TWICE VICTORIOUS

by Judith B. Glad

  Nothing except the soggy view through the rain-washed windows of her house.

  "I really should get to more of these meetings," she told Adam as they waited in line to enter the banquet room. The day's workshops had been jointly sponsored by the Small Business Administration and a local organization of small business owners. She'd received their announcement several weeks ago and had actually given a few seconds thought to attending. Then she'd remembered that the date was that of the season's first velodrome race and she'd tossed the material in the trash.

  Well, she hadn't raced, as she'd intended to, but at least she'd been there to cheer her friends and teammates on. Warren had taken a second.

  She would have had a first, if she'd raced. There hadn't been anyone there today who could compete at her level.

  The doors opened then, and they went in. After that, she had no opportunity for private conversation with Adam. People she hadn't seen for years, since she left the corporate rat race, came by the table to visit. When she wasn't renewing old ties, Adam was.

  Isn't that what these events are all about? They're not social, they're business.

  When they were finally alone, in the darkness of Adam's car, Stell realized how tired she was. "Chester North could record bedtime stories and make a mint," she said, yawning.

  "He's not the most exciting speaker in the work," Adam agreed, "but he had some good information to dispense."

  "If you could stay awake long enough to hear it. I dropped off at least twice."

  His chuckle held sympathy. "I saw. Your head kept nodding to the side, and once I was afraid you'd fall out of your chair."

  "It wasn't that bad!" Yes, it was. She could remember practically nothing of what North had said. "I've never met an accountant who was an interesting speaker," she said. "There's something about the profession--"

  "So why are you one?"

  Stell thought a moment. "I honestly don't know. I guess it was interesting once, but it didn't take me many audits to discover that I'd far rather keep track of everyday finances than do the things a CPA gets stuck with."

  Adam pulled to a stop at a red light. Turning toward her, he said, " Why do you go to the races, Stell? You said it bothered you to watch your team racing when you couldn't participate." Adam's voice had a note of tension, as if her answer really mattered to him.

  "Yes, a little." She chewed her lip. "No, it bothers me a lot. But I know I'll be back out with them in a month or so, and I can deal with it."

  "A month or so! You shouldn't even be walking without a brace yet and you're thinking of racing in a month?"

  "Sure. Any reason why not?" She knew of at least three. Her knee, her hip and her ankle. But those were reasons she could deal with, obstacles she could overcome.

  "Any reason? My God, woman, you damn near killed yourself a few weeks ago, and you sound like you're determined to finish the job as soon as you can."

  "Don't be ridiculous," she said, furious at his assumption that she would do something dangerous. She wouldn't ride again until she was sure it wouldn't hurt her. Frank Pauvel was being conservative, like all doctors. And Carl hadn't said she couldn't be back on her bike by the middle of June.

  She was pushed against the door as Adam swerved around a corner. Stell looked into the rainswept night and saw that they were in the parking lot at Mount Tabor Park. Another sharp swerve and they were at the upper end, away from the few other vehicles scattered around the margins of the large lot. As soon as the engine died, Adam was facing her. "What have you got for brains, woman? Oatmeal?" His voice shook. "Damn it. You make me want to...to shake some sense into that hard head of yours."

  "What in the...? Adam, what are you talking about?" He'd been angry all evening. She'd sensed it from the moment he'd arrived, looking knock-your-socks-off gorgeous in his dark gray suit, pale mauve shirt and fuchsia silk tie. Even when he'd smiled, she'd seen the tiny frown brackets between his pale gold brows, the inverted half-circles around his mouth that weren't laugh lines. "What is your problem?"

  "You!" The word burst from him. "You're my problem, Stell. You and your idiotic bicycle fixation." With obvious expertise, he released her seat belt buckle and pulled her across the console to rest in his lap. "You're driving me nuts, woman." His mouth descended on hers, passionately, possessively.

  She didn't even consider objecting. The part of her that still thought of something other than cycling, a very small, but absolutely ineradicable part, had been missing him all week, had hungered for this very sort of kiss. That part went wild, freeing her inhibitions and relaxing her control.

