Invincible

by Joan Johnston

  Irina’s smile was famous—and contagious. When Kristin was on the tour, Irina had sat in the player’s box during tennis matches and encouraged Steffan with that toothy grin. Kristin had always thought Irina was sending signals to her son—coaching wasn’t allowed during the game—by the way she tugged at her hat, or her nose or her hair, like a baseball coach sending in the play. But no one could ever prove it.

  Despite her misgivings, Kristin found herself smiling at their new coach. “How are you this morning, Irina?”

  “You two need a lot of work,” the woman said bluntly.

  Kristin realized the smile on the coach’s face took the sting out of her words. “Yes, we do,” she admitted.

  Irina turned to Max, her hands on her hips, and said, “Steffan isn’t pleased about this.”

  Max snorted. “He only has himself to blame. He was the one who got himself a different coach a couple of years ago. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of the chance to learn, from the person who knows Steffan best, where his game might be a little weak.”

  Kristin had unintentionally given Max even more reason to want to beat his friend on the tennis court.

  “Let’s focus on making your game stronger,” Irina said. “Let me see how the two of you hit the ball before Steffan and Elena arrive.”

  Because Kristin had gotten so little sleep, her footwork was slow. Irina let her know it. Kristin felt her face flushing at the harsh comments. The criticism sparked her adrenaline, as it had so many years ago when she’d been coached by her father, and she began to play better.

  “You two look like real tennis players,” a male voice called out.

  Max let the ball zing past him as he turned to greet Steffan. “You didn’t think we were going to let you win without a fight, did you?”

  “Fight all you want,” Elena said as she joined Steffan on the court. “You two are going down.”

  The tennis that followed was brutal. Kristin had forgotten how physically—and mentally—demanding it could be to play in a truly competitive world-class game of tennis. Today, Steffan and Max were hitting hard—at each other.

  Perhaps Steffan was stinging from her rejection of him. As was Max. And they were taking it out on each other.

  Balls whizzed past her. She couldn’t seem to get her serve in the service box and double-faulted several times, losing points. Worst of all, near the end of the second set, she and Max hurtled into each other, both going for the same ball in the center of the court.

  He knocked her sideways, and she landed on the grass with Max on top of her, their bodies aligned from breast to hip. Her tennis racquet was still in her hand, but his had gone flying. He levered himself up just enough with his palms to look down into her face.

  She looked up into his eyes and saw regret. And love.

  She wanted him. Right then. Right there. If they’d been alone she would have taken him inside her and loved him with all her might.

  Thank God they weren’t alone.

  “You all right?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  She was still too horrified by the discovery of how much in love with him she was—despite hearing about the other woman—to speak. She soaked in every small detail of how it felt to have him so close, knowing that if they hadn’t accidentally collided, she would never have let him touch her like this again.

  She lay beneath the sweaty male weight of him, liking it. She breathed in and found his pungent male odor surprisingly pleasing. His legs were entwined with hers and she could feel his rough male hairs against her smooth skin.

  A drop of sweat from his cheek fell onto her closed lips. She met his gaze as she reached out with her tongue and licked it away. Salty.

  She saw the sudden flare of his nostrils and watched the black irises in his blue eyes grow with desire as he stared down at her. She felt the unmistakable tension in his body, saw the flex of muscles in his arms. And felt the hard length of him between the fragile pieces of cloth that separated their flesh and bone.

  She forgot about everything but Max as his mouth lowered toward hers. His lips were full, his mouth slightly open, his breathing erratic.

  She wanted his mouth on hers. Wanted to taste him, hold him, love him.

  “Hey, you two! Everything all right?”

  The question from Steffan, who’d apparently jumped the net, broke the spell. Kristin was horrified at what she’d been ready and willing to do.

  He has a girlfriend. He kept her a secret from you. How can you possibly forgive him so quickly? Or want him so soon? And so much?

  A second later, Max was on his feet.

  She felt bereft.

  He leaned down, caught her by both wrists and pulled her to her feet. “You okay?”

  She pulled her hands free and used the one not holding a tennis racquet to rub her suddenly aching hip. “I think so.”

  He looked deep into her eyes, searching for something. Maybe wondering, as she was, whether there was any hope that she would forgive him. There wasn’t. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with a rich playboy. She had responsibilities. And a daughter he knew nothing about.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said. “We can stop if you’re hurt.”

  Oh, she was hurt all right. But the pain Max had caused was more emotional than physical. She couldn’t slap a bandage on it and expect it to heal anytime soon.

  “Your match is in less than two weeks,” Irina reminded them.

  “I’m all right,” Kristin said at last. Although that was far from the truth. She was still dazed, suffering from the shock of realizing how powerful her physical attraction was to a man she shouldn’t trust. She’d better be careful. Even though she’d rejected him, she still wanted him.

  “Let’s keep going,” she said. “We need the practice.”

  Practice wasn’t the same after her fall. She couldn’t concentrate. Apparently, neither could Max.

  “That’s enough for today,” Irina said, calling the practice to a halt. “We’ll try again tomorrow morning.”

