Love Songs (37 page)

She frowned. But what about wild plum jam? And herring in wine sauce? And the heat of passion unleashed?

Then, that very evening, she learned of another shared love when she arrived at the racquetball club to find none other than Thomas Harrison Reynolds, devastatingly masculine in shorts and a jersey, ready to serve his partner from the far end of Court One.

4

To Serena’s chagrin she and Cynthia were slotted for Court Five, directly across the way and within clear sight of the match just beginning on Court One.

“Pretty clever.” Cynthia smiled, coming from behind to startle her from her trance. “Did you arrange to meet here? Have plans for dinner later?”

“No!” Serena exclaimed. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

“You two did work things out though, didn’t you?”

“Uh … not exactly.”

Serena’s vagueness captured her friend’s curiosity. “What does that mean, ‘not exactly’? This is very mysterious. I love it!”

“Don’t.” Serena frowned. “There’s nothing mysterious about it. Actually, there’s nothing about it at all.”

“You mean that you haven’t made your play yet?”

“I mean that I don’t intend to make a play.”

“Serena! I’m crushed. How can you let such a prime sample of masculinity slip right through your fingers?”

“Very easily.”

Serena let it go at that as the two women stood watching the progress on Tom’s court. She noticed that he was a skilled player. In fact, she would give her right hand to play with him.

“Who is he, anyway?” Cynthia broke into her thoughts once more.

“His name is Tom Reynolds.”

“Tom Reynolds.” The redhead tapped her lips with the lacquered tip of one tapered fingernail. “Tom Reynolds … where have I heard that name before?”

Serena saw no point in secrecy. After all, Tom’s identity was public information. “He’s the new owner of the
Bulletin.
”

“You’re kidding!
That
owns the newspaper?”

“
That
does.”

“And you’d blow a chance to be with him?”

“I’m not blowing anything, Cynthia,” Serena calmed her friend. “We just have our differences.”

“Racquetball isn’t one of them.”

“Umm.”

“Did you know he played here?”

“I didn’t know he played, period. That should tell you something about our relationship.”

“I’m all ears.” Her friend smiled coaxingly.

But Serena had never been one to confide deeply in others, particularly about such personal matters. “I’ll bet.” She smiled back, but shut her mouth firmly by way of delivering her message. She never knew whether Cynthia received it, for the other woman’s attention was glued to the action opposite them.

“He’s good,” Cynthia murmured with a touch of awe.

A deep voice responded, drawing both women’s attention momentarily away from the game. “He
should
be! He was the fifth ranked player in the country a while back. He was instrumental in establishing racquetball as a going sport.”

Cynthia was the first to recover. “And how do you know so much about him, Willie?”

“I work here, doll. He’s been in several times a week for the past month. Just moved to the area. I’d say we’re pretty lucky. Could be that he’ll spice things up around here!”

Serena’s laugh erupted spontaneously and held its share of sarcasm. “Could be,” she echoed tartly. “He’s a born agitator.” The instant she spoke she caught her breath. That was what André had said just yesterday, when they had seen Tom in the restaurant, when neither of them had known who he was. Sixteen years ago he had earned the label. Did it still apply? What he had done to her yesterday and that morning added up to a more private form of agitation. What
was
he like as a person?

“He’s good!” Cynthia repeated her earlier exclamation, to be echoed by Willie once again.

“I’ll say! He doesn’t compete anymore, but he sure could beat the pants—pardon me, ladies—off anybody here!”

At that point, bidden by some unknown force, Tom looked up and focused on them. Cynthia nudged Serena, whose pulse tripped dangerously even without the reminder that Tom had seen her. When he finally turned back to play, all eyes were on him. His opponent served, he returned a ceiling ball; his opponent slammed a kill shot to the corner—and Tom missed.

Serena turned on her heel, having seen enough. The image was all too fresh in her mind—long, muscled arms and legs, a natural grace amid the speed of the game, an undeniable mastery of the sport itself—and did even less for her concentration than her presence had done for Tom’s. Had it not been for his obvious skill and the information Willie had freely offered, she might have wondered if his presence was something short of coincidence. But he was a pro—and he had been as stunned to see her as she was to see him.

Serena felt no satisfaction at having distracted Tom. When Cynthia teased her, she came to his defense.

“Wow! You sure shake
him
up!”

“Not quite, Cyn. He was just surprised, that’s all. Willie was right; I’m sure he’ll beat the pants off that guy!”

She didn’t linger to watch the outcome of the game, but dragged her friend toward their own court. Her play was far below par, though. And Cynthia noted that, as well, commenting on it when the hour was up.

“Boy, you two better get it together or you’ll both be kicked out of the club,” she teased. “Better still, we’ll put you on a court together and you can stand there looking at each other. If nobody serves the ball, nobody misses.”

“Cynthia, have pity on me,” Serena gasped, collapsing on the sidelines while the redhead collected her things.

“He’s gone, at any rate.”

“Oh?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

Serena
did
know. She knew at precisely what point he had finished, precisely how long he had followed the activity on Court Five, and precisely which men he’d spoken to as he headed for the locker room. It was no wonder her own game was shot, she’d barely been aware of what she was doing!

Moments later the two women headed for their own locker room. “Listen, Serena, if you’re not interested in him, I’ll be glad—”

“Thanks, but I’ll let you know,” Serena interrupted, not sure what she was talking about, though her words sounded full of confidence. In fact, she was sure of nothing, except the fact that she could
not
turn Cynthia loose on Tom. Not that she had any claim on him herself, or
wished
to have any, nor that
he
had serious designs on her, but she was simply not ready to make any definitive judgment where Tom Reynolds was concerned. There was still that spark he lit in her, a spark no other man in recent years had ignited. Granted, she’d let no man get as close as Michael Lowry had been—for the very reason for which he’d scorned her. But Tom knew about that past; he’d said it didn’t matter. Could she ever see eye to eye with him on that score?

