Invincible (27 page)

K
ristin had butterflies in her stomach, fluttering violently. The reason was simple. The day of the exhibition match had arrived.

She shouldn't be nervous. She and Max had practiced long and hard for the match. Yesterday, when they'd played Elena and Steffan, they'd beaten them soundly. However, Kristin knew that in the actual competition, Elena and Steffan would play harder to win. And nerves might cause her to choke.

“Worried?” Max murmured from his place beside her in the corridor leading out to Centre Court.

“Terrified,” she admitted.

“Me, too.”

She shot him a surprised look. “You have nerves of steel.”

“And a herd of zebras in my stomach.”

She laughed. “Sounds painful.”

“Nice to see you laughing,” he said. “Don't worry, K. We're going to beat the socks off them.”

Kristin continued to smile after the laughter had
faded. She'd spent an amazing week with Max. They'd practiced in the mornings, then eaten lunch in the Players Lounge and spent the early afternoons in the Wimbledon locker rooms, talking and listening for any hint of an assassination conspiracy.

They'd frolicked—that was the word that came to mind—in the late afternoons with Flick and enjoyed the long, languid evenings with each other. Kristin didn't think she'd enjoyed a week more in her entire life. She was sorry their time together was coming to an end.

It doesn't have to end. You and Flick can have a life that includes Max. You just have to reach for it.

Was she willing to make the sacrifices necessary to be with Max? It would mean leaving her job. It would mean taking the risk that he would stay with her through adversity. It would mean trusting him with her heart. In her mind, that was more perilous than any work she'd done for the FBI.

Max had spent the past week showing her what life with him could be like. He'd driven the Range Rover, rather than the Porsche. He'd cooked dinner for her in his home in the West End, near his parents' mansion in Berkeley Square. She'd been impressed by his menu—the green salad, leeks and potatoes with salmon and the mangoes with pound cake and Britain's amazing heavy cream for dessert.

Max lived in a surprisingly modest, three-story flat that a decorator had furnished for him. “It could use a few personal touches,” he'd admitted. “Any suggestions?”

She'd suggested a more comfortable chair in his study.
“There's nowhere in here for you to relax.” Lighter curtains on his bedroom windows. “It's too dark in here. Like a bear's den.”

He'd waggled his eyebrows and agreed he'd done a great deal of hibernating there.

She'd also suggested two chairs for the outdoor balcony. “So we can sit and enjoy the sunset.”

“That sounds pretty damned wonderful to me, K,” he'd said.

They were standing on the balcony when she'd made her suggestion, and she'd seen he wanted to kiss her. Since she'd wanted it, too, she'd stood still and waited. He'd drawn close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. Then he'd waited, ever so patiently, for her to bring their mouths together.

The kiss had been a mere touch of lips. Sweeter than sweet. For about five seconds. Then Max had opened his mouth over hers and his tongue had come seeking the honey within. A streak of desire had raced through her breasts and down her belly to settle between her legs. She'd pressed her body against his, wanting to feel hard male flesh.

Max didn't disappoint.

She'd wanted him, and she hadn't seen one good reason not to have sex with him. This week together was a brief moment in time. She wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

Max had backed her into his bedroom from the balcony, and she'd realized why he had dark curtains on the
bedroom windows. The bedroom became a dark cave in which the savage beast could claim its mate.

The liaison had been brief. She'd come as fast as he had. Her orgasm had been as powerful as his.

It was only later, lying in bed alone at Bella's Berkeley mansion, that Kristin regretted what she'd done. Because the prospect of spending the rest of her life without Max suddenly seemed a tragedy of vast proportions. All she saw ahead of her were long, endless years alone.

Kristin felt a tug on her tennis skirt, pulling her away from her thoughts. She looked down to find Flick standing beside her.

“Mom,” Flick whispered. She gestured Kristin down to her level.

Kristin bent down and asked, “What is it, Flick?”

“I just wanted to say good luck.”

