No Tan Lines (24 page)

Dune grew tired of their argument. He bent toward Shaye, ignoring Trace. “Sophie won me, so bank her check,” he said. “We’re headed to the beach. I want to locate an empty net and see what she’s got.”

She had very little, Sophie knew, but she’d give it her all. Strangely, Dune still held her hand. His warmth gave her a sense of security. The man was ranked number one on the pro tour, while she was an underachiever.

Win or lose, they were partners through the double-elimination.

Dune and Sophie lost their first match beneath the midmorning sun. It was a complete and utter disaster. They played Lynn Crandall and her partner, Bill Wesley, from Atlanta, Georgia. Bill swore he was Lynn’s biggest fan.

There was no specific volleyball attire required. Lynn wore a tiny bikini, while Sophie chose an oversized
Beach Heat
T-shirt and walking shorts. She sunburned easily and needed to keep as much skin as possible covered. Trace brought her knee pads. Dune placed a
Barefoot William
baseball cap on her head to shield her eyes against the sun. Still, she squinted.

The pro/am was structured for one set and not a full match. The first team to hit twenty-one and lead by two points moved ahead in their bracket.

From the first serve, Sophie wasn’t prepared for Lynn Crandall. She recognized from the outset that Lynn wasn’t on the court to have fun. She was out to defeat Dune.

The woman was intense. Sophie was the weakest link, and Lynn’s serves and jump spikes rained down on her. The game moved fast, and Sophie had little time to recover from each hit.

After eight straight offensive points, Sophie felt shell-shocked. Dune called a time-out. He and Lynn then met at the net, where they exchanged words. Hissing words from the sound of it. Sophie caught only bits and pieces of their conversation.

“—take it easy—” said Dune.

“—not my fault she sucks—”

“—sportsmanship. I’ll stop the game.”

“No mercy rule. Screw you.” And Lynn returned to the baseline for her serve. She eased up for all of ten seconds.

Sophie had little time to admire Dune’s play; she had to keep her mind on the game. He looked amazing in his dark sunglasses and navy board shorts, sporting his own designer logo. He had a muscular chest and strong arms. His overhand serve was powerful, precise, and pure masculine grace.

She was the “setter” on their two-person team. Pass, set, hit. She touched the volleyball second. The sequence rapidly fell apart with each of Lynn’s serves.

Lynn targeted Sophie, forcing her to “dig.” Sophie wasn’t afraid to dive in an attempt to pass the attacked ball. She just wasn’t successful. Her breasts felt bruised and her stomach flattened. She ate a lot of sand.

More than once, her hands got tangled in her baggy T-shirt. Her baseball cap continually fell off. Dune helped her up each time. He gripped her shoulders with big hands and set her straight. He patted her on the back and told her “Good try.” His words kept her going.

She exhaled, and managed one solid “bump,” a forearm pass, shortly thereafter. The ball had decent height, and Dune got the “kill,” successfully putting it away.

The crowd rose and applauded their effort.

Boos eventually rose, growing in strength whenever Lynn slammed Sophie with the ball. Sophie found herself playing more dodgeball than volleyball. She wasn’t adept at either sport.

Dune’s serve was all that saved them from a skunked set. After thirty minutes, they suffered a 21–5 loss.

Their team moved to the losers’ bracket.

Lynn gave her partner a high five, then sneered at Dune and Sophie. Dune glared back, but Sophie was too busy brushing off sand to respond. Her tongue felt gritty, and she needed to rinse the beach taste from her mouth. She was certain her cheeks were red and raw from being tattooed by the ball. She ran her fingers down her nose to be sure it wasn’t broken. She was on the verge of a major headache.

She looked up at Dune just as he looked down at her. She noticed he supported his hurt wrist with his good hand. The corners of his mouth were drawn. She was suddenly more concerned for his injury than the sting in her cheek. “Do you need a pain pill? I have baby aspirin in my purse.”

Baby aspirin?
Sophie was serious, Dune Cates saw, so he swallowed his smile. “I’m fine,” he assured her, even though his wrist ached like a son of a bitch.

His orthopedist had ordered therapy and rest, yet Dune refused to let Shaye and his family down. The crowd was larger than expected. The tournament would save their summer.