  Kristin saw Max hold back as the other three left the court. He crossed to her and said, “Are you sure you’re all right? That was quite a tumble.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Max.” I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years. I don’t need you, or any man, to take care of me.

  But oh, how she yearned for someone to brush her off when she fell down—on the court and in her day-to-day life—and tell her everything would be all right.

  Max pulled his ball cap off, shoved his sweaty hair back off his forehead with a towel, then tugged the cap back on. “K…I wish—”

  “Forget it, Max,” she interrupted. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t it? I’m sorry, K. For what it’s worth.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “We still have to work together, on and off the court. We can’t afford to let this…glitch…keep us from doing what we have to do.”

  “Glitch?” she said sarcastically. “You having a girlfriend is a glitch?”

  “She’s not— I don’t feel— She isn’t—” He kept cutting himself off, looking more frustrated with each attempt to fit his absent girlfriend into the appropriate place in his life.

  “Whatever she is to you, Max, she exists. If it’s any consolation, you’ve got your revenge for what I did to you ten years ago.”

  “I never intended to punish you, K. Veronica is—”

  She held up a hand to cut him off. “I don’t want to know her name, Max. Or anything else about her. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  She left the court without looking back.

  When she’d accepted Bella’s offer, she hadn’t considered what Max might feel if he ever proposed and she told him she wanted nothing to do with him. She hadn’t worried about wounding him, because it had seemed like just repayment for the way he’d made love to her and then kissed another woman the next morning.

  But if she were honest with herself, she was ever
y bit as much of a villain as Max. She was the one who’d refused to return his calls all those years ago. She was the one who hadn’t allowed him to explain. She was the one who’d kept him from knowing his daughter. She could hardly blame him now for keeping secrets of his own.

  Kristin wondered why she’d been so determined to cut Max off today, why she hadn’t allowed him even to finish a sentence. She was fairly sure he’d been itching to explain away his girlfriend. Aching to ask for forgiveness. On the verge of declaring himself in love with her. She could have had the proposal his mother had been hoping would be the result of her machinations.

  But Kristin no longer wanted to compete in the contest the duchess had devised. Love was just too dangerous a game to play. Because both she and Max were bound to be hurt by it.

  Kristin gritted her teeth as she headed into the locker room. The moment she got to Blackthorne Abbey this afternoon, she was going to tell the duchess she wanted out.

  19

  Max was feeling rattled. He wasn’t a jealous man. At least, he never had been in the past. Before last night, he would have said he didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. But he’d gone nearly insane wondering what Kristin was doing with Steffan last night. He’d acted like a possessive fool when she’d shown up this morning.

  Because he’d been afraid of losing her, he’d nearly proposed marriage. After what she’d done to him ten years ago. After all his vows to himself to watch his step. And despite having a brand-new girlfriend, about whom he’d completely forgotten.

  His relationship with Veronica really was more about him wanting sex and conversation—and her wanting a powerful connection to a Benedict—than anything else. He hadn’t broken up with her before he started sleeping with Kristin because, well, he hadn’t expected what had happened between him and K to happen.

  He’d gone to K’s hotel room that first night on impulse, not knowing whether she would let him in or not. Although, to be honest, he hadn’t given her much choice in the matter.

  No, that wasn’t true. She was a trained agent. She could have stopped him at any time. She could have thrown him out if she hadn’t wanted him there. But she had wanted him. She’d wanted him every bit as much as he’d wanted her.

  He hadn’t broken with up with Veronica in the week since he’d started having sex with K because the reporter was out of the country and he didn’t want to do it by phone or text or email. He’d been taught better than that. Frankly, he hadn’t expected to fall so deeply into…bed…with K.

  Once again, he’d screwed up big-time. And once again, K hadn’t given him a chance to explain. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise, given her behavior ten years ago. Which didn’t make it any less frustrating. Or make her less desirable.

  Admit it. The woman gets to you.

  Thank God Veronica was returning home today. He was picking her up at Heathrow this evening. He could break up with her then. Or not. Kristin wanted nothing to do with him. So why should he break up with Veronica? No reason. Except he no longer wanted to be with Veronica. He wanted Kristin. Whom he couldn’t have.

  Max realized he was thinking in circles. At least he had the whole afternoon free to figure it out.

  During his shower in the locker room, he decided that this was a perfect day to go visit his mother. He’d been derelict in his promise to his siblings to investigate what her invitation to The Seasons was all about. He was more likely to get an honest answer from the duchess in person. And he could use the long drive from London to Blackthorne Abbey to think.

  Max played “Boom Boom Pow” by the Black-Eyed Peas loud enough to rattle the dashboard as he raced his Porsche the whole way south to Blackthorne Abbey, but it didn’t do much to drown out the memory of Kristin’s body under his that morning. He could almost taste her lips. He could feel the heat of her. See the desire in her eyes.

  “You’re a fool, Max,” he muttered to himself. “Get over her. You’ve got Veronica, who’s crazy about you.” Or maybe crazy about the fact you’re the Duchess of Blackthorne’s son. He wasn’t really sure which, but at this point, he no longer cared. Veronica was the distraction he needed, the wedge he needed, to keep Kristin at bay. It was less than two weeks until their exhibition match. They’d be hanging around an additional two weeks while the matches were played leading up to the Wimbledon Championships.