“Where's your grandmother?” Kristin asked, looking around the hallway. Bella was supposed to be taking care of Flick. Kristin didn't see her anywhere.

“She's waiting in the box for players' coaches and families, where we're sitting.”

When Kristin narrowed her eyes, Flick admitted, “I snuck away. But I'm going right back.”

Kristin gave her daughter a quick, hard hug and said, “Thanks for coming, Flick. Now hurry back. Your grandmother will be worried about where you are. You know you need to be seated before the match starts, or you'll have to wait for a break to get inside.”

“I'm going. As soon as I wish Dad luck.”

Kristin let go of her daughter and watched as Flick
tugged on Max's short white sleeve. He'd been talking with Steffan and seemed as surprised to see Flick as she'd been.

“What are you doing here, young lady?” he said, his voice showing his disapproval of her appearance. “Where's your grandmother?”

Flick shot Kristin a chagrined look before she said, “Mom asked the same thing! I came to wish you and Mom luck. I'm going right back to the box where Gram and I are sitting.”

He flipped her bangs, then said, “Thanks for coming. Now get out of here!”

“Good luck, Dad. Good luck, Mom,” Flick called as she hurried away. She was looking back over her shoulder when she spoke, so she ran smack into someone coming down the hall, who wasn't watching where she was going, either.

Flick went sprawling.

“Flick!” Kristin dropped the tennis bag she had over her shoulder and ran to aid her daughter.

Flick was already on her feet by the time Kristin reached her, swiping at the liquid that had spilled on her blouse from the cup the woman was holding, and apologizing profusely to the lady she'd run into.

“I'm sorry, Miss Veronica,” Flick said. “I wasn't watching where I was going.”

“I'll say!” Veronica was swiping at her skirt, which was covered with what Kristin could see was the remnants of a plastic cup of Pimm's, Wimbledon's version of the Kentucky Derby's mint julep. Pimm's drink dated
back to 1840 and consisted of cut-up citrus fruit, cucumbers and crushed mint with iced soda and alcoholic spirits. “Next time, watch where you're going!”

“She told you she's sorry,” Kristin said curtly.

“She should be,” Veronica retorted. “Look at me! I'm a mess.” The reporter's white skirt was stained with the brown liquid. “What is she doing here, anyway?” she demanded.

“She's here to wish her parents luck. What are
you
doing here?” Kristin shot back.

“Mom,” Flick said, tugging on her skirt. “Mom.”

“Just a minute, Flick.” Kristin had been anxious about the match and Veronica's attack on Flick gave her a place to vent her high-strung emotions.

“What's going on?” Max asked, joining them.

“Your daughter ran into me and I ended up spilling Pimm's all over my skirt,” Veronica said.

“And all over Flick,” Kristin pointed out, holding out her daughter's white blouse, which was wet from the drink.

“Mom,” Flick said urgently, tugging on her mother's tennis skirt.

“What, Flick?” Kristin said, irritated at the interruption.

Flick held a hand up to hide her mouth, as though she wanted to speak to Kristin privately and tugged on Kristin's arm.

When Kristin had taken a couple of steps away from Veronica, Flick tugged her down so she could whisper
something in her ear. “What is it, Flick?” Kristin asked, irritated at being drawn away from the other woman.

“I didn't think of it till I saw her in that white skirt again,” Flick said, still holding her hand up to hide her mouth from Veronica. “Miss Veronica is the lady who came into the locker room and talked to Miss Irina.”

Kristin nearly turned to stare at Max's old girlfriend but managed to resist the urge. She kept her face level with Flick's and said, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

She stood upright and took Flick's hand and said to Max, “I'm going to take Flick into the locker room and rinse her off. I'll be right back.”

The moment she got Flick away from Veronica she said, “Are you sure Miss Veronica is the woman you saw with Miss Irina in the locker room, Flick?”

Flick nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”

“Why didn't you say something when you saw her in the park?”

“I guess I didn't think about it,” Flick said. “I was kind of excited about riding.”

“You're
sure
she's the one.”

