The Thrill of Victory

by Sandra Brown

  "No," Stevie said stiffly, wanting very badly to slap him.

  "So fine. Neither would I. If I wanted you in my bed, I'd come right out and say so. Geez," he breathed, raking his fingers through his hair.

  "Now that that's understood, do we go or stay?"

  1 thought it would be nice to eat out here."

  Stevie gestured awkwardly at the card table she had brought from the dining room onto the front porch. She'd gathered a colorful bouquet of wildflowers and placed it in the center of the table. A raid of closets and cupboards had produced a tablecloth, linen napkins, even a candle, which, with the help of melted wax, she'd managed to stand in a saucer. The light flickered onto Judd's shadowed face.

  Great idea, but you went to too much trouble.'

  I enjoyed it."

  As promised, he had given her first pick of the bedrooms. She had chosen the one facing east because she was accustomed to waking up early.

  Her choice pleased him because he admitted that the last thing he wanted to see in the morning was sunlight pouring through the shutters.

  Moving from the bedroom, he had showed her into the bathroom. It had a pedestal sink and an old-fashioned claw-footed tub.

  "At least seven feet long and suitable for reclining if you're in the mood for a long soak," he had said with the nasal accent of a snake-oil vendor.

  They had found towels and sheets, along with a few odds and ends of clothing, in the upstairs linen closet. Judd had looked skeptically at the clothes. "Think you can find something to wear until we get into town?"

  "I'll manage. Who did these clothes belong to?" she asked, holding a full skirt up against her.

  "Assorted cousins I guess." There was a mix of men's and women's apparel. Judd took a shirt and pair of shorts. "Just because I'm such a nice guy, I'll let you go first in the bathroom. If it's okay with you, we'll cook those steaks I bought today for dinner." Her stomach had rumbled as though on cue. He made a scrubbing motion against it with his knuckles. "Guess that means you approve."

  Stevie had tightened her stomach muscles in defense against his touch and tried to pretend that she still had sufficient breath. But for all her efforts, her voice still sounded unnaturally soprano when she said, "Steak sounds wonderful."

  "Okay, I'll go start the charcoal while you're bathing. I found granddad's grill in the garage and scrubbed it clean today. There was even a sack of charcoal."

  A half hour later, she had met him coming up as she was returning downstairs. She was fresh and clean, her hair still damp. He was dirtier than ever. Besides the grime he'd collected during the day, he'd added an overall dusting of charcoal powder.

  "The water comes out rusty," she had told him. "But if you let it run a second or two it clears up."

  "Thanks for the warning," he had replied as he trudged past her.

  Now, they faced each other over the candlelit table. The night sounds coming from the surrounding woods were loud and distinct, the smell of cooking steaks mouth-watering, the breeze balmy.

  Stevie, feeling foolishly nervous and self-conscious, groped for something to say. "The coals were just right."

  "Good."

  "I went ahead and put the steaks on the grill, but you might want to check them."

  She was plagued by a sudden shyness and couldn't imagine where it had originated. Maybe the peasant blouse had been a poor choice; it was making her feel foolishly feminine. It was a size too large. The neckline was wide and kept slipping off one shoulder. If her clothes hadn't been so dirty, she would have put them back on after her bath.

  As it was, she was standing before a man who could joke about bedding triplet contortionists, feeling ridiculously gauche and vulnerable.

  He surveyed it all: the candle, the flowers, the table setting, her. Especially her. He left his eyes on her for a long, ponderously quiet moment.

  "Trying to impress me, Stevie? Maybe I should warn you before your heart gets broken that I'm not the marrying kind."

  The sensual bubble burst. "You conceited jerk!" she cried indignantly, planting her hands on her hips. "I didn't do this for you. I did it for me. I rarely get to entertain and when I do, I usually take my guests out to dinner. This was a rare-What are you laughing at?"

  "You. You can't take a joke worth a damn, but you're cuter than ever when you get riled."