  But when Adam's hand cupped her breast, sending waves of need through her, the more sensible, single-minded part took control. "No, Adam. Not again." She wriggled free and back to her own side of the car. "If you can't keep your hands off of me, you'd better take me home."

  She didn't tell him that if he touched her again, it wouldn't be only he who had trouble keeping his hands to himself. That would be a self-defeating admission. He turned around and faced forward. Even in the dim light she could see the white of his knuckles as he gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Something was indeed bothering him, and she had a hunch it was more than sexual frustration.

  "I'm really sorry I missed your workshop this afternoon," she said, hoping she could distract him by centering on his accomplishments. "Three different people told me it was worth attending. How did you learn so much about starting on a shoestring?"

  He laughed without humor. "The only way to learn. By doing."

  "But I thought...." What had she thought? She realized she hadn't even read the material about KIWANDA she'd received, back when her team was selected to model their new line of CycleWear. All she really knew was that the company was local and very successful.

  "Not exactly a shoestring," he said, his voice sounding fondly reminiscent. "My sister and I, with Mom's help, built KIWANDA from five yards of Urethane-coated nylon. Of course, we had Roger's advice. He did all the creative money-magic that got us our first production equipment."

  "Your accountant?"

  "My brother-in-law. He has a degree in Electrical Engineering, and a green thumb. Money-green. He can find financing where there isn't any, and he can squeeze cash out of a customer who hasn't paid any bills for months."

  "Sounds like a talented man. And a good one to have around, that's for sure. What did you make out of the nylon?"

  He chuckled. "A hunting suit for Roger. He hates rain--grew up in Arizona--and he's an avid bow-hunter. He refused to believe that no rugged, lightweight, really waterproof clothing was commercially available. Everything was heavy, coated canvas that was like wearing a lightweight suit of armor. He told us Oregonians owed it to the world to develop some. Either that or stop claiming Oregon was habitable in the winter." His teeth flashed in the light from a distant street lamp. "Juliana decided she had to clothe him, since she wanted to marry the guy."

  "And you saw the potential in the rain suit she made?" Of course. He would have. Even before she'd been asked to model for KIWANDA, she'd heard of the uncanny instinct Adam Vanderhook had for the marketability of unusual outerwear. One didn't work on the fringes of Portland's financial community without being aware of who the hot names belonged to.

  "Not hardly. I laughed at it. Juliana hasn't forgiven me yet for making a better one. It was Roger's idea to market it."

  "But you did the work," she guessed. "You were the one who sold it."

  "Only because Juliana is such a talented seamstress. If our potential customers had seen the suit I made for Roger, they'd have died laughing. Most of the seams came unstitched before he got back from his first hunting trip." Again his teeth flashed. "But he kept warm and dry until they did."

  She had to chuckle. That was why his abrupt change of subject caught her flat-footed.

  "Why are you wasting your time with penny-ante stuff?"

  "Huh?"

  "You heard me. You're bright, talented, and a top-notch CPA. I was
talking to Ray Wasatch the other day and your name came up. You could be pulling down top dollar if you applied yourself."

  "And I could be working seventy-hour weeks, lightening my coffee with antacids instead of cream, and working myself into a coronary before I'm fifty." She shook her head, knowing he could see the motion in the dimly-lit car. "No way. I'm doing exactly what I want to do, and at the pace I set for myself."

  "Doesn't it bother you that you're wasting your education?"

  "Am I? I'm applying what I learned. I perform a valuable service, and the rewards are worthwhile." Although she knew she was climbing onto her soapbox, she didn't care. She got darned tired of Adam's conventional attitude, for this wasn't the first time she'd encountered it, not by a long shot.