He now stood near the net amid a checkered play of shadows. The fans quickly dispersed, moving toward the food tents. Shaye and Trace would be monitoring crowd control.

Dune removed his sunglasses and studied Sophie. She was tough for someone so small. No matter their loss, her smile still came easily. She’d taken hit after hit when she should’ve ducked. Lynn Crandall had been brutal.

Sophie’s baseball cap was askew, and her soft, pale complexion was marred by red blotches. Her bottom lip was slightly swollen. She had sand burn on her elbows and shins from diving for the ball. One knee pad wrapped her ankle. Her shoulders slumped, not from defeat, but from exhaustion.

“When do we play again?” she asked, pulling a face when flecks of sugar sand slipped into her mouth.

Without conscious thought, Dune brushed his thumb lightly across her lips, removing the remainder of the sand. His thumb stalled over the fullness of her lower lip.
Soft, pink, pliant,
he thought,
a kissable mouth.

The rush of Sophie’s warm breath across his palm shook him. Her eyes were wide, and she looked star-struck. That disturbed him greatly.

He lowered his hand and slapped his thigh. He was a man blessed with athletic ability, no more, no less. Yet male fans kissed his ass, and females worshiped him as a volleyball god. He couldn’t control their misconceptions, but he could jar Sophie back to reality.

“Our next set is tomorrow morning at nine,” he told her. “We have to work our way through the losers’ bracket to play in the finals.”

“The finals?” She blinked her disbelief.

“Hadn’t you planned to win?” he asked.

She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Look at me,” she said. “My eyes are nearly level with the bottom of the net. I’d need wings to hit the ball over it.”

“I can’t make you taller,” said Dune, “but I can teach you to play smarter.”

Sophie sighed. “I appreciated your advice from last night, and I was able to concentrate and tune out the crowd.”

They’d walked the beach after the auction. He’d steered her toward the farthest volleyball court, seeking some privacy. People were scarce, but the seagulls were numerous, diving just offshore for their dinner.

Sophie had grown shy, and he’d coaxed her to talk. She’d admitted to hating crowds and being the center of attention, yet she’d had the guts to bid on him. He’d found that interesting.

He’d tried to ease her fears. He forewarned there would be hundreds of fans in the stands, and the cheering would get loud and very distracting. He told her to ignore the noise and keep her mind on the game.

He went over the basic rules and demonstrated a few easy moves. He’d tossed the ball to her from the opposite side of the net to test her return. The ball never made it back to him, although once it rolled underneath.

After watching Sophie play today, Dune was quick to realize that she had no background in volleyball or sports in general.

He needed to play harder, and Sophie would have to toughen up. He wanted her in fight-mode. To get there, she required practice.

The fans filtered back to the stands, looking for the best seats for the afternoon match. His tour partner, Mac James, was up next. Mac was a crowd-pleaser.

“Catch a shower and a nap, and meet me back on the beach at four,” he said.

“For happy hour?” she asked.

“For setting drills.”

Dune planned to recruit Mac to help Sophie prepare for tomorrow. Mac could play one side of the net, he and Sophie the other.

She gave him a small wave as she turned toward Saunders Shores. The woman was cute but uncoordinated. The sand tripped her every other step.

Nine

F
our o’clock, and Sophie was prompt. Dune’s chest gave an unfamiliar squeeze at her approach. He took a deep breath and squelched his pleasure in seeing her. He hadn’t ever met anyone quite like Sophie Saunders.

She was a lightweight, and he felt oddly protective of her. He wouldn’t let her get smacked by the volleyball again tomorrow. Fortunately, none of the other players were out for blood like Lynn Crandall.

Sophie now stood before him wearing another loose-fitting pink T-shirt and a baggy pair of khaki shorts. Her face, forearms, and calves were sunburned from only an hour on the court. She had a bruise above her right eye, and her left cheek remained red, as if she’d been slapped.

“I brought an energy drink,” she said, holding up a can of Surge.

“I’ve got a beer,” said Mac James, coming up behind her.

Dune held the volleyball. “Sophie, this is Mac,” he said, introducing them. “Drinks aside, let’s practice.”

Sophie and Mac set their beverages at the base of one galvanized metal pole. They then came to the net.

“Are you taking us both on?” Mac asked, teasing Sophie. “Two against one.”

