Love in Straight Sets

by Rebecca Crowley

  Regan’s head lolled back as his fingertips found her rigid nipple, and the kisses he smoothed along her throat only added to her torment. She dragged her hands down his back, savoring the narrowing contour from broad shoulders to tight hips, and then spread her palms over his haunches and tugged him against her more tightly.

  Ben growled in response and captured her mouth again, the pressure of his lips and the insistent rhythm of his tongue making promises she couldn’t wait for him to keep. She slipped her hands inside his T-shirt, could feel the thinly constrained power in the hard muscles of his stomach, remembered the sheer strength in his serve as the ball had shot past her. She wanted to feel all that power throbbing around her, above her, inside her, wanted it so badly that she hurt. A relentless, unforgiving, glorious ache beat low between her legs. The sounds ripping from her throat were beyond her control, and her hands were moving outside her will, tracing the length of his abdomen, drifting beneath the waistband of his shorts, giddily brushing the crisp line of hair until—

  Something flashed through the fog of her arousal, something brighter than the exit light and accompanied by muffled giggles. The door to her right jerked open, but Ben slapped his hand down over her shoulder to keep it closed. It stirred again, more forcibly this time, and in the next instant it flung open with such suddenness that she startled, toppling off her precarious perch into Ben’s chest as three people tumbled, laughing and shrieking, into the alley.

  “Sorry, buddy,” one of the three young guys offered as he brushed off his jeans. “We thought the door was blocked so—oh, shit, Regan Hunter really is here.”

  “Run,” Ben muttered in her ear, and she could hear his mischievous smile. Then he was pulling her back inside, into the wall of jangly rock music and the smell of spilled beer and voices raised high in excitement fueled by high-flying victories and crushing defeats. She grinned into the heaving darkness, loving this messy, raucous, untamed side to a sport that was all about intense precision and control.

  Ben crouched down and scooped her onto his back. Before she could protest he was piggybacking her through the packed tavern, and people were lifting their glasses and bottles in toast to her as they shouted her name over the deafening noise of the band. Ben’s arms were strong and sure where they tucked under her thighs, and as she felt the smooth confidence of his steps through the crowd she thought of the way he moved on the Baron’s court all those years ago and had a sudden, gut-wrenching pang of despair for all that he’d lost, all the pain he’d suffered and all that he would never be.

  He lowered her to sit on the edge of the bar—the only space left in the room—and pointed at the tequila with one hand while holding up two fingers with the other. Regan shook her head and leaned into him to protest, but someone next to him at the bar had recognized him. They were shaking hands and laughing, and he couldn’t hear her. Then the shot glass and a slice of lime were in her hand and Ben took her other one, turning it over to expose her wrist. Without taking his eyes from hers, he brought her wrist to his mouth and licked a slow, sensual trail up her skin, the heat of his breath immediately echoing between her legs as her nipples hardened painfully inside her bra.

  Smiling lazily, he shook salt over her wrist and lifted his glass, his raised brow asking if she was ready.

  For a full minute she could do nothing but stare at him, the path of his tongue still smoldering on her flesh. She’d never been less ready in her life.

  In turn she looked at the slice of lime, the splash of amber liquid in the glass and the crooked salt trail running up her arm. She took a deep breath, matched his smile and nodded.

  Chapter Ten

  Ben jerked awake at the knock on his door, then clutched his throbbing head and collapsed back onto the pillows with a moan. His mouth was dry, his stomach churned and he had no idea how he’d ended up back in his room at the hotel.

  The knock sounded again and he hauled himself out of bed, pausing to let the room right itself in his spinning vision before he shuffled across the carpet and opened the door.

  Regan beamed up at him wearing a bemused smile, looking as fresh and rested as a spring flower bursting from its bud.

  He groaned and staggered back to flop across the bed. She followed and he squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out not just the too-bright sunlight but the flood of memories of the night before that crashed through his aching brain. The cheer as Regan bought a round for the bar, the smell of rotting lettuce in the alley, the tequila burning his throat—

  The mattress shifted as she slid to sit beside him. “Rough morning?”

  He grunted in response.

  “You meant it when you said you don’t drink much, huh?”

  “That was my father’s department,” he muttered more harshly than he’d intended. He twisted onto his side to squint at her, adding in an easier tone, “And there’s not a lot of opportunity for teenage partying when you’re an adolescent tennis player. By the time I started drinking, I guess it was too late to make it a habit.”

  Watching her sympathetic nod, he frowned. “Why are you all sunshine and light this morning? You were drinking too, according to my recollection—which, to be fair, is pretty hazy.”

  “I had one tequila shot. You had at least three, plus mucho beer.”

  He cringed and closed his eyes again. “Don’t say tequila anymore, please.”

  “Sorry.” She shifted on the bed. “How much do you remember?”

  Panic welled up to compete with the nausea twisting his stomach. “Oh God, I kissed you, didn’t I?”

  She gave his ankle a squeeze that wasn’t at all reassuring. “It’s okay, I kissed you back.”

