The Thrill of Victory

by Sandra Brown

  "What are you going to do?"

  Inadvertently Stevie had voiced the question he was wrestling with himself. She had the sense to look worried. She knew the importance of his decision and the impact it would have on her. She realized how valuable her story would be to the journalist who had an exclusive.

  Judd ran his hand down his face. He felt terrible for a variety of reasons. His lower body was persistent in its reminders that it was as yet unappeased.

  A queasiness had seized his stomach, which he attributed to drinking his coffee too fast, although he knew better. It was the thought of another golden opportunity slipping through his fingers that made him ill.

  He answered the only way he could, the only way that felt right. "I'm going back to work."

  He saw her swallow hard, but watched with admiration as she lifted her chin a notch. "In Dallas?"

  She had guts, alright. He wondered how he'd missed seeing that during all these years that he'd been poking fun at her in his column.

  'No. In the dining room." 'You won't… won't tell anybody where I am?"

  "It'll remain our little secret for as long as you want it that way."

  Her relief was visible. She relaxed her rigid posture. Still, she didn't gush gratitude. She didn't genuflect. "Good," she said simply.

  "That will make my life easier, and I'm glad you're not forsaking your novel."

  "Last night you said it sounded self-indulgent, boring and… what was the other word, disgusting?"

  She had the grace to look chagrined. "You provoked me to speak unkindly."

  "Speaking of provocative," Judd said, slowly leaving his chair and rounding the table, "this morning was-"

  "Judd." She popped out of her chair as though her bottom had discovered a splinter in the smooth wood. "I wanted to explain about that."

  He actually felt his face muscles forming his frown. "What's to explain?"

  "Why it happened."

  "I know why it happened. It's called lust, which according to Webster's is a noun meaning a desire to gratify the senses, bodily appetite, sexual desire, especially as seeking unrestrained gratification."

  If the venomous look she shot him was any indication, she didn't think that was cute. "I was disoriented. Those pills are strong. I wasn't thinking clearly.'

  She was backing away from him, staying just beyond his reach. That angered him as much as her excuse for her passion, which he knew damned good and well had been as all-encompassing as his.

  "Oh, I see," he said. "You couldn't desire me unless you were under the influence of a controlled substance. Is that what you're saying?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Then what? Exactly." ' 'I don't want to make love with you," she declared curtly.

  He barked a short laugh. "Like hell you don't."

  That steamed her; he could tell. By now he knew the signs: a suffusion of color in her cheeks, a darkening of her eyes, which were the warm, soft color of expensive scotch but a hell of a lot more intoxicating, a determined lift of her chin.

  "My life is in crisis," she said in a tight voice.

  ' 'So is yours. Neither of us needs a romance right now with anybody, but especially not with each other. Maybe we should have taken our cue from Stockholm and--"

  "I did. You were hot and ready for me then, too."

  Stevie closed her hands into fists and took a deep breath. "We've only got a few days left before I promised to give my manager an answer.

  During that time, I think we should keep our friendship strictly platonic."

  He drew close and sneered, "Tell that to your glands, baby."

  She gasped with outrage, then whirled out of the room and up the stairs. He tore after her and got as far as the staircase before he stopped.

  The Judd Mackie who hung out with the guys in bars after ball games and boxing matches was urging him not to be a nerd, to go after her. One kiss, one well-placed caress, and she'd be putty in his hands again, begging for it.

  He deserved it, didn't he? Hell, he had given up two weeks' pay on her account, not to mention an outstanding story that would have earned him untold income. If his car got repossessed it would be her fault.

  He had been hospitable, providing her safe refuge and fresh country air, meanwhile banishing himself from his own life and all the pleasures it afforded him, namely booze and broads.

  She had cost him time, trouble and money.

  Was it asking too much for one roll in the hay?

  But the Judd Mackie who knew that one roll in the hay with this particular woman would never be enough and who had promised that her secret was safe, forced him to turn and head for the dining room and the waiting typewriter.

  Being honorable was new to him. He was bound to suffer a few growing pains, but figured that if he had any character at all, he could endure a few disappointments.

  Slightly more than a "disappointment," his wicked side mocked. It cruelly reminded him how much he wanted her sexually by flashing him a mental image of her breasts, flushed and dewy from his mouth's caress.

  Look, he argued with his darker self, I've never had to coerce any woman into bed with me and damned if I'm going to start with Stevie Corbett. Besides, I'm going to be so immersed in my book, I won't have time to think without sex.

  To which his tormentor cackled, Tell that to your glands, baby.

  It rained steadily for two days, forty-eight interminable hours during which they had to tolerate the weather that kept them indoors, each other's fractious mood, the specter of their thwarted lovemaking-which each wanted to diminish in importance but neither could-and the desire that was as tenacious as the inclement weather.

  During mealtimes they hardly spoke because when they did the conversations invariably resulted in arguments. To while away one long afternoon, Stevie drove into town and bought the foods necessary to prepare a special dinner, one that would showcase all her epicurean skills.

  That turned out to be the evening Judd chose to write through dinner without taking a break.