  Stevie stood there stewing while he moved to the grill, which he'd set up in one corner of the porch. She vacillated over whether or not to finish giving him a piece of her mind, but decided to leave well enough alone. Invariably their verbal skirmishes came out in his favor.

  Over his shoulder, he said, "Five more minutes and the steaks will be perfect."

  Stevie used that five minutes to carry out the green salad she had made, a loaf of French bread she had buttered and left warming in the oven and a pitcher of iced tea she had garnished with fresh mint she had discovered growing on either side of the back porch.

  Judd sipped from his tall, icy glass and smacked his lips with appreciation. "The mint in the tea really reminds me of summers I spent here on the farm with my grandparents." For a moment he stared reflectively into space.

  "What?" Stevie asked softly.

  He focused on her and snorted a self-derisive laugh. "I just realized that happy hour has come and gone and I hadn't even missed it." He saluted her with his glass of tea. "Must be your company."

  She basked in the warm glow coming from his eyes and began eating. A few moments later she said, "The steak is delicious, Judd."

  "Well, don't get too excited. This about exhausts my culinary talents."

  They resumed eating in silence. To make conversation, Stevie asked, "What's your novel about?"

  "Writers never talk about the pieces they're currently working on."

  "You haven't started working on it yet."

  "Same rules apply to an idea."

  "Why don't you talk about it?"

  "Because talking about the story dilutes the compulsion to write it down."

  "Oh." She returned to her food, but her mind stayed on that track. "I can understand that, I think. Before an important match, I don't like to talk about it. I don't want to discuss my strategy or the odds either against or in my favor. I'm immersed in my own thoughts. Sharing them would jinx the match."

  "You're superstitious," he accused, pointing the tines of his fork at her.

  "I didn't think so until now. But maybe so."

  She finished her food and pushed the plate aside.

  "I take my game very seriously. That's why your column has always been such a bone of contention, Mr. Mackie. You poke fun at me."

  "It sells newspapers. I realize you take your game seriously. Maybe you take it too seriously."

  "There's no such thing."

  "Isn't there?" he asked, propping his elbows on the table and leaning closer to the burning candle. The flame flickered across his features, softening them, but enhancing their masculinity.

  "Where's the husband, the kids, the house?"

  "If I were a man would you be asking me those questions?"

  "Probably not," he admitted. "But then…"

  His eyes lowered to the neckline of the white peasant blouse. "You're not a man."

  While she'd been busy eating, she had forgotten to give her neckline an upward tug every so often. It had dipped to cleavage level. The shadows cast by the single wavering candle made the valley between her breasts look velvety and mysterious.

  Stevie, feeling threatened by his hot gaze and the personal slant their conversation had taken, immediately threw up a defensive wall and went back to their generic topic. "Everything, even success, comes with a price tag attached. You can't have it all."

  "Some do. But not you. You don't have anything but your game."

  "A damned good game," she said testily.

  ' 'Granted. But I bet if you polled most sportswriters, male sportswriters, and asked them what Stevie Corbett's finest contribution to tennis is, they wouldn't say, 'Her backha
nd.' If they were being honest, they'd more than likely say, 'Her backside.' It's just that I've got the guts to say, or write, what the rest of them are thinking."

  She scooted back her chair and stood up quickly. "You're incorrigible, Mackie."

  "So I've been told by everybody from my nursery-school teacher to Mike Ramsey as recently as this morning. He said- Stevie?" Judd slid out of his chair and rounded the corners of the table in one motion. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "Dammit," he swore, "don't tell me nothing.

  Are you in pain?"

  She took several swift, shallow breaths.

  "Sometimes, whenever I move too suddenly, like just then, it hurts a little."

  Judd pressed his hand against her lower abdomen.

  "Do you need your pain pills? Sit down, goddammit. I'll go get them."

  "No, it's fine. Much better." When she glanced up at him, her smile was tentative, but brave. "It leaves as fast as it comes. I'm alright now."

