Love in Straight Sets

by Rebecca Crowley

  “My ninja outfit is at the cleaner’s,” she joked, shrugging on a playful tone as though it could protect her from the dangerous thrill his words sent ricocheting through her body. Terrified of the urge yet unable to stop it, she reached up to touch the end of his untied bow tie, which hung on either side of his open collar. “This is a good look. Very James Bond. Though in Palm Beach society it’s normally reserved for the after-party.”

  “I snagged the knot and it came undone. It was a lost cause.”

  He drew the kind of breath that signaled a shift to serious conversation, and Regan braced herself for the worst. This would be the moment he quit—the moment she lost him.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better red carpet companion earlier.” He leaned his forearms on the railing, tilting his head to face her. “The cameras caught me by surprise and I took it out on you. I need to come to terms with the fact that publicity is unavoidable at this level, and that coping with it is my problem, not yours.”

  She stared at him in startled silence, her stomach somersaulting with a mixture of surprise and relief. Ben watched the waves for another minute, his expression thoughtful, until her lack of response must have begun to worry him and he turned to her with a furrowed brow.

  “I don’t want you to think I can’t handle all the extras that come with coaching a professional. Just because I haven’t done it before doesn’t mean I won’t figure it out as I go along.”

  “I don’t think that.” She shook her head. “Actually, I think you’re doing great. And I know I don’t make it easy for you.”

  He smiled, and it rivaled the glow of the almost-full moon. “No, you don’t. Nor do you make it easy for yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He straightened and faced her, propping one hip against the railing. “You know that if you transferred even half of the effort you put into arguing with me into your tactics on the court, you could be unbeatable.”

  “It’s how I’ve always played,” she protested, crossing her arms. “I’m not one of those mechanistic, programmable players that get churned out of the academies and don’t know what to do unless their coach tells them. I’m too independent for that. I’m a thinker.”

  “You’re an overthinker,” he countered. “You need to play more with your heart and less with your head. Leave the technicalities and the tactics to me—that’s my job. Yours is to listen to your gut and react.”

  “But I like the technicalities,” she insisted, knowing full well it wasn’t true. “I like the tactics. I don’t want to be cut out of that.”

  “No one’s cutting you out of anything.” Ben put his hands on her upper arms, and a sensual beat began to throb low in her belly at the touch of his palms against her bare skin. “Remember how good it felt to run outside yesterday? You were so worried about leaving the clubhouse, but I looked after you, didn’t I? Nothing went wrong. You left the navigation to me and enjoyed the ride. That’s all I want. Trust me enough to give me some of your burdens and make some of your hard decisions. Put your faith in me. Let go.”

  Let go. Those two small, gently urged words were like a sledgehammer to the high but brittle wall Regan had been building around herself since her first session with Ben. She wanted more than anything to do what he asked, to concentrate on her aching legs and her burning lungs instead of the thousand-and-one possible directions the match could take, to focus on the external and forget about the internal, to watch the ball arc toward her across the court and empty her mind of everything but how to hit it back. She was desperate for the relief of being forced out of her own brain and relinquishing all control.

  But she had no idea how to do it, and was scared to death of what might happen if she did.

  “I haven’t given you your birthday present.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to do anything else for me. Being here tonight is more than I had the right to ask.”

  “Too late—it’s nonrefundable.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, but kept his fist closed around whatever he retrieved from it.

  “In Zimbabwe we have the Shona people,” he began, his voice low and reflective. “And they use totems, or mitupo, to symbolize their clans. The totems are often animals, like zebras or elephants, and although the totems may be used across regions, people of the same totem regard themselves as descendants of a common ancestor.”

  Regan watched his closed hand, listening carefully, keen not to disrespect the African traditions he’d grown up with.

  “So when a chieftain, when a clan needs—” Ben cleared his throat and she looked up at him in concern, worried this was too emotional for him...and caught sight of the grin he was failing to smother.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” He laughed fully then, such a welcoming, congenial sound that a smile tugged at her own lips. “I haven’t gotten you a Shona artifact. I’ve never even seen one. There was no African mysticism in my childhood—we had a swimming pool and a Portuguese housekeeper. Here.” He took her hand and rolled a purple rubber band onto her wrist. “This is your gift. Happy birthday.”

  She stared down at her arm, trying to ignore the leap of excitement incited by his confident touch. “Thanks, but you shouldn’t have. Really.”

  “Don’t dismiss my present as a misuse of office supplies. My sister wears a rubber band on her wrist. Whenever she feels a panic attack coming on, she gives it a little snap.” He plucked the band lightly so it pinged against her skin. “The sting of it jerks her out of her thoughts and helps her calm down. I thought it might be worth a try, and no one would ever know that’s why you wear it—they’d assume it was for your ponytail.”

  She gazed up at Ben’s face, its masculine angles softened by his easy smile. Did he have any idea how much this silly, playful, yet incredibly thoughtful gesture meant to her? That he’d kept her secret was gift enough, and then to so gently suggest such a practical, discreet solution was better than three Christmas mornings at once.

  She looked again at the simple rubber band. Maybe it was little more than a grubby castoff to someone else, but to her, in that moment, it was a lifeline.

