The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  "Could it be that the President is more interested in delving into you than into your tennis accomplishments?" he asked as they lounged in their hotel room.

  "You're being ridiculous. The President has more important things to worry about than getting into my undies."

  "Don't be too sure. What's the point in having power, if you can't exercise it to get what you want from life every once in a while. Marilyn Monroe discovered that in the Lincoln room. Tell me, would you like to sleep with the President?"

  "Do you really want to know?"

  "Idle curiosity."

  "You know that you can do me whenever, wherever and however you want. You also know that only you will ever be allowed to do me—unless you're foolish enough to give our secret kiss to some President type."

  "Now that's a relief. 'Cause I'm not that foolish."

  "In other words, if I were a library book, only you would be allowed to thumb through my pages. But the President would be number two on my circulation list."

  "Even before every woman's favorite, Tom Cruise?"

  "Oh yes. There's something about having the ear, not to mention the sword of the most powerful man in the world. I'm sick, aren't I?"

  "Sick? No, I don't think so. I can understand why you might want to cavort with the President."

  He can be so understanding, she thought. "You can?"

  "Sure. You're certifiably cuckoo." He pinned her to the bed.

  He can also be a total jerk. "Thanks. Thanks a lot! So it's sex with you—good, but sex with the President—bad."

  He grinned at her. "Yep. But cheer up. I think your attraction to the President is something other than mental instability. Men love sex, while women love intimacy and powerful men."

  "Your Tawny Cat loves sex." And to prove it, she put her hand down the front of his pants, and grabbed him.

  "But she's also partial to powerful men. Who designed such a system?"

  "According to you, it's God stirring things up to amuse Himself."

  "And I must be right, or why do-men hit their sexual peak at eighteen, while women wait until they're thirty-five to reach theirs. You should enjoy me whenever you can, before I reach my 'best before' date."

  Betty-Jo laughed. "I am enjoying you," she said, and gave his joystick a tug to prove it.

  "And lucky me," Brad continued, "I still have your best before date to look forward to, well into the future—unless some powerful man is allowed to camp on your doorstep.

  "Trust me Bad Brad, you don't have to worry about campers."

  "Despite your assurances, I still have to worry, because the more pleased a man is with himself, the greater his urge to spread the good stuff around. Successful men believe they deserve a reward for their achievements, and invariably their favorite reward is a trophy woman."

  "Would you like to have a trophy woman, Bad Brad?"

  "You, of all people, should know that I already have one. You'd make a fine addition to any man's mantel."

  She smiled big time. "Ask me your beauty spot's name," she said.

  "I suspect that when a guy does something that's worthy, he's given a trophy woman. What worries me, is what happens when—like I was—you're given a trophy woman before you've done something that's worthy? If you then fail to distinguish yourself, do they repossess your trophy?"

  She laughed at him. "If the repo-man comes to take me away, I'll be sure to tell you.... So if men want a trophy women, what do women want?"

  "That's something you should be telling me, but I have a theory."

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  "Women want to be protected while they're having and rearing their children, so they seek out powerful and wealthy men. They need intimacy to reassure them that they're loved, and will be protected until their children mature."

  "Did you ever consider becoming a sociologist, instead of a hockey player?"

  "No. Everything I know about women, I learned from Cosmopolitan."

  "You subscribe to Cosmo?"

  "No. But my unisex hairdresser does. I use the time I'm there to check up on what women are thinking."

  "So what are women thinking?" When she gave his joystick a few more squeezes, she was pretty sure he would know what one woman was thinking.

  "As best I can tell, women are concerned that men are thinking about them. Then they're getting all worked up because of what men might be thinking about them."

  "So are men thinking about us, and should we be concerned about what they're thinking about us?"

  "Men think about women all the time, until they have one. Then they think about getting an oil change for their car."

  Still holding his joystick, she rolled on top of him. "That's ridiculous—men don't think about oil changes."