  His fingers pressed into her abdomen, kneading her through the skirt. "You sure?"

  She was sure of only one thing, and that was that if he didn't take his hand away and stop doing with it what he was doing, her desire-weakened knees were going to buckle and her mouth would reach for a taste of his.

  "I'm sure," she replied thickly.

  He searched her eyes, seemingly reluctant to believe her, but several heartbeats later, he with drew his hand and stepped away. "You'd better go upstairs and lie down."

  "Nonsense. It was just a twinge."

  "Twinges don't make your lips go white."

  "Kindly step aside so I can start clearing the table."

  "Hell, no. Leave the dishes until tomorrow morning."

  "I wouldn't think of it. Your grandmother would never forgive me. Now move."

  He did so, but grudgingly, while he muttered curses beneath his breath. "How often do these twinges strike you?" he asked as he followed her into the house, bearing a tray of dirty dishes.

  "Maybe once, twice a day. Really they're nothing to worry about." She filled the sink with soapy water. Each time she tried to move in any direction, she nearly stepped on him. "You're underfoot, Mackie. Why don't you be a good boy and go outside and play? Or work on your novel."

  He slammed out of the kitchen, mumbling beneath his breath as he went through the shadowed rooms of the house. He knew pain when he saw it, and Stevie had been in pain. Did she think he was stupid enough to fall for her glib dismissal of it?

  "A 'twinge,' my ass," he thought out loud.

  She had downplayed that reminder of her illness the way he was currently de-emphasizing the swelling behind his fly. He wouldn't dare call it what it was. But what else could it be?

  Stevie Corbett had been the warmest, softest thing he'd ever touched. Removing his hand from the folds of her skirt had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. He didn't know how he'd kept from touching her breasts just to see if they felt as fantastic as they looked.

  To take his mind off how good she smelled and how badly he wanted to kiss her again and how much he ached, he carried the card table back into the dining room and set it up.

  He positioned the lamp just so, adjusting the cheap lamp shade for maximum light. He replaced the typewriter and the ream of paper, stacking it and restacking it until all the edges were as straight as a knife blade. He checked the typewriter ribbon and made certain that pencils and erasers were within reach.

  Then he just stood there, staring down at the card table, flexing his fingers at his sides.

  'What are you doing?"

  He spun around. Stevie was watching him curiously from the arched doorway.

  "I'm setting up," he answered cantankerously.

  "You don't just jump into writing without setting up, you know. It takes lots of preparation."

  "Oh. It looked like you were just standing there, shivering in your shoes, knees knocking, afraid to start."

  "Well I wasn't."

  "Okay, okay." She took a step backward as though she had roused an ill-tempered wild beast, which wasn't too far from the truth. "I'm going into the living room to read."

  "Fine. Don't make any racket, will ya?"

  "I won't."

  "Say, wait!" He went after her when she turned away. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. This is our first night here. The country is making me jittery, I guess."

  "No city noise."

  "Something like that. I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "Want to play cards? I'm sure I can find a deck around here somewhere."

  "I'm tired, Judd. Maybe another night.'

  "Trivia? We'll make up our own questions.

  You can choose the categories."

  "I'd rather just read."

  "Okay. That's fine. I'll help you select a book."

  But as he went past her, she grabbed his arm and hauled him back. "I'll find my own book.

  Quit stalling, Mackie."

  "Stalling?"

  "Stalling. You're stalling like a kid at bedtime.

  That novel isn't going to write itself."

  "Is that what you think I'm doing? Stalling to keep from starting on my book?"

  "Yes."

  "Geez, no wonder you never got married," he grumbled, as he turned back toward the dining room. "Who would want to marry you? You're no fun. No fun at all."

  Stevie caught herself nodding off. She finally admitted defeat and laid her book on the end table.

  Earlier that day she'd uncovered all the furniture in the living room. It was basic Early American, constructed largely of maple, nothing she would have decorated with herself, but in perfect keeping with the rest of the house.

