TWICE VICTORIOUS

by Judith B. Glad

  "I do. KIWANDA still wants you to be one of the models, even though it may be a while before you can."

  "Only a week or two. None of the abrasions are deep, so they shouldn't leave scars. Nothing that a little makeup wouldn't cover, anyway." She really wasn't looking forward to modeling fancy, upscale cycling clothes, but it was for the good of her team, after all. They'd been supportive enough of her ever since she decided to go big time. It was the least she could do for them.

  "I wasn't worrying about that," he said.

  She wasn't sure just what his expression meant. Compassion? Or pity? Stell wasn't about to be an object of anybody's pity! "So what's your concern?"

  "I just wanted to make sure you were going to be able to ride soon enough to work for us. We're scheduled to begin shooting in a couple of weeks. Will you be back on your bike so soon?"

  "Of course." She'd be back on her bike as soon as this stupid brace was removed, if she had her way.

  He smiled, and she felt her temperature go up a couple of degrees. Ye gods! Was this what concussions did to you?

  "That's great. After the other night, I'm really looking forward to seeing our CycleWear in use. I think you'll find it's far more comfortable than anything you've worn before."

  She doubted it, but who was she to discourage him? What she knew about KIWANDA OuterWear could be written on the head of a pin. They just weren't her kind of clothes. Too spendy. "What made you decide to start making cycling gear?"

  "We see a tremendous market in weekend recreation, especially adults who are in it for exercise and pleasure. Our marketing studies show that a vast number of people are participating in amateur athletics, both organized and casually. With our reputation for quality, we feel that we can carve out a significant portion of the market for ourselves. Our CycleWear is just one of the lines we plan to introduce. Until recently, only serious cyclists wore jerseys and shorts. Now we see a market segment in weekend athletes who are interested in looking good while they get their cardiac conditioning."

  She couldn't help but smile. He sounded like he'd memorized his little spiel, a false note in an otherwise sincere impression. He was right, though. The new breed of cyclist, riding mountain bikes fitted with shock absorbers, were a far cry from the people she'd been riding with for years. "And you expect them to buy your gear?" They probably would. Anyone who could afford a thousand dollar bike as a toy could afford the two hundred dollar jacket to go with it.

  "The firm that designed our advertising campaign is one of the best."

  "Which means they create a market if one doesn't exist." She remembered some of the courses she'd taken as part of her MBA program. While she didn't entirely approve of modern advertising techniques, she had to admire their effectiveness.

  His chuckle told her that his streak of skepticism was wide as hers. "Exactly."

  He had the nicest smile, one that warmed her heart and more.

  "And what besides cycling gear are you planning to convince the unsuspecting public it can't live without?"

  "You name it, we're going to make clothing for you to wear while doing it."

  "Dogsled racing?"

  "We already do that. Part of our regular OuterWear line."

  "Windsurfing?"

  "Naturally."

  "Tiddly Winks?"

  "I'm sure we'll have something suitable for the World Class Tiddler."

  He had an answer for everything, although she couldn't have been more pleased at this one. How many people knew the correct term for a Tiddly Wink competitor? "Give me time. I'll think of something you haven't considered."

  "All the time in the world. In the meantime, keep in touch. I'll want to know as soon as you're available."

  "I can do that." She reached for her crutches, but before her fingers touched them, he was on one knee beside her. His face was only inches from hers and his smile begged, no, demanded, a response. She licked her lips, feeling trapped. He was much too close and much too...too devastatingly male. Stop it, she told herself again. You're imagining things. All he wants is your body in his clothes, not in his bed.

  Where had that thought come from? Of course he only wanted her as a model.

  She stood, quickly, grateful for his help. Otherwise she would have put pressure on her leg, and that was what the doctor had warned her not to do. "You know, there are three other women on our team. You don't have to wait until my road rash heals." She almost hoped he would take the hint. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of spending time anywhere near Adam Vanderhook.

  "No! I want..." His grip on her elbows was almost rough. "We want you!"

