Opposites Attract (2 page)

“How'd I look?”

“Sincere,” she told him with a quick grin. “I nearly went out and bought a pair.”

He sighed. “I was shooting for macho.”

As the tension seeped out of her, Asher laughed. “With that face?” She cupped his chin with her hand and moved it from side to side. “It's a face a mother could trust—foolishly,” she added.

“Shh!” He glanced around in mock alarm. “Not so loud—my reputation.”

“Your reputation suffered a few dents in Sydney,” she recalled. “What was that—three seasons ago? The stripper.”

“Exotic dancer,” Chuck corrected righteously. “It was merely an exchange of cultures.”

“You did look kind of cute wearing those feathers.” With another laugh she kissed his cheek. “Fuchsia becomes you.”

“We all missed you, Asher.” He patted her slim, strong shoulder.

The humor fled from her eyes. “Oh, Chuck, I missed you. Everyone, all of it. I don't think I realized just how much until I walked in here today.” Asher looked into space, lost in her own thoughts, her own memories. “Three years,” she said softly.

“Now you're back.”

Her eyes drifted to his. “Now I'm back,” she agreed. “Or will be in two weeks.”

“The Foro Italico.”

Asher gave him a brief smile that was more determination than joy. “I've never won on that damn Italian clay. I'm going to this time.”

“It was your pacing.”

The voice from behind her had Asher's shoulders stiffening. As she faced Chuck her eyes showed only the merest flicker of some secret emotion before they calmed. When she turned to Ty he saw first that his memory of her beauty hadn't been exaggerated with time, and second that her layer of control was as tough as ever.

“So you always told me,” she said calmly. The jolt was over, she reasoned, with the shock of eye contact in the auditorium. But her stomach muscles tightened. “You played beautifully, Ty . . . after the first set.”

They were no more than a foot apart now. Neither could find any changes in the other. Three years, it seemed, was barely any time at all. It occurred to Asher abruptly that twenty years wouldn't have mattered. Her heart would still thud, her blood would still swim. For him. It had always, would always be for him. Quickly she pushed those thoughts aside. If she were to remain calm under his gaze, she couldn't afford to remember.

The press was still tossing questions at him, and now at her as well. They began to crowd in, nudging Asher closer to Ty. Without a word he took her arm and drew her through the door at his side. That it happened to be a womens' rest room didn't faze him as he turned the lock. He faced her, leaning lazily back against the door while Asher stood straight and tense.

As he had thirty minutes before, Ty took his time studying her. His eyes weren't calm, they rarely were, but the emotion in them was impossible to decipher. Even in his relaxed stance there was a sense of force, a storm brewing. Asher met his gaze levelly, as he expected. And she moved him. Her power of serenity always moved him. He could have strangled her for it.

“You haven't changed, Asher.”

“You're wrong.” Why could she no longer breathe easily or control the furious pace of her heart?

“Am I?” His brows disappeared under his tousled hair for a moment. “We'll see.”

He was a very physical man. When he spoke, he gestured. When he held a conversation, he touched. Asher could remember the brush of his hand—on her arm, her hair, her shoulder. It had been his casualness that had drawn her to him. And had driven her away. Now, as they stood close, she was surprised that Ty did not touch her in any way. He simply watched and studied her.

“I noticed a change,” she countered. “You didn't argue with the referees or shout at the line judge. Not once.” Her lips curved slightly. “Not even after a bad call.”

He gave her a lightly quizzical smile. “I turned over that leaf some time ago.”

“Really?” She was uncomfortable now, but merely moved her shoulders. “I haven't been keeping up.”

“Total amputation, Asher?” he asked softly.

“Yes.” She would have turned away, but there was nowhere to go. Over the line of sinks to her left the mirrors tossed back her reflection . . . and his. Deliberately she shifted so that her back was to them. “Yes,” she repeated, “it's the cleanest way.”

“And now?”

“I'm going to play again,” Asher responded simply. His scent was reaching out for her, that familiar, somehow heady fragrance that was sweat and victory and sex all tangled together. Beneath the placid expression her thoughts shot off in a tangent.

Nights, afternoons, rainy mornings. He'd shown her everything a man and woman could be together, opened doors she had never realized existed. He had knocked down every guard until he had found her.

Oh God, dear God, she thought frantically. Don't let him touch me now. Asher linked her fingers together. Though his eyes never left hers, Ty noted the gesture. And recognized it. He smiled.

“In Rome?”

Asher controlled the urge to swallow. “In Rome,” she agreed. “To start. I'll go in unseeded. It has been three years.”

“How's your backhand?”

