by Joyce Lamb
Nothing in her face moved, but the set of her shoulders firmed. “A couple of weeks” was not a good answer. “Worst case?” she asked.
“A couple of months.”
She looked away for a moment, a muscle flexing at her temple. “I can’t afford that much of a delay.”
“Don’t you want to know who did that to you?” He gestured none too smoothly at her braced knee.
She looked at him, eyes well hidden behind dark shades, but he sensed their narrowing. “Finding out who did it won’t change anything.”
“Might be nice if the bastards paid for what they did.” Nice was a major understatement. He wanted blood. A shit-load of blood. And some screams for mercy.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves here,” Sam said. “Kylie, can you at least shut things down for a day while we test the evidence? We’ll go from there.”
Chase had to give him credit for making it sound like she had a choice.
She nodded reluctantly. “I’ll let the foreman know.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. “We’ll be in touch.”
She’d taken only a few steps when Chase went after her. “Wait.”
She faced him, and he saw from the angle of her head that she darted a glance after Sam, as if she’d lost her buffer. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?” So lame, he thought. Of course she wasn’t okay. Why was he asking anyway? They hadn’t parted as friends, and every time they’d run into each other since she’d returned, they’d danced around each other as gracefully as newborn colts.
She gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Great, really. Couldn’t be better.”
Before he could snap back with something equally sarcastic, she blew out a huff of air as a small, contrite smile softened her features. “Wow, that was bitchy.”
The stiffness in his shoulders eased some, and he smiled back. “I won’t argue with that.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had . . . well, this day . . .” She trailed off, eyebrows cinching together above the rims of her sunglasses.
“It can’t be easy.”
The splash of puddles in the parking lot had them both looking in that direction. As a news van parked next to Chase’s SUV, she sighed. “Terrific.”
“Media hell all over again, huh?”
She nodded without looking at him. “It never seems to end around here.”
“So you’re taking off soon then?”
He knew it was a dig, and part of him, the ugly, still-ticked part, meant it as one. When the going got tough, and the spotlight switched on, Kylie got packing. Why would now be any different than ten years ago? And, really, who could blame her? She had a past the press loved to rehash. Nothing sold newspapers like blood and guts and brutalized, pretty women.
She glanced at him, her smile hard now, forced. “I’m staying. Dad wanted a tennis center in Kendall Falls with the family name on it, so that’s what I’m doing. Sabotage didn’t chase me away. And neither will a ten-year-old baseball bat and endless media attention. Any other questions?”
He was glad she couldn’t tell by looking at him that the determination in her voice had sparked awake something long asleep inside him. He’d always been so turned on by her competitive spirit. He’d missed that since she’d gone. Hell, he’d missed it before she took off.
“I think that about covers it,” he said, unable to stop the quirk to his lips. “Have a nice day.” If he’d worn a hat, he would have touched the brim with a muttered “ma’am” and a nod.
“You, too,” she said stiffly before she turned and walked away.
He watched her go, appreciating the slight sway of her slim hips. As a teen, she’d had a compact, athletic body trained for lightning speed and power serves. But the tomboy had grown up, and toughness and strength were now tempered by soft curves that were way too sexy for the guy in him to ignore.
The black knee brace, so stark against the tanned skin of her leg, cooled the heat in his gut, though. That brace was part of the reason he’d become a cop. He’d vowed to make the people who did that to her pay.
As the wind picked up and lightning cracked, almost immediately followed by a crash of thunder, he thought that maybe now he’d get the chance.
2
KYLIE TOSSED THE TENNIS BALL INTO THE AIR AND slammed it with a satisfying thwack. At the height of her career, when she won her first, and only, Grand Slam tournament, she could knock the ball into the service court at a hundred miles per hour. That was ten years, eight knee surgeries and a full year of physical rehabilitation ago.
