Opposites Attract Page 3

  On his way home from his own practice court Ty watched them. More accurately he watched Asher. While she remained unaware of him, he could take in every detail. The morning sun glinted down on her hair. Her shoulders were strong and slender, her gait long, leggy and confident. He was grateful he could study her now with some dispassion.

  When he had looked out and seen her in the stands two weeks before, it had been like catching a fastball to his stomach. Shimmering waves of pain, shock, anger; one sensation had raced after the other. He had blown the first set.

  Then he had done more than pull himself together. He had used the emotions against his opponent. The Frenchman hadn’t had a chance against Ty’s skill combined with three years of pent-up fury. Always, he played his best under pressure and stress. It fed him. With Asher in the audience the match had become a matter of life and death. When she had left him she’d stolen something from him. Somehow, the victory had helped him regain a portion of it.

  Damn her that she could still get to him. Ty’s thoughts darkened as the distance between them decreased. Just looking at her made him want.

  He had wanted her when she had been seventeen. The sharp, sudden desire for a teenager had astonished the then twenty-three-year-old Ty. He had kept a careful distance from her all that season. But he hadn’t stopped wanting her. He had done his best to burn the desire out by romancing women he considered more his style—flamboyant, reckless, knowledgeable.

  When Asher had turned twenty-one Ty had abandoned common sense and had begun a determined, almost obsessive pursuit. The more she evaded him, the firmer she refused, the stronger his desire had grown. Even the victory, tasted first in Rome, hadn’t lessened his need.

  His life, which previously had had one focus, realigned with two dominating forces: tennis and Asher. At the time he wouldn’t have said he loved tennis, but simply that it was what and who he was. He wouldn’t have said he loved Asher, but merely that he couldn’t live without her.

  Yet he had had to—when she’d left him to take another man’s name. A title and a feather bed, Ty thought grimly. He was determined to make Asher Wolfe pay for bringing him a pain he had never expected to feel.

  By turning left and altering his pace Ty cut across her path, apparently by chance. “Hi, Madge.” He gave the brunette a quick grin, flicking his finger down her arm before turning his attention fully to Asher.

  “Hiya, Starbuck.” Madge glanced from the man to the woman and decided she wasn’t needed. “Hey, I’m late,” she said by way of explanation, then trotted off. Neither Asher nor Ty commented.

  From somewhere in the surrounding trees Asher heard the high clear call of a bird. Nearer at hand was the slumberous buzz of bees and the dull thud of balls. On court three, someone cursed fluently. But Asher was conscious only of Ty beside her.

  “Just like old times,” he murmured, then grinned at her expression. “You and Madge,” he added.

  Asher struggled not to be affected. The setting had too many memories. “She hit to me this morning. I hope I don’t have to face her in the tournament.”

  “You go against Kingston today.”

  “Yes.”

  He took a step closer. In her mind’s eye Asher saw the hedge beside her. With Ty directly in her path, dignified retreat was impossible. For all her delicacy of looks, Asher didn’t run from a battle. She linked her fingers, then dragged them apart, annoyed.

  “And you play Devereux.”

  His acknowledgment was a nod. “Is your father coming?”

  “No.” The answer was flat and brief. Ty had never been one to be put off by a subtle warning.

  “Why?”

  “He’s busy.” She started to move past him, but succeeded only in closing the rest of the distance between them. Maneuvering was one of the best aspects of Ty’s game.

  “I’ve never known him to miss one of your major tournaments.” In an old habit he couldn’t resist nor she prevent, he reached for her hair. “You were always his first order of business.”

  “Things change,” she responded stiffly. “People change.”

  “So it seems.” His grin was sharp and cocky. “Will your husband be here?”

  “Ex-husband.” Asher tossed her head to dislodge his hand. “And no.”

  “Funny, as I recall he was very fond of tennis.” Casually he set down his bag. “Has that changed too?”