  It was not okay. It was so far from okay, he wasn’t sure he’d ever find it again.

  He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “And then we did tequila shots.”

  “We did.”

  “And then we danced.”

  “Yup, and you were appalling.”

  “Thanks.” He rolled onto his back to meet her gaze. “After that it’s a blank. Go ahead, give me the damage.”

  She smiled down at him, and he hoped to hell he hadn’t tried to have sex with her. The image of her fighting off his bumbling, drunken advances was almost too much to handle, and he prayed fervently that he’d held on to some shred of self-control, that he hadn’t completely sabotaged the best turn his fortune had taken in a long time.

  “You were fine. Slightly more gregarious than usual, but nothing untoward. It was getting late so I called a taxi when we left the dance floor. You told me about your hometown, Bull-something?”

  “Bulawayo.”

  “That’s it. And camping by a lake when you were a kid.”

  “Matopos. You can swim there. No crocodiles.”

  “You mentioned that. Anyway, that was the extent of it. You were asleep as soon as you hit the bed, so I took off your shoes and left you to it.”

  Ben glanced down at his boxers and bare feet. “I guess I found the wherewithal to ditch my shorts at some point.”

  A telltale flush rose in Regan’s cheeks. “Uh, I took care of those too.”

  He swallowed hard as, from deep within the fog of his hangover, the heady thud of arousal began to beat in his groin.

  “I didn’t want you to roll over and gut yourself on your belt buckle.”

  “Of course. That is a hazard. Thanks.”

  “Anyway—” she clapped her hands together, “—I’ll order room service while you get in the shower, and then we need to hit the road.”

  “I thought we were flying back down tomorrow?”

  “That’s still the plan. Today we’re going to visit my parents.”

  Ben propped himself up on his elbows. “We are?”

  She nodded. “I always stop by to see them after Tallahassee. They�
�re having a big barbecue. Des always comes, and although I wouldn’t normally bring my coach, I thought you might like to meet my family. I asked you last night and you said yes.”

  He arched a skeptical brow. “After how many tequilas?”

  She put a finger to her lips with a coy smile. “Shh, we’re not saying that word.”

  Before he could protest further she was on her feet, tossing the room service menu on the bed, switching on the bathroom light and turning on the TV. “Look, a soccer game to get your energy going.”

  He flipped over to press his face into the pillow. “I don’t watch the American leagues.”

  “This is that new team from Charlotte. You’ll like them—they’ve got a super hot South African player.” She stopped by the bed long enough to slap him on the shoulder, then headed toward the door. “Up and at ’em, Coach. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

  Ben lay motionless as he heard the door shut behind her. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself go like that last night. And now he had to face Regan’s parents with Des in tow?

  There was another knock on the door, and he heaved himself off the bed.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” he called as he moved to open it. “You don’t need to keep—”

  The words died on his tongue as he came face-to-face with the tight-lipped, angry-eyed Scot.

  “Percy.” Des shoved past him into the room. “We need to talk.”

  Ben shut the door. He had an idea about what was coming, and he really, really wished he was wearing more than his boxers to face it.

  Des sat in one of the chairs at the small, round table near the floor-to-ceiling windows at one end of the room and motioned for Ben to take the other. As he lowered himself gingerly into the second chair, Des arched a brow. “Late night?”

  “Something like that. What’s up?”

  “This.” He spread a newspaper on the table, turning it for Ben to read. It was a regional, north Floridian publication, and the third page of the sports section had a half-page article on Regan’s win the previous afternoon. He squinted at the text, his vision still reeling with his hangover.

  Hunter Takes Tallahassee, the headline announced, with an inset photo of her arms held up after the winning shot.

  He shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

  Des’s face tightened even more as he pointed accusingly at the last paragraph. Ben leaned in to read it.

  Hunter’s artful performance suggests she’s finally found the right coach in former Baron’s Open-winner Ben Percy. The thirty-one-year-old Zimbabwean seems to have the magic touch on and off the court, because last night he was spotted getting close with the perennial bachelorette in one of Tallahassee’s downtown bars. As the only American player likely to reach the finals at this year’s Baron’s, the details of Percy’s methods are irrelevant as long as Hunter keeps winning as spectacularly as she did at yesterday’s invitational.

  He slid the paper back across the table, clearing his throat to cover the grunt of impotent rage and terror that threatened to leap from his mouth. It was all over.

  He’d let the opportunity of a lifetime slip through his fingers, just as he’d let his dad’s indiscretions slip through the cracks for years until those cracks became one almighty hole that brought the ceiling down on his head.

  There would be no more coaching, no more money, no more Regan.

  No more Regan.

  Suddenly his guilty self-loathing was outweighed by his fury at Des’s righteous, controlling indignation. Ben was the stupid, reckless one, the one whose lack of control would cost him his career and the best woman he’d ever had a shot at. But she was innocent of everything except falling for his scruffy charm, and he refused to tolerate any other interpretation of events.