As the days passed Serena wondered often about Tom. He was a link to her past, a potentially devastating one, yet she didn’t feel threatened as she had at first. She trusted him in some strange way, though the “why” of it eluded her. Much as she felt guilty at the aggressive behavior she’d shown that morning in her apartment, she couldn’t squelch the curiosity she felt—any more than she could the remembered tingle that came to her often in the night when her thoughts returned with agonizing precision to the body that went with the man.

*   *   *

But life went on. April saw more snow, as she’d expected. It also saw continued prosperity for
Sweet Serenity.
It saw Serena at her gourmet cooking class every Tuesday night and at the racquetball club with Cynthia every Thursday night. It saw her out on the weekends with Gregory Wolff, a lawyer she dated occasionally, and with Rodney Hendricks, a psychology professor from the university. Both men knew better than to expect commitment from Serena; with each, she kept her private world off limits. Only Tom had penetrated that world—and there was neither sight nor sound of him.

The bouquet he’d sent had long since died, its small basket now a poignant fixture on her dresser, holding the decorative combs and hair clips she wore for the occasional added touch of sophistication. It was an exquisite tortoiseshell fan of a comb that she fished out to wear on the evening of André’s party. Pulling her curls straight back into a severe knot, she replayed in her mind the discussion she’d had with André just two days before.

“I don’t know,” she had hedged. “You know how I hate parties, André.”

“But this is
my
party, Serena.” His voice had been firm over the phone. “It won’t be anything all that big—just a few of my friends. You already know some of them. And there will be several aldermen here. Since you’re so bullish on Minneapolis you’ll love talking with them.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely, André, but I really think I ought to pass it up.”

He’d been persistent. “Nonsense. I haven’t seen you since I returned from the coast. The party will be quiet and interesting. I’ll pick you up myself—say about eight?”

Serena took a stab at an alternative. “Listen, I have an even better idea. I’ve been taking this gourmet cooking course. Why don’t you come over and let me practice the art on you one evening after work next week?”

“Uh-uh, you can’t get out of this one so easily. In the first place, between that course and your racquetball and the other gents who follow you around, not to mention my own schedule, we’d never be able to agree on a night. In the second place, an evening alone with you might be more than my wounded heart can take—”

“André,” she chided, “so melodramatic…”

“Could it be,” he struck a hopeful, though teasing, note “that you’ve changed your mind about
us?
Has absence made the heart grow fonder?”

She sighed at his resort to cliché, smiling patiently. “No, André.”

“Then humor me and come to my party,” he pressed. “As a friend? Please?”

Serena had had no choice. She didn’t want to hurt André; she was, after all, fond of him. And then there was the matter of
Sweet Serenity.
She’d been hesitant about raising the issue of expansion again. If she yielded on the party André might be more approachable.

It was nonetheless with mixed feelings that she found herself dressed in a green silk tunic and pants, with high-heeled gold sandals on her feet, a ghost of lavender on her lids, a touch of mascara on her lashes and a blush of pink on her cheeks. Small pearl buttons graced her ears, a delicate drop to match lay softly on her throat. She was the image of sophistication, with only the shadow of her freckles to betray the lighter spirit within.

The buzzer rang promptly at eight. Within minutes she was downstairs in the lobby greeting her host, sliding into his car, being driven to his spacious home in Kenwood, a section outside downtown Minneapolis. The house was a legacy of the last of his marriage, his ex-wife having happily deserted him to return to New York.

As Serena had often noticed, André’s lifestyle was one of lavish consumption. With three ex-wives and a mansion to support, not to mention natty clothes, a late-model sports car and the traveling style of a jet-setter, his financial obligations must have been staggering. Since he never spoke of hardship, she assumed that his work supported him well.
Very well
, she amended the judgment, admiring the artful landscaping, well-lit by floodlights, that surrounded the circular drive leading to his door.
Astoundingly well
, she modified it further, surrendering her light wrap to the uniformed man on duty at the door, taking a glass of champagne from the tray borne by another, and sampling the array of hors d’oeuvres offered to her by a third.

André beamed by her side as he motioned that he wanted to introduce her to several guests whose arrival had preceded theirs. Serena held him back for a minute, putting her hand gently on the sleeve of his black evening jacket.

“I thought you said this was a
small
party,” she accused him in a chiding whisper. “You’ve got at least four or five people in to help here.”

André shrugged, smiling without guilt at the deception. “It’s really nothing, Serena. Don’t worry about it. Clients. Friends. Politicians. Relax, you’ll have a good time. Oh, there’s Ted Franck from the brokerage firm. Come on, he’s anxious to meet you.”

Uncomfortably aware that, having arrived on André’s arm, she would be considered “with” him, Serena acquiesced for the moment, graciously crossing the room beside him, being her most poised and charming self through the introductions and subsequent conversation. In actuality, it wasn’t as bad as she had anticipated. As the guests arrived and the room grew more crowded there was less and less of an opportunity for intimate discussion with anyone. And
that
pleased Serena to no end. She strove to keep a low profile, which was why she generally avoided parties. Constantly shuttling from one cluster to the next, she avoided any involvment to speak of—until a firm hand took her elbow just after André had excused himself to attend to business and guided her toward a corner of the large living room.