Opposites Attract (16 page)

She was fighting, and losing. Asher had used almost all her reserve of energy to take the first set to a tie breaker. The ultimate loss had taken its emotional toll. Kingston was a crafty enough player to sense her opponent's flagging stamina and capitalized on it. Precision was nothing without strength. Asher's strength was ebbing quickly.

The noise played havoc with her concentration. Already playing below par, she needed the sound of the ball hitting the racket. Engines drowned it out, denying her the sense of hearing. On the brittle grass the ball jumped, skidded and stopped. Top speed was necessary, and she didn't have it.

Unable to prevent himself, Ty came to the edge of the tunnel to watch. Immediately he could see that Chuck hadn't exaggerated. She was too pale, too slow. Instinctively he took a step forward. Restraining himself was more difficult than going on, but he stopped, cursing her even as he cursed himself. She'd made her own choice. She herself had cut off any right he had to influence her. From where he stood he could hear her labored breathing, see the strain she fought to keep from her face. At the twinge of fresh pain he turned away from the court.

With a blind determination that was more nerves than power, Asher had taken the second set to three-all. Her face shone with sweat. Weakened, Asher knew that she would have to find a hole in Kingston's game soon, and have the wit and stamina to exploit it. Grit was a weapon, but not weapon enough against power, precision and cunning.

At double break point Asher prepared to serve again. If she could pull this one out, she'd have a chance. If Kingston broke her serve, the match was as good as over.
Concentrate, concentrate
, she ordered herself as she gave the ball a few testing bounces. She counted each one, trying to calm herself. Ty's furious, accusing words hammered in her brain. His face, enraged and stricken, floated in front of her eyes. Tossing the ball, Asher drove at it with her racket.

“Fault.”

She shut her eyes and cursed. Control, she ordered herself. If she lost control now, she lost everything. As she took an extra moment, the crowd began to hum in speculation.

“Come on, Face, let's see what you're made of!”

Gritting her teeth, Asher put everything she had left into the serve. The ace brought a roar of approval. She wasn't beaten yet.

But her next serve was soft. Slapping it back to her, Kingston incited a hard, punishing rally. Asher battled by instinct, all reserve depleted. Her eyes, her mind, were fixed on the ball and the ball only. Dodging after a slice, she skidded, barely meeting it with her racket as she stumbled. She went down to her knees, crumbling into a ball of exhaustion and pain.

Someone's hands hooked under her armpits, pulling her to her feet. Asher pushed them away blindly to stagger to her chair.

“Come on, Asher.” Chuck toweled off her streaming face, talking to her as she drew in ragged, straining breaths. “Come on, babe, you're not in any shape to be out here today. I'll help you inside.”

“No.” She shook off his hand. “No, I won't forfeit.” Rising, she dropped the towel to the ground. “I'm going to finish.”

Helpless, Chuck watched her fight a losing battle.

***

Asher slept for almost twenty-four hours straight. Her body recharged as she lay motionless in the bed she had shared so recently with Ty. The loss of the match—and the Grand Slam—meant little. She'd finished. Her pride was whole because she had refused to give up, because she had managed to face the reporters after the match and give them a calm accounting. When they had speculated on the state of her health, she'd told them she'd been fit to play. She would give no excuses for losing. If there was blame, it lay within herself. That was the primary rule of the game.

On returning to her room, Asher only took time to strip to her underwear before falling exhausted onto the bed. Sleep came immediately. Hours later she didn't hear the door open or Ty's footsteps as he crossed to the bedroom to look at her.

Asher lay flat on her stomach across the spread—something he knew she did only when absolutely depleted. Her breathing was deep, a heavy sound of fatigue. The hands he had thrust in his pockets balled into fists.

His emotions were pulling in too many directions. She shouldn't be allowed to do this to him, he thought furiously. She shouldn't make him want to hurt and protect at the same time. Walking to the window, he remained silent for a quarter of an hour, listening to her breathe. Before he left her, Ty drew the drapes closed so that the sunlight wouldn't disturb her.

When Asher awoke, a full day had passed. The aches made themselves known.

Keeping her mind a blank, she ran a hot bath. As the water lapped over her, she slipped into a half doze. Asher heard the knock on the door, and ignored it. The phone rang, but she didn't open her eyes.

Disturbed, Jess replaced the receiver after ten full rings. Where could Asher be? she wondered. She knew Asher was still registered at the hotel, but she hadn't answered the phone or the door in more than a day. She'd tried to tell Ty, but he simply wouldn't listen. Any more than he'd listened to her attempts at confession.