  “I need to shower.” Asher had drawn nearly alongside of him before Ty stopped her. His hand slipped to her waist too quickly and too easily.

  “How about a quick set for old times’ sake?”

  His eyes were intense—that oddly compelling color that was half night and half day. Asher remembered how they seemed to darken from the pupils out when he was aroused. The hand at her waist was wide-palmed and long-fingered—a concert pianist’s hand, but it was rough and worked. The strength in it would have satisfied a prizefighter.

  “I don’t have time.” Asher pushed to free herself and connected with the rock-hard muscles of his forearm. She pulled her fingers back as though she’d been burned.

  “Afraid?” There was mockery and a light threat with the overtones of sex. Her blood heated to the force she had never been able to fully resist.

  “I’ve never been afraid of you.” And it was true enough. She had been fascinated.

  “No?” He spread his fingers, drawing her an inch closer. “Fear’s one of the popular reasons for running away.”

  “I didn’t run,” she corrected him. “I left.” Before you did, she added silently. For once, she had outmaneuvered him.

  “You still have some questions to answer, Asher.” His arm slid around her before she could step back. “I’ve waited a long time for the answers.”

  “You’ll go on waiting.”

  “For some,” he murmured in agreement. “But I’ll have the answer to one now.”

  She saw it coming and did nothing. Later she would curse herself for her passivity. But when he lowered his mouth to hers, she met it without resistance. Time melted away.

  He had kissed her like this the first time—slowly, thoroughly, gently. It was another part of the enigma that a man so full of energy and turbulence could show such sensitivity. His mouth was exactly as Asher remembered. Warm, soft, full. Perhaps she had been lost the first time he had kissed her—drawn to the fury—captured by the tenderness. Even when he brought her closer, deepening the kiss with a low-throated groan, the sweetness never diminished.

  As a lover he excelled because beneath the brash exterior was an underlying and deep-rooted respect for femininity. He enjoyed the softness, tastes and textures of women, and instinctively sought to bring them pleasure in lovemaking. As an inherent loner, it was another contradiction that Ty saw a lover as a partner, never a means to an end. Asher had sensed this from the first touch so many years ago. Now she let herself drown in the kiss with one final coherent thought. It had been so long.

  Her arm, which should have pushed him away, curved up his back instead until her hand reached his shoulders. Her fingers grasped at him. Unhesitatingly she pressed her body to his. He was the one man who could touch off the passion she had so carefully locked inside. The only man who had ever reached her core and gained true intimacy—the meeting of minds as well as of bodies. Starved for the glimpses of joy she remembered, Asher clung while her mouth moved avidly on his. Her greed for more drove away all her reserve, and all her promises.

  Oh, to be loved again, truly loved, with none of the emptiness that had haunted her life for too long! To give herself, to take, to know the pure, searing joy of belonging! The thoughts danced in her mind like dreams suddenly remembered. With a moan, a sigh, she pressed against him, hungry for what had been.

  The purpose of the kiss had been to punish, but he’d forgotten. The hot-blooded passion that could spring from the cool, contained woman had forced all else from his mind but need. He needed her, still needed her, and was infuriated. If they had been alone, he would have taken her and then
faced the consequences. His impulses were still difficult to control. But they weren’t alone. Some small part of his mind clung to reality even while his body pulsed. She was soft and eager. Everything he had ever wanted. All he had done without. Ty discovered he had gotten more answers than he’d bargained for.

  Drawing her away, he took his time studying her face. Who could resist the dangerous power of a hurricane? The wicked, primitive rumblings of a volcano? She stared at him, teetering between sanity and desire.

  Her eyes were huge and aware, her lips parted breathlessly. It was a look he remembered. Long nights in her bed, hurried afternoons or lazy mornings, she would look at him so just before loving. Hot and insistent, desire spread, then closed like a fist in his stomach. He stepped back so they were no longer touching.

  “Some things change,” he remarked. “And some things don’t,” he added before turning to walk away.

