Opposites Attract (13 page)

Firmly Asher took Madge's shoulders and kissed both of her cheeks. “You're a champion, remember?”

“Yeah, but what do I know about chicken pox?” Madge demanded. “Kids get chicken pox, don't they? And braces, and corrective shoes, and—”

“And mothers who worry before there's anything to worry about,” Asher finished. “You're already slipping right into the slot.”

“Hey, you're right.” Rather pleased with herself, Madge rose. “I'm going to be great.”

“You're going to be terrific. Let's get a shower. You've got a doubles match this afternoon.”

With feelings mixed and uncertain, Asher rode the elevator to her hotel room late that afternoon. She had won her round with the young upstart from Canada in straight sets. Six-two, six-love. There was little doubt that Asher had played some of the finest tennis in her career in court one. But she didn't think of that now. Her mind kept drifting back to her interlude with Madge, and from there back to her thoughts on learning of her own pregnancy.

Would Ty have wanted to take out full-page ads, or would he have cursed her? Like Eric, would he have accused her of deceit, of trickery? Now that they were being given a second chance, would he want marriage and children? What was it Jess had said that day? she wondered.
Ty will always be a gypsy, and no woman should ever expect to hold him.

Yet Asher had expected to hold him, and, despite all her vows, was beginning to expect it again. Her love was so huge, so consuming, that when she was with him, it was simply impossible to conceive of doing without him. And perhaps because she had once, briefly, carried his child inside her, the need to do so again was overwhelming.

Could a woman tame a comet? she asked herself. Should she? For that's what he was—a star that flew, full of speed and light. He wasn't the prince at the end of the fairy tale who would calmly take up his kingdom and sit on a throne. Ty would always search for the next quest. And the next woman? Asher wondered, recalling Jess's words again.

Shaking her head, she told herself to think of today. Today they were together. Only a woman who had lived through change after change, hurt after hurt, could fully appreciate the perfection of a moment. Others might not recognize it, but Asher did. And the moment was hers.

She unlocked the door to their suite and was immediately disappointed. He wasn't there. Even had he been sleeping in the other room, she would have sensed him. The air was never still when Ty was around. Tossing her bag aside, she wandered to the window. The light was still full as the sun had only just begun to set. Perhaps they would go out and explore Melbourne, find one of the tiny little clubs with loud music and laughter. She'd like to dance.

Twirling in a circle, Asher laughed. Yes, she would like to dance, to celebrate for Madge . . . and for herself. She was with the man she loved. A bath, she decided. A long, luxurious bath before she changed into something cool and sexy. When she opened the door to the bedroom, Asher stopped and stared in astonishment.

Balloons. Red, yellow, blue, pink and white. They floated throughout the room in a jamboree of color. Helium-filled, they rose to the ceiling, trailing long ribbons. There were dozens of them—round, oval, thin and fat. It was as if a circus had passed hurriedly through, leaving a few souvenirs. Grasping a ribbon, Asher drew one down to her while she continued to stare.

They were three layers deep, she saw in astonishment—at least a hundred of them bumping against one another. Her laughter came out in a quick burst that went on and on.

Who else would think of it? Who else would take the time? Not flowers or jewelry for Ty Starbuck. At that moment she could have floated to the ceiling to join the gift he had given her.

“Hi.”

She turned to see him lounging in the doorway. In a flash Asher had launched herself into his arms, the single balloon still grasped in her hand. “Oh, you're crazy!” she cried before she found his lips with hers. With her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist, she kissed him again and again. “Absolutely insane.”

“Me?” he countered. “You're the one standing here surrounded by balloons.”

“It's the best surprise I've ever had.”

“Better than roses in the bathtub?”

Tossing her head back, she laughed. “Even better than that.”

“I thought about diamonds, but they didn't seem like as much fun.” As he spoke he moved toward the bed.

“And they don't float,” Asher put in, looking up at the ceiling of colorful shapes.