“Uh-huh.”

At that moment, Veronica slammed open the locker room door and headed for one of the sinks. She turned on the water, wet a white towel and began brushing at the brown stain on her skirt.

“I'm really sorry, Miss Veronica,” Flick said.

“I heard you the first time,” Veronica said ungraciously.

Kristin was afraid Flick would blurt out something
about her mother's inquiries and hurried her daughter out of the bathroom. At the last moment, she turned back to the reporter and said, “You deserve that—and more—for printing that article about Max.”

Veronica shot her a sour look without replying.

Kristin took her daughter by the arms and hurried her down the hall as she instructed, “Go back to the box and sit down beside your grandmother and
don't move
until your father and I come to get you. Do you understand?”

“Is Miss Veronica the one who wants to assassinate President Taylor?” Flick asked.

Kristin stopped dead in her tracks, staring at her daughter. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Mom. I'm not stupid. I've heard you and Dad talking.”

Kristin couldn't believe she and Max had been that indiscreet. “When did you hear us?” she demanded. “Where?”

Flick looked guilty. “I snuck into Gram's sitting room after you put me to bed one night. I heard you discussing all the tennis players and who might be suspected in an assassination plot. I had to look up
suspected
and
assassination
and
plot
in the dictionary. Jeez, Mom. What are you guys, anyway, some kind of secret agents?”

“Hey, Princess,” Max called to Kristin from down the hall. “What's holding you up? They've announced our names. It's time to go!”

Kristin didn't want to let her daughter out of her sight. But she was going to cause a scandal if she failed to
show up for the doubles match. She took her daughter by the arms again, to make sure she had her attention, and said in her severest voice, “I want you to forget what you think you heard. I want you to go back to your seat beside your grandmother and be quiet and not say a word. To anyone. Your father and I will come get you when our match is completed.”

“All right, Mom. But if Miss Veronica is planning to kill the—”

Kristin put a hand over her daughter's mouth and looked around to see if she'd been overheard. “That's enough, Flick. You heard what I said. Not another word. I mean it!”

Flick made a face. “Okay. But—”

“No buts!”

“K! Come on!” Max yelled.

“Go find your grandmother. Now!” Kristin waited until Flick was started on her journey before she turned back to Max. She hurried down the hall, glancing at the closed locker room door, wondering if the reporter inside was a potential assassin. And whether Veronica was involved in a conspiracy with Irina, and perhaps her son.

“Max, I have something—”

He shushed her and grabbed her hand. “Come on. We need to get out on the court.”

“But, Max—”

He pulled her along behind him, lifting his free hand to wave at the polite but enthusiastic fifteen-thousand-strong Centre Court crowd.

It seemed to Kristin that now that Centre Court had a
retractable roof, it never rained on days when important tennis matches were being played. Today the retractable roof was open, letting in the hot sunlight and the occasional pigeon or English sparrow, who found a roost on the white roof struts.

Kristin sought out the family box, to the left of the royal box at the far end of the stadium, looking for Flick. She searched each row and found Bella but not her daughter. She was ready to leave the court—scandal or no scandal—when she saw Flick come running out of a tunnel and scoot up the stairs to a seat beside Bella.

Kristin was so focused on her daughter that she was oblivious to what was happening on the court. She only realized they'd won the serve when Max said. “Your serve, Princess.”

“Max, there's something I need to tell you.”

“Not now, Princess. Time to play tennis.”

Kristin hit her first two balls into the net, double-faulting and losing the first point.

“You okay?” Max asked as he met her in the middle of the court.

“Veronica is the woman Flick saw talking to Irina in the bathroom,” she blurted before moving to the other side of the court, so she could serve the next point.

Max was as stunned as she'd been when she'd first heard the news. The umpire calling the match said, “Time.”

Kristin only had twenty seconds between each point. Telling Max what was troubling her had released enough tension that she was able to get her next serve into the
box. But Elena returned it down the line, and Max was apparently still so distracted that when he swung at the ball he missed.