Love. Set. Match.

“You were right to call me, Mr. al-Tammar. Given everything that’s happened to Ms. Grace over the last few weeks, I think we can safely say the two incidents are connected.” Detective Turner Combs slipped the three letters and their envelopes into a protective sleeve of plastic he’d brought with him.

  “Do you think you can find who sent the letters?” Zoe asked, her arm protectively around Em’s shoulders. Emmy appreciated the support, but she hated that she once again needed it.

  Combs frowned. “Maybe. It’ll depend on a lot of factors. We’ll take Owen and Emerson’s prints so that we can differentiate theirs from the ones left by the letter writer. If he left any prints or DNA, we can run them through the system, but it’s a crap shoot if we’ll find any matches.”

  “Amir, have you had any luck figuring out who released those pictures?” Owen asked, leaning over the back of the couch near Em.

  “Nothing definite, but the PI we hired did confirm that it wasn’t Naumov. Kole had some cyber guys check his computer, and some of his accounts were hacked.”

  Zoe snorted. “And you trust his word?”

  “I trust the word of the guys he hired, and so does my PI.” Amir glanced at Combs. “You don’t think Naumov is behind the letters, do you?”

  Emerson’s stomach clenched, and her head throbbed with the weight of the emotions hitting her. “No. Kole wouldn’t do this. Besides, the letters were written about him. The…the person directed their outrage at me because of him, yes, but I don’t think he’d do this. The first one was in a stack of mail from before the Australian Open was over, and Kole left Melbourne the same day as I did.”

  “Emerson is right. While this person, whoever he or she is, is connected to Mr. Naumov, I don’t think he’s directly involved. It’s more like they’re a super fan who’s taken a dangerous turn,” Combs said.

  “What do we do now?” Amir asked. “Wait for this nutcase to show himself?”

  Combs stood up, taking the letters with him. “I’d suggest making sure Ms. Grace doesn’t go anywhere alone, and forward all of her mail to your office, Mr. al-Tammar.”

  “What good would that do?” Emerson asked. Her head ached more than her body, which was saying something, and she wanted to curl up in a ball and forget all this had ever happened. “Whoever it is, they didn’t send the letter through the regular mail. There was no postmark.”

  “I’ll have one of my guys check your mailbox every few days to see if our friend decides to drop another letter in it, but given that it’s a locked box, I’m guessing he found some way to sneak it in with the mail that’s already been sorted. I’m going to talk to the guys at the local post office, see if they’ve noticed anyone suspicious hanging around. Mr. Grace, you and your grandmother should be on the lookout too. If any letters show up at your residences, you call me right away.”

  “Of course.” Owen stood and showed the detective to the door.

  Emerson buried her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening. It was all a bad dream, and she’d wake up in the morning to another super sexy dream about Rob.

  Amir frowned and started clicking around on his phone.

  “What are you doing?” Zoe asked.

  “I’m looking into private security. It’ll cost a pretty penny, but at least Emmy will be safe.”

  The ferocity in his voice surprised Emerson. Amir had been her agent since she went pro at nineteen, but he’d always been a cross between a pit bull and an annoying but lovable uncle. The bald man’s main focus was usually on earning the money that kept him in expensive suits and ties.

  Emerson leaned forward and placed her hand over his phone. “That’s really sweet of you, Amir, but I don’t need private security.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Owen said, returning to the comfortable living room. The soft yellows, purples, and whites had always put her at ease, but today nothing seemed to work.

  “You’ve got a crazy person sending you threatening letters. To any sane person, that’s a good sign you need security.”

  “Before you hulk out on me, think about this, O.” She tugged her brother to sit beside her, his big frame eating up twice the space as hers did. “We have no clue where this person is or who they are. We don’t even know if they’re serious. It could be some weird prank or something.”

  Zoe gave her a look. “Prank? Those letters did not sound like a prank, Emmy.”