Her conscience plagued her. She hadn't tried hard enough, Jess berated herself. She'd been so afraid of losing Ty's love, she had allowed him to brush her off when she tried to talk to him. Well, no more, she decided determinedly.

Checking her watch, Jess calculated that Ty would be preparing for the day's match. She cursed, then fretted, then made herself a promise. When it was over, win or lose, she was going to corner her brother and make him listen until she'd told him everything.

Now that the vow had been made, Jess discovered that the waiting wasn't easy. In the stands she marked time. Ty played with the same fierce anger she had observed in his quarterfinal match. It was just as effective.

Beneath her pride in him was the constant thought that her brother might turn away from her after he'd heard her out. But Jess sat patiently through the match and through the press conference. She'd left it to her mother to persuade Martin to go back to the hotel instead of dragging Ty off for a replay of the match. Like a tennis groupie, Jess waited for Ty to emerge from the locker room, then pounced.

“Ty, I need to talk to you.”

“I'm talked out, Jess.” He patted her hand then removed it from his arm. “I want to get out of here before the next sportswriter latches on to me.”

“Fine, I'll drive. You'll listen.”

“Look, Jess—”

“Now, Ty.”

Annoyed, Ty stalked to the car. For the first time in his life he wished his family hadn't come. He'd managed to avoid them for the most part, using fatigue or practice as excuses. His mother knew him too well, and her silence questioned him constantly. Martin was ecstatic, wanting to analyze every volley and shower praise. And the hardest of all was watching Pete, darting here and there, babbling, laughing, reminding Ty of something that might have been.

“Look, Jess, I'm tired—”

“Just get in,” she interrupted tersely. “I've already put this off for too long.”

They slammed their doors simultaneously. Not a very auspicious start, she mused as she merged with traffic, but she'd never finish if she didn't begin. “Okay, I've got some things to tell you, and I'd like you to hear me out before you say anything.”

“Unless I want to hitch a damn ride back, I don't have much choice, do I?”

She sent him a worried look. “Don't hate me, Ty.”

“Oh, come on, Jess.” Ashamed of wishing her away, he gave her hair a quick tousle. “I might be mad at being shanghaied, but I'm not going to hate you.”

“Just listen,” she started. Staring straight ahead, she began.

At first, Ty paid little attention. She was hopping back to the summer he had first been with Asher. He started once to interrupt, not wanting to be reminded. Jess shook her head fiercely and silenced him. With strained patience Ty sat back and watched the passing scenery.

When Jess told him that she had gone to see Asher, his brows lowered. His concentration focused. Listening to her pouring out the things she had said—
Ty's tired of you. . . . He doesn't know exactly how to end things without hurting you
—his rage built swiftly. Jess felt the fury swirling, and barely paused for breath.

“She seemed to have no reaction to anything I said. She was very cool, totally in control of herself. It just seemed to reinforce what I thought of her.” Stopping for a light, Jess swallowed quickly. “I didn't understand how anyone could have strong feelings and not express them, not then. After I met Mac I realized . . .” When the light changed she gunned the motor with a jerk of her foot, then stalled the engine. On a frustrated oath she started the car again as Ty remained silent.

“When I look back on it,” Jess continued after a shaky breath, “I remember how pale she got, how quiet. It wasn't indifference, but shock. She listened to everything I said, never raising her voice or shedding a tear. I must have hurt her terribly.”

Her voice broke and she waited for him to speak, but there was nothing but thick, vibrant silence. “I had no right, Ty,” Jess continued quickly. “I know that. I wanted—I wanted to help, to pay you back somehow for everything you'd done for me. At the time, I thought I was telling her the things you couldn't bring yourself to. I'd convinced myself . . . Oh, I don't know.” Jess made a quick gesture with her hand before she gripped the gearshift. “Maybe I was even jealous, but I didn't think you loved her and I was so sure she didn't love you. Especially when she married so quickly.”

Because tears were forming, she pulled over to the side of the road. “Ty, to tell you I'm sorry isn't enough, but I don't have anything else.”

The silence in the car vibrated for the space of three heartbeats. “What made you think you could play God with my life?” Ty demanded in a sudden burst that had her jolting. “Who the hell put you in charge?”

Forcing herself to meet his eyes, Jess spoke quietly. “There's nothing you can say to me I haven't said to myself, but you're entitled.”

“Do you have any idea what you did to my life?”

She shuddered involuntarily. “Yes.”

“I was going to ask Asher to marry me that night, the night I got back and found you in our room. The night you told me she'd gone off with Wickerton.”

“Oh, God, Ty.” Choking back a sob, Jess laid her head on the steering wheel. “I never thought . . . I never realized she meant that much to you.”

