Invincible (17 page)

K
ristin wondered if she'd made a mistake accepting Max's offer to bring her father to London. But she'd been terribly worried when she'd talked to Harry. Surprisingly, the duchess had made the same offer earlier in the day. Which was what had motivated her to speak so kindly of the Mean Witch to Max.

Flick had phoned Kristin, crying because her grandfather didn't want her to call anymore. The duchess had suggested bringing Harry to London so Flick could be closer to him.

“It might keep your father—and Felicity—from feeling so low if she can visit with him every day,” the duchess had said.

Kristin hadn't accepted Bella's offer because she didn't want to be indebted to the woman any more than she already was. But she'd been tempted. During her visits with Flick every afternoon, Kristin had been coincidentally getting to know Bella better. The more she knew about Flick's grandmother, the more she liked her. And the more she believed Bella only had Max's best
interests at heart in her effort to get the two of them together.

Which was why, every time she'd had sex with Max over the past week—and they'd had a great deal of sex— Kristin had felt guilty. She had an ulterior motive in attaching Max's affection that he knew nothing about. It was uncomfortable to remember that she'd bargained with the duchess to spend time with Max in exchange for a few baubles.

Kristin laughed inwardly. The Blackthorne Rubies were hardly baubles. They were priceless gems. And they represented lifelong security for her and her daughter.

Unfortunately, as Max was getting physically attached to her, she'd been getting emotionally attached to him. She'd started wondering what it might be like to say yes if he actually did propose. Before she could possibly say yes, there were things she would have to confess that weren't going to present her in a very good light.

Her dilemma was twofold. First, how could she explain her agreement with his mother to play the exhibition match in order to spend more time with him? Second, how could she justify keeping his daughter a secret from him?

The first deception was certain to make him angry. The second might cause him to walk away from her—and try to take Flick with him. Kristin had been progressively torn between feelings of utter joy at the possibility of a life with Max and utter despair that her situation was hopeless.

She didn't want to hurt or humiliate Max with the
knowledge that she'd been willing to do whatever was necessary to earn the Blackthorne Rubies. And she felt sick in the pit of her stomach every time she imagined how duped and defrauded Max would feel when he learned he had a nine-year-old daughter.

But if they were going to have any hope of a future together, she was going to have to tell him everything. She dreaded seeing the look on his face when he learned that the goddess he adored had very human feet of clay.

Kristin realized she'd been lost in thought during the entire walk from the spot where Max had parked his Porsche to the Indian restaurant where they were meeting Irina and Steffan.

“Hello, beautiful,” Steffan said, standing up from his seat at a table for four to kiss her on both cheeks. He caught Max's hand and bumped shoulders. “Good to see you, Max.”

Kristin leaned over to kiss Irina on both cheeks before sitting in the chair across from Steffan. Max also kissed Irina before taking the chair across from the older woman.

“You should never have stopped playing tennis,” Irina chided Max. “You're so good at it.”

Kristin was starting to feel miffed that she hadn't been included in the compliment when Irina turned to her and said, “You have immense talent, Kristin, but not Max's love of the game.”

Which was an assessment so close to the truth it was scary. “I suppose it's a good thing I quit,” Kristin said with a smile.

“And too bad Max did,” Irina said, reaching out to pat his hand, which lay on the table.

“What are we drinking?” Max asked, catching and squeezing her hand before releasing it.

Kristin had known Max liked Irina. She hadn't realized how much affection he felt for the older woman. It was clear Irina returned the feeling. She glanced at Steffan, wondering whether he'd ever been jealous of Max's place in his mother's heart. But Steffan's dark eyes were stone walls that kept emotions in and strangers out.

“I've ordered a bottle of cabernet,” Steffan said. “Is that all right with everyone?”

Kristin nodded, although she needed something stronger. She had a lot of decisions to make. When to tell Max. What to tell Max. How to tell Max all the secrets she'd been keeping from him.

She was quiet through most of dinner, letting Max and Irina and Steffan reminisce. Which might have been why she noticed the number of times Irina made an uncomplimentary comment about the United States. She never went so far as to mention President Taylor. But not once during all the dates she'd had during the previous week had Kristin heard such anti-American sentiments.

When she looked at Max, he seemed oblivious. In fact, he was leaning his chin on his hand, listening raptly to Irina.

Kristin surreptitiously watched Steffan, wondering if he shared his mother's dislike of America. Steffan caught her looking at him and raised a brow. When she flushed, embarrassed at even considering Max's childhood friend
as an assassin, he winked. She was more than willing to let him think her interest in him was personal.