  "When was the last time you thought about getting an oil change for Old-yellow?"

  "I've never thought about it."

  "Exactly. So if I didn't think about oil changes, we'd have blown a valve a couple of thousand miles ago, and you'd never have been able to make love with me in Old-yellow."

  "I haven't forgotten that you owe me a good time in Old-yellow. Why don't you take me for a spin now?" Her hand encouraged him to say yes.

  -63-

  FELICITY READY

  When the Moon is in the Eighth House

  Felicity had started to carry a handgun when the stalker was harassing her, and at the Firearms Academy of America, she'd learned how to use it. Her gun was not some cheap piece-of-junk Saturday-night-special; it was a sexy $610 Walther PPK, the best looking gun on the market. It was also the gun James Bond carried. She knew that the PPK's looks, the 007 connection, and its popularity in the espionage community, were silly reasons for owning it, but there were practical reasons as well. The compact PPK was smaller than the Walther PP, so it was easier to conceal, and she appreciated the advanced design of the fixed, 3.3-inch barrel with its surrounding recoil spring. Her PPK was the large bore, 38 caliber automatic, with a seven round magazine, a weight of only twenty-three ounces, and accuracy to within thirty yards.

  As important as the gun were the bullets. She chose 180 grain hollow-points, lethal man-stoppers, with a low failure-to-stop rating. When they hit human flesh and bone, they made a mess. But she knew that no matter the size and velocity of her weapon, or how dependable the tissue and vessel disruption capability of her bullets, there was no substitute for solid hits, with a minimum number of shots fired. Nothing was more important than marksmanship.

  She had become proficient at shooting from all stationary positions, and while moving, using both stationary and moving targets. Her instructor told her that she was a natural. But for three months she had not practiced shooting because her concentration, and therefor her accuracy, had slipped. She knew that she would have to get physically and mentally tough in a hurry. Failure to be either would do far more to jeopardize her mission than the capabilities of her weapon. She booked sessions at the Firearms Academy for Saturday and Sunday. I have to be shooting as well as possible by Monday.

  Felicity planned carefully. She knew where she wanted to be sitting to have the best opportunity to get onto the court, and close to Betty-Jo. If she was unable to trade a scalper her two seats for a front row seat on the sidelines, she could sneak into a courtside seat toward the end of the match. She knew that when matches were almost over, the ushers stopped being concerned about patrons sitting in their assigned seats. I'll be able to slip past the ushers if necessary.

  -64-

  BRAD RAIDEN

  Protecting Tawny

  It was a sunny Monday afternoon for Betty-Jo's U.S. Open, round of sixteen match. Brad was sitting front-row court-side in a press box, and trying not to watch Betty-Jo move while she warmed up, but that was difficult, because he loved to watch his Tawny Cat. In the early morning hours, if he awoke before she did, he would lie awake and watch her sleep—it was an incomparable gift to wake up and find her curled up in his arms. He was amazed that before his day even started, it had been a
great day.

  It has to be all that hugging and kissing. But for how long can I frolic beyond my fantasies? A Day of Atonement has to be lurking out there somewhere.

  He pulled the silver key to Betty-Jo's chastity belt out of his shirt, and continued to think about her. He had decided to forego a promising hockey career so he could be with her on the Tour. That decision had left a huge hole. For years, hockey had been his life, but in many respects, his decision to quit hockey had been easy. Giving up hockey had left a void that he knew would eventually be filled. The loss of his Tawny Cat would leave a wound that would fester and spread, until it consumed him.

  "What matters to me, is you," he'd told her. "Without you, everything in my life is meaningless."

  He removed the silver chain from around his neck, held the key in his hand, and worried about his princess.

  What more can I do to protect her? Is there some detail I've overlooked?

