The Thrill of Victory

by Sandra Brown

  "After the hubbub we created had died down a bit, my well-trained radar system homed in on the prettiest woman there." His eyes found hers across the homey kitchen, just as they had across the ballroom of a Swedish palace so many years earlier. "You."

  "Thank you. But I was also the youngest."

  "I was young, too," he remarked introspectively.

  "I didn't realize how young. That was before I got the job at the Tribune. I was working for a news service, covering sports in Europe. My leg…"

  He shook his head, clearing it of that unhappy thought. "I had a helluva good time over there, hanging out with all the sports celebrities, hobnobbing with royalty, going to parties, eating free food, drinking free booze."

  "Picking up free women."

  "The job definitely had its perks." He flashed his most unrepentant smile.

  "I was so naive," she said in a reflective tone that echoed his. "That was my first year on the tour. I hadn't been warned against predatory media wolves like you."

  'That was a stroke of good fortune for me."

  Stevie snapped to attention and said with emphasis,

  "Nothing happened."

  "That's not the way I remember it."

  "Okay, we danced. You rudely cut in on my other partner."

  "After you gave me that smoldering come-hither look."

  "Smoldering? Come-hither? Boy, is your memory warped."

  "And I didn't cut in, I just sort of nudged your partner out of my way. Besides, his dancing reminded me of a goose flapping its wings."

  She smiled at the memory of her partner and Judd's unflattering, but accurate, description.

  "No, he couldn't dance very well."

  But Judd could. Oh, he could. He had ignored the gyrating couples surrounding them on the dance floor and had pulled her into his arms.

  Hi.

  That's all he had said. That single Americanism.

  But there had been something totally captivating in the way he'd said it, softly, confidentially, as though they were meeting in a hushed, remote place instead of in a gigantic ballroom seething with laughter and deafening rock music.

  He had mesmerized her with his compelling tone of voice and the possessive way his hands had settled on either side of her waist and pulled her swaying hips directly against his.

  He had been everything she wasn't: sophisticated, cocky, self-assured, arrogant, undisciplined.

  He was out to enjoy life, make friends, have a good time.

  She thought of little except her tennis game.

  Her constant companion was Presley Foster.

  Their conversations revolved solely around tennis and how tough the competition was and how far she had to go to get into the big bucks and the big time. She was self-disciplined to a fault. Even attending a party and staying out that late had been a rarity.

  The handsome sports journalist was fascinating -and dangerous. He danced close enough for her to feel his breath on her face, held her in a manner that wasn't decorous, looked at her suggestively and moved his lithe body against hers with blatant symbolism. He had made dedicated, disciplined Stevie Corbett feel deliciously reckless.

  'And after we danced, you went upstairs with me.

  "You're dreaming, Mackie." Stevie wished her voice sounded stronger, more derisive. Instead it sounded hoarse and emotional. "I went into the garden and you followed."

  "You ran/'

  "I needed air!" ''You were scared!''

  She was scared. Scared of him and of her responses to him. Scared of the sensual awakening he had orchestrated. Scared because for the first time in many years, tennis was the last thing on her mind.

  "I guess now you're going to ungallantly remind me that you kissed me."

  Judd's steady gaze didn't waver. "You kissed me back."

  She cleared her throat and made an offhanded gesture. "It was… pleasant."

  "I'll say. Damned pleasant. Pleasant and wet and hot and sexy."

  "Alright," she flared, "so we kissed.'

  "French kissed."

  "French kissed."

  "And I put my hand inside your dress. I touched you."

  "An outrageous thing to do," she whispered.

  "Was it?" He rolled off his spine and came to his feet. He didn't stop moving forward until he had her backed against the countertop. "You were soft and very sweet, Stevie. Your heart was beating so fast. Just like it was last night." He laid his hand against her chest. "Just like it is right now."

  "Nothing happened."

  He dropped his hand and stepped back. "Because Presley Foster bore down on me and threatened me with castration if I didn't get my hands off you."

  Stevie covered her face with her hands, feeling again all the embarrassment she had at that black moment in her life. She had wanted the earth to swallow her whole, so she wouldn't have to endure her coach's censorious glare, Judd's contemptuous smirk or her own scalding humiliation.

  "Presley was doing what he thought was best for me," she said miserably. "He was protecting me from getting hurt." 'Were you sleeping with him?"

  She lowered her hands and gaped at Judd with horror, her face pale and stricken. "Are you crazy?"

  "Were you?"

  "No!'* She gulped reflexively. "Is that what you've thought all this time, that I was sleeping with my coach?"

  "It crossed my mind."

  "You're sick."

  He shook his head ruefully. "Just realistic.

  I've known of kinkier relationships."

  "Then you've been around people I never want to meet."

  "Indubitably."

  Staring into space, she organized her thoughts.

  "Well, this conversation explains a lot. No wonder you've taken potshots at me in your column.

  Either you took me for a slut with a lover older than her father. Or I'm just one that got away.

  Either way, your phenomenal ego couldn't handle my choosing Presley over you that night, so you carved me to bits in your columns as vengeance."

  "One has nothing to do with the other."