  A thrill shot through her, warm and exciting.

  Stell McCray swayed as he released her, and Adam had to clench his fists to keep from taking her into his arms. He had never felt the slightest attraction to a woman like her, and he wasn't going to start now. Never mind that she moved, lean and lithe, through his dreams. Forget that he'd been turning to look at every close-clipped dark head, hoping to catch a sight of a woman he knew couldn't be anywhere nearby. Anything between him and an amateur athlete was going to be strictly business. He knew only too well that there was room in a person's life for only one obsession. When he was with a woman, he wanted to be the focus of her passion, not share it with dreams of a trophy.

  "Okay now?" he asked, knowing that his abrupt reaction had caught her off balance. Again his eyes swept over her, seeing the long, red-black scabs on her forearms. He knew her legs were similarly scabbed and he wondered if they itched. He still remembered how his floor burns had itched, enough to make him crazy.

  "Fine." She pulled her arm free. "If you don't mind, I won't see you out. Just make sure the door latches behind you."

  She sounded tired. Didn't she have anyone who could stay with her? She'd said she was still feeling the aftereffects of the concussion. "Spacey" she'd said. What if she fell? Or became unconscious?

  He knew, only too well, how dangerous a concussion could be. That time Steve had gotten tangled in the wires....

  Damn! He hadn't thought about Steve in years. Not since his once-best friend had taken the Olympic gold.

  "I'll expect to hear from you, then," he told Stell. "I hope you'll decide to do it."

  Now why, he wondered as he let himself out, did his mind refuse to picture her wearing KIWANDA CycleWear?

  He kept imagining her clad in nothing at all.

  Chapter Two

  TIME TRIAL: a race against time

  "Honestly, Cindy, I'm getting along just fine." Stell twisted the telephone cord around one finger and grimaced. In the two weeks since she got out of the hospital, her best friend had called her at least three times a day.

  "But are you sure you've got plenty of food in the house? I could stop by the store on my way home and pick up whatever you need."

  "I don't need..." She sighed, telling herself to hold on to her temper. It wasn't Cindy's fault that Stell was ready to bite heads off with the slightest provocation. "Cindy, I really, truly don't need a thing. I've still got most of the gallon of milk you brought by night before last, and I've only used four slices of bread. There's enough food in the 'fridge to feed an army, and I couldn't get another thing into the freezer."

  "Well, if you're absolutely certain...."

  "I am. Now don't worry about me. I've got my leg in a brace, not my whole body."

  "But what if you fall?"

  "Then I'll drag myself to the phone and call you." She grimaced, not wanting to admit how much trouble she would have getting to her feet again. This morning she'd been on the floor for about a half hour, doing her stretching, or as much of her routine as she could with the brace and the assortment of aches and pains remaining from the crash. Getting back up had been painful and very close to impossible.

  Still, if she fell, she fell. She'd pick herself up and get on with her life. It's no different from falling in a race. You can't let the pain win.

  In six weeks she'd be back in ful
l training, so she couldn't baby herself now.

  The doorbell chimed. A good excuse. "Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you later."

  "You're sure you don't need anything?"

  "Not a thing. Thanks Cindy."

  Stell sighed as she reached for her crutches. Cindy was a good friend, but way too much of a mother hen.

  She stumped down the hall and peeked through the narrow, sheer-curtained window before unlocking the door. The form outside was familiar. It had been standing in that exact same place two weeks ago.

  "Darn," she breathed. She'd deliberately banished all thoughts about Adam Vanderhook every time they popped into her mind, which they had, far too often. Her resistance was low, that's what it was. That and his warm, soothing voice had made her feel...well, cherished.

  She'd always had a weakness for warm baritones. They were comfortable and restful voices, reminding her of Santa Claus and Grandpa.

  "Yeah, right," she muttered. The trouble was, she got goosebumps every time she thought of him. Just standing in her living room, he'd reminded her of things that had no place in her training regimen. He'd bewitched her senses, with his great body, his crooked, engaging smile, and his shivers-up-the-spine voice.