  "My clients deserve the same quality of financial advice as the big corporations. More, maybe, because the small business owner faces a disproportionate level of taxes and fees. And most of them need advice on how to manage their money efficiently. They're too busy balancing income and outgo to worry much about what to do with their occasional cash surplus. I can show them how to make short term investments, make decisions about capital expenditures, budget..." She stopped, aware she was lecturing. "Let's just say I can help with all the things the average small business owner hasn't the time or experience to do."

  "Hey, I didn't mean..."

  "Sure you did! People like you just can't see that some people don't want to expand, don't want to grow. Open your eyes, Adam. There are a lot of us out here who are perfectly content to stay small, and not have to contend with the hassle of being employers."

  "It just seems such a shame that someone with your potential is missing out on opportunity. Stell, there's no limit to how far you could go."

  "That's enough, Adam. I'm content with my life, and I don't want to go far. Drop it."

  "Well, I still can't understand why anyone would want to stagnate, but if that's your idea of a good life, I'll be the last one to argue."

  Darn the man! He sounded so patronizing. It was her turn.

  "Look Adam, what would you do if I suggested that you would improve the quality of your life if you were to take up some competitive sport? You've proven you've got the necessary drive, the single-mindedness that it takes to be a champion." She leaned toward him. For a second it seemed as if he was shrinking back against the door, away from her. "And look at you! You're in excellent shape, but I'll bet you maintain your fitness in a gym."

  His grunt of agreement was all she needed. "Had you ever considered getting outside and doing something besides running? Take up windsurfing, maybe? I mean, you're a prime candidate for all the stress-related illnesses and you don't seem to be doing anything about it."

  "I'm healthy." His tone was flat, forbidding.

  "Yes, but how much more healthy would you be if you were doing something energetic, demanding, and competitive? I'll bet you've never really gotten involved in any sport. Not enough to know how rewarding it can be." She reached across the car, gripped his forearm. "Do you have any idea of what you're missing?"

  With an abrupt jerk, Adam pulled his arm free. Turned the ignition key. "It's time I took you home."

  She barely had time to fasten her seat belt before they were out of the parking lot and roaring up Sixtieth toward her home.

  * * * *

  "Steve says hello."

  Adam looked up from the April financial statement. His sister was standing in the door of his office, looking innocent as hell. "Steve?" Memories overwhelmed him, memories he'd kept firmly locked away for a long time.

  "Steve Francisco. Your old buddy. Your best friend." Juliana's eyes were full of questions. "He's in Denver, setting up a Salle."

  So Steve was finally getting around to doing what they'd once planned to do together. Deliberately he looked down at the papers before him, but the words and numbers they held were a jumble of black and white, meaningless shapes blurred by intrusive memories. "So?" One word was all he could manage.

  "He called Mom last night. He wanted your phone number." Her words hung in the air, waiting for his response.

  Adam wasn't sure what he felt. "Did she give it to him?"

  "Yes."

  "Damn!" The pen in his hand snapped. Adam looked at the pieces, tossed them aside.

  Juliana dropped into the chair across from him, glaring. "It's been seventeen years, Adam. When are you going to forgive Steve for your own stupidity?"

  It was just like her to blame him for the loss of a once firm friendship. She had played big sister to his best friend since third grade. When Steve had faltered, not believing they could be the best, Juliana had always urged him on, sharing her unwavering faith in his ability.

  So why was he surprised at her attack? He'd always known how she felt, even though she'd said very little at the time he'd decided to come home for good.

  "Don't you ever wonder what might have been if you hadn't decided to be so nobly self-sacrificing, Adam? And why it was so easy for you to make that sacrifice?" Without waiting for an answer, she rose and walked out of his office, pulling the door quietly closed behind her.

  Wonder? Of course he'd wondered. Back then he'd spent far too many black, lonely nights questioning his decision to give up the sport that had consumed him for so long. Even now, with a satisfying, successful life and a golden future in store, he still occasionally wondered if he'd done the right thing.

  Then he'd think about KIWANDA, and know he had.

  Chapter Five

  ATTACK: a sudden attempt to pull ahead of the pack or any other group of riders

  "I'm a glutton for punishment," Adam muttered to himself as he dialed. It had been a week since he'd seen Stell. A week of peace and quiet. A week without contention, without arguments over whether business or sports were more or less healthy.