  “I can get another color if you’d prefer,” he offered. “But I went for purple to match your grip tape.”

  Suddenly the weight of the evening—of her smiling reflection in the camera lenses, of the expectant faces of her guests, of her mother’s voice carrying over the din, of the waves crashing indifferently on the shore and of this gesture that was so touching it was terrifying—became too much to bear. Her shoulders buckled under it, her head bowed and, before she could stop them, her eyes spilled over with exhausted, bewildered tears.

  “Hey now, none of that.” Ben wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tightly.

  She flattened her palms against his chest, pressing her face against the crisp cloth of his shirt as she was engulfed by the warmth of his embrace.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he urged without loosening his grip.

  “Nothing. Everything.” She sniffed, her voice wavering as she spoke. “I’m just under a lot of pressure right now.”

  “I know,” he murmured, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll get easier, I promise.”

  His moved his hand up to her nape, threading his fingers through her hair, and all at once Regan’s nerves began to broadcast their exhilaration, as her sense of his touch transformed from soothing tenderness to heady yearning.

  Abruptly her tears dried and her nipples hardened as his thumb trailed along her hairline. She felt the hard strength of his body keenly beneath her hands and shuddered deliciously under the thrilling weight of his grip. His fresh, outdoorsy scent made her think of the tickling pleasure of running her bare toes through newly cut grass. Every inch of her skin tingled, and she jerked backward in an effort to get control of herself.

  It was
a mistake. As soon as her gaze met Ben’s and saw the hot, glittering intent in his eyes, there was no turning back.

  His arm tightened around her waist as his big hand slid from the back of her neck to cup her face, his long fingers brushing back the hair at her temple. She watched his eyes flick down to her lips and back up again, and then his mouth was on hers.

  Ever since she’d been old enough to read romance novels, Regan had thought kissing was overrated. Her first kiss had been at a fraternity party in college. The guy had broken away just in time to lurch outside and empty most of what he’d guzzled during his keg stand onto the lawn. Her preference for casual hookups and no-strings-attached relationships meant most of what followed was in the same vein, and she grew to see kissing as a tedious but necessary prelude to more fun, tactile activities.

  When Ben’s lips moved against hers, however, she finally understood what all the fuss was about.

  The first touch of his mouth was gentle and testing, as if silently asking her permission. When she returned the pressure threefold, his kiss became firm and confident, slowly building in insistence and urgency.

  She raised her fingers to feel his clean-shaven cheek and then plunged them into his thick hair as her other hand clenched the stiff material of his shirt. His tongue pushed between her teeth and she widened her jaw to grant him access. The taste of champagne and ripe strawberries and the faintest hint of mint toothpaste sent a storm of desire brewing deep in her belly until it boiled over and spilled out of her as a guttural, begging moan.

  In response Ben pulled her closer, increasing the tempo as he backed her up against the railing. The metal bar digging into her back mirrored the press of his erection on her thigh, and as her sluggish, lust-heavy brain processed the size of the arousal straining against his zipper, an answering dampness flooded the apex of her thighs with such fierce urgency that she nearly cried out in desperation.

  The last sliver of coherence left in her brain narrowed with every second, and as it ran through a dimly remembered map of the hotel layout searching for hidden closets or alcoves to which they could sneak off, she grabbed Ben’s wrist, roughly pulled his hand from her face and planted it on her aching breast.

  He growled low in his throat as his thumb found the hard, hypersensitive point of her nipple through the material of her dress. She thought of how his easygoing nature contrasted with the steely, unflinching way he ordered her around the tennis court and the pace of her heartbeat doubled as she imagined how that juxtaposition might play out in the bedroom. They had to get off this balcony. But where could they go? There was that empty meeting room...

  * * *

  “There you are, Percy, I’ve been looking—oh, sorry to interrupt.”

  Ben lurched backward from the railing and spun to see Spencer Vaughan’s smug face. Tanya was at his side, her blue eyes wide as she glanced uncertainly between the two of them.

  “You’re not interrupting anything.” Regan appeared at his side, tugging at the top of her strapless dress in a way that had Ben’s groin stiffening all over again. “We were just taking a break from the party. Are you both having a good time?”

  Tanya nodded earnestly, but Spencer’s eyes glittered wolfishly. “Not as much as the two of you, I suspect.”

  Out of all the people at the party, of course they had to be discovered by the one least likely to be discreet. Well aware that his job was on the line, Ben figured the best option was to quell Spencer’s thirst for gossip before it ramped up. The less he thought he was in possession of a juicy secret, the fewer people he’d bother to tell.

  “You know how these things go,” Ben said in what he hoped was a convincingly conspiratorial, boys-will-be-boys tone. He slid his arm across Regan’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s all—”

  She jerked so violently out of his grasp that for a split second he thought he’d hurt her. Her cheeks were bright red, but with the heat of shame rather than the sexy, hot-to-trot blush he’d seen only moments earlier. Her hands were balled at her sides, her eyes were fixed on her feet and her shoulders slumped with humiliation. She angled her body away from him, and Spencer latched on to her embarrassment like a barracuda.