But Max was not.

“That's my friend you're flirting with, Casanova,” Max said, his voice like steel. “Leave her alone.”

Steffan held both hands up like a man under arrest and said, “Sorry, old man. No harm, no foul.”

Kristin didn't know whether to feel flattered by Max's protectiveness or insulted by it. She didn't belong to him. They'd merely been having sex—granted, a lot of really great sex—for a single week. Now that she thought about it, she was startled to realize that no words of love—or even affection—had been spoken between them.

It might be worth spending a little more time with Steffan to see whether he had feelings about America similar to his mother's. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to clear her brilliant plan with Max.

“Not so fast, Max,” she said. She met his gaze and tried to tell him with a look that she had something besides a romantic interest in Steffan. But apparently Max couldn't see anything through the haze of green coloring his view. “You don't own me,” she said at last.

“Well, well,” Steffan said with a grin. “How about a nightcap, little lady?”

“K and I have plans later,” Max said.

“I'd rather take a ride with Steffan,” Kristin said. She watched Max squeeze his table napkin in his fist. She figured he was imagining it was Steffan's throat.

“Whatever you say, Princess,” Max said through tight jaws.

“How about it, Irina? Want to go get a nightcap with Steffan and K?”

“You aren't invited, Max,” Kristin said, staring him down.

“You heard her, Max,” Steffan said, grinning broadly. “You had your chance, old man. Now it's my turn.”

Kristin shuddered inwardly at the thought of what she might have to do to keep Steffan at arm's length. But if she could get confirmation of Steffan and Irina's attitude—positive or negative—toward America, it would be worth it.

“I'd love another cup of tea, Max,” Irina said in an attempt to soothe the savage beast.

Kristin could see Max would rather pour the boiling brew over Steffan's head than drink it, but he said, “Of course.”

“Shall we go?” Kristin said to Steffan as she stood.

“I'll see you later,” Max muttered to her under his breath.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Max,” she said firmly. She had no intention of having an argument with him later tonight at her hotel, when she'd be tired and perhaps have a drink or two in her. She could clear up any misunderstanding tomorrow morning on the tennis court. This trip wasn't just about the two of them. Max would forgive her when he realized she was just doing her job.

Without a second look, she turned her back on him and walked away.

“G
ood morning, Princess. Rough night?”

“Does it show?” Kristin hadn't slept well. She had a bit of a hangover. It had been necessary to have several drinks with Steffan to get him talking. Then she'd needed to fend off unwelcome advances while keeping a smile on her face. But she'd found out what she'd wanted to know.

She'd half expected Max to be waiting for her at the hotel, but her room was dark and quiet when she returned. She'd showered and gotten into bed around one. A frightening dream had woken her at three, and she hadn't been able to get back to sleep. She felt exhausted and the day had barely started.

The bad dream had concerned Max proposing. She'd been startled awake after seeing the horrified look on his face when she'd laughed and said getting him to propose was a game—with some pretty substantial prizes—devised by his mother.

Kristin swung her tennis racquet to warm up her arm,
then twisted at the waist. “How much time do we have before practice starts?”

“We've got a few minutes before Steffan and Elena show up. Why?”

“We need to talk about what I found out last night from Steffan.”

“How is he as a lover?” Max asked, his eyes like blue ice.

She glared at him and said, “I went with Steffan because I noticed something last night at supper.”

“How big his biceps are?” Max asked in a silky voice.

She resisted the urge to call him a jealous idiot and said, “I noticed how many anti-American sentiments Irina expressed during your conversation with her. I thought it was worth investigating Steffan's feelings a little further. There was no way I could tell you what I had in mind.”

He stared at her as though deciding whether to believe her. “What did you find out?” he asked at last.

“They're possible suspects, Max. Both of them.”

He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. “That's ridiculous. I don't have to tell you how close I am to Irina and Steffan.”

“Which is why you didn't see or hear what I did last night,” Kristin said. “You were so focused on entertaining Irina and enjoying her company that you ignored the negative things she said.”

“Like what?” Max challenged.

“Paraphrasing, Irina said that Americans are using
up the world's resources without thinking of the consequences. That Americans think they have all the answers to the world's problems. That Americans stick their noses in where they don't belong. Which she followed with, and I quote, ‘Someday someone is going to cut those long American noses off.'”

“Those statements are so general—”

“We're looking for an assassin in the tennis world, Max. Those statements, taken together, are enough to create suspicion. We need to mention Irina and Steffan Pavlovic as parties who should be investigated further by Homeland Security before they enter the States for the U.S. Open.”