Lately, when she punished the innocent little yellow ball, she did it to show her college tennis team the proper form. Most of the time. She also did it to work out her issues. Of which she seemed to have many, especially since quitting her coaching job at UCLA to return to her hometown with the idea of reclaiming the life she’d abandoned.
She hadn’t planned on running into Chase Manning so regularly, though. It didn’t help that he didn’t sport a huge gut and flabby arms. No, he was even more gorgeous than when she’d embraced her inner coward and left him. Tall, imposing, muscular in the perfect kind of way that was sculpted but not bulky. Green eyes the color of the deep forest and capable of being just as dark and intimidating. He smelled the same, too—like tropical sunscreen.
Leaving him . . . no, “leaving” wasn’t strong enough. Running away, that’s what she’d done. Run and run and run, as fast and as far as she could. By the time the reality check smacked her in the forehead that she’d abandoned and hurt the one person who could get her through losing her dreams, losing her way, he’d had a ring on his finger and a kid on the way.
Drawing in a long, pulse-slowing breath, she bounced a tennis ball several times and tried to get her focus back. Punish the ball. Work it out.
But, God, he’d called her Ky this afternoon. Hearing her name in that radio-ready voice—like expensive brandy: smooth with just a hint of fire—conjured memories of breathless whispers and naked, sweat-slicked bodies that fit, and moved, together so perfectly.
Cheeks heating, she angled her head to pop the tension out of her neck. Right. It’s not too warm out here at all. Focus, damn it. Hit the ball into the next galaxy.
“So, bad time?”
She whirled at the voice behind her, heart rate spiking into the fight-or-flight zone. She’d already yanked her racket up, ready to defend herself, when she recognized her best friend easing through the gate in the fence surrounding the lighted court. Trisha’s arms were loaded with a couple of bottles of blue Gatorade and two takeout Chinese boxes.
Feeling foolish, yet grateful that Trisha appeared oblivious to her overreaction, Kylie jogged over to help her with her bounty.
In khaki shorts and an orange and teal Dolphins T-shirt, Trisha Young looked the same as she had in high school. Freckles still crowded her otherwise fair complexion, and her short, curly auburn hair still frizzed in the Florida humidity. She’d gained a few pounds in recent years, but she liked to joke that the pounds landed in prime locations: her boobs and her butt.
Trisha started laughing as she bobbled a chilled bottle of Gatorade right into Kylie’s waiting hands. “Good catch.”
“Let me guess who loaded you up with all this stuff. Jane?”
“Quinn, too. They’re worried about you.”
“I know. They’ve been hovering all night.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” Trisha said lightly.
Kylie twisted open a bottle and quenched a thirst she’d been too stubborn to deal with half an hour ago. Doing so would have required going inside where her overly concerned siblings lingered. Much as she appreciated their concern, she couldn’t cope with their constant questions.
Are you all right?
Do you need anything?
Want to talk about it?
Yes, no, double no and please, please go away.
“What have you got?” she asked Trisha, nodding toward the takeout boxes. Starving didn’t begin to cover the gnawi
ng in her belly. And it had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with Chase Manning. This was good old plain hunger. Beef-cake wouldn’t satisfy it. Right? Right.
“They couldn’t agree on your favorite,” Trisha said, “so they had me pick up Singapore rice noodles and Mongolian beef. So which is it?”
“Singapore rice noodles, hold the shrimp.”
Trisha grinned and held out one of the boxes and a plastic fork. “Quinn wins.”
Kylie grinned back. “He usually does.”
They both plopped down on the court with their backs to the fence and tore open their respective containers.
Trisha already had a mouthful when she said, “It’s so nice out here. Quiet and peaceful.”
Kylie nodded as she glanced around at the private tennis court. A short walk away, through a small forest of palm and pine trees, sat the home she’d rented when she returned to the area. The house itself—a modest fifteen hundred square feet with two bedrooms, two baths and an open layout—was nothing special. But it sat on the beach, surrounded by thick, green vegetation that provided the kind of privacy rarely seen in newer beachfront property.