  I'll bet," she said bitterly.

  He grabbed her upper arm. "It was years before I connected the champion player Stevie Corbett with that wide-eyed kid I met at a party in Stockholm."

  "When you did, I bet you had a good laugh."

  Angrily she pulled her arm from his grip.

  Not really," he surprised her by saying.

  When I think back to that night, it's with poignancy, not derision. Want to know one of my deepest, darkest secrets? Even if Foster hadn't stopped it, I doubt it would have gone much further than it had."

  "Why not?"

  "You were so damned young. Innocent. Fresh.

  And I… well, I wasn't."

  She was almost hypnotized by the sadness in his expression. However, in the nick of time, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously and asked, "If you knew I was innocent and fresh, then why'd you just ask me if I was sleeping with Presley?"

  "Oh, I knew you weren't sleeping with him then. You were a virgin in Stockholm, right?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, but again discovered that she was too flabbergasted to utter a peep. "But I wanted to know if you had ever slept with him and were still carrying a torch.

  Now I know you didn't and you aren't."

  Propping her hands on her hips, she glared up at him. "You sneaky lowlife, underhanded son-of a-"

  "Before you launch into another round of name calling, could you fix me some breakfast?

  This country air has given me a roaring appetite."

  "Fix your breakfast?" she screeched.

  "That was part of our deal, remember? You cook, I-"

  "The deal is off, Mackie. What makes you think I'd stay here with you now?"

  "Why is now any different from yesterday when you agreed?"

  Last night for one, she thought. And for another, their reminiscent conversation about a shared experience she had hoped he'd forgotten.

  She wasn't, however, going
to cite those reasons.

  "There's been too much water under the bridge. This is never going to work. One of us will end up murdering the other."

  "Again, you're demonstrating a real flare for creativity, Stevie. If I get writer's block, I plan on consulting you first." He inspected the refrigerator.

  "For right now, juice, toast and coffee will do. When we go to the store later today, remind me to buy bacon and eggs."

  "Mackie?"

  He came around. "What? And for future reference, you don't have to shout. I'm not hard of hearing."

  "And I'm not staying."

  He studied her for a moment, a picture of exasperation.

  "Fine. The keys to the car are on the hall table. Be careful driving. But before you go, consider this."

  He held up his index finger. "One. Your condo will probably still be staked out by the media.

  The public will be panting to know whether or not you're going after the Grand Slam. Will you play Wimbledon in three weeks or not? Will you have surgery right away or won't you? What are the consequences if you don't? What's your prognosis if you do?"

  "Can you give them answers to those questions, Stevie? No. Because those are the questions you're still grappling with yourself. What better place to arrive at some answers than the peace and quiet of the country, far away from the news hounds and unsolicited advisers?"

  Another finger went up. "Two. You look like you need a vacation. You've still got unattractive dark circles under your eyes." His ring finger joined the first two. "Three. I got fired on account of you. The least you could do is cook a few meals for me while I try to hack out a rough draft for a novel. Selling it for publication may be my only hope of supporting myself in the future."

  His pinkie sprang up. "And four, nothing infuriates me more than somebody who goes back on his word."

  His reasons made sense, especially the first one, but Stevie glared at him mutinously, still not prepared to surrender unconditionally. "I need to practice. Do you realize how rusty I'll get if I don't play some tennis at least once every day?"

  "Valid point." Gnawing the inside of his cheek, he considered their alternatives. "When we drive into town, we'll check the public school.

  If memory serves me, it's got a tennis court. And since I'm the only famous or near-famous person from around here," he said with a conceited grin, "I think I can finagle permission to use it."

  "If you can do that, I'll stay."

  "Thank heaven that's settled," he muttered, turning to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee.

  "I'll be in the dining room writing. You can bring me my juice and toast in there. I like it lightly browned and heavy on the butter."

  "The juice or the toast?"

  He was almost to the door when he turned and scowled. "Try and not make any distracting noise."

  She was tempted to go after him and deliver a good swift kick to his taut, narrow buttocks.

  But she didn't.

  One evening over dinner, Stevie contentedly remarked that these were halcyon days. Judd gave her a reproving look and said, "You'll never make a writer if you resort to cliches like that."

  Despite his teasing, that was the adjective that best described their days. She awoke early and puttered around in the yard. The mint growing near the back porch was thriving. She'd carefully weeded around long neglected, but stalwart, periwinkles, which were now profusely blooming in shades of pinks and purples in front of the house.

  On one of their trips into town, she'd bought a package of zinnia seeds. They'd been planted and were already sprouting. She enjoyed watching the vibrant green shoots grow, thriving in the rich east Texas soil. Stevie regretted that she wouldn't be around to enjoy their brilliant blossoms.

  Judd was a late and grumpy riser. Each morning he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself coffee she had brewed. It took at least three cups to make him civil. He then retired to the dining room to work on his novel. Later she would take him toast or cereal, but as often as not when she silently checked from the archway, it was still on the tray, untouched.

  After lunch, Judd would return to his typewriter.

  Stevie napped or read in the afternoons.