Plainly Max didn't like her conclusion, but she could see he didn't completely discount it, either.

“I'm sorry, Max,” she said. “I wish things had turned out differently.”

“We have a little while before our exhibition match,” he said. “I'd like to wait to mention them as suspects until then. Maybe we'll get information that leads us in a different direction.”

“All right, Max. I have no problem with waiting a little while.” But even if they found other suspects, Max had to know Irina and Steffan would still have to be investigated. She wondered if he planned to say something to them. Surely not. He'd been a spy long enough to know how the game was played.

“I missed you last night, Princess,” Max said as he took the few steps to bring him close enough to touch. “Can I see you this afternoon?”

Kristin flinched when he reached out to touch her arm. She saw his lips flatten before he said, “I'm trying not to act like a jealous fool, but—”

“Then don't!” she snapped. “Nothing happened, Max. Not that I should have to tell you that, or make any explanation at all. We aren't attached in any way. We've merely been having sex—”

“Is that what you think?” he said angrily.

She could see he was on the verge of declaring himself, of staking the claim that she'd denied. She wasn't ready to hear words of love, because she wasn't ready to tell him the truth. She was afraid if she spent any more time with him, especially time in bed with him, she would feel compelled to blurt out everything. She had to stop him from speaking.

“I'm sorry, Max.” The apology kept him mute. For a moment. She hurried to say, “I can't see you this afternoon. I have some things I need to do. Personal business I need to attend to.” Like visiting our daughter. About whom you know nothing. And who knows nothing about you.

She'd been wondering all week whether she was being selfish keeping Flick separated from her father. In fact, guilt over depriving Max from knowing Flick had kept her awake long after the proposal nightmare had woken her up. She'd wondered if she was being fair. Didn't Max deserve a chance to know Flick? Didn't Flick deserve a chance to know her father?

She was more confused than ever. More frightened than ever. Her greatest fear had always been that if Max
knew about Flick, and was mad enough about her deception, he might try to take Flick away from her. His jealousy over Steffan had surprised her. In a million years she wouldn't have guessed that Max would be a possessive lover. While a little jealousy was flattering, she didn't think it was a particularly heroic quality in a man.

Now that she'd discovered one imperfect, unheroic flaw in the man she was starting to love, what other flaws might there be that she hadn't noticed? Keeping Max and Flick apart seemed like the prudent move right now.

Unfortunately, now that Flick had seen photos of Max, now that she'd slept in her father's bedroom, Kristin wasn't sure it was possible to keep her daughter from contacting Max on her own, even if Kristin decided not to introduce the two of them.

It wasn't realistic to think she could keep them separated indefinitely. Flick knew how to use the phone and the internet. At some point, probably sooner rather than later, Flick might very well contact Max on her own.

That thought was terrifying. Mostly because Kristin had no way of gauging Max's reaction to her deception. How ruthless would he be in pursuing custody, if he decided he wanted it?

She could feel the situation slipping out of her control.

She couldn't begin to fathom all the complications that might arise once Max and Flick were introduced.

Presuming she and Max didn't get married and live happily ever after, if Max became a part of Flick's life,
her daughter would end up flying back and forth between continents in order to visit her father. That wasn't fair to Flick.

Not to mention the fact that she and Max had separate lives that were difficult to mesh, even presuming they fell in love and tried for the fairy-tale ending. He lived in London. She lived in Miami. One of them was going to have to give up her home and her job and her life.

She noticed she'd used the feminine pronoun in her hypothetical example, because she couldn't see Max making that sort of sacrifice. The problem was, she wasn't sure she could make it either.

Not even for love?

No one had said anything about love. Not her. And not Max.

“I'm sorry, Max,” she said again.
For everything you don't know. For all the secrets I've kept from you.

“It's too bad you're busy this afternoon,” he said. “Because I can't see you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“I have to pick up someone at the airport.”

She raised a brow in question.

His lips twisted ruefully before he said, “A female friend.”

“A girlfriend?” she said incredulously.

He shrugged and lowered his head and swiped a guilty palm across his nape. “Sort of.”

“You have a
girlfriend
and you slept with me all week?” She fought back the bile that rose in her throat. Before he could respond to her accusation, she had an
even more sickening thought. “You have a girlfriend, and you had the gall to be jealous that I was going to have a drink with Steffan?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off by pointing her racquet at him. “I don't want to hear an explanation. I don't want to hear excuses. I feel like such an idiot! I should have known. I hope she finds out about me. And I hope she leaves you!”

