETON directly above her left breast. Then she stared disdainfully at Hallie’s shirttails. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t be much competition,” she said with a sneer.
Hallie stifled a grin, knowing that England’s famous tennis tournament was held at Wimbledon, not Wimbleton.
“Maybe we could make the game more interesting,” she said.
“Interesting?”
“Yes. We could wager. I’ll wager my gramophone and horse against your Knickers.”
“Gramophone? Horse? Knickers? What the hell are you talking about?”
Damn, Hallie thought. Just like last night, in the bedroom with Gabe, the words had popped out.
“That was a joke, a private joke,” she said, watching Gabe and The Wasp walk toward them. “I didn’t mean your knickers or panties, although I’m fairly certain I can whip the pants off you. I meant your engagement ring. I don’t have an engagement ring yet, but I’d be willing to bet its value in hard, cold cash.”
“My diamond is very expensive, Ms. Bouché.”
“So’s my companionship. An artist can make a fortune—” She darted a glance toward The Wasp “If you get my drift. Of course, I never charge Gabe. Do I, Gabe darling?”
“Charge me for what?”
“Never mind, you big ol’ teddy bear. I’ve just made a fun-suggestion, a wager. Your ex fiancé’s engagement ring against its cash value. And I do believe Jennifer Bernadette Dominger Greengart wants to play tennis.”
“You bet I do! Clear the court!”
Gabe thought about voicing an objection, but realized any protest would be futile. Jenn’s face, more often than not unmarred by passion, looked as if she’d donned a mask. Her mascara-drenched eyes were slits and her full, glossy, collagen-injected lips had thinned.
He knew, without a single doubt, that Hallie would never harm a fly. But she looked as if she wanted to pin a living, breathing butterfly to a corkboard.
Leading The Wasp toward the sidelines, Gabe tried to hide his anxiety. Jenn had been taking lessons from a pro since the age of ten while Hallie had just recovered from a serious illness. He didn’t know Hallie’s financial status, but Jenn’s diamond had cost a pretty penny; many pretty pennies.
Hallie turned to Jenn. “Do you want to warm up, Miss Greengart?”
“No. I can beat you with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Okay.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can tie one hand behind your back.”
“I wasn’t serious, Ms. Bouché.”
“Micki. Do you know what bouché means in French?”
“I never studied French.”
“I did. It means mouth.”
“You do have a big mouth.”
“That’s true. Gabe says I’m the wolf who ate Mademoiselle Ridinghood. I told him the wolfette who eats Monsieur Ridinghood might be more apropos.”
While Jenn stood there, speechless, Hallie pinged a string with her fingernail, happy that she’d packed her own racket. It felt comfortable in her hand, an extension of her fingertips. She’d bought the racket at a charity sports auction, draining her bank account to outbid several collectors. The racket had once belonged to Martina Navratilova.
“Hey, Martina,” Hallie murmured under her breath, turning away from Jenn. “I’ve been bothered by ghosts lately, but I could sure use your spiritual, if not physical presence today. Jennifer Bernadette etcetera looks as if she might catch the ball with her teeth and spit it back.”
Martina didn’t answer, of course, but Hallie knew what Marianne would say. “Forget Jennifer Bernadette etcetera,” Marianne would say. “Forget The Wasp. Forget Gabe. Sesame Street’s Big Bird introduced a new C-word this morning. C-for-concentration.”
You’re right, Marianne, thanks!
Turning back to Jenn, Hallie said, “Shall we toss for the serve? On second thought, I’ll serve. That’ll give you a chance to warm up.”
“I’m warm enough, thank you very much, so I’ll serve first.”
“Okay. In that case, I get to choose my side of the court.”
Deliberately, Hallie stayed where she was, where Gabe had been during their last game, letting Jenn face the sun. Which now shone with a fierce, almost blinding brilliance.
Undaunted, Jenn strolled toward the sidelines and snatched The Wasp’s baseball cap from his head. She placed the cap on her own streaky blonde hair, expertly styled in an upswept duck’s tail. The cap’s brim shaded her eyes.
“Ready?” she said.
Without waiting for an answer, she served.
Second oldest trick in the book, thought Hallie, returning the serve.
Jenn smashed it back with all her strength, sending an apparent winner deep to Hallie’s backhand. Streaking toward the ball, Hallie picked it up less than a foot off the ground and drilled it straight down the line, past Jenn.
After that, the score seesawed. Both women played with a gritty determination and Hallie was beginning to regret her impulsive wager. Then Jenn served a curving ball that hooked short, just across the net, near the sideline. Damn, Hallie thought, barely able to return the serve. Now Jenn need only punch an easy volley safely down cente
r court.
Instead, Jenn tried for a bedazzling touch-angle volley, missed, and lost the point.
Aha! There was another C-word. Confidence. Maybe it was an O-word. Overconfidence. Several spectators had joined Gabe and The Wasp, and Jenn couldn’t resist the satisfaction of making difficult shots, aiming for the lines. She pictured herself as a seeded superstar, never realizing that genuine superstars didn’t show off. Genuine, not Jenn-uine, superstars played to win.
With a tight smile, Hallie began setting up glamorous shots for overconfident Jenn to miss.
They had reached match point when Jenn served a flat, penetrating ball. She immediately rushed in behind it to the net. Hallie lobbed defensively, a proper lob that would land too deep for Jenn to smash an overhead winner. Turning, Jenn ran to the base line and skipped in place near where the ball would land. Then she raised her racquet-free hand and gestured toward the left corner of Hallie’s court.
“That’s where it’s going to land, you overpriced stripper!” she shouted.
There was an audible gasp from the spectators as, still pointing to the left, Jenn blasted the ball toward the extreme right.
Oldest trick in the book, thought Hallie, as she sent a top-spin backhand cross-court and watched it land a yard beyond Jenn’s reach.
Jenn yelled, “Out!”
“In!” yelled the crowd.
“Gabe?” Jenn settled her liquid gaze on the man who had always satisfied her every whim. “You’re standing near the line. Which was it, darling? Out or in?”
“In,” he said.
Hallie approached the net, her hand extended.
Jenn gave it a quick shake. “Our bet was a joke, right?”
“Wrong.”
“You really want my diamond?”
“My diamond.”
“Okay. Where should I send it? A whorehouse? Gabe’s house? The gutter?”
“None of the above. You can mail it, with adequate insurance, to Bayside, New York. Josh has my address.”
“But I thought…” Jenn’s eyes narrowed. “You really are Hallie O’Brien, aren’t you?”
“Yes. My stripper act was the joke.”
Jenn shot a quick glance toward The Wasp, who was now standing a short distance away. He had flexed his upper arms and two giggly young women were hanging from his biceps.