  He knew that Betty-Jo's fame, and her blatant sex appeal, would bring out the crazies. Already she'd attracted a stalker, a nut-bar named Martin Coombs. Nothing could deter him. Coombs was like a duck that had imprinted on B-J, and then couldn't stay away. He had been arrested a number of times, but he couldn't be held in custody for long, and like a recurring nightmare, he kept coming back. Mercury could easily recruit a loser like Coombs, he thought.

  Brad hated having Betty-Jo play in The Big Apple, a place where guns were everywhere. Everyone seemed to pack a handgun, and sleep with a back-up under his pillow. City boy that Brad was, he loved New York. There was no city like her—Saks Fifth Avenue, Le Relais, the street vendors—but he didn't trust her. The City could be a dangerous place, even without the threat from Venus and Mercury.

  Tawny has jumped into a pool full of Great Whites, ravenous because some insane do-gooder's put them on a diet. She's probably the first morsel of food they've seen in months that isn't low cal.

  On the sides of Stadium Court, the spectators sat one row back behind the press and photographer boxes, while in the end-court stands, they sat right next to the court, but there they faced a seven-foot drop to reach it. Those with access to Stadium Court were given security clearance, and wore a security badge with photo identification. Different badge colors indicated the clearance of the wearer: security, official, ball person or player.

  Thirteen security personnel—Brad, six rent-a-cops, and six on-duty police officers—had been assigned to Stadium Court. And Brad had hired a personal bodyguard for B-J. But he continued to see himself as her best security. He watched over and protected her.

  Betty-Jo had told Brad to relax, and let the professionals worry about her safety, now that her security had been beefed-up, and she had her own bodyguard.

  "It's my love for you that keeps you safe," had been his terse reply. And he knew that Betty-Jo believed him. She'd told him that when he was with her, she felt safe, and when he left, her security seemed to leave with him.

  At one time he'd believed that his love for Tawny would keep her safe, but no longer. PussCat's death had changed him. Someone who loved him, and relied on him, had been slain, and he'd been unable to prevent it. He had no doubts about his own invincibility, but his failure to protect PussCat haunted him.

  I could never again endure the heartache that comes from failing someone who loves me, and depends on me.

  He had taken the security course for WPA Tour security personnel, and was classified as a security officer. Security personnel did not carry guns—with the exception of Martin Obourn, the head of Tour security. The prohibition on guns for security personnel reflected the problem with large numbers of people in a confined area. There was the risk that a patron might be wounded if shots were fired. Like the other security personnel, Brad carried pepper spray.

  Obourn had been disgruntled with Brad's demand for security clearance, but he understood that Betty-Jo would not play if he failed to do everything possible to ensure her safety. A former police detective and a security veteran, he was well aware of the dangers she faced, given the urges she so obviously aroused in the nation's males. And Brad's security status had precedent; special arrangements were often made for the Tour's stars.

  "My security is good," Obourn had told Brad, "but the odds of success are on the side of a determined assailant. My men and I can only react to an attack—its prevention is nearly impossible."

  Brad understood that. Nevertheless, he did everything he could think of to keep his Tawny Cat safe. He made certain that she understood the danger she faced. If she was approached by anyone out of the ordinary, she was to sprint to where he was sitting, but if she was unable to reach him, she was to run to any security person, or to whatever cover she could spot.

  Prior to every match, he insisted that she look for people and places that could offer her protection. He also impressed upon her that it didn't matter how harmless somebody might appear. "Expect the unexpected," he told her, "and never underestimate the cleverness or resourcefulness of whoever might be attempting to harm you. A pregnant nun, or an official in the wrong place, could be out to get you."

  It was sound advice, but as Betty-Jo said, "It's difficult enough for me to win my matches without having to bear the crosses of pregnant nuns as well."

  * * *

  Brad had another worry. The previous day, the Tooth Fairy had called.

  "Grasshopper, I'm in New York. I've broken off my engagement to Ralph. It took a while for me to realize that we belong together. We want the same things from life."

  He had grinned into the phone. "You want a gerbil?"