  A week of aching loneliness.

  At the fourth ring, her answering machine kicked on. He waited for the record tone, tapping two fingers against the shining cherrywood of his desk. Finally, "Stell, this is Adam. I'm having dinner with some representatives of Life Sport tonight and I just found out their wives will be there. Are you free?"

  A click and her voice cut in. "Adam, I'm here. I was just trying to get some work done."

  He tried to ignore the accelerated beat of his heart as she answered. It hadn't been his idea to invite her this evening, but Juliana's. When his sister had pointed out the competitive advantage he'd have if a world class cyclist was his date, he'd had to agree.

  Soon it was all arranged and Adam hung up, half glad she'd accepted. The other half of him was wishing he'd never gotten acquainted with Stell McCray.

  The glad half spent the rest of the afternoon looking forward to the evening and not getting a lot of work done.

  "Why me?" Stell asked that evening as he escorted her to his car. "You must have three dozen names in your little black book, all of whom could help you sell KIWANDA to Life Sport."

  He carefully avoided touching her arm as she slipped into the car. "None of them know cycling like you do." His words echoed in his ears as he went around to the driver's side. "And," he continued, once he was in his seat, "it's not black. It's burgundy."

  "It would be." She chuckled. "I'm glad you didn't deny having one."

  Adam was relieved that she didn't seem inclined to return to the topic of conversation that had ended their last date. "Any good businessman has an address book," he said, putting as much sanctimoniousness into his voice as he could. "Don't you?"

  "Yes, but all mine contains is client names." From the corner of his eye, he saw her lean back, as if she were tired. "Are you trying to sell KIWANDA to Life Sport?"

  "I don't have to. It sells itself." He saw a flashing red light ahead and quickly steered the car to the left. If the drawbridges across the river were closed, they'd better take the freeway downtown or Roberts and Schwartz would think they'd been forgotten. "Tonight's in the way of saying thanks. They're going to do a feature on KIWANDA CycleWear in the
winter issue."

  As they swooped down onto the freeway, Stell said, "Where are we going?"

  Adam looked upriver as they climbed high above it. Sure enough, traffic was backed up at all three downtown bridges, whose spans were raised high above the water. It looked like a Navy ship coming in to moor at the Esplanade. "The Sky Room. It's got the best view of downtown."

  "Oh, my. Are you sure I shouldn't have worn my diamonds?"

  "Do you have any?"

  "Of course I do. All successful Yuppies have them. And I was, you know."

  "Successful? Or a Yuppie?"

  A gurgle of laughter accompanied her answer. "Both, Adam. I was both."

  "I never doubted it." He slanted a look sideways, liking what he saw. Tonight she was wearing a slim blue dress of supple knit. He'd bet it was a wool blend, from the way it clung to her, defining her small, high breasts and her tight, sexy bottom. She'd tossed a matching suede jacket into the back seat, for so far the May night was warm and balmy. Rain, always a possibility this time of year, was still only a promise in the low clouds.

  "We're early," he said, pulling to a stop beside the parking attendant's booth. "About fifteen minutes. Do you want to walk around, or shall we go on up?" As soon as he'd spoken he thought of her leg. Could she walk around, especially in those shoes?

  "Let's go up. I've always liked the view."

  With his hand on her waist, Adam felt how tightly she was holding herself. Was she apprehensive at meeting Roberts and Schwartz? Or was there something else wrong?

  * * * *

  Adam's hand was warm on her back. Sternly Stell reminded herself of the resolution she'd made after their abrupt parting last week. She would see him occasionally, because she found him interesting, amusing, and generally good company, but she would not let her hormones overwhelm her good sense. From now until she crossed the finish line in the Idaho mountains next June, she was not going to get passionate about anything but cycling. Anything!

  That wasn't saying she couldn't try her hand at a little reforming. She still wanted to get him on a bicycle.