“Good point,” Ty conceded as they fell together onto the bed. “Got any ideas how we should spend the evening?”

“One or two,” Asher murmured. The balloon she held drifted up to join the others.

“Let's do both.” He stopped her laugh with a soft kiss that became hungry quickly. “Oh, God, I've waited all day to be alone with you. When the season's over we'll find someplace—an island, another planet—anyplace where there's no one but us.”

“Anyplace,” she whispered in agreement while her hands tugged at his shirt.

Passion soared swiftly. Ty's needs doubled as he sensed hers. She was always soft, always eager for him. If the pounding of his blood would have allowed, he would have revered her. But the force of their joined desire wouldn't permit reverence. Clothes were hastily peeled away—a blouse flung aside, a shirt cast to the floor. Overhead, the balloons danced while they savored each other. The scent of victory seemed to cling to both of them, mixed with the faint fragrance of soap and shampoo from the postgame showers. Her lips tasted warm and moist, and somehow of himself as much as of her.

When there was nothing to separate them, they tangled together, their bodies hot and throbbing. With questing hands he moved over territory only more exciting in its familiarity. He could feel reason spin away into pure sensation. Soft here, firm there, her body was endless delight. The warmth of her breath along his skin could make him tremble. Her moan, as he slipped his fingers into her, made him ache. With openmouthed kisses he trailed over her, seeking the hot heady flavor of her flesh. It seemed to melt into him, filling him to bursting.

When she arched, offering everything, Ty felt a surge of power so awesome he almost feared to take her. Too strong, he thought hazily. He was too strong and was bound to hurt her. He felt he could have lifted the world without effort. Yet she was drawing him to her with murmuring pleas.

There was no control in madness. She stole his sanity with her smooth skin and soft lips. There were no more pastel colors from frivolous balloons. Now there was gleaming silver and molten reds and pulsing blacks whirling and churning into a wild kaleidoscope that seemed to pull him into its vortex. Gasping her name, Ty thrust into her. The colors shattered, seeming to pierce his skin with a multitude of shards. And in the pain was indescribable pleasure.

When he was spent, nestled between her breasts, Asher gazed up at the darkening ceiling. How could it be, she wondered, that each time they were together it was different? Sometimes they loved in laughter, sometimes in tenderness. At other times with a smoldering passion. This time there had been a taste of madness in their loving. Did other lovers find this infinite variety, this insatiable delight in each other? Perhaps the two of them were unique. The thought was almost frightening.

“What are you thinking?” Ty asked. He knew he should shift his weight from her, but found no energy to do so.

“I was wondering if it should be so special each time I'm with you.”

He laughed, kissing the side of her breast. “Of course it should, I'm a special person. Don't you read the sports section?”

She tugged his hair, but tenderly. “Don't let your press go to your head, Starbuck. You have to win a few more matches before you wrap up the Grand Slam.”

He massaged the muscles of her thigh. “So do you, Face.”

“I'm only thinking as far ahead as the next game,” she said. She didn't want to think of Forest Hills, or the States—or the end of the season. “Madge is pregnant,” she said half to herself.

“What!” Like a shot, Ty's head came up.

“Madge is pregnant,” Asher repeated. “She wants to keep it quiet until the Australian Open is over.”

“I'll be damned,” he exclaimed. “Old Madge.”

“She's only a year older than you,” Asher stated defensively, causing him to laugh again.

“It's an expression, love.” Absently he twined one of Asher's curls around a finger. “How does she feel about it?”

“She's thrilled—and scared.” Her lashes lowered, shielding her expression a moment. “She's going to retire.”

“We're going to have to throw her one hell of a party.” Rolling onto his back, he drew Asher close to his side.

After a moment she moistened her lips and spoke casually. “Do you ever think about children? I mean, it would be difficult, wouldn't it, combining a family with a profession like this?”

“It's done all the time, depends on how you go about it.”

“Yes, but all the traveling, the pressure.”