He looked as unhappy as she felt. “Princess—”

“Don't you
dare
call me Princess,” she snarled. “That's the name my friend gave me when he treated me like one. Go away, Max. Get out of my sight.”

He stood where he was. “We have a practice scheduled in a few minutes.”

And an exhibition match to play. In which she didn't want to embarrass herself. And for which she was going to receive the Blackthorne Rubies. “I might have to practice with you. I might have a job to do here. But I don't have to talk to you. Or have sex with you. I'm going to be too busy for the rest of my time here to see you. Check that. Too busy for the rest of my life!”

She was glad she was about to play tennis, because she felt like hitting something.

“There's something you need to know, Prin—” Max cut himself off and said, “I decided we need some help. So I got us some.”

“Help? What, you hired another spy?”

Max shook his head. “If we're going to win this match,” he clarified, “we're going to need some profes
sional help.” He pointed to a spot behind her and said, “Meet our new coach.”

Kristin turned and saw Irina stepping onto the tennis court. She shot Max an incredulous look, then turned to the older woman, smiled and said, “Irina! What a nice surprise.”

Irina's bushy gray hair was just long enough to stick out on all sides around the brimmed white fishing hat she wore to keep the sun off her tanned and wrinkled face. She looked like one of the sunbaked old women who sat on benches around Miami Beach. But Kristin no longer saw a benign old lady. She saw a potential assassin.

Before she'd come to London, Kristin had done back ground research on all the players and coaches. So she knew Irina had been a world-class cyclist before she became her son's tennis coach. She was short, with legs like oak tree trunks. She'd been born in Kosovo and had left the Balkan territory with her son after her husband was killed in a NATO bombing.

All that had happened so long ago, Kristin had dismissed Irina as a suspect, as she was sure Max had. Especially since Irina and Steffan had found asylum in America.

Irina's smile was famous—and contagious. When Kristin was on the tour, Irina had sat in the player's box during tennis matches and encouraged Steffan with that toothy grin. Kristin had always thought Irina was sending signals to her son—coaching wasn't allowed during the game—by the way she tugged at her hat, or her nose
or her hair, like a baseball coach sending in the play. But no one could ever prove it.

Despite her misgivings, Kristin found herself smiling at their new coach. “How are you this morning, Irina?”

“You two need a lot of work,” the woman said bluntly.

Kristin realized the smile on the coach's face took the sting out of her words. “Yes, we do,” she admitted.

Irina turned to Max, her hands on her hips, and said, “Steffan isn't pleased about this.”

Max snorted. “He only has himself to blame. He was the one who got himself a different coach a couple of years ago. Why shouldn't I take advantage of the chance to learn, from the person who knows Steffan best, where his game might be a little weak.”

Kristin had unintentionally given Max even more reason to want to beat his friend on the tennis court.

“Let's focus on making your game stronger,” Irina said. “Let me see how the two of you hit the ball before Steffan and Elena arrive.”

Because Kristin had gotten so little sleep, her footwork was slow. Irina let her know it. Kristin felt her face flushing at the harsh comments. The criticism sparked her adrenaline, as it had so many years ago when she'd been coached by her father, and she began to play better.

“You two look like real tennis players,” a male voice called out.

Max let the ball zing past him as he turned to greet
Steffan. “You didn't think we were going to let you win without a fight, did you?”

“Fight all you want,” Elena said as she joined Steffan on the court. “You two are going down.”

The tennis that followed was brutal. Kristin had forgotten how physically—and mentally—demanding it could be to play in a truly competitive world-class game of tennis. Today, Steffan and Max were hitting hard—at each other.

Perhaps Steffan was stinging from her rejection of him. As was Max. And they were taking it out on each other.

Balls whizzed past her. She couldn't seem to get her serve in the service box and double-faulted several times, losing points. Worst of all, near the end of the second set, she and Max hurtled into each other, both going for the same ball in the center of the court.

He knocked her sideways, and she landed on the grass with Max on top of her, their bodies aligned from breast to hip. Her tennis racquet was still in her hand, but his had gone flying. He levered himself up just enough with his palms to look down into her face.

She looked up into his eyes and saw regret. And love.

She wanted him. Right then. Right there. If they'd been alone she would have taken him inside her and loved him with all her might.

Thank God they weren't alone.

“You all right?” he asked in a gentle voice.

She was still too horrified by the discovery of how
much in love with him she was—despite hearing about the other woman—to speak. She soaked in every small detail of how it felt to have him so close, knowing that if they hadn't accidentally collided, she would never have let him touch her like this again.