“She was everything I wanted, don't you understand? Everything! I was half crazy because I wasn't sure she'd say yes.” He drummed his fist against the dash. “And, God, I'm still not sure. I'll never be sure.” The anguish in his voice made Jess straighten.

“Ty, if you'd go see her. If you'd—”

“No.” He thought again of the child. His child. “There are other reasons now.”

“I'll go,” Jess began. “I can—”

“No!” The word whipped out at her, causing Jess to swallow the rest of the sentence. “Stay away from her.”

“All right,” she agreed unsteadily. “If that's the way you want it.”

“That's the way I want it.”

“You still love her?” Jess asked.

Ty turned his head so that his eyes met his sister's. “Yes, I love her. That isn't always enough, Jess. I don't think I'd ever be able to forget . . .”

“Forget?” she prompted when he trailed off. “Forget what?”

“Something she took from me . . .” Angry energy built up again, grinding at his nerves. “I've got to walk.”

“Ty.” Jess stopped him with a tentative hand on the arm as he jerked open the door of the car. “Do you want me to go away—back to California? I can make up an excuse, even leave Pete and Mac here for the rest of the tournament. I won't stay for the finals if it upsets you.”

“Do what you want,” he told her shortly. He started to slam the door of the car when he caught the look in her eyes. He'd protected her all of his life, too long to change now. Love was rooted in him. “It's history, Jess,” he said in calmer tones. “Past history. Forget it.”

Turning, Ty walked away, hoping he'd be able to believe his own words.

Chapter 12

Asher sat on the bed to watch the men's singles championship. The television commentary barely penetrated as she judged and dissected each stroke and volley for herself. She couldn't go to the stadium, but nothing would prevent her from watching Ty compete.

On the close-ups, she studied his face carefully. Yes, some strain showed, she noted, but his concentration was complete. His energy was as volatile as ever, perhaps more so. For that she could be grateful.

Each time they replayed a shot in slow motion, Asher could fully appreciate the beauty of his form. Muscles rippled as he stretched; feet left the turf in a leap for more power. He was a raw athlete with anger simmering just under the discipline. The graphite racket was no more than an extension of the arm that was whipping the ball harder and harder. As always, his hair flew around the sweatband, dramatic and unruly. His eyes were dark with a rage barely contained. Was it the game that drove him? she wondered. The insatiable thirst to win? Or were there other emotions pushing him this time?

If there were, it was easy to see that they added to the impetus. He was an explosion heating up, a storm rumbling just overhead. Asher knew him well enough to recognize that his control balanced on a very thin edge, but it made his game all the more exciting.

His topspin drove to Chuck's backhand and was returned, power for power. A slice, a lob, an overhead. Turned the wrong way, Chuck pivoted, sprinted, but had no chance to return. The call was late, judging Ty's ball long.

His head whipped around to the judge, his eyes deadly. Asher shuddered when the camera zoomed in so that the undisguised fury seemed aimed directly at her. For a moment they seemed to stare into each other's eyes. Disgust warred with temper before he turned to resume his receiving stance. Crouched like a cat, his eyes intense, he waited. Asher let out an unsteady breath.

Ty was judging the bounce with uncanny accuracy. If it threatened to die, he was under it. When it chose to soar, he got behind it. With unrelenting challenge he charged the net. He baited Chuck, dared him, and, time after time, outwitted him. His game was all aggression and power—Starbuck at his best, she thought with undiminished pride. He could demoralize even a seasoned pro like Chuck with a lightning-fast return that lifted chalk from the service line. With each swing she could hear the grunt of exertion and the swish of air. How she wanted to be there.

He wouldn't want her. She wouldn't soon forget that look of rage and disgust he had turned on her—too much like the one his video image had projected. A man like Starbuck had no ambivalent emotions. It was love or hate; she'd felt them both.

She'd been cut out of his life. She had to accept that. She had to . . . quit? Asher asked herself. Suddenly her chin rose. Was that what she was doing again? She looked back at the screen as the camera zoomed in on Ty's face. His eyes were opaque and dangerous before he went into a full stretch for his serve. The force of her feelings attacked her. She loved and wanted and needed.

No, damn it! Rising, Asher cursed him. No, if she was going to lose, she was going down fighting, just as she had on the courts. He wouldn't brush her out of his life so easily this time. Briefly she'd forgotten that she no longer aimed her actions at pleasing those around her. Perhaps he didn't want to see her, but that was just too bad. He would see her . . . and he would listen.

Just as she snapped off the set, a knock sounded on her door. Battling impatience, Asher went to answer. Her expression changed from grim determination to wonder.

