Invincible (22 page)

“I'm not going home. I've gotten an invitation to a reception at the British Embassy. I'm going shopping at Harrods and then straight to the party.”

Max realized he felt relieved. He wasn't going to have to do any explaining tonight. He would have the evening free to do a lot of soul-searching. He wondered if he was going to lose Veronica to another man. Maybe he'd already lost her. “Who gave you the ride home, Veronica?”

She laughed. “Oh, Max, you aren't jealous, are you?”

“Not at all. Just curious.” And he wasn't, he realized.

“The British ambassador to the UAE has a personal jet. He offered to bring me home.”

“Nice guy, is he?” Max said.

“Very nice. I'll probably be up late tonight. I'm sorry I won't get to see you practice tomorrow morning. We can catch up later in the day.”

“I've already made plans for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Plans that include me?” she said coyly.

He was still stinging from K's rejection of him. And a little irked with Veronica, if the truth were known. Why not get the two women together and let them see—and size up—the competition? “How do you feel about horseback riding in Hyde Park?”

“That sounds positively inspired. Did I tell you I used to be a junior dressage champion?”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me. By the way, we're going to have some company.”

“Oh? Who's joining us?”

“My tennis partner, Kristin Lassiter. And her daughter.”

Max didn't know why he hadn't said
my
daughter. Or even
our
daughter. He'd chickened out at the last moment. He realized if he didn't tell Veronica now, it was going to make things awkward tomorrow.

Get a grip, Max. Just tell her.

“Look, Veronica. There's something I need to tell you.”

“Not now, Max. The ambassador's limo is here.
Ciao,
baby. See you tomorrow.”

She hung up before Max could say another word.

He could call her back. But he didn't feel like sharing his business with the British ambassador to the UAE. Who happened to be a good friend of his mother.

Max had a horrifying thought. Could his mother possibly have called her friend, the British ambassador, and asked him to give Veronica a ride home on his jet? Had the duchess arranged for Veronica to be invited to the embassy reception by the handsome elder statesman? Was the duchess manipulating his girlfriend to test her feelings toward Max?

His imagination was working overtime. His mother had never cared enough about any of them to get involved in their lives.

She knew about your teenage friendship with Kristin. She knew about Flick. She encouraged Kristin to participate in that exhibition match, so the two of you
would be forced into each other's company. She kept Flick at the Abbey. She urged you to go after Kristin.

His mother's invitation to The Seasons was looking more and more suspicious in light of her current involvement in his personal life. What did she want from him? From all of them? Was she trying to make up for all the years she hadn't been a part of his life? Of their lives?

Making amends at this point was impossible. He was a grown man. He didn't need a mother anymore. Especially not one who interfered in his love life.

Max wasn't going to be tricked by his mother into starting a romance with K. It made a lot more sense to spend his time convincing her that a marriage of convenience was the smart choice for both of them.

He was sure of just one thing. Love was off the table.

K
ristin backed up to hit an overhead smash and heard enthusiastic clapping from the stands.

“Yay, Mom!” Flick shouted from a green bench along the sidelines.

Kristin shot a quick glance at her daughter, who was grinning ear to ear, and found herself smiling back. Flick had tennis genes on both sides, and at nine, she was already an accomplished player. She simply had too many other interests to focus on the game. And, unlike Kristin, Flick had never felt like she needed to be good at tennis to earn Harry's love. She was as happy to watch others play as she was to play herself.

“Great shot!” Max said as he crossed to give Kristin a high five. “We got a set off them today. We're making progress.”

Elena and Steffan came to the net, and Max and Kristin met them there.

“Good match,” Elena said to Kristin as they shook hands.

“Great serve,” Steffan said to Max as they shook hands.

By the time they'd switched places, and the ladies were shaking hands with the gentlemen, Flick was on the grass court.

“Great game, Mom. You, too, Dad.”

Kristin had made Flick promise to stay off the court during their practice. She hadn't warned her not to mention that Max was her father.

Steffan looked from Flick to Kristin to Max and said, “Max? Is there something you haven't told us?”

“This is my daughter, Flick,” Max said. “She's been living in Florida with her mother.”

Irina had been sitting in the stands near Flick so she could offer coaching advice. Kristin saw the surprise on her face at Max's announcement. She frowned at Kristin, then said, “This is a surprise. You never said a word, Max.”

Kristin saw his discomfort as he admitted, “I didn't know. Flick, this is Miss Irina, who coached me when I was learning to play.”

“Hello, Miss Irina,” Flick said politely.

“Congratulations, old man,” Steffan said, hopping the net to give Max a bear hug. He crossed to Flick and held out his hand, “Good to meet you, Flick.”

“Your backhand down the line needs work,” Flick said.

Steffan turned to Max and laughed. “You've got a budding coach here, Max.”

“She's right,” Irina said, eyeing Flick. “You have a good tennis eye, young lady.”

Flick grinned and said, “My grandpa taught me everything I know.”

