The Thrill of Victory

by Sandra Brown

  "I didn't know that my duties as cook extended to being a court jester, too," she said caustically. "Maybe you should have specified that."

  He dropped the spoon onto the table with a clatter and held up his hands in a gesture of suri render. "Touchy, touchy. It's you I'm worried about."

  "Well, don't be."

  "Too late. I already am."

  Stevie gauged his expression. It appeared to be sincere. She wanted, and needed, to believe that it was. With a short, self-derisive laugh, she said, I suppose you think I'm the one who's goosey."

  Actually that living portrait of matrimonial bliss and domestic harmony left me a little choked up, too."

  I'll bet," she said drolly.

  It did. I haven't always been a surly, cynical jerk, you know. The owners of this house, my grandparents, instilled in my father some basic values. He, along with my mother, instilled a few in me."

  "What happened to them?"

  "They got dashed against the rocky shore of outrageous fortune."

  "I hope you're not putting that in your novel. It's terrible."

  "What happened to them?"

  "They got dashed against the rocky shore of outrageous fortune.'

  I hope you're not putting that in your novel.

  His lips tilted into a half smile. "Not in those exact words, but they sort of capture the gist of the theme."

  She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop as she released a heavy sigh. "Okay, as long as we're being open and honest, I'll admit that seeing that poignant little scene got to me. I was envious."

  "Envious?" he asked incredulously. "How could you be envious of these rural folk? You've traveled the world several times over, been introduced to royalty, earned a helluva lot of prize money in addition to what you make on endorsements.

  You couldn't possibly build a trophy room large enough to hold all that you've received."

  "None of which I can confide my troubles to.

  I can't curl up with a trophy on cold nights. Or even have a healthy fight with one."

  "Know what this sounds like to me? Whining." 'That's exactly what it is," she retorted crossly.

  He let a moment go by before asking, "Are you regretting some decisions, Stevie?"

  "Yes. No. I don't know, Judd. It's just that…" She paused, trying to convert her random thoughts into understandable language.

  "For the past three years, the Grand Slam has eluded me by one tournament. Once I had got it,

  I planned to slow down. I would have had to anyway in a year or two because of my advancing age, but I had already decided that if I got the Grand Slam I wouldn't ask for more. I'd retire on top, with dignity and a very respectable career behind me."

  Pensively she continued, "But I didn't think much beyond that. Now that the inevitable future is here, it seems so bleak, so empty. There's nothing in it. There's nobody in it."

  "No baby."

  "No baby," she repeated emotionally. "And probably no chance of having one. Ever." ' 'Do you wish you had had a child sooner?" ' 'Maybe. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn't it?"

  "With whom, Stevie?"

  She laughed mirthlessly. "Good question.

  With whom? I never took the time to fall in love, get married, develop a meaningful relationship.

  I'm not even certain what that catch phrase means or how it applies to me and members of the opposite sex."

  "Now that you've got the time to find out, you might not get the opportunity. Is that what's bothering you?"

  "In a nutshell, yes.'

  Each fell silent. Judd was the first to speak.

  "Sometimes our decisions are forced on us."

  "Mine weren't. I freely made my choice years ago. I chose tennis. At all costs, I wanted to be the number one player in the world."

  "You are."

  "I know. I also know I have no reason to complain. It's all been wonderful." She gave him a bleak smile. "It's just that every once in a while, like today, I'm reminded of everything I sacrificed and start feeling sorry for myself. Now that my career is coming to an end, I'm asking myself, 'now what?'. And I don't have any answers."

  She took a deep breath. "In my estimation, self-pity is the most wicked of sins. It's also a big waste of time, unless it's within one's power to bring about a change. In my case," she concluded, laying a hand on her tummy, "I don't have control over the situation. That's the bitterest pill to swallow."

  They had finished their meal. Judd helped her clean up the dishes. In that respect, he wasn't nearly as chauvinistic as he pretended to be.

  "I'm going on up to bed," she told him as soon as they'd finished the chore.

  "To brood?"

  "No, because melancholia is exhausting."

  He smiled crookedly. "Personally I think there are a lot of sins far more wicked than self-pity.

  Want me to enumerate a few I've engaged in, just so you'll feel better?"

  "Thank you, no. I'll pass."

  He pressed her shoulders between his hands and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "Say your prayers. And close your door so the typewriter won't bother you."

  "It doesn't bother me."

  She stood looking up at him, feeling lost and lonely. She wished for something. For what exactly, she wasn't sure. For starters she wished that his good-night kiss had been placed on her mouth rather than her forehead. She wished it had been deep and lingering instead of light and quick. She wished his caress hadn't been so fraternal and that he hadn't removed his hands from her shoulders so soon.

  She was seized by a strange and powerful yearning that she couldn't put a name to. It was silent and internal, but as strong and overwhelming as a waterfall. She longed to rest her cheek against Judd's chest and feel the safe sanctuary of his arms closing around her. She wanted to hear his husky voice whispering encouragement into her ear, even if all he gave her were platitudes.

  Before she submitted to the impulses tugging at-her, she needed to put space between herself and Judd. He might mistake her unnamed need for weakness. "Goodnight."