She’d furnished it with some of her father’s belongings, but living with his things, without him, had been difficult the past six months. Everything still smelled like Irish Spring . . . and the past. In fact, everything about Kendall Falls, from the salty gulf air to Chase’s sunscreen, smelled like the past. And it wasn’t all good.
“I hope you plan to share,” Trisha said, eyeing Kylie’s takeout container. “I love me some Mongolian beef, but I’m a sucker for the noodles.”
Kylie nodded as she swirled her fork among the thin curried noodles. “Always happy to share.”
“Except when it comes to feelings,” Trisha pointed out before launching into a mournful, off-key version of the old standard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, feelinnnnngs.”
Kylie laughed. “Please stop, I’ll talk. I’ll talk!”
Trisha quieted, expectant eyebrows arched as she forked up a large piece of beef and chewed.
Kylie captured some noodles and savored the silence. And missed Los Angeles, where she did her job and lived quite happily in the present and never had to talk about the past. Every once in a while, a new friend would ask, but after a couple of vague answers and deliberate changes of subject, she always managed to wiggle off the hook. Not so here in Kendall Falls, where the world still seemed to revolve around the blackest day of her life.
“You’re not talking,” Trisha said, her words muffled by food.
Kylie smiled. Trisha hadn’t paid much attention to manners as a teenager, and the years hadn’t changed that about her. She’d changed in other ways, though. She no longer skirted the tough topics. Her blunt questions drilled right to the heart of the matter without fear of offense or hurt or stirring up bad memories. Kylie hadn’t quite figured out how to duck and dodge this new aspect of her friend when they were face to face. On the phone long-distance, it was easy enough to say she had to go and end the conversation. E-mail was even easier: She just didn’t respond to the parts she didn’t want to.
“How about I get you started,” Trisha said. “I’ll start a statement, and you can finish it. Ready?”
“I don’t—”
“I really hate, or love, reality TV because . . .”
Kylie was too relieved by the reprieve to laugh. “It’s addictive.”
“Hate it or love it?”
“Both, for the same reason.”
“Fair enough. Here’s another: If I could rule the world, I’d ...”
Grinning, Kylie drank some Gatorade before answering. “Make daily naps in the workplace mandatory.”
“Good one,” Trisha said, nodding. She held out her Chinese container. “Trade?”
Kylie made the swap and dug into the Mongolian beef. Maybe she could handle this little game after all.
Trisha cleared her throat. “When I saw that baseball bat this afternoon, I wanted to . . .”
Damn. Damn. Damn it.
“Take your time,” Trisha said, casual as she sucked a twirl of noodles off her fork.
The beef that tasted fabulous a moment ago became flavorless in Kylie’s mouth, and she had to force herself to swallow it. No longer hungry, she set aside the takeout box and rolled her shoulders in the night air. Humidity made everything feel sticky and thick and uncomfortable, and she thought for the millionth time of standing in front of Chase Manning while he’d stared at the bat, his face flushing red. The air had been sticky and thick and uncomfortable then, too. And it had taken every instant of competitive training over the years to stand there, shoulders squared and face still, while her world shifted off its foundation.
When Trisha cleared her throat, calling attention to the lengthening silence, Kylie felt she had no choice but to say something. “It might not be the bat.”
“What if it is?”
Shrugging, Kylie retrieved the box of noodles from Trisha’s hand and dug back in. “I’ll deal.”
“Too easy. What if it is?”
“I’d rather jump off that bridge when I come to it.”
“Hmm, I wonder what Dr. Jane would say about talk of bridge-jumping.”
Kylie grinned at her. “Nothing. Psychiatrists aren’t allowed to treat family members.”
Trisha, for once, didn’t grin back, her expression dead serious. “Quit dodging and talk to me. This thing, this bat being found . . . it’s huge.”
“It isn’t huge until they prove it’s the weapon.”
“You know it is or you wouldn’t be out here alone at ten at night smacking the stuffing out of tennis balls.”