Kristin put her hands on Flick's shoulders, when what she really wanted to do was put a hand over her daughter's mouth. “I'm afraid he's also encouraged her to say what she thinks,” she said to Steffan. She brushed her daughter's bangs aside and said, “Flick, be nice.”

“I was being nice,” Flick said. “His second serve is pitiful.”

Kristin was horrified and turned to apologize for her daughter.

Steffan waved her off with a laugh. “Unfortunately, she's right.” He pointed his racquet at Flick and said, “That's how your dad beat me at Wimbledon.”

Irina added, “And why you can't beat the top five players on the tour.”

Steffan shot Max an aggrieved look and said, “Help! I'm getting it from all sides.”

Max laughed and said, “I warned you about that second serve ten years ago. I thought you'd have it fixed by now.”

Elena eyed Flick, then turned to Kristin and said, “I guess you and Max were better friends in the old days than any of us knew.”

To Kristin's surprise, Max leapt into the breach.

“We made a beautiful daughter together, that's for sure,” he said as he slid an arm around Flick's narrow shoulders.

Flick stared up at him with adoring eyes.

Kristin felt her heart squeeze. It was too late to keep Flick from being hurt if—when—Max walked out of her life. Her daughter had been ready to love any man in the role of father. For many years, Harry had been that man. Max had finally taken his proper place. Kristin had never seen Flick look happier. Or Max, for that matter.

“Be sure to stretch,” Irina called to Elena and Steffan as they headed off the court.

Steffan waved his racquet over his shoulder to acknowledge her orders.

Irina put her hands on Max's cheeks, looked into his eyes and said, “A daughter is a blessing. Enjoy her.”

“I will,” Max said.

“I've got to catch Elena before she's gone,” Irina said. “I'll see you both on Monday.”

“No practice tomorrow?” Kristin asked.

Irina shook her head. “Steffan and I have plans.”

As she walked away, Kristin whispered to Max, “Doesn't that sound suspicious to you?”

“They're probably spending time with other players who are arriving for Wimbledon,” Max said.

“Others might mean there's a conspiracy, Max.”

He stared after Irina. “I don't like what you're suggesting, K. But I'll see what I can find out from Steffan in the locker room.”

“I'll do the same with Irina before heading to the hotel,” she said.

“I thought we could go straight from here to Hyde Park Stables,” Max said.

“Flick and I need to go back to the hotel to change.”

Max shot Flick a mischievous look Kristin had last seen on his face when he was eighteen. “That won't be necessary. Your riding clothes are waiting for both of you in the ladies' locker room.”

“Riding clothes?” Flick said in an awed voice. “Like jodhpurs and a helmet and everything?”

“And everything,” Max confirmed, turning her toward the locker room and giving her a tiny swat on the rump to get her moving in that direction.

Flick took off at a run. “Mom, come on. Let's go see!”

“What have you done?” Kristin asked, not bothering to hide her dismay.

“I bought my daughter some riding clothes. You have a problem with that?”

“You said you have clothes for both of us.”

“You have a problem with that?” he repeated.

“I can buy my own clothes.”

“Do you have riding gear at the hotel?” he asked.

“We planned to wear jeans and shoes with leather heels. Which is perfectly fine. I checked with the stables.”

“I bought riding boots and the best protective hat I could find for Flick. I want my daughter to be safe. I thought it would be nice for her—more comfortable for her—if you were dressed the same way.”

Kristin knew he was right. “Fine. Flick and I will wear your riding clothes. But I'm going to pay for mine.”

“Don't be absurd!” Max snapped.

She didn't stay to argue with him. She marched off toward the locker room. By the time she got there, Flick already had her jodhpurs on, together with a beautiful white blouse with a frill across the bodice. “Look at the jacket, Mom,” she said as she slid her arms into a beautifully tailored jacket and smoothed her hands over the tweed fabric. “And I've got real boots!”

Kristin admired the expensive jacket and the tall black riding boots with leather so supple she felt sure they were the best that could be found in London. Somehow, Max had acquired their entire ensembles overnight and arranged for their delivery here at Wimbledon.

“Hurry up, Mom. Get your shower so we can go!” Flick urged.

Kristin had just turned off the shower when she heard a voice in one of the toilet stalls. Someone was whispering, which made her voice echo. It took a moment for Kristin to remember she was here to spy. She was shivering but couldn't grab a towel without exposing herself. She stayed where she was and listened.

She only caught a word or two.

Those few words left her feeling cold to the bone. She heard “Kill her.” And “Too late.” And “I can do that.”

That sounded ominous, considering the fact the American president was a woman.

Kristin heard the toilet stall door open and close and peeked out, but she couldn't see who it was. She grabbed
a towel and, teeth chattering, headed into the main locker room quickly and quietly to see who was there.