  He asked her to bring him a tray in the dining room. After she had spent hours in the kitchen preparing the sumptuous meal, his simple request was tantamount to a declaration of war.

  She told him from the arched doorway that he could fix his own damn dinner tray and then go straight to hell.

  They had another argument over the bathroom.

  "Please don't leave damp towels on the floor," she said snippily.

  "I wouldn't have to if you didn't hang every garment you own on the towel racks and curtain rod." He swatted at the damp lingerie dangling over the tub.

  "Where am I supposed to hang them up to dry in weather like this?"

  "Ever heard of a clothes dryer?"

  "I can't dry my underwear in a clothes dryer."

  Her incredulous comeback seemed to make no sense to him whatsoever. With a snarl and a curse, he stamped from the bathroom.

  "It wouldn't hurt you to shave, you know," she called after him.

  "What difference does it make to you?"

  So it went until, finally, around noon of the third day, the rain stopped. An hour later the sun came out. Steam rose off the puddles in the yard, making the atmosphere as humid as a South Seas island.

  Stevie ventured outside first to inspect her battered flower beds. The new plants lay in the mud, but she was confident that a few hours of sunshine would revive them.

  "Are they on the critical list?"

  Judd ambled out onto the porch. He was wearing his standard wardrobe-shorts. The only variation from day to day was the color of them. He no longer seemed to have any self-consciousness about his scarred leg. Most of the time he went without a shirt and shoes. Clasping his hands together, he turned them inside out and raised them high over his head in an expansive stretch.

  "They'll make it, I think," Stevie said, averting her eyes from the fine line of dark hair that arrowed into his waistband.

  "I think I've grown bunions on my backside from sitting so long." H
e lowered his arms to absently rub that particular part of his splendid anatomy. "Want to play some tennis this afternoon?"

  No suggestion had ever sounded so good. She desperately needed a hard, pounding match to work off her frustration. Maybe then she wouldn't feel as though her skin were shrinking around her, making everything inside her body feel tight and constricted.

  "By all means," she told him. "Just say when."

  "When. As soon as we get into the proper duds."

  "And as soon as you shave."

  He rubbed his bearded jaw. "You drive a hard bargain, lady." She stood her ground. Chuckling, he conceded. "Okay, okay, I'll shave."

  "Fifteen, forty."

  Bouncing the ball in preparation for her next serve, Stevie muttered, "I know the score."

  "Sorry," Judd said, cupping his ear, "I didn't catch that."

  Raising her voice, she repeated, "I said I know the score, thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  Gnashing her teeth, Stevie executed her toss and caught the descending ball at just the right angle, putting exactly the right amount of spin on it. Judd shouldn't have been able to return it.

  He did. Easily. And because she hadn't expected him to, she was caught falling down on the job. She didn't make it to the corner of the court in time and missed the return by a mile.

  "My game," he said cheerfully. "That makes it five to four, my serve. And we switch courts."

  "I know the rules, Mackie."

  She wrenched the top off the water thermos they'd brought along and tilted it to her lips. He had won the first set. She had barely taken the second in a tiebreaker. With this game, he could win the match. The possibility was untenable.

  He was a smug, gloating winner who was enjoying rubbing her nose in her defeat. Oh, he was doing it sweetly, but she was suspicious of that guileless grin, which many times during the course of the match she'd wanted to slap off his recently shaven face.

  She mopped her face with a towel and dried off the handle of her racquet before walking back onto the court.

  "We're in no hurry," he said to her from the baseline, where he'd been practicing his toss. "If you need more rest time, feel free to take it."

  Gritting her teeth, she said, "Just play.

  "Okay.

  He lobbed the ball like a rank amateur, so that his serve was high and had the hang time of a well-executed football punt. It bounced high.

  Stevie had to back up almost to the fence and that destroyed the timing of her forehand swing.

  Her return went straight into the net.

  "Fifteen, love," Judd chortled.

  'Stevie threw down her racquet. "What the hell was that?"

  "That was a missed shot."

  She saw red. "I mean your serve, Mackie."

  "What?" He spread his arms wide, all innocence.

  "You seemed a little tired today, off your game. I thought I'd make it easier for you."

  "Don't do me any favors, alright?"

  "Alright." Then beneath his breath, but loud enough for her to hear, he muttered, "Geez, and I thought McEnroe was temperamental when his game went to crap.''

  Stevie tried to ignore him and her own mounting rage, knowing well that it was counterproductive and self-defeating, His serve came in low and hard on her backhand side. She returned it.

  They enjoyed a rally, but Stevie ended up with the point when her well-aimed overhead bounced directly in front of his feet.

  "Fifteen all," she said with a sweet smile.

  "Good shot."

  "Thanks."

  Thinking that she would try a similar shot on the next point, she moved to the net too soon.

  Judd sent a long backhand into the corner of the court and announced with satisfaction, "Thirty, fifteen."

  She tied it up on his next serve. "Thirty all," she called out gaily.