  "G'night, Stevie."

  She couldn't sleep. The day had been cloudy and muggy. Ordinarily her room was cool enough, thanks to the droning oscillating fan that stirred the evening air. She hadn't missed air conditioning a bit. Indeed, she liked watching the sheer curtains on the open windows billow and float on the breeze.

  But tonight the curtains were hanging limply in the windows. There was no breeze. Even if the curtains had been doing their entrancing dance, she doubted it could have lulled her to sleep. She was restless. Her body needed sleep, but her mind wouldn't cooperate and let it come.

  Suddenly it occurred to her why she couldn't sleep. Judd's typewriter wasn't clacking. Contrary to what he thought, the sound of its metallic tapping didn't keep her awake when he worked well into the early morning hours. It had become a reassuring sound, an indication that for once she wasn't spending the night alone in an otherwise empty house.

  Throwing off the light muslin sheet, she padded over to her bedroom door, which was always kept open to allow the air to circulate through the house-a lesson she had learned from Judd, one which he remembered from spending summers on the farm with his grandparents when he was a boy. She listened. Nothing.

  A quick peek into his bedroom revealed that he hadn't gone to bed yet. She moved to the head of the staircase and looked down. The light was burning in the dining room. He was still up, probably just taking a break. But she waited for several minutes, and he didn't resume typing.

  Curious, and somewhat worried, she crept down the stairs and silently approached the dining room.

  She caught him deep in thought. His pose was what she considered to be very "authoresque."

  He sat, staring at the page in his typewriter, his hands folded over his mouth, elbows propped on the card table.

  The sleeves of his white T-shirt had been cut out, though it looked more like they'd been chewed out. The armholes were ragged. He was wearing a pair of navy blue shorts
.

  His hair looked as though it had been combed with the yard rake she used in the flower beds around the house. One damp, dark lock had fallen over his brow. His feet, in laceless tennis shoes, were resting on the lowest rung of the straight chair. His spine was bowed.

  Not wanting to disturb him, she backed away and turned toward the stairs without making a single sound.

  "Stevie?"

  She came up short and stepped back into the light of the open archway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distract you."

  "Obviously you didn't."

  "The muses aren't being kind tonight?"

  "Those bitches." With his hair falling across his forehead, his face shadowed from above by the lamp on the table and below by his sprouting beard, he epitomized disreputability.

  He looked temperamental and dangerous and… gorgeous. Something deep inside Stevie stirred and stretched, like a seed that had been planted in fertile soil and was now on the brink of germination.

  "Why aren't you asleep?" He took a slurp of coffee she knew must be stone cold.

  "I don't know." She lifted her hands awkwardly, then let them drop back to her sides. "I think I missed the sound of the typewriter. And the humidity is oppressive. As long as I'm up, I'll be glad to make some fresh coffee."

  "No thanks. I've had enough." He looked her up and down. "You okay?"

  "Yes."

  "No problems?"

  "No."

  "I don't believe you. If you were okay, you'd be asleep."

  She came farther into the room. Her nightgown had been one of the purchases she'd made in the dry goods store. It was sleeveless, had a tucked-and-pleated lace-trimmed bodice, and was modest enough for a nun. Although a nun probably wouldn't have worn a nightgown made of cotton that was so soft and sheer that light could shine through it.

  Unaware that her body was silhouetted against the fabric, she extended her arms at her sides.

  "See? I'm fine."

  "Well, I'm not," he muttered grouchily. "Sit down and keep me company for a while."

  She glanced around. "There's no place to sit."

  "Sure there is." He swiveled his legs from beneath the table, reached for her hand and pulled her onto his lap.

  She felt his bare thighs against the backs of hers. The contrast was so thrilling she uttered a soft cry. "Judd!"

  Nuzzling her neck, he snarled, "Did I ever tell you that white cotton nighties make me as horny as hell?"

  "No!"

  "Well, they don't. I just wondered if I ever told you that."

  "Oh, you!" she remonstrated, giving his shoulder a push.

  Chuckling, he raised his head, but loosely linked his hands around her waist. His eyes moved over her. "I couldn't seduce you now even if you'd let me.

  "Why?"

  "Because you look about twelve-years-old, that's why. With your hair down and wearing your sweet, prim nightie."

  Smiling, he ran his index finger down the row of tiny buttons until it came up against a neatly tied satin bow between her breasts. By then, he was no longer smiling. He lifted his eyes to hers.

  Their gaze melded.

  Stevie's pulse was pounding in her ears. He had already teased her once about her rapidly beating heart, and she wondered if he could feel it now. She could scarcely breathe.

  Before things got out of hand, she had to bring the subject back around to his writing. "Is it terribly hard?"

  "It's getting there," re replied roughly "How long will it be?"

  "Long enough, baby.

  "What's it about?"

  "Huh?" 'It's getting there," he replied roughly.

  'How long will it be?'

  'Long enough, baby."

  What's it about?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your book."

  "Book? Oh, my book. We're talking about my book."

  He dropped his head forward and blew out a pent-up breath. For several moments he breathed deeply with his eyes shut. When he raised his head again, there were lines of strain around his mouth.