The door to the outside hall was just sliding closed. Elena was still dressing after her shower. She and Irina were talking, their heads close, as though they were sharing private information. That wouldn't have been unusual if the room were full of other tennis players, and Irina wanted to keep her coaching advice discreet. But the locker room was empty except for Flick. So why were they talking so secretively?

Kristin put her back to the other two women and asked Flick, “Did you see who just left?”

“Some lady. She was dressed nice.”

Kristin didn't like the idea of involving Flick in espionage by asking her to look at a bunch of pictures of players. But she wanted to know who'd spoken those words in the bathroom stall.

Whoever had come into the locker room had to have had an ID to get in. Which made her a tennis player or a coach or a member of the All England Lawn Tennis Club. Or a member of the press. Or some staff member or cleaning lady. The suspect list grew longer the more Kristin thought about it.

“What did she look like?” Kristin asked her daughter.

“Why don't you ask Miss Irina who it was? She talked to her when she first came in,” Flick said.

Kristin debated whether to do that and decided against it. There was no reason for her to be asking Irina about some stranger. It was as unbelievable to her as it was to
Max that Irina or Elena could be part of some assassination plot. She needed information, but she didn't want to make them wary of her by asking questions. Her usefulness as a spy depended on her remaining a simple tennis player.

“Come on, Mom. Get dressed,” Flick said.

While Kristin examined her riding clothes, which were hanging near her locker, she tried eavesdropping on Elena and Irina's conversation. But it seemed whatever conversation they'd been having was over. Irina left before she heard anything.

Kristin wondered what Max would think when she told him that Irina had spoken with the woman she'd heard whispering when she was in the shower. He wasn't going to like it, that was for sure. Irina was looking more and more guilty.

Once Kristin had on her blouse and jodhpurs, she sat down to pull on a pair of luxurious leather riding boots similar to Flick's. She paled at the thought of how much Max must have spent. She probably couldn't afford the protective, velvet-covered riding hat, let alone the breeches, jacket, blouse and boots.

To her amazement, everything fit her perfectly, just as Flick's clothing had fit perfectly. How had Max known their sizes?

“Probably sent a spy to the hotel to check our clothes and shoes in the middle of the night,” she said to herself.

“What's that, Mom?” Flick said.

“I was just saying how nicely everything fits.”

“Come on, Mom. I want to show Dad how I look.”

When they met Max outside, Kristin found him outfitted in a tailored male version of their riding gear. He handed Flick a small leather riding crop and said, “This was my crop when I learned to ride.”

Flick took the short leather riding crop as though it were a scepter and she were being crowned Queen of England. She flicked the whip a couple of times, then slid the leather band on one end around her wrist and, with the crop dangling, threw her arms around Max's waist. “Thanks, Dad!”

Once they were in the limo, Max said, “Flick, I want you to meet Freddy.”

The limo driver turned to face Flick and said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Flick.”

“Freddy's also a connoisseur of big words,” Max said.

“Connoisseur,”
Flick said, scrambling across the seats in the back of the limo until she was draped over the front seat where she could easily talk to the limo driver. “That means you're an
expert,
” Flick said. “I'm only
adept
with words.”

Freddy grinned and said, “That means you're as
facile
with words as I am. Good on ya, Miss Flick.”

Flick laughed. “I'm able to use big words with ease, all right. But I don't know what ‘good on ya' means.”

While Freddy explained to Flick that “Good on ya” was an Australian expression that meant “Good for you,” Kristin asked Max, “Why did you arrange for a limo?”

“I figured we needed time to talk without Flick around. Freddy will keep her entertained up front while we do.”

“I'm glad you thought ahead,” Kristin said. “I overheard something in the locker room we need to discuss.”

“What?” he said.

“Someone was talking in one of the bathroom stalls—I presume on a phone. I couldn't see her because I was in the shower. She said, ‘Kill her.' And ‘Too late.' And ‘I can do that.' She left the locker room before I got a look at her. But Flick saw her. She said the woman spoke to Irina when she came in.”

“Flick saw her? Did you ask her what she looked like?”

“She said she was dressed nicely. So maybe not a tennis player,” Kristin said.

His eyes were troubled when he asked, “You're sure she spoke to Irina?”

Kristin nodded. “That's what Flick said. When I came into the locker room Irina and Elena had their heads together. They were speaking quietly enough that I couldn't hear what they were saying.”

“I'm having a hard time believing Irina and Elena are terrorists plotting an assassination,” he said flatly.

“How well do you know Elena, Max?”

“You know Elena as well as I do. Which is to say, not at all.”

“We don't really
know
any of these people anymore,
Max. It's been ten years since Irina coached you. How much contact have you had with her since then?”

Max made a face. “You've made your point. But Irina? And Steffan? And Elena?”

“Maybe I misunderstood what I overheard. You know how people use expressions like, ‘I'm going to kill her,' when what they mean is they're mad at someone. Maybe it was something like that.”

“Maybe it wasn't,” Max said grimly. “What bothers me is that if Irina is involved, then Steffan probably is, too.”