“Good.” Automatically she lifted her chin. “Better than ever.”

Very deliberately Ty circled her arm with his fingers. Asher's palms became damp. “It was always a surprise,” he commented, “the power in that slender arm. Still lifting weights?”

“Yes.”

His fingers slid down until they circled the inside of her elbow. It gave him bitter pleasure to feel the tiny pulse jump erratically. “So,” he murmured softly, “Lady Wickerton graces the courts again.”

“Ms. Wolfe,” Asher corrected him stiffly. “I've taken my maiden name back.”

His glance touched on her ringless hands. “The divorce is final?”

“Quite final. Three months ago.”

“Pity.” His eyes had darkened with anger when he lifted them back to hers. “A title suits you so well. I imagine you fit into an English manor as easily as a piece of Wedgwood. Drawing rooms and butlers,” he murmured, then scanned her face as if he would memorize it all over again. “You have the looks for them.”

“The reporters are waiting for you.” Asher made a move to her left in an attempt to brush by him. Ty's fingers clamped down.

“Why, Asher?” He'd promised himself if he ever saw her again, he wouldn't ask. It was a matter of pride. But pride was overwhelmed by temper as the question whipped out, stinging them both. “Why did you leave that way? Why did you run off and marry that damn English jerk without a word to me?”

She didn't wince at the pressure of his fingers, nor did she make any attempt to pull away. “That's my business.”

“
Your
business?” The words were hardly out of her mouth before he grabbed both her arms. “
Your
business? We'd been together for months, the whole damn circuit that year. One night you're in my bed, and the next thing I know you've run off with some English lord.” His control slipped another notch as he shook her. “I had to find out from my sister. You didn't even have the decency to dump me in person.”

“Decency?” she tossed back. “I won't discuss decency with you, Ty.” She swallowed the words, the accusations she'd promised herself never to utter. “I made my choice,” she said levelly, “I don't have to justify it to you.”

“We were lovers,” he reminded her tightly. “We lived together for nearly six months.”

“I wasn't the first woman in your bed.”

“You knew that right from the start.”

“Yes, I knew.” She fought the urge to beat at him with the hopeless rage that was building inside her. “I made my choice then, just as I made one later. Now, let me go.”

Her cool, cultured control had always fascinated and infuriated him. Ty knew her, better than anyone, even her own father—certainly better than her ex-husband. Inside, she was jelly, shuddering convulsively, but outwardly she was composed and lightly disdainful. Ty wanted to shake her until she rattled. More, much more, he wanted to taste her again—obliterate three years with one long greedy kiss. Desire and fury hammered at him. He knew that if he gave in to either, he'd never be able to stop. The wound was still raw.

“We're not finished, Asher.” His grip relaxed. “You still owe me.”

“No.” Defensive, outraged, she jerked free. “No, I don't owe you anything.”

“Three years,” he answered, and smiled. The smile was the same biting challenge as before. “You owe me three years, and by God, you're going to pay.”

He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back so that Asher had no choice but to meet the huddle of reporters head-on.

“Asher, how does it feel to be back in the States?”

“It's good to be home.”

“What about the rumors that you're going to play professionally again?”

“I intend to play professionally beginning with the opening of the European circuit in Rome.”

More questions, more answers. The harsh glare of a flash causing light to dance in front of her eyes. The press always terrified her. She could remember her father's constant instructions: Don't say any more than absolutely necessary. Don't let them see what you're feeling. They'll devour you.

Churning inside, Asher faced the pack of avid reporters with apparent ease. Her voice was quiet and assured. Her fingers were locked tightly together. With a smile she glanced quickly down the hall, searching for an escape route. Ty leaned negligently against the wall and gave her no assistance.

“Will your father be in Rome to watch you play?”

“Possibly.” An ache, a sadness, carefully concealed.

“Did you divorce Lord Wickerton so you could play again?”

“My divorce has nothing to do with my profession.” A half-truth, a lingering anger, smoothly disguised.

“Are you nervous about facing young rackets like Kingston and old foes like Martinelli?”

“I'm looking forward to it.” A terror, a well of doubt, easily masked.

“Will you and Starbuck pair up again?”

Fury, briefly exposed.

“Starbuck's a singles player,” she managed after a moment.

“You guys'll have to keep your eyes open to see if that changes.” With his own brand of nonchalance, Ty slipped an arm around Asher's rigid shoulders. “There's no telling what might happen, is there, Asher?”

Her answer was an icy smile. “You've always been more unpredictable than I have, Ty.”