“Dad!”

“Asher.” Jim met her stunned expression with an unsmiling nod. “May I come in?”

He hadn't changed, she thought wildly. He hadn't changed at all. He was still tall and tanned and silvery-blond. He was still her father. Her eyes filled with love and tears. “Oh, Dad, I'm so glad to see you.” Grasping his hand, she drew him into the room. Then the awkwardness set in. “Sit down, please.” While gesturing to a chair, Asher sought something to fill the gap. “Shall I order up something to drink? Some coffee?”

“No.” He sat as she suggested and looked at his daughter. She was thinner, he noted. And nervous, as nervous as he was himself. Since Ty's phone call, he'd done little but think of her. “Asher,” he began, then sighed. “Please sit down.” He waited until she settled across from him. “I want to tell you I'm proud of the way you've played this season.”

His voice was stiff, but she expected little else. “Thank you.”

“I'm most proud of the last match you played.”

Asher gave him a small smile. How typical that it was tennis he spoke of first. “I lost.”

“You played,” he countered. “Right down to the last point, you played. I wonder how many people who watched knew that you were ill.”

“I wasn't ill,” Asher corrected him automatically. “If I came on court—”

“Then you were fit,” he finished, before he shook his head. “I drummed that into you well, didn't I?”

“A matter of pride and sportsmanship,” she said quietly, giving him back the words he had given her again and again during her training.

Jim lapsed into silence, frowning at the elegant hands that lay folded in her lap. She'd always been his princess, he thought, his beautiful, golden princess. He'd wanted to give her the world, and he'd wanted her to deserve it.

“I didn't intend to come here to see you.”

If the statement hurt, she gave no sign. “What changed your mind?”

“A couple of things, most particularly, your last match.”

Rising, Asher walked to the window. “So, I had to lose to have you speak to me again.” The words came easily, as did the light trace of bitterness. Though love had remained constant, she found no need to give him unvarnished adulation any longer. “All those years I needed you so badly, I waited, hoping you'd forgive me.”

“It was a hard thing to forgive, Asher.”

He rose, too, realizing his daughter had grown stronger. He wasn't sure how to approach the woman she had become.

“It was a hard thing to accept,” she countered in the calm voice he remembered. “That my father looked at me as athlete first and child second.”

“That's not true.”

“Isn't it?” Turning, she fixed him with a level stare. “You turned your back on me because I gave up my career. Not once when I was suffering did you hold out a hand to me. I had no one to go to but you, and because you said no, I had no one at all.”

“I tried to deal with it. I tried to accept your decision to marry that man, though you knew how I felt about him.” The unexpected guilt angered him and chilled his voice. “I tried to understand how you could give up what you were to play at being something else.”

“I had no choice,” she began furiously.

“No choice?” His derision was sharp as a blade. “You made your own decision, Asher—your career for a title—just as you made it about the child. My grandchild.”

“Please.” She lifted both hands to her temples as she turned away. “Please don't. Have you any idea how much and how often I've paid for that moment of carelessness?”

“Carelessness?”
Stunned into disbelief, Jim stared at the back of her head. “You call the conception of a child carelessness?”

“No,
no!
” Her voice trembled as it rose. “The loss. If I hadn't let myself get upset, if I had looked where I was going, I never would have fallen. I never would have lost Ty's child.”

“What!” As the pain slammed into his stomach, Jim sank into the chair. “Fallen? Ty's child?
Ty's?
” He ran a hand over his eyes as he tried to sort it out. Suddenly he felt old and frail and frightened. “Asher, are you telling me you miscarried Ty's child?”

“Yes.” Wearily she turned back to face him. “I wrote you, I told you.”

“If you wrote, I never received the letter.” Shaken, Jim held out a hand, waiting until she grasped it. “Asher, Eric told me you aborted his child.” For an instant, the words, their meaning, failed to penetrate. Her look was blank and vulnerable enough to make him feel every year of his age. “A calculated abortion of your husband's child,” he said deliberately. When she swayed he gripped her other hand. “He told me you'd done so without his knowledge or permission. He seemed devastated. I believed him, Asher.” As she went limp, he drew her down to her knees in front of him. “I believed him.”

“Oh, God.” Her eyes were huge and dark with shock.

Her father's fingers trembled in hers. “He phoned me from London. He sounded half mad—I thought with grief. He said that you hadn't told him until after it was done. That you had told him you wanted no children to interfere with the life you intended to build as Lady Wickerton.”

Too numb for anger, Asher shook her head. “I didn't know even Eric could be so vindictive, so cruel.”