Dune watched as his partner gave Sophie a quick hug, putting her at ease. Sophie blushed.

“I saw part of your set today,” Mac continued. “One of you—and I’m not pointing fingers—needs to wear a helmet on the court.”

Sophie actually grinned. “I took one too many hits to the head.”

“Lynn Crandall rattled your brain, sweetheart,” said Mac. “When you make the finals, it will be payback time.”

“Right now, I’m hoping to make a decent showing in the losers’ bracket,” she said.

Dune tossed Mac the volleyball, and Mac moved six feet to the right. “For the moment, I’m going to take Dune’s place and lightly toss you the ball,” Mac said. “Dune will stand behind you and get you in position for the setup.”

She nodded, all wide-eyed and nervous.

Dune discovered that instructing Sophie rubbed him the wrong way—or the right way, depending on your point of view. She was short, and he was forced to hunch over her.
Way
over her. The top of her head skimmed his chin. With each stretch of her arms, her shoulders brushed his chest, and her bottom bumped his thighs. Once she jumped and jarred his nuts.

Sophie stumbled, a lot. He grabbed her when she tipped forward and when she tripped over her own feet. Each time she landed flush against him. Her scent was innocent. Her hair smelled like baby shampoo. Her skin was as soft as baby lotion. Yet her body gave off a woman’s heat.

His cock responded to her.

His loose board shorts grew tighter in the front.
What the hell?
The women in his life were tall, tanned, and toned. Athletic. Sophie was the complete opposite. He was so distracted by her that he didn’t see the ball Mac hit his way. It knocked Dune in the head. He blinked and refocused. And Mac laughed at him.

“Want to trade places?” asked Mac.

Dune looked at his partner’s T-shirt, which read
Got Time for a Quickie,
and decided against the switch. “We’re just fine,” said Dune, his tone sharper than he’d intended.

Sophie looked over her shoulder, her expression serious. “I’m improving, right?”

“Keep thinking positive,” Dune said.

She bit down on her bottom lip. “Am I ready to spike?”

“You’re not quite there,” Dune said, not wanting to discourage her. He had, however, seen her play. No matter how high she jumped, she’d never put the ball away.

She rested her hands on her hips, looking from one man to the other. “Am I the worst player in the pro/am?”

Mac was no help. He dodged her question by going for his beer. He leaned against the metal post, eyed Dune, and sipped slowly.

“You have the most heart, Sophie,” Dune finally said. “Technique keeps the set moving, but heart wins in the end.”

She thought about his answer, only to ask, “Do I embarrass you?”

Sophie was concerned about his image. He had the urge to shake her, then hold her, and tell her fan perception meant little to him. He was his own man.

“You make a good partner, Soph.” Mac spoke from the sidelines. “You could’ve had me for five grand.”

Sophie gave Mac a small smile. “Thanks.”

Looking at Sophie now, Dune found she appealed to him, which made him very uneasy. He realized his reassurance was important to her. His response would make or break her spirit, so he cut Mac a look and said, “Embarrassment is having your partner hit you in the back of the head with the volleyball during match point at the Hunting Beach Championships. The discomfort continues when your partner holds up the winning trophy and tells the fans it’s anatomically correct.
And,
” he stressed, “a long-ago moment I’ve never been able to forget, my partner mooning the backline judge over a foot fault.”

“It wasn’t a
full
moon,” Mac argued.

“It was a bad moon rising,” said Dune.

Sophie covered her mouth and giggled.

Dune grinned as well. “You’d never embarrass me,” he told her, and he meant it. “You may not be great at volleyball, but I’m sure you’re terrific at ...” He let her fill in the blank.

After a long pause, Dune was suddenly afraid he’d set her up for a fall. Surely she was good at something.

“Reading,” she said. “I devour books, often one a day.”

Dune narrowed his gaze on her. He suddenly felt as if he’d met her in another time and place, but he decided that was ridiculous. She was a Saunders, and he was a Cates.

“I like to read,” Mac told her.

“
Playboy
doesn’t count,” Sophie said, then blushed.

Mac poked his tongue inside his check. “I’ve been known to read more than magazines.”

“He buys how-to books but has never fixed a leak, refinished a table, or built a birdhouse,” Dune said.