  "'Book' is a polite euphemism for 'pile of crap.'" He nodded toward the pages turned facedown on the table.

  "I'll bet it's not crap at all. You've been working so diligently, it can't be all bad."

  "Hopefully not." He took her hand in his and studied it. Turning it palm up, he ran his thumb across the calluses left by her tennis racquet. His touch was a further aggravation to her already chaotic system and increased her awareness of the warmth emanating from his lap up through her thighs.

  Hastily she withdrew her hand and made to stand. His arms tightened around her. "Where are you going?"

  "Back to bed."

  "I thought you were going to talk to me."

  "You're not talking."

  "You want to know what the book is about?" he asked moodily. "Alright, I'll tell you."

  "Hush. You keep bugging me to know, so now you'll know. Be quiet and listen."

  Ordinarily Stevie would have protested this gross inaccuracy. Since she had first asked him about his novel and he'd told her that writers didn't discuss their current projects, she had refrained from asking specific questions about it.

  She usually referred to what he did in the vacant dining room, as his "work."

  Now, however, she could tell that he was bursting to discuss certain aspects of it. Obediently she sat silently on his lap and listened.

  "It starts out when the protagonist is just a kid, see?"

  "Male or female?"

  "Male."

  "Figures."

  "He had a very ordinary-"

  "Does he have a name?"

  "Not yet. Are you going to keep interrupting?

  Because if you are-"

  "I won't say another word."

  "Thank you." He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, then looked at her blankly. "Where was I?"

  "May I speak?" His glare threatened murder.

  She quoted, " 'He had a very ordinary…'"

  "Oh, yeah. He had a very ordinary childhood.

  Mom, Dad, typical suburban-America upbringing. He'd always been good at sports.

  All sports. But in high school, he concentrated on baseball. By his senior year, he'd won the attention of many notable universities, all vying for him. He picked one and got a scholarship in exchange for playing baseball on the varsity team."

  "During his sophomore year of college, a minor league talent scout approached him and offered him a contract to go pro. It was as tempting as hell. Although his coaches, everybody, had told him that he had what it took to make the major leagues, he decided that he had better decline -much as he wanted to play-and go ahead and finish college, just in case this career in baseball didn't pan out."

  "So he stayed in school, which, as the story progresses, turned out to be one of the wisest decisions he ever made. Since he wasn't particularly interested in any other field, he tried to find the path of least resistance to get through college.

  He'd never been much of a scholar, too busy with athletics, you see."

  "Science and math courses were a hassle for him, and he barely squeaked by. But he aced classes like English and history where he could b.s. his way through an exam. Friends told him that he had a way with words and a knack for turning a clever phrase. So, it seemed logical that he major in English and minor in journalism."

  "By the time he graduated from college, he had an agent negotiating with three major-league teams. Under the misconception that he was invulnerable, he behaved recklessly, thinking that his future was one big bright solar system that revolved around him, its sun. He partied a lot.

  There were lots of women, good times, fun and frolic."

  Judd fell silent for a moment and stared reflectively at the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter.

  "One of those seven-figure, five-year deals that dreams are made of came through for this clown. He was celebrating it with a group of friends. They decided to spend a weekend waterskiing."

  Stevie rolled her lips inward, wishing sh
e didn't have to listen to the rest of the story. But dynamite couldn't have blasted her off Judd's lap.

  Apparently he desperately needed this catharsis.

  He had listened on several occasions when she had poured her heart out. It was time she returned the favor.

  "The lake had been formed by a new dam and hadn't completely filled up yet. Those kids were stupid to be skiing there in the first place. This fool was even laughing his head off when the boat approached the stump sticking above the surface of the water."

  "Hell, he was invincible. Nothing could touch him. Or so he thought," he said in a flat, empty voice. "He decided that he could swerve around the stump without any trouble at all." After a moment, he added, "He couldn't."

  The resulting silence was broken only by distant thunder. It rumbled ominously. The sky flickered with lightning; the breeze picked up.

  But neither Stevie nor Judd noticed these changes in the weather.

  "All his big plans were shot to hell," Judd continued. "One dumb move and the course of his life was changed forever. The seven-figure offer was revoked after the doctors told the team management that he'd never be pro material even if they did their best for his leg."

  "He never got to play major-league baseball.

  After a year of reconstructive operations on his busted tibia, he went to work writing about the sports he could no longer play."

  It began to rain. Fat, splattering drops fell onto the flowers that Stevie had so painstakingly cultivated. Rain splashed against the open windows.

  The curtains were driven into the room by the gusty wind. Lightning crackled and thunder crashed. The air turned noticeably cooler, a welcome relief from the humid heat.

  Stevie was unaware of the storm, unaware of everything except Judd. She brushed back the strand of hair that had fallen over his forehead and smoothed out the frown between his eyebrows.

  He gave her a twisted grin. "You won't want to read the book. I don't think it's going to have a happy ending."

  "Why not?"

  He slipped his finger into the neckline of her nightgown and slowly traced the edge of the material around the base of her neck. He did it without really thinking about it.