It all began to make horrid sense. Her letters to her father hadn't been answered. Eric had seen that they were never mailed. Then, when she had phoned him, Jim had been cold and brief. He'd told her that he could never resolve himself to her choice. Asher had assumed he meant her rejection of her career.

“He wanted me to pay,” she explained as she dropped her head on her father's lap. “He never wanted me to stop paying.”

Gently Jim cupped her face in his hands. “Tell me everything. I'll listen, as I should have a long time ago.”

She started with Jess, leaving nothing out, including her final stormy estrangement from Ty. Jim's mouth tightened at her recounting of the accident and the hospital scene with Eric. Listening, he cursed himself for being a fool.

“And now, Ty . . .” As realization struck her, she paled. “Ty thinks—Eric must have told him I'd had an abortion.”

“No, I told him.”

“You?” Confused, Asher pressed her fingers to the headache in her temple. “But how—”

“He called me a few nights ago. He wanted to convince me to see you. I told him enough to make him believe the lie just as I'd believed it.”

“That night when I woke up,” Asher remembered. “Oh, my God, when he realized it had been his baby . . . The things he was saying! I couldn't think at the time.” She shut her eyes. “No wonder he hates me.”

Color flooded back into her face. “I have to tell him the truth and make him believe it.” Scrambling up, she dashed for the door. “I'll go to the club. I have to make him listen. I have to make him understand.”

“The match must be nearly over.” Jim rose on unsteady legs. His daughter had been through hell, and he had done nothing but add to it. “You'll never catch him there.”

Frustrated, Asher looked at her watch. “I don't know where he's staying.” Releasing the doorknob, she went to the phone. “I'll just have to find out.”

“Asher . . .” Awkward, unsure, Jim held out his hand. “Forgive me.”

Asher stared into his face as she replaced the receiver. Ignoring the hand, she went into his arms.

***

It was nearly midnight when Ty reached the door of his room. For the past two hours he'd been drinking steadily. Celebrating. It wasn't every day you won the Grand Slam, he reminded himself as he searched for his keys. And it wasn't every day a man had a half dozen women offering to share their beds with him. He gave a snort of laughter as he slid the key into the lock. And why the hell hadn't he taken one of them up on it?

None of them was Asher. He shook away the thought as he struggled to make the doorknob function. No, he simply hadn't wanted a woman, Ty told himself. It was because he was tired and had had too much to drink. Asher was yesterday.

The hotel room was dark as he stumbled inside. If he was right about nothing else, he was right about having too much to drink. Through glass after glass Ty had told himself the liquor was for celebrating, not for forgetting. The kid from the Chicago slum had made it to the top, in spades.

The hell with it, he decided, tossing his keys into the room. With a thud they landed on the carpet. Swaying a bit, he stripped off his shirt and threw it in the same direction. Now if he could just find his way to the bed without turning on a light, he'd sleep. Tonight he'd sleep—with enough liquor in his system to anesthetize him. There'd be no dreams of soft skin or dark blue eyes tonight.

As he fumbled toward the bedroom, a light switched on, blinding him. With a pungent curse Ty covered his eyes, balancing himself with one hand on the wall.

“Turn that damn thing off,” he muttered.

“Well, the victor returns triumphant.”

The quiet voice had him lowering the hand from his eyes. Asher sat primly in a chair, looking unruffled, soft and utterly tempting. Ty felt desire work its way through the alcohol.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“And very drunk,” she said as if he hadn't spoken. Rising, she went to him. “I suppose you deserve it after the way you played today. Should I add my congratulations to the host of others?”

“Get out.” He pushed away from the wall. “I don't want you.”

“I'll order up some coffee,” she said calmly. “We'll talk.”

“I said get out!” Catching her wrist, he whirled her around. “Before I lose my temper and hurt you.”

Though her pulse jumped under his fingers, she stood firm. “I'll leave after we talk.”

“Do you know what I want to do to you?” he demanded, shoving her back against the wall. “Do you know that I want to beat you senseless?”

“Yes.” She didn't cringe as his fury raged down on her. “Ty, if you'll listen—”

“I don't want to listen to you.” The image of her lying exhausted on the bed raced through his mind. “Get out while I can still stop myself from hurting you.”

“I can't.” She lifted a hand to his cheek. “Ty—”

Her words were cut off as he pressed her back into the wall. For an instant she thought he would strike her, then his mouth came down on hers, bruising, savage. He forced her lips apart, thrusting his tongue deep as she struggled. His teeth ground against hers as though to punish them both. There was the faint taste of liquor, reminding her he had drink as well as anger in his system. When she tried to turn her head, he caught her face in his hand—not gently, in the touch she remembered, but viselike.