  Not to mention what he'd done to her libido.

  Adam approached the door to Estelle McCray's house reluctantly, yet with a certain anticipation. He'd quit resisting KIWANDA's venture into sportswear. Sometime in the past few days, he had acknowledged that he didn't have to be involved, that Juliana and Roger were perfectly capable of overseeing that branch of the business. As long as he concentrated on the OuterWear Division, he didn't have to be constantly reminded of a period in his life he wanted to forget. He was just helping his sister by keeping tab on Stell's recovery. It would be too bad if the CycleWear photo sessions were delayed.

  He was still not completely convinced that using amateurs in KIWANDA's advertising campaign was either practicable or doable. He needed a guarantee from each and every one of them that they'd fulfil their contracts, contracts that put no cash in their pockets. And he knew what would happen the first time one of the athletes had to make a choice between a photo shoot or a personal appearance and competing. If it weren't that Estelle McCray would look so great in KIWANDA CycleWear, he wouldn't be here.

  The curtain in the narrow window beside the door twitched, and he pasted a winning smile on his face. Like it or not, he was bringing bad news today, but there was no reason he couldn't let her down easy.

  She opened the door. "I've still got scabs," she said, before he could say a word.

  Not the most cordial greeting, but looking at her, Adam understood. She was in pain. He could read it in the lines around her mouth, the tightness at the corners of her eyes. And she was still on crutches, which didn't surprise him. He hadn't believed she'd be back on a bicycle this soon, no matter what she'd told him.

  "Yes, I see you do. Some of them are quite dramatic." He waited a beat, then went on, "May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."

  Her brows drew together, but she clumsily moved aside. He could see that she was somewhat more adept with the crutches, but still fighting them.

  Why wasn't he surprised?

  She led him into the living room and waved toward the wing chair where he'd sat before. Without waiting for him to sit, she lowered herself onto the sofa and stretched out her leg, wincing as she did so. There were sweat stains on her shirt and her hair was matted over her forehead. She'd been exercising, and he'd bet she'd overdone it.

  He would have.

  "What was it you wanted?"

  Adam realized he'd been staring at her for several minutes. "Sorry," he told her. "I was trying to decide how to say this."

  "Generally the best way is to just speak the words." Her tone was dry. Those straight, dark eyebrows of hers made her look as if she were scowling, but he saw the quick flash of a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

  He couldn't help but smile in return. "I really hate being the bearer of bad news, but I haven't much choice. The schedule for the ad campaign hasn't any slack in it. So we're going to have to find another woman cyclist to use. I realize this is a disappointment, but--"

  Her laughter stopped him. "What?"

  "Sorry. I couldn't help it. You were apologizing so nicely. As if it really mattered to me." Again that dimple. No, two. One at each corner of her mouth.

  Adam stared. "Doesn't it?" He couldn't imagine an amateur who didn't want the kind of exposure KIWANDA's ads would give. Fame brought sponsors, a necessity to an amateur athlete who needed the same sort of financial support any professional did, but was prohibited from earning it in competition or exhibition play.

  "Adam, I was dreading every second of it. I really hate being the center of attention. The thought of having to pose gave me nightmares." She patted her cast. "The only--only--good thing about this is that it's given me a graceful excuse to decline."

  For a moment he stared at her, not believing she was serious.

  Her expression convinced him. "But the publicity, the sponsorship..."

  Leaning back, she moved her leg into a different position. "I may be crazy, but I believe that if I can't win without a lot of media attention, then I shouldn't be competing. As far as the sponsorship goes, didn't I hear that Jeff Reynolds had signed on with KIWANDA?"

  "Well, yes, but--"

  "He's on my team." She grinned, and the dimples flashed, just as he'd remembered. "There are half a dozen women cyclists in town who would jump at the chance to model for you, and one who'd rather have a root canal. Use one of them."

  But I want you! Adam forced himself to return her smile. "I won't deny that our schedule is tight. We've already interviewed a couple of other women, but we were hoping that you'd recover in time."