  “For once, I gotta agree with Zoe. That psycho took the time to cut letters out of your face. That’s a lot of effort for a prank,” Amir said.

  “Maybe. But until the cops think it’s something serious, then I think we need to hold off on wasting money on security.” Some of her friends, like Dera, had private security with them whenever they were traveling, but she’d worked hard to avoid it. She didn’t like the thought of having two or three beefy, muscled guys following her around.

  “It’s not like I’m ever alone that much. I spend most of my days training with Zoe and the team, then I come home where I have a really good security system and an overprotective brother right next door.”

  The reason she’d bought her townhouse in the first place was because Owen was looking at one next door. The few years they’d both been away at college felt so odd after being so close all their lives, even though they’d seen each other at tournaments. Having him next door was comforting. They both had different schedules and went to different tournaments, but it was still nice to know that he was a few dozen yards away when she needed him.

  “Fine,” Owen said. “No private security for now. But you promise me that you’ll stay safe. If you need to go grocery shopping, take me or Zoe or one of your team members with you. Only go to and from the training facility and the Grands’ on your own.”

  Her hackles flared. Bossy Owen never failed to tick her off, even when his intentions were good. “I’ll be careful, O. I’ve got too much to look forward to this year to do anything stupid.”

  The other three started to talk about possible culprits, but Em’s mind drifted. Doing something stupid was exactly what she was doing, by agreeing to stay in contact with Rob. It was even more stupid now that she had a nut job sending her letters about what a slut she was. If he got wind of her having one-night stands in hotel rooms, it would probably only make matters worse.

  For a moment, she thought about calling Rob. Hearing his voice would calm her down better than anything, but she couldn’t do that. They might be “friends” now, but she couldn’t tell him about this. Not with his job. Besides, they were the sort of friends who had short, pleasant conversations and casual text message exchanges. Telling him she had a stalker was a bad idea on so many different levels.

  ****

  Rob took a deep breath of the warm California air. It was a nice change from the frigid New York winter he’d left behind. He watched his sister move across the court, light as the leaves blowing off the nearby trees, her long tail of dark blond hair dancing in the wind.

  The rhythmic thwack of the racket connecting with the bright green ball took him back to a better time, an easier time. A time when he didn’t have a bum shoulder and still had the job he was born for. That sound had been a lullaby for him as a little kid and a battle cry from the time he was old enough to swing a racket. He’d missed that sound, echoing across these same courts, since the day he woke up from his surgery.

  His hands itched to pick up a racket again. His legs ached with the need to run across the court to meet his sister’s volley.

  How many hours had they played here? Despite the seven-year age difference, he and Maren had always been close. He’d taught her how to play when he went to visit her at their grandparents’ house in Sweden on a break from the tennis academy. She’d taken to it like a duck to water, and they’d shared that love of the game just like they shared the solidarity of being mostly ignored by their parents. Sometimes he missed the days when he used to coach her. He’d gotten such a kick out of showing her how to grip the racket in her tiny hands and how to serve.
>
  “Watch that backhand, short stack,” he called out as the ball thrower sent a cross body shot at her.

  Maren missed the shot and turned to fix him with a death glare that had been much cuter when she was five. “I would have been fine if someone wasn’t backseat swinging.”

  “Please. You were a mile off.” He stood up and moved down the stairs to the court. “Besides, you promised me lunch, and it’s almost one thirty.”

  His sister winced. “Sorry. I got in the zone and—”

  “Lost track of time, yeah, I know.” He picked up one of the dead balls from the edge of the court and tossed it from hand to hand. “Go get cleaned up.”

  By the time they got to the cute beachside restaurant they both loved, it was after two.

  “At least we missed the lunch rush and got a patio table,” Maren said, accepting a menu from the waiter.

  “True. I missed this place more than anything.” Rob thumbed through the menu, even though he knew exactly what he’d get.

  Laughing, she took a sip of her water. “What, no ocean views in NYC?”