  ***

  There was time for deep breathing before Asher took her position for the first serve. It wasn’t the thousand pairs of eyes watching around the court that had her nerves jumping. It was one pair, dark brown and intense, seventy-eight feet away. Stacie Kingston, age twenty, hottest newcomer to the game in two years. She had energy, force and drive, along with a fierce will to win. Asher recognized her very well. The red clay spread out before her, waiting.

  Because she knew the importance of mastering the skittish nerves and flood of doubts, she continued to take long, deep breaths. Squeezing the small white ball, Asher discovered the true meaning of trial by fire. If she won, here where she had never won before, three years after she had last lifted a racket professionally, she would have passed the test. Rome, it seemed, would always be her turning point.

  Because it was the only way, she blocked out the past, blocked out tomorrow and focused wholly on the contest. Tossing the ball up, she watched the ascent, then struck home. Her breath came out in a hiss of effort.

  Kingston played a strong, offensive game. A studied, meticulous player, she understood and used the personality of clay to her advantage, forcing Asher to the base line again and again. Asher found the dirt frustrating. It cut down on her speed. She was hurrying, defending herself. The awareness of this only made her rush more. The ball eluded her, bouncing high over her head when she raced to the net, dropping lazily into the forecourt when she hugged the base line. Unnerved by her own demons, she double-faulted. Kingston won the first game, breaking Asher’s serve and allowing her only one point.

  The crowd was vocal, the sun ferocious. The air was thick with humidity. From the other side of the hedge Asher could hear the games and laughter of schoolchildren. She wanted to throw aside her racket and walk off the court. It was a mistake, a mistake, her mind repeated, to have come back. Why had she subjected herself to this again? To the effort and pain and humiliation?

  Her face was utterly passive, showing none of the turmoil. Gripping the racket tightly, she fought off the weakness. She had played badly, she knew, because she had permitted Kingston to set the pace. It had taken Asher less than six minutes from first service to defeat. Her skin wasn’t even damp. She hadn’t come back to give up after one game, nor had she come back to be humiliated. The stands were thick with people watching, waiting. She had only herself.

  Flicking a hand at the short skirt of her tennis dress, she walked back to the base line. Crouched, she shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. Anger with herself was forced back. Fear was conquered. A cool head was one of her greatest weapons, and one she hadn’t used in the first game. This time, she was determined. This time, the game would be played her way.

  She returned the serve with a drop shot over the net that caught Kingston off balance. The crowd roared its approval as the ball boy scurried across the court to scoop up the dead ball.

  Love-fifteen. Asher translated the scoring in her head with grim satisfaction. Fear had cost her the first game. Now, in her own precise way, she was out for blood. Kingston became more symbol than opponent.

  Asher continued to draw her opponent into the net, inciting fierce volleys that brought the crowd to its feet. The roar and babble of languages did not register with her. She saw only the ball, heard only the effortful breathing that was hers. She ended that volley with a neatly placed ball that smacked clean at the edge of the base line.

  Something stirred in her—the hot, bubbling juice of victory. Asher tasted it, reveled in it as she walked coolly back to position. Her face was wet now, so she brushed her wristband over her brow before she cupped the two service balls in her hand. Only the beginning, she told herself. Each game was its own beginning.

  By the end of the first set the court surface was zigzagged with skid marks. Red dust streaked the snowy material of her dress and marked her shoes. Sweat rolled down her sides after thirty-two minutes of ferocious play. But she’d taken the first set six-three.

  Adrenaline was pumping madly, though Asher looked no more flustered than a woman about to hostess a dinner party. The competitive drives she had buried were in complete control. Part of her sensed Starbuck was watching. She no longer cared. At that moment Asher felt that if she had faced him across the net, she could have beaten him handily. When Kingston returned her serve deep, Asher met it with a topspin backhand that brushed the top of the net. Charging after the ball, she met the next return with a powerful lob.