  She studiously avoided thinking about her illness or what she was going to do about it. That was the purpose behind this respite from her normal schedule, but she couldn't bring herself to dwell on it.

  At dusk they drove to the public school campus and played low impact tennis, wearing inexpensive shorts they'd bought in the only dry-goods store in town, where they had also purchased other clothing. Her new wardrobe had little merit beyond keeping her decently cov ered, but she had had more fun shopping for it with Judd than she ever remembered having on a buying spree.

  They took drives through the countryside in the cool of the evening, or sat together in the bench swing beneath the pecan tree, or played cards on the porch. Judd cheated unconscionably and sulked when he didn't win, blaming his losses on everything from the weak porch light to the racket made by the cicadas in the trees.

  One evening he had disgustedly tossed down a losing hand and said, "Let's play strip poker and the winner has to take off all her clothes."

  Gloating, Stevie had raked in her mountain of match sticks. "Such a sore loser."

  "That's a game I wouldn't mind losing."

  His back was propped against one of the posts supporting the roof over the porch. He was lazily wagging his knee back and forth. Even in the faint glow of the porch light, Stevie could see the intensity of his gaze and sensed that he was no longer teasing.

  With clumsy hands, she quickly reshuffled the deck and dealt a new hand. "Maybe if you try playing fair instead of cheating, you'll win this hand."

  She didn't acknowledge either his suggestion or the fire in his eyes. Doing so could prove dangerous.

  She had been dancing close to the flame since agreeing to stay alone with him. So far, she had been singed, not burned. She wanted to keep it that way. There were undercurrents between her and Judd that she couldn't cope with. It was easier to pretend they didn't exist.

  One afternoon they bought an edition of the Tribune at the grocery store. Stevie was crushed when she read the sports page. One of her rivals had won the Lobo Blanco tournament. "They're saying she might replace me as the top-seeded player," she told Judd glumly.

  "Ready to go back and face the music?"

  She raised her head and stared into his eyes for a moment, seeing in them the same reluctance she felt toward his suggestion. "No. Not yet."

  "Me, either." Unable to mask his relief, he playfully jerked the newspaper out of her hands.

  After a moment of reading, he said, "Look, here's a letter to the editor from a reader asking about me."

  "How does the management respond?"

  "That I'm taking a 'few weeks off.'"

  'They don't come right out and say that you're fired," she said, reading over his shoulder.

  "That must mean they want you back.

  Should you call them?"

  "No way." He refolded the paper and tossed it aside. "Let Ramsey sweat."

  The next morning, the postman delivered a letter to Stevie as she was working in the flower bed. It was addressed to Judd. Wiping her hands on the seat of her shorts, she went inside.

  "I hate to disturb you, but a letter just came."

  She entered the dining room. Judd, she noticed, not for the first time, typed with his index fingers only.

  He finished his sentence, then rolled the paper out of the machine and laid it face down on the card table. He had refused to discuss his plot, characters or anything else about his book with her. He never gave her a glimpse of what he'd written and had forbidden her to pick up the wastepaper that littered the floor every morning.

  He read the letterhead and muttered scoff -ingly,

  "Ramsey." Judd scanned the brief letter, crammed it into a ball and tossed it onto the floor where his other rejections were strewn.

  "Well," Stevie asked im
patiently, "is he sweating yet?"

  "Like a pig. But he hasn't got to the begging stage."

  "He has to beg?"

  "Sure he has to beg. I want him to get as low as a slug and then grovel."

  She laughed. "I take it that means you're not ready to go back."

  "What I'm ready for," he said as he came to his feet, "is lunch." He placed his arms around her, clapped his hands on her bottom, gave the firm flesh a hard squeeze and soundly kissed her.

  "Fetch my food, woman."

  She slipped out of his arms, asking saucily,

  "Or what?"

  His eyes became drowsy and as sultry as the summer weather. "Or I'll show you what else I'm ready for."

  She fetched his food.

  You're awfully quiet tonight. Is something wrong?"

  Stevie, who had been staring vacantly over their dinner table, blinked Judd into focus. "No, nothing. I'm sorry I'm not better company."

  "You're not having any pain, are you?"

  She shook her head. "Just tired I think."

  "No wonder. You waxed me today on the tennis court."

  She smiled, but it was a fainthearted attempt.

  "You still gave me a good workout."

  Watching her closely, Judd played with his spoon, turning it end over end. "It's more than fatigue, isn't it, Stevie?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. I've got a lot on my mind."

  'It was seeing that couple."

  She looked at him sharply, then tried unsuccessfully to hide her spontaneous reaction by innocently repeating, "Couple?"

  "The young couple we saw in the grocery store this afternoon. The couple with the baby."

  She looked away, which was as good as a signed confession.

  "Up till then we'd been having a great time,"

  Judd' said. "You beat me soundly in three sets, but I lost gracefully. We were joking, wrestling over the last bite of Hershey bar, doing our grocery shopping."

  "Then you caught sight of those two attractive young people wheeling their basket down the store aisle, cooing to the kid and smiling goosily at each other over the top of his curly, blond head. After that, you clammed up and have had the personality of a turnip ever since."