  She switched off the lamp and retrieved her sandals from the floor, carrying them as she crossed the wide hallway. Judd was prowling the dining room, rolling his head around his shoulders and flexing the muscles of his arms. There were several models of paper airplanes scattered about the floor. One had crashed into the drapery cornice.

  "How's it coming?" She moved toward the table, glanced down at the paper in the typewriter and read what he'd written so far.

  " 'Chapter One.' Very insightful."

  "Very cute."

  "You're a long way from a Pulitzer, Mackie."

  "And you're a long way from a Grand Slam."

  His words extinguished the teasing light in her eyes and caused her smile to collapse. "You're right. I am."

  He swore liberally as he plowed all his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I didn't think… I wasn't referring to-"

  "I knew what you meant. No harm done.

  What's the matter with your shoulders?"

  "Nothing."

  "You're wincing every time you move."

  "Too much of the weed sling, I guess."

  Really?" Pulling a worried face, she moved toward him and dropped her sandals onto the floor. She lifted her hands to his shoulders and squeezed the muscles lightly.

  He yelped. "Ouch, damn, they hurt enough without you digging into them like that."

  "You're as cranky as an old bear."

  "Yeah? Well that's what I feel like. The first morning after hibernation."

  "Come on upstairs. I'll give you a rubdown with this stuff that I'm never without."

  She picked up her sandals again; he turned out the lamp. Together they started upstairs. "What kind of stuff?" he asked warily.

  "A lotion. A sports injury specialist developed it. It's guaranteed to get rid of all stiffness and swelling."

  She was several steps ahead of him. He caught the hem of her skirt and pulled her up short. She turned inquisitively.

  "If it's guaranteed to do that," he drawled,

  "you gotta promise not to rub it on any parts I haven't okayed first."

  Snatching her skirt out of his hand, Stevie shot him a quelling look and continued upstairs. After getting the bottle of lotion from the tote bag she'd brought along, she went to his bedroom door. "Knock, knock."
<
br />   "Come in."

  She did…just as he was peeling off his T-shirt.

  With his arms stretched high over his head, standing beneath the overhead light fixture, he was granting Stevie an unrestricted view of his body: the broad shoulders, wide chest, trim torso, narrow hips, scarred leg.

  Scarred leg?

  The T-shirt cleared his head. As he lowered his arms, he caught her staring at the jagged, purple scars that crisscrossed his left shin. He balled the

  T-shirt into a wad and, with a hook shot, tossed it into the easy chair near the bed.

  "It's not polite to stare."

  The chip on his shoulder had doubled in size since she'd entered the room. She could hear the insolence in his voice, an overcompensating sarcasm.

  Maybe she had accidentally happened upon Judd Mackie's one spot of vulnerability.

  It would be ludicrous to pretend she hadn't seen the scars. Even if she could pull off such an act, he wouldn't fall for it and would resent her attempt. Her curiosity wasn't morbid, but sympathetic.

  There was no better way to deal with the awkward situation than to be straightforward.

  "What happened to your leg, Judd?"

  "Compound fracture of the tibia."

  Worse than she had thought. She didn't even try to hide her grimace. "How?"

  "Waterskiing accident."

  "When?"

  "A long time ago," he answered with a mix of bitterness and sadness. He moved toward her.

  She followed the progress of the scarred limb, lowering her eyes as he came closer in order to keep it in view. Judd placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted it up. "If you keep gawking, you're going to give me a complex."

  "I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. "It's just that you've been wearing shorts all night and I didn't notice the scars until just now." It had been dark on the porch and his legs had been beneath the table while they ate. The angles hadn't been right at any other time.' 'It came as a shock, that's all. I wasn't prepared, didn't expect it."

  "Most women find that leg incredibly sexy."

  Now that she'd seen it, been stunned by it, he wanted to tease her shock away. That was fine with her. She would play along for now and ruminate later on the injury that had healed, but which remained a supersensitive spot to the seemingly invincible sportswriter.