“Tennis balls don’t have stuffing.”
Trisha’s reddish brown eyes narrowed. “Now you’re starting to irk me.”
“I’m not trying to. I just . . .” Frustrated, she set aside the container. “I just can’t, okay?”
Trisha turned her attention to hunting around in the other takeout box for any beef she’d missed. “You know I had to try, right? It’s my duty as your best friend.”
“I appreciate it. I really do. And I’m fine. I promise.”
Trisha cast her the sure-you-are eye, but before she could dive into another touchy subject, Kylie asked, “So how’s Roger?”
Trisha gave a little shrug. “Eh.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“He really isn’t my type, anyway. Hey, I heard Chase Manning is on the reopened investigation.”
Damn. Cornered again. Kylie managed a casual nod. “He’s one of the detectives on the case. I think we went to school with his partner, Sam Hawkins. He seems familiar.”
Trisha nodded. “He was a year behind us. He asked Patti out once. Remember?”
Kylie didn’t, but whatever. She’d managed to change the subject. “Do you still talk to Patti?” When she’d left, she’d lost touch with all of her friends except Trisha.
“Occasionally. She’s a nurse in Tampa now. Last time she came to Kendall Falls, we got together, but it wasn’t the same without the rest of the gang. We should plan something now that you’re back.”
Kylie gave a noncommittal nod, but before she could respond, Trisha said, “Maybe you and Chase will, you know, work out your differences.”
Kylie had to force herself not to stiffen. “We don’t have any differences to work out. He became a father nine months after I left. There’s not a much more decisive way to say he got over me in record time.”
With that, she pushed to her feet and started gathering the trash from their dinner. “Shall we go in before Jane and Quinn come looking for us?”
Trisha rose, too, and brushed at the seat of her khakis. “Interesting. You’d rather face the hovercrafts than talk about Chase.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. It was a teen romance that ended the instant I went away to college. End of story.”
“A gross oversimplification if I ever heard one. You’d still be together if—”
“How abo
ut some Rocky Road? Jane said she picked some up on the way over. She thinks it’s my favorite, but I’m sure Quinn could tell her it’s Moose Tracks.”
Trisha sighed as she fell into step beside her. “Okay, okay. Hint taken. You win.”
Kylie draped an arm around Trisha’s shoulders and hugged her. “Finally!”
3
CHASE SAT WITH THE SPORTS SECTION SPREAD BEFORE him on the kitchen table, his coffee cooling near his right hand. The scores didn’t have his attention, though. No, that was focused on Kylie McKay. The woman was so very different from the girl he remembered. The attack changed the warm, outgoing, fun-loving girl he’d adored into a guarded, contained woman bent on not feeling anything—or at least pretending she didn’t feel anything. Somewhere along the way, she’d begun applying the strategies of the game to life. Don’t show emotion. Out-thinking opponents is as important as out-playing them.
And he’d somehow become an opponent. Probably around the time he tried to get her to open up and talk to him about what happened to her on that path. He’d expected tears and anger. He’d thought maybe she’d rage around, maybe throw a few things, hopefully not at his head. Instead, she’d packed her bags and took off, using college as an excuse to break it off with him. She hadn’t wanted a “long-distance relationship.” Like hell. She hadn’t wanted a relationship, period. That would have required feeling and wanting and coping—all the things she’d stopped doing the moment her doctors said she could no longer play competitive tennis. Frustrating as hell, but what could he have done then except let her go to find her new way?
Not that he’d had a choice. He’d begged to go with her, shameful as that was. But he’d been a kid then, a teenage boy struck dumb by the grace and beauty of a girl he’d seen for the first time across a net. Pussy that he’d been, he would have chucked everything for her. Though a crappy childhood—with a mother who wussed out on her only child and a father who punctuated his every irrational point with brutal fists—wasn’t much to chuck, really. But still.
And when he’d pleaded, she’d crushed him with one simple word: No.