  "What I want is you! It doesn't matter that you can't tell Ibsen from Proust, or lemurs from lemmings. I love you!"

  "What makes you think that?"

  "'Cause 'I sit and sulk where you are not.'"

  "Then don't sit. Stand up and be happy."

  "That won't work. I'll just end up standing and sulking."

  "I don't understand. A month ago you were in love with Ralph."

  "I know. But I now realize that it's 'with you I'd fondly stray, over the hills and far away.'"

  "There. You see, it's not me you love. I prefer quiet evenings in front of a fire. I don't like straying over hills."

  "How much was your signing bonus with the Florida Panthers?"

  "A mill."

  "Leave your tennis playing friend, marry me, and I'll double that."

  "I'm only worth two million to you?" He smiled into the phone when he said it, but Sandy never missed a beat.

  "Okay, five mill," she said.

  "I appreciate the raise. Really I do, but this is no good."

  "I have to see you." Sandy sounded as if she was losing it.

  "A meeting would be pointless. Please, Sandy, go home!"

  But Sandy was having none of it. "It can't be over. I won't let it be!" she yelled. "If you won't meet with me, I'll come to you. I'll come to B-J's match."

  At least, Brad thought, one wonderful thing has happened. Birth Parent Locators had found his birth mother, and given him her name and phone number. They'd also given him a picture of her. Of course, Tawny had been thrilled. She'd hugged him, and then squeezed his hand, while he'd called Felicity Ready, and left a message on her voice mail.

  * * *

  Brad never saw much of Betty-Jo's matches. He was too busy scanning the faces of the spectators, looking for something. He wasn't sure what. Something unusual—a peculiar intensity in a stare, perhaps. Anything that would give him an edge, or a split second more to react to an attack that seemed ever more likely, as Betty-Jo's fame grew.

  He stretched out the chain that held the key to Betty-Jo's chastity belt, formed a loop, and then hung the key back around his neck, but he let it dangle outside his shirt where he could see it. At least part of my Tawny Cat can be protected, he thought, as he glanced around. He couldn't see any sign of the Tooth Fairy, but sitting in the player's box was Misery Chezkovitch. It was unlikely that she was a real threat to Tawny, but he couldn't be certain. He knew she
believed that Betty-Jo had intentionally humiliated her. And sitting directly across the court from him was Tony Vaccaro. He was well aware that the abc man had the hots for his princess. Vaccaro hung around her whenever he could.

  My mind's wandering. I'm at Flushing Meadow protecting Tawny Cat. I have to stay alert and focused. Damn you Venus! Damn you Mercury! What have I failed to do to stop you?

  -65-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE

  Return of The Dung Beetle

  Tony Vacaro had gone with the traditional tennis white for Betty-Jo's round of sixteen match, but the white chiffon that was supposed to cover her, didn't. Prominent in the creation of Vacaro's Bouncer fantasy was a gorgeous three-strand collar with 160 high-luster, cultured pearls. She also wore two large, silver-white, natural-pearl earrings, set in an eighteen-karat gold base that was surrounded by emeralds. Vacaro had torn a page from the figure-skating costume manual in creating a Bouncer that was classy and elegant, yet provocative and sexy. White chiffon flowed around and behind Betty-Jo when she moved, and hung invitingly from her when she was stationary. The subtle use of skin colored undergarments, gave those watching her the impression that they were seeing a great deal more of her than they actually were.

  Anna Maria had also stepped out. The former reigning beauty of women's tennis had decided to be in the match from the beginning. Nancy Kerrigan's costume designer had transformed her. And while Anna Maria couldn't replace Betty-Jo as number one in the visual appeal category, she was an engaging place to rest one's eyes when contemplating Betty-Jo became too much.

  The match started off poorly for Betty-Jo. On the first point Anna Maria hit a shot that was clearly out. She waited for the call that didn't come. Annoyed, she turned to confront a line judge who had the temerity to give her the hint of a wave.