  “River views? Sure. Harbor views too. But nothing like this. I miss the sandy beaches and the warm weather. I’ve bought more sweaters in the last two months than I have in the last ten years combined.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to move to New York, big brother. I told you it was a stupid plan.” She grinned at the waiter. “I’ll have the grilled shrimp with the squash and zucchini chips and a side salad.”

  “And I’ll have the fish tacos with the avocado crema and extra cilantro.” Rob handed the menu over and accepted the soda the waiter handed him in exchange. “I like the job well enough, Mare. Just not the location.”

  “Do you really like the job? I saw your face earlier. You miss being out on the court.” She fiddled with the end of her ponytail, a habit left over from childhood. Their mother always insisted Maren keep her hair long but pulled away from her face. She’d rebelled against a lot over the years but always kept the long hair.

  “Of course I miss it. But unless my shoulder magically goes back in time to before my injury, I’m not going to be playing again anytime soon.” He kept his words light, doing his best to hide the bitterness that lingered. Saying he missed being out on the courts was like saying a fish missed water flowing over its gills. But he’d had to come to terms with his life as it was and not focus on the fact that he’d never play competitive tennis again.

  She rolled her eyes, the long-suffering sister look down pat. “You didn’t answer my question, Robby.”

  “Okay, Mary. Do I like my job?” He shrugged. “Some days I do and some days I don’t, like every other poor schmuck out there. Some of it’s not great. Working with Bruno sucks, but I don’t mind the rest of it.”

  “You could be coaching, though. You love working with kids,” she insisted. “Mama would love to have your help with the tennis academy, especially her program with the foster kids.”

  He shrugged. “Working with the parents isn’t an option. Besides, I get to tell stories about the people worth knowing about. I’m in a position to make sure that the people who deserve attention are getting attention and that people are hearing the truth about the phonies.”

  The breeze from the ocean eased the lingering tension from his time at the court. He’d spoken the truth, but not all of it. Being a reporter was harder than he’d expected, especially as a junior reporter. Bruno had tried to railroad him into stories that were meaningless. More than once, the older reporter had pitched follow-up stories on Em that would directly counteract all the good Rob had done for both the network and for Em. Thankfully, Rob had managed to convince Joey to nix the ideas and focus on other stories, like Dera Calvet’s new coach or Chessa Pavlich’s mysterious absence from the press events following the Australian Open.

  The stories about Em were thankfully dying down, but that didn’t mean she was far from his mind. He’d gotten into the habit of talking or texting with her every night before bed. Hearing her voice made it a little easier for him to sleep, even if it did inspire more wet dreams than he’d had since high school. Before the network sent him out here, he’d been trying to think of an excuse to go down to Florida to see her for a few days.

  “As much as I hate you working for that slimy network, that was a good thing you did for Emmy Grace after those pictures came out,” Maren said, munching on some chips and salsa. “I’ve never been more proud to be your sister than I was when I saw the segment.”

  Heat crept up his cheeks, and he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the salsa. “It was nothing. Really. I just…I said what I’d want someone to say if you were in that position. Not that I ever want you to be, of course, but I did what any guy with a conscience would do.”

  “Well, we all appreciate it. If it weren’t for the whole conflict of interest thing, you’d be scoring with a lot of the female tennis players.” She winked. “Not that you had any issues in that area before.”

  There was really only one woman he wanted to score with these days, but he sure as hell wasn’t telling his sister that. He waited until their food arrived before revisiting the topic of Em. He had to be careful, or her annoying sister radar would go off in a second. She’d always been able to tell when he was really interested in a woman.

  “How is Emerson doing? The stories seem to be dying down,” he said, taking a bite of his fish tacos. The flavors burst in his mouth, the mix of sea and spices so good he almost moaned.