  “I can hardly believe it. Regan Hunter’s slumming it with her has-been coach.” He elbowed Tanya, who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere but on that balcony, as he turned his mocking grin on Ben. “No offense, Percy, but you’re not exactly in her league, are you?”

  When Regan’s gaze remained fixed on the floor Ben’s jaw slackened in disbelief, then locked in indignation. His head was spinning with conflicting emotions, their frantic orbits fuelled by the adrenaline that still ebbed from those all-too-brief minutes when he’d let the floodgates of his desire fling wide. He was furious with Spencer for interrupting, pained by Regan’s apparent acquiescence to the other man’s opinion, doubting his own belief that they weren’t in the wrong, ruing the failure of his self-control, worried about the repercussions of breaking the professional boundary and still reeling with raw, unsatisfied lust. He had simultaneous, warring impulses to tell Spencer where to stick his leering disapproval, to beg Regan to forgive him for crossing the line and swear her to secrecy, and to simply throw her over his shoulder and find somewhere for them to pick up where they left off.

  One thing was clear: he had to get out of there.

  Ben cast one last, hopeful glance at Regan, but she still stared at the ground as if counting the tiles on the balcony. He returned his attention to his old rival and her present one.

  “Well, I’ll leave you all to your pro players’ conversation. I’m sure you have a lot to discuss.” His icy tone was unnecessarily petty. It would only feed Spencer’s appetite for gossip, and Ben knew he was abandoning Regan to deal with this situation on her own. And he couldn’t have cared less.

  He pivoted and marched out of the room and down the steps. Walking into the din and color of the party—now even more lively and alcohol-fueled than when he’d left it—felt like wading into a storm-tossed sea. He shouldered his way through the throng of expensive tuxedos, spangled ball gowns and drinks trays held dangerously aloft.

  What had he been thinking, trying to mix with this crowd? That first moment in front of the cameras had reminded him just how far he’d fallen, and how very long ago that brief, soaring period had been. He shook his head in disgust as he pushed through the diamond-laden, designer-labeled horde. Spencer was right—he was nothing more than a washed-up, one hit wonder who couldn’t even scrape together enough money to help his little sister. A failed, fatherless outcast who would never rise high enough to stand side by side with someone as spirited, capable and unbelievably beguiling as Regan.

  He was reaching into his pocket for his phone, wincing at how much the taxi would cost, when Des emerged from the crowd to grab his arm and arrest his progress toward the door.

  “Ben Percy, just the man I wanted to see.” He ushered him away from a clump of partygoers to an empty spot by the wall. “Have you seen Regan? I can’t find her anywhere.”

  Fear replaced the anger fueling the pounding pulse of Ben’s blood. If Des found out what they’d done, he was finished. Forget earning the lump sum for the lawyer’s fees—if the Scot blacklisted him, he’d be lucky to get enough work to pay his electricity bill. He swallowed hard, forcing evenness into his voice.

  “She’s upstairs on the balcony with Spencer and Tanya.”

  The ruddiness drained from the beefy man’s face. “With Spencer and Tanya? Alone?”

  Ben nodded, and Des hissed a curse under his breath. “I have to get her out of there. Where did you say they were? Upstairs?”

  “On the balcony,” he repeated. “But she didn’t need rescuing as far as I could tell.”

  Des snorted. “Never underestimate the power of an ex-boyfriend, especially when he’s as manipulative and calculating as Spencer. He’s probably tryin
g to talk her into a threesome with Tanya and threatening to expose some filthy secret if she doesn’t agree.”

  Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, reframing the confrontation on the balcony in this new context. Maybe he should’ve stood up for her and told Spencer to back off. But then she’d flinched from his touch and wouldn’t look at him. Maybe she regretted their kiss, maybe she hadn’t wanted it as much as he thought, and she was using Spencer to cover up her own remorse.

  Des watched him with narrowed eyes. “How did the two of you end up on the balcony in the first place?”

  “Oh, well, I just—” Ben had always been a crappy liar, and now the pressure was on. “I was giving her a birthday present.”

  He didn’t need to see Des’s arched brow to know how suggestive that sounded. He stifled the urge to smack himself in the forehead. Idiot.

  “Tell me,” the manager implored drily, “what did you get for the girl who has everything?”

  “It was a stupid present, you know, a joke gift.”

  “Which was?”

  “A rubber band. For her hair. To keep it out of the way. So she can see the lines and keep her shots in the box for once.”

  Ben was pretty sure his feeble smile wouldn’t convince a gullible six-year-old, let alone this skeptical Scot. Des regarded him steadily, his neutral expression undermined by the calculations clearly ticking away behind his eyes.

  Finally he nodded toward the staircase. “Coming?”

  Ben bit the inside of his lower lip as his mind spun with the events of the past half hour, pushing himself to distill them down to the basic truths.

  Regan was the topflight player he was paid a lot of money to coach on the condition he didn’t touch her. His feelings for her were decidedly unprofessional and his self-control was appalling. And to top it off, he was the last person anyone should want to intervene in their professional affairs. After all, it took a special kind of loser to go from world-famous Grand Slam winner to bewildered, penniless stray in a matter of weeks.