  "My recovery is not the issue," she said, her tone sharp. "I really don't want to model for you, Mr. Vanderhook." She reached down beside her chair and picked up her crutches. "Now, if you'll excuse me...."

  Adam rose, but deliberately watched as she struggled to her feet. After two weeks, she should be more adept at managing the crutches. Was she fighting them? He'd bet on it.

  "I can find my way out," he said.

  "I have to check the mail." She followed him down the hall.

  This was no way to leave her, not with both of them annoyed. While he had no intention of going beyond friendship with Stell McCray, he did want that much. He might not approve of her obsession, but he admired her determination and he liked the person he'd seen so far. Maybe he could help her, having faced the same decision she must make.

  Stell opened the door for him, intending to give him a polite goodbye. As she moved aside so he could step across the threshold, her cast got tangled with one crutch and she started to fall.

  He caught her as she swayed, held her solidly, her breasts flattened against his chest. Somehow one of his legs was between hers. She gasped, and he felt suddenly breathless. Her mouth was less then two inches from his, her hot breath wafted across his cheek.

  Adam found himself drowning in a sea of desire. Her scent was floral and spice, her lithe body was spring steel under a layer of soft flesh and sweet curves. He forgot why he had come to her house, forgot that he had a plane to meet in a little more than an hour, forgot that the sun was shining and the spring wind smelled of growth and rebirth.

  The world narrowed to this time and this place. His awareness was captured by changeable hazel eyes almost hidden by thick lashes on slumberous lids, by pink and juicy lips inviting him to sample their taste. His body burned wherever she touched it, all down his chest, across his belly, around his thigh. He groaned with the ache of burgeoning arousal as he took the mouth he'd wanted to kiss since forever.

  He tasted, he devoured. He drank of her delicious mouth, nibbled at her ripe lips. He left her mouth, to trail biting kisses along her velvety cheek, to explore the delicate shell of her ear with a tongue hungry for more.

  Her hands were tangled in his hair, and her bod
y was pliant in his arms. Responsive, as if she would follow wherever he led, willingly cooperate in whatever he suggested. Her eyes were closed, her head was drooping like an elegant flower over his encircling arm. Her lips were half-parted, inviting, tempting, promising.

  Adam's mind returned from whatever void it had wandered into when instinct and lust took command. What an idiot he'd been. Here she was, all but disabled, and he'd mistaken her inescapable clumsiness for a come-on.

  "I'm sorry," he said, hearing how inadequate it sounded. He slipped an arm around her waist as she sagged against him, involuntarily aware of how supple it was, and how slim.

  Her chin was lowered and her face turned away from him. "So am I," she half-whispered. But she didn't try to escape his grasp and she didn't reach for the crutches that had fallen on either side of her when he took her into his arms. "The living room." She gestured with her hand. "I need to sit down."

  So did he. The emotions he'd just experienced had drained him, left him as emotionally limp as the proverbial dishrag.

  "Can you hand me my crutches?"

  "I'll do better than that." Without waiting for her to object, he swung her up against his chest. She was heavier than she looked, and he did his best not to grunt. If he was going to act like a swashbuckler, he'd damn well play the role. He couldn't imagine Sinbad or d'Artagnan grunting and groaning as they carried their ladies fair off into the sunset.

  He managed to stride into the living room and place her carefully on the sofa before he collapsed. He even managed to resist the need to take deep, gasping breaths until he was out of her sight, fetching her crutches from the hall.

  It must be the cycling. She looked almost delicate in loose pants and sweatshirt, but he knew, from holding her and running his hands over her delightful, slim body, that she was all muscle. He'd expected a softly feminine burden, and he'd lifted a finely tuned cycling machine.

  The residue of desire left him as if it had never existed. Each reminder that she was a serious athlete brought him back to reality as effectively as a bucket of ice water in the face.

  Stell let him carry her into the living room without protest. She wasn't sure she could stand steady, anyway. Not on one foot, at least.