He met the smile with one of his own. “Have I?” Leaning down, he brushed her lips lightly. Flashbulbs popped in a blaze of excitement. Even as their lips met, so did their eyes. Hers were twin slits of fury, his grimly laughing and ripe with purpose. Lazily he straightened. “The Face and I have some catching up to do.”

“In Rome?” a reporter cracked.

Ty grinned and quite deliberately drew Asher closer. “That's where it started.”

Chapter 2

Rome. The Colosseum. The Trevi fountain. The Vatican. Ancient history, tragedy and triumphs. Gladiators and competition. In the Foro Italico the steaming Italian sun beat down on the modern-day competitors just as it had on those of the Empire. To play in this arena was a theatrical experience. It was sun and space. There were lush umbrella pines and massive statues to set the forum apart from any other on the circuit. Beyond the stadium, wooded hills rose from the Tiber. Within its hedge trimmings, ten thousand people could chant, shout and whistle. Italian tennis fans were an emotional, enthusiastic and blatantly patriotic lot. Asher hadn't forgotten.

Nor had she forgotten that the Foro Italico had been the setting for the two biggest revelations in her life: her consuming love for tennis, her overwhelming love for Ty Starbuck.

She had been seven the first time she had watched her father win the Italian championship in the famed Campo Centrale
.
Of course she had seen him play before. One of her earliest memories was of watching her tall, tanned father dash around a court in blazing white. Jim Wolfe had been a champion before Asher had been born, and a force to be reckoned with long after.

Her own lessons had begun at the age of three. With her shortened racket she had hit balls to some of the greatest players of her father's generation. Her looks and her poise had made her a pet among the athletes. She grew up finding nothing unusual about seeing her picture in the paper or bouncing on the knee of a Davis Cup champion. Tennis and travel ruled her world. She had napped in the rear of limousines and walked across the pampered grass of Wimbledon. She had curtsied to heads of state and had her cheek pinched by a president. Before she began attending school she had already crossed the Atlantic a half dozen times.

But it had been in Rome, a year after the death of her mother, that Asher Wolfe had found a life's love and ambition.

Her father had still been wet and glowing from his victory, his white shorts splattered with the red dust of the court, when she had told him she would play in the Campo Centrale one day. And win.

Perhaps it had been a father's indulgence for his only child, or his ambition. Or perhaps it had been the quietly firm determination he saw in his seven-year-old eyes. But Asher's journey had begun that day, with her father as her guide and her mentor.

Fourteen years later, after her own defeat in the semifinals, Asher had watched Starbuck's victory. There had been nothing similar in the style of her father and the style of the new champion. Jim Wolfe had played a meticulous game—cold control with the accent on form. Starbuck played like a fireball—all emotion and muscle. Often, Asher had speculated on what the results would be if the two men were to meet across a net. Where her father brought her pride, Ty brought her excitement. Watching him, she could understand the sense of sexuality onlookers experienced during a bullfight. Indeed, there was a thirst for blood in his style that both alarmed and fascinated.

Ty had pursued her doggedly for months, but she had held him off. His reputation with women, his temper, his flamboyance and nonconformity had both attracted and repulsed her. Though the attraction was strong, and her heart was already lost, Asher had sensibly listened to her head. Until that day in May.

He'd been like a god, a powerful, mythological warrior with a strength and power that even the biased Italian crowd couldn't resist. Some cheered him; some cheerfully cursed him. He'd given them the sweat they had come to see. And the show.

Ty had taken the championship in seven frenzied sets. That night Asher had given him both her innocence and her love. For the first time in her life she had allowed her heart complete freedom. Like a blossom kept in the sheltered, controlled climate of a hothouse, she took to the sun and storm wildly. Days were steamier and more passionate—nights both turbulent and tender. Then the season had ended.

Now, as Asher practiced in the early morning lull on court five, the memories stirred, sweet and bitter as old wine. Fast rides on back roads, hot beaches, dim hotel rooms, foolish laughter, crazy loving. Betrayal.

“If you dream like that this afternoon, Kingston's going to wipe you out of the quarterfinals.”

At the admonishment, Asher snapped back. “Sorry.”

“You should be, when an old lady drags herself out of bed at six to hit to you.”

Asher laughed. At thirty-three, Madge Haverbeck was still a force to be reckoned with across a net. Small and stocky, with flyaway brown hair and comfortably attractive features, she looked like an ad for home-baked cookies. She was, in fact, a world-class player with two Wimbledon championships, a decade of other victories that included the Wightman Cup and a wicked forehand smash. For two years Asher had been her doubles partner to their mutual satisfaction and success. Her husband was a sociology professor at Yale whom Madge affectionately termed “The Dean.”