  He crossed his arms, his hangover-shortened patience made even thinner by the realization that he had nothing left to lose. “We went to a bar last night for a couple of drinks and a bit of dancing. There were lots of people there and we didn’t do anything inappropriate, so I don’t—”

  “Don’t waste my time with pointless lies,” Des hissed through clenched teeth. “There are photos of the two of you circulating through the staff, photos which you’d better hope to God don’t reach the press. I knew you weren’t working at Regan’s level, but honestly, an alley?”

  For one miserable second, Ben let his eyes fall shut. That funny light before the back door opened... Of course. A camera flash, probably through a window.

  When he reopened his eyes, he tried his best to pull together his legendary calm. “Listen, Des, Regan is an adult who can make her own choices. I know you’ve been looking after her a long time and that she’s had problematic relationships in the past. While I appreciate that this must be difficult for you—”

  “Difficult for me? You’ve got the wrong end of the stick there, son.” Des’s chuckle was threatening, his Scottish burr more pronounced than ever. “This will probably difficult for Regan for a while, but she’ll get over it. It’s going to be very difficult for you, have no doubt of that. But not me. I’m going to be just fine.”

  Ben drew breath to respond but Des continued, “I’m a man of my word, Percy. And as of this minute, you’re unemployed.”

  “That’s crazy.” Ben shook his head. “Don’t you think firing her coach less than a month before the Baron’s is going to disrupt her performance more than whatever’s going on between us?”

  “Not if she thinks you quit.” Des smirked. “Like I said, she plays better when she’s angry.”

  Ben ran a hand through his hair, struggling to comprehend the manager’s absurd plan. “So you’re going to lie to her? To manipulate her to get the result you want? Do you care about her at all?”

  “I care about her more than you can possibly know,” Des shot back with sudden vehemence, leaning across the table. “She’s spent years preparing for this moment, and I’m not going to let anyone—not her sponsors, not her family and certainly not some one-hit-wonder wannabe coach—get in her way.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Ben sat back in his chair, his disbelief transitioning into grim determination. “I’ll tell her everything. She’s as stubbornly independent as anyone I’ve ever met, and when she finds out how you’re trying to twitch the puppet strings, she’ll fire you so fast your head will spin.”

  Des’s voice was cool, even and loaded with threat. “If you speak to her again, you’ll have much bigger problems than finding your next job. Trust me.”

  “Let’s hear it, then. But I think you’ll find all of the skeletons fell out of my closet very publicly a long time ago.”

  “Not the ones involving the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

  “The INS?” Ben rolled his eyes. “First, they’re not even called that anymore. Second, I’m a U.S. citizen and have been for years. You of all people know that accents can be deceiving.”

  “It’s not your paperwork I’m talking about. It’s Catharina’s.”

  He froze at the mention of Regan’s sparring partner. “What about it?”

  “It’s fake.”

  Bombshell. Maybe Des had more up his sleeve than Ben had assumed. For the first time in their conversation, he was worried. He forced a shrug.

  “That’s her problem, not mine.”

  “I guess not—unless, of course, you were planning to sponsor someone’s visa in the near future. I imagine the fine for accepting false documentation is less important to you than the black mark against your credibility as a sponsor.”

  Ben’s already queasy stomach roiled as white-hot anger tripled the pace of the blood throbbing painfully at his temples. Des wouldn’t—would he?

  “Is there anyone you’re hoping to bring over, Ben? Maybe some family in Zimbabwe? I could’ve sworn Regan mentioned something about a sister.”

  Ben gritt
ed his teeth so hard at the manager’s mild tone that he could hear his molars grinding together. There was no way out of this. Des was forcing him to choose between the woman he was falling harder and harder for and the sister he’d spent years trying to rescue.

  What could he do? Regan was vibrant, fascinating and sexy as sin, and she didn’t deserve to be deceived and manipulated by Des and his dubious motivations. On the other hand, Lindsay lived with the daily consequences of their father’s actions in a way Ben never had to. She was family, and he owed her more than he could ever repay.

  The thought of never seeing Regan again, never touching her, never finally fulfilling all those unspoken, kissed promises sent searing, stabbing anguish through his rib cage. But he had no choice. Regan could take care of herself. And he was the only one who could help his sister.

  He fixed his eyes on the wooden grain of the table and balled his fists in his lap.

  “You’re a real piece of shit, Des,” he muttered tightly. “And I’m going to find a way to let Regan know, I promise you that.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.” The Scot rose from his chair and crossed the room in a few quick strides. “Be out of here in fifteen minutes. Goodbye, Percy.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Ben remained motionless at the table for what felt like ages, trying to steady his breathing and loosen some of the tension in his jaw. He caught sight of the newspaper Des left behind, still turned to the page showing a photo of Regan, arms held above her head, her grin stretching from ear to ear.

  Des had made his terms clear from the first day: hands off his player. Ben should’ve known he wasn’t the type of man to make that sort of threat without having something in the arsenal to back it up. He’d been arrogant, stupid and unbelievably reckless to think he could pull one over on the Scot. Ben underestimated him, and it had cost him dearly.