  The sportswriters would say that it was at that moment, when the two women were eye to eye, that Asher won the match. They remained that way for seconds only, without words, but communication had been made. From then Asher dominated, forcing Kingston into a defensive game. She set a merciless pace. When she lost a point she came back to take two. The aggressiveness was back, the cold-blooded warfare the sportswriters remembered with pleasure from her early years on the court.

  Where Starbuck was fire and flash, she was ice and control. Never once during a professional match had Asher lost her iron grip on her temper. It had once been a game among the sportswriters—waiting for The Face to cut loose.

  Only twice during the match did she come close to giving them satisfaction, once on a bad call and once on her own poor judgment of a shot. Both times she had stared down at her racket until the urge to stomp and swear passed. When she had again taken her position, there had been nothing but cool determination in her eyes.

  She took the match six-one, six-two in an hour and forty-nine minutes. Twice she had held Kingston’s service to love. Three times she had served aces—something Kingston with her touted superserve had been unable to accomplish. Asher Wolfe would go on to the semifinals. She had made her comeback.

  Madge dropped a towel over Asher’s shoulders as she collapsed on her chair. “Good God, you were terrific! You destroyed her.” Asher said nothing, covering her face with the towel a moment to absorb sweat. “I swear, you’re better than you were before.”

  “She wanted to win,” Asher murmured, letting the towel drop limply again. “I had to win.”

  “It showed,” Madge agreed, giving her shoulder a quick rub. “Nobody’d believe you haven’t played pro in three years. I hardly believe it myself.”

  Slowly Asher lifted her face to her old partner. “I’m not in shape yet, Madge,” she said beneath the din of the still-cheering crowd. “My calves are knotted. I don’t even know if I can stand up again.”

  Madge skimmed a critical glance over Asher’s features. She couldn’t detect a flicker of pain. Bending, she scooped up Asher’s warm-up jacket, then draped it over Asher’s shoulders. “I’ll help you to the showers. I don’t play for a half hour. You just need a few minutes on the massage table.”

  Exhausted, hurting, Asher started to agree, then spotted Ty watching her. His grin might have been acknowledgment of her victory. But he knew her, Asher reflected, knew her inside as no one else did.

  “No thanks, I’ll manage.” Effortfully she rose to zip the cover around her racket. “I’ll see you after you beat Fortini.”

  “Asher—”

&nbs
p; “No, really, I’m fine now.” Head high, muscles screaming, she walked toward the tunnel that led to the locker rooms.

  Alone in the steam of the showers, Asher let herself empty, weeping bitterly for no reason she could name.

  Chapter 3

  It was the night after her victory in the semifinals that Asher confronted Ty again. She had kept herself to a rigorous schedule of practice, exercise, press, and play. Her pacing purposely left her little time for recreation. Practice was a religion. Morning hours were spent in the peaceful tree-shaded court five, grooving in, polishing her footwork, honing her reflexes.

  Exercise was a law. Push-ups and weight lifting, stretching and hardening the muscles. Good press was more than a balm for the ego. Press was important to the game as a whole as well as the individual player. And the press loved a winner.

  Play was what the athlete lived for. Pure competition—the testing of the skills of the body, the use of the skills of the mind. The best played as the best dancers danced—for the love of it. During the days of her second debut, Asher rediscovered love.

  In her one brief morning meeting with Ty she had rediscovered passion. Only her fierce concentration on her profession kept her from dwelling on a need that had never died. Rome was a city for lovers—it had been once for her. Asher knew that this time she must think of it only as a city for competition if she was to survive the first hurdle of regaining her identity. Lady Wickerton was a woman she hardly recognized. She had nearly lost Asher Wolfe trying to fit an image. How could she recapture herself if she once again became Starbuck’s lady?

  In a small club in the Via Sistina where the music was loud and the wine was abundant, Asher sat at a table crowded with bodies. Elbows nudged as glasses were reached for. Liquor spilled and was cheerfully cursed. In the second and final week of the Italian Open, the tension grew, but the pace mercifully slowed.