  Then K would leave and he could go back to living his life and forget about her.

  Who are you kidding?

  Max felt a pain behind his breastbone at the thought of a life without K. Funny, because he’d been living the past ten years just fine without her.

  Have you been living just fine, Max? Think about it. No long-term relationships. No commitments. So, how great has life really been, Max?

  They were uncomfortable questions to ask. And impossible to answer. Especially when the one woman he thought he might be able to love wanted nothing to do with him. Again.

  Max was surprised at the rush of emotion he felt when he sighted the Abbey. He knew how privileged—how lucky—he was to have a home that had been lived in for centuries by his ancestors.

  He could understand why his mother might have married his father for his money. Her family had been on the verge of losing their hereditary property for failure to pay taxes. They’d already been reduced to opening the Abbey to tourists. Even that additional income hadn’t been enough for upkeep on the castle.

  Now it was a showplace. The once-stagnant moat was filled with sparkling water. The extensive grounds were manicured and emerald green near the castle and growing gloriously wild in the acres beyond it. Blackthorne Abbey, which had been named by the first Duke of Blackthorne for the monks who’d once inhabited it, had been updated inside. The original stone walls of the castle, complete with turrets—towers raised above the castle wall to give a view of the valley below, and crenels—the gaps between the stonework at the top of the castle through which defenders would have fought, had been carefully preserved.

  Max drove over the drawbridge and under the port-cullis, a strong oak grille that had once protected the gate against attack, and then through another gateway to the middle bailey. Beyond this courtyard stood the stone keep itself, several stories high and large enough to house twenty knights and their retainers. The eight-foot-thick walls kept the Abbey cool inside but also moist. Even with modern air-conditioning, his mother fought a constant battle against mold.

  The castle had provided endless possibilities for growing boys, home on holiday, to explore and play. Ancient shields adorned the walls, along with armor, swords and pikes. Oliver had always been lord of the manor. Max’s two older brothers, Riley and Payne, had been Oliver’s knights. As the youngest boy, Max had been relegated to playing a villein, a lowly peasant working on the lord’s land, not to be confused with a villain, which was a bad guy. He usually had to be rescued by the lord and his knights.

  When Lydia was little, she’d insisted on being a princess in the tower. Her role consisted of dressing in a child’s faded blue silk dress—still encrusted with tiny pearls across the bodice—that she’d found in a trunk in the topmost tower and waiting for a knight to come and carry her away on a white horse.

  Max had been the best rider among them, and willing to do the deed, but he never got to play a knight, so her fantasy was always left unfulfilled.

  As Max parked in front of the keep, he realized he had only one happy memory of being at the Abbey with his mother and father. He had a picture in his childhood room at the Abbey of that perfect Christmas. He was standing beside his mother, as his family gathered around the tree showing off their presents and laughing, the fifth Christmas after Lydia was born. He would have been seven or eight. Everything before that—and after that—he’d wiped clean.

  Because he knew Smythe would answer the door, and he wanted to see how the old man was doing, Max used the metal knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, rather than walking right in.

  Smythe’s bushy white eyebrows rose to his m
issing hairline at the sight of Max, but he didn’t verbally acknowledge his surprise at finding Max at the door. Instead, in good butler fashion, he simply said, “Welcome home, your lordship.”

  “I’ve come to see Mother,” Max said as he stepped inside.

  “The duchess is upstairs in the sitting room,” the butler said as he closed the door behind Max.

  “How are you, Smythe?”

  “Tolerably well, milord.”

  As a boy, Max and his brothers had tried to ruffle Smythe, to get him to lose his stoic composure. They’d never succeeded. Max didn’t even try now. “I can find my own way, Smythe,” he said.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Max wondered at the worried look he saw in the butler’s eyes an instant before he turned away. It was more sentiment than he could ever remember finding there. He wondered if the butler’s concern had anything to do with his mother’s strange invitation to The Seasons. If it did, he would find out in a few moments.

  Max found the duchess sitting in a flower-patterned brocade wing chair, one of two that faced a crackling fire in an oversize stone fireplace. The room was toasty warm. He noticed Emily sitting on the opposite side of the room at a table containing a chess board. A young girl sat across from Emily, apparently playing chess with her. Max thought the girl must be one of Emily’s numerous poor relations.

  He crossed directly to his mother and settled into the chair next to her with his back to Emily and her opponent. “Hello, Mother.”

  His mother put a hand to her mouth as though he’d scared the life out of her and made a gasping sound.

  He chuckled. “You look like you just saw a ghost. It’s only me.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Her eyes darted toward Emily and back to him. “What are you doing here?”

  Max felt stung by her reaction. He started to rise as he said, “I can take myself out of here—”

  She reached out and caught his arm. “Please, stay. I’m just—I’m so surprised to see you.” And then, because he must have looked ready to bolt again, she said, “And I’m so glad to see you.”