  She finished chewing her chip before responding. “She’s all right, I guess. She seemed a bit scattered at our meeting in New York. She’s still a little depressed about everything that’s happened, but she’s been keeping busy with training. She’s dead set on winning a slam this year. But I did get the sense she wasn’t telling me everything. I’d planned to try to pry more out her, but she hung up before I got the chance.”

  “I’ve heard tell she’s a woman on a mission.” He sipped his soda, mulling over his sister’s words. He’d gotten the feeling Em was holding something back too, but he’d written it off as her keeping distance between them because of their past.

  “Speaking of missions, have you heard from the parents lately? Is Bobby still riding you pretty hard?” He wanted to ask more about Em, but he didn’t know if he could do it without tipping his sister off.

  Her mouth tightened, and she stared out over the ocean. “Dad is Dad. He’s so focused on his legacy, you know? Thank God for Mom. She’s been keeping him distracted as best she can, but I half expect him to show up and start butting in at any second.”

  He hated that his injury made life harder for his sister too. All their lives, when their dad did decide to pay attention to them, it had been to focus on Rob and his career. The next piece of the Ashton legacy. He’d done his part and added as best he could, but Bobby wanted more. He wanted a calendar Grand Slam and a record as the world number one. Since Rob couldn’t do that now, his sister was in the hot seat.

  “Don’t let him bully you, Mare. I know you want to please him, but you’ve got to remember to put yourself first over whatever it is he wants.” He gave his sister’s arm a squeeze.

  She laughed. “Is this a ‘do as I say not as I do’ thing? You sure as hell couldn’t stand up to Bobby. How do you expect me to?”

  He swallowed hard. Damn his sister for a wicked gut shot. She was right, of course. But it didn’t sting any less. He’d let his father bully him about his life choices for most of his life. But he’d also been free for more than a year, and it felt…so fucking good not to have his father watching his every move, personally or professionally. “Learn from my mistakes, short stack. Dad’s all hot air. At the end of the day, you need to be happy. That’s all that matters.”

  They finished their lunch, slipping away from the high-octane topics and into the realm of easy conversation about movies and books and current events. He’d dropped his sister back off at the courts when his phone rang.

  “Joey? What�
�s up?” he asked, leaning back in the seat of the convertible he’d rented for the trip.

  “I’ve got a story I want you to start looking into right away.” She didn’t waste time on any pleasantries. “How soon can you wrap up the Casterman story?”

  He closed his eyes, letting the breeze wash over him. She already had him out here doing a story about a prodigy playing at one of the local high schools. The kid was fourteen and already playing better than some of the WTA vets. “I’ve got another interview scheduled for tomorrow night, then you’ll have all the footage to edit the piece.”

  “Good. Once you wrap things up there, I want you to go to Florida.”

  In the background, the echoes of Joey’s fingers flying over a keyboard provided a soundtrack to their conversation. The woman didn’t slow down for a single second. He’d yet to see her not multitasking. The hair on the back of Rob’s neck stood up. Florida was the home of a lot of tennis players, but he doubted Joey would send him to do a story about just anyone.

  “If this is a story about my parents—”

  She interrupted him. “No, it’s not about your parents. We wouldn’t have you do that kind of story anyway. No, this is about Emerson Grace.”

  Em. Shit. Not again. He’d tried to get Joey to leave her alone, but the network just kept coming. He couldn’t contribute to the circus, not now, not when Em was finally seeing him as a friend. “I thought we decided we weren’t doing any more stories about the photo leak.”

  “Bruno’s doing a follow-up piece about investigators determining that Naumov wasn’t behind the leaks,” she said distractedly. “But I want you to look into a separate story.”

  This was news to him. Em hadn’t said anything about the pictures since they left each other in New York. When they talked, they kept things light and non-specific. She didn’t tell him much about her day to day life.

  “Wait, if Naumov didn’t leak them, do they know who did?” he asked, his mind already turning over the different possibilities. If Kole hadn’t leaked the pictures, Em had a bigger problem than they’d originally thought.