  Judd's smile wasn't quite as ingratiating as it had been, she noted with satisfaction. She watched his toss, saw the granite set of his jaw, saw his arm go back then arc forward. But just before he hit the ball, he said, "You forgot to wiggle."

  The ball whizzed past her like a missile, bounced in the corner of the service court and landed against the fence with a solid thwack. Stevie rounded on her complacent opponent, who was inspecting the strings of his racquet.

  "What was that?"

  "That was an ace, something that doesn't get pulled on you very often."

  She marched toward the net, a study in fury.

  '`I'll tell you something else that doesn't get pulled on me. I've never played anybody who opened a conversation just as he was serving the ball. Nobody I know would resort to such a dirty, underhanded trick. Nobody but you, that is.

  What did you say, anyway? Something about a wiggle?"

  "I said you forgot to wiggle."

  She propped her hands on her hips. "And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

  "Aw, come on, Stevie. We're alone here. We can be open with each other." He leaned across the net and gave her a knowledgeable wink. "I was referring to that little wiggle you give your backside every time you win a point."

  Her mouth dropped open. "I have no idea-"

  "Sure you do. You do it all the time. It's to make certain that everybody watching, whether from the stadium bleachers or on television, realizes that you've just done something swell."

  It took an act of will to stop grinding her teeth.

  "I don't have to stand out here in this heat and listen to your insults." Reflexively she lifted her long braid off her chest and tossed it over her shoulder.

  Judd aimed the handle of his racquet at her like an accusing finger. "That's another one."

  "Another one what?" ' 'Another one of your cuteisms. The one with the braid is to show your degree of frustration either with yourself, your opponent or a line judge."

  "Cuteisms?"

  He flashed a proud grin. "I coined the word to encompass all the mannerisms you use to draw attention from your game to yourself. Since the way you look is irrelevant to the way you play, you're very clever to use such a tactic."

  Stevie was too furious to speak. If she tried, she'd only succeed in sputtering incoherently. She turned her back to him and marched toward the parked car.

  "Aren't we going to finish the match?"

  "No!"

  "You're quitting when it's match point?"

  "Yes!"

  "Why, because I'm about to beat you?" he taunted, falling into step behind her. "You couldn't stand being beaten by me, could you?"

  "I'm having an off day. You said so yourself.

  It's the heat. I haven't practiced in days."

  "Neither have I," he pointed out uncharitably.

  "And it's just as hot on my side of the court."

  She slung her gear into the back seat of his car and got into the passenger side, slamming the door. He got behind the wheel and drove while she sat beside him, fuming in hostile silence.

  The pressure had been steadily building. They had been working up to this fight for days. Erroneously Stevie had thought she would welcome a full-fledged blowout as a means of clearing the air. But she was far from having a good time. Probably because Judd definitely had the upper hand in this argument.

  "There's nothing wrong with being a showman."

  They were more than halfway home before he made that seemingly innocuous observation. It was enough to send Stevie's simmering temper skyrocketing.

  "You don't get to be a top-seeded player by being cute, Mr. Mackie."

  "Calm down. I'm not going to tell anybody that I beat you."

  "You didn't!"

  "Only because you refused to finish the match like the spoiled brat you are."

  "You weren't playing tennis," she shouted.

  "The points you scored were scored by playing badly, not well. You were making a mockery of me and of the sport. Your game had nothing to do with talent, skill or finesse." Wanting to drive the next point home, she turned her head to look at him. "The same goes for yo
ur writing."

  He brought the car to a jarring stop in front of the house. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "You figure it out."

  Leaving her things in the car, she got out and bounded up the porch steps. They hadn't bothered with locking the front door. She sailed through it and headed for the stairs. She had almost reached the top when Judd, taking the steps two at a time, caught up with her and grabbed hold of her braid.

  "Ouch! Let go of me."

  "Uh-uh. Not until you explain that last crack about my writing. What do you mean by saying that I lack talent and skill, etcetera?"

  "I didn't say you lack them. There's just no evidence of them in your column."

  "I graduated with a degree in journalism, remember?"

  "What you print every day isn't journalism, it's gossip," she said, warming to her topic.

  "Anybody with an inferiority complex and an ax to grind could write what you do. So could anybody who wanted to avoid a real job by boozing it up every night and calling it research. Not to mention the womanizing."

  "I haven't touched a drink since we got here.

  And as for womanizing…" He encircled her waist with his arm and yanked her hard against him. "I haven't done any of that since I left Dallas, either."

  "Let me go."

  "No way, baby. I've earned this kiss."

  His mouth came down hard upon hers. She resisted by bowing her back, which only brought her up harder and higher against him. She tried to free her lips, but he captured her jaw in one hand and held her head steady while his tongue plumbed her mouth repeatedly.

  Their breathing was harsh and loud in the otherwise silent house. The sounds of strenuous denial that Stevie uttered deep in her throat diminished to whimpers of desire. Her hands, which had been trying to push him away, began clutching handfuls of his damp tennis shirt. She angled her head, giving his lips better access to hers. Her tongue joined his in love play.

  He raised his head suddenly and peered into her wide, dazed eyes. "Stevie?"