“Maybe you should sit down and have a nice cup of tea,” Asher suggested while tucking her tongue in her cheek. “This game's rough on middle-aged matrons.”

After saying something short and rude, Madge sent a bullet over the net. Light and agile, Asher sprang after it. Her concentration focused. Her muscles went to work. In the drowsy morning hum the ball thudded on clay and twanged off strings. Madge wasn't a woman to consider a practice workout incidental. She hustled over the court, driving Asher back to the base line, luring her to the net, hammering at her by mixing her shots while Asher concentrated on adjusting her pace to the slow, frustrating clay.

For a fast, aggressive player, the surface could be deadly. It took strength and endurance rather than speed. Asher thanked the endless hours of weight lifting as she swung the racket again and again. The muscles in the slender arm were firm.

After watching one of Asher's returns scream past, Madge shifted her racket to her left hand. “You're pretty sharp for three years off, Face.”

Asher filled her lungs with air. “I've kept my hand in.”

Though Madge wondered avidly about Asher's marriage and years of self-imposed retirement, she knew her former partner too well to question. “Kingston hates to play the net. It's her biggest weakness.”

“I know.” Asher slipped the spare ball in her pocket. “I've studied her. Today she's going to play my game.”

“She's better on clay than grass.”

It was a roundabout way of reminding Asher of her own weakness. She gave Madge one of her rare, open smiles. “It won't matter. Next week I'm playing center court.”

Slipping on a warm-up jacket, Madge gave a hoot of laughter. “Haven't changed much, have you?”

“Bits and pieces.” Asher dabbed at sweat with her wristband. “What about you? How're you going to play Fortini?”

“My dear.” Madge fluffed at her hair. “I'll simply overpower her.”

Asher snorted as they strolled off the court. “You haven't changed either.”

“If you'd told me you were coming back,” Madge put in, “we'd be playing doubles. Fisher's good, and I like her, but . . .”

“I couldn't make the decision until I was sure I wouldn't make a fool of myself.” Slowly Asher flexed her racket arm. “Three years, Madge. I ache.” She sighed with the admission. “I don't remember if I ached like this before.”

“We can trade legs anytime you say, Face.”

Remembering, Asher turned with a look of concern. “How's the knee?”

“Better since the surgery last year.” Madge shrugged. “I can still forecast rain though. Here's to a sunny season.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.”

Madge hooked her arm through Asher's in easy comradeship. “Naturally I expected you to travel six thousand miles to hold my hand.”

“I would have if . . .” Asher trailed off, remembering the state of her marriage at the time of Madge's surgery.

Recognizing guilt, Madge gave Asher a friendly nudge with her elbow. “It wasn't as big a deal as the press made out. Of course,” she added with a grin, “I milked it for a lot of sympathy. The Dean brought me breakfast in bed for two months. Bless his heart.”

“Then you came back and demolished Rayski in New York.”

“Yeah.” Madge laughed with pleasure. “I enjoyed that.”

Asher let her gaze wander over the serene arena, quiet but for the thud of balls and the hum of bees. “I have to win this one, Madge. I need it. There's so much to prove.”

“To whom?”

“Myself first.” Asher moved her shoulders restlessly, shifting her bag to her left hand. “And a few others.”

“Starbuck? No, don't answer,” Madge continued, seeing Asher's expression out of the corner of her eye. “It just sort of slipped out.”

“What was between Ty and me was finished three years ago,” Asher stated, deliberately relaxing her muscles.

“Too bad.” Madge weathered Asher's glare easily. “I like him.”

“Why?”

Stopping, Madge met the direct look. “He's one of the most alive people I know. Ever since he learned to control his temper, he brings so much emotion to the courts. It's good for the game. You don't have a stale tournament when Starbuck's around. He also brings that same emotion into his friendships.”

“Yes,” Asher agreed. “It can be overwhelming.”

“I didn't say he was easy,” Madge countered. “I said I like him. He is exactly who he is. There isn't a lot of phony business to cut through to get to Starbuck.” Madge squinted up at the sun. “I suppose some of it comes from the fact that we turned pro the same year, did our first circuit together. Anyway, I've watched him grow from a cocky kid with a smart mouth to a cocky man who manages to keep that wicked temper just under the surface.”

“You like him for his temper?”

“Partly.” The mild, homey-looking woman smiled. “Starbuck's just plain strung right, Asher. He's not a man you can be ambivalent about. You're either for him or against him.”

It was as much inquiry as statement. Saying nothing, Asher began to walk again. Ambivalence had never entered into her feelings for Ty.

***

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.