He started to pass it off, then remembered how she had lived her childhood. Though he had never sensed any resentment in her, he wondered if she felt a family would be a hindrance to her career. Physically a baby would prevent her from playing for some time. And she'd already lost three years, he reflected with an inner sigh. Ty pushed the idea of their children out of his mind. There was time, after all.

“I imagine it's a hassle to worry about kids when you've got a tournament to think of,” he said lightly. “A player's got enough trouble keeping track of his rackets.”

With a murmured agreement, Asher stared into space.

***

In the thin light of dawn she shifted, brushing at a tickle on her arm. Something brushed over her cheek. Annoyed, Asher lifted her hand to knock it away. It came back. With a softly uttered complaint she opened her eyes.

In the gray light she could see dozens of shapes. Some hung halfway to the ceiling, others littered the bed and floor. Sleepy, she stared at them without comprehension. Irritated at having been disturbed, she knocked at the shape that rested on her hip. It floated lazily away.

Balloons, she realized. Turning her head, she saw that Ty was all but buried under them. She chuckled, muffling the sound with her hand as she sat up. He lay flat on his stomach, facedown in the pillow. She plucked a red balloon from the back of his head. He didn't budge. Leaning over, she outlined his ear with kisses. He muttered and stirred and shifted away. Asher lifted a brow. A challenge, she decided.

After brushing the hair from the nape of his neck, she began to nibble on the exposed flesh. “Ty,” she whispered. “We have company.”

Feeling a prickle of drowsy pleasure, Ty rolled to his side, reaching for her. Asher placed a balloon in his hand. Unfocused, his eyes opened.

“What the hell is this?”

“We're surrounded,” Asher told him in a whisper. “They're everywhere.”

A half dozen balloons tipped to the floor as he shifted to his back. After rubbing his face with his hands, he stared. “Good God.” With that he shut his eyes again.

Not to be discouraged, Asher straddled him. “Ty, it's morning.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I have that talk show to do at nine.”

He yawned and patted her bottom. “Good luck.”

She planted a soft, nibbling kiss on his lips. “I have two hours before I have to leave.”

“'S okay, you won't bother me.”

Wanna bet? she asked silently. Reaching out, she trailed her fingers up his thigh. “Maybe I'll sleep a bit longer.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Slowly she lay on top of him, nuzzling her lips at his throat. “I'm not bothering you, am I?”

“Hmm?”

She snuggled closer, feeling her breasts rub against his soft mat of hair. “Cold,” she mumbled, and moved her thigh against his.

“Turn down the air-conditioning,” Ty suggested.

Brows lowered, Asher lifted her head. Ty's eyes met hers, laughing, and not a bit sleepy. With a toss of her head Asher rolled from him and tugged on the blanket. Though her back was to him, she could all but see his grin.

“How's this?” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he fit his body to hers. She gave him a shrug as an answer. “Warmer?” he asked as he slid his hand up to cup her breast. The point was already taut, her pulse already racing. Ty moved sinuously against her.

“The air-conditioning's too high,” she said plaintively. “I'm freezing.”

Ty dropped a kiss at the base of her neck. “I'll get it.” He rose, moving to the unit. It shut off with a dull mechanical thud. With a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue, he turned.

In the fragile morning light she lay naked in the tumbled bed, surrounded by gay balloons. Her hair rioted around a face dominated by dark, sleepy eyes. The faintest of smiles touched her lips, knowing, inviting, challenging. All thoughts of joking left him. Her skin was so smooth and touched with gold. Like a fist in the solar plexus, desire struck him and stole his breath.

As he went to her, Asher lifted her arms to welcome him.

Chapter 10

“Asher, how does it feel being only three matches away from the Grand Slam?”

“I'm trying not to think about it.”

“You've drawn Stacie Kingston in the quarterfinals. She's got an oh-for-five record against you. Does that boost your confidence?”

“Stacie's a strong player, and very tough. I'd never go into a match with her overconfident.”

Her hands folded loosely, Asher sat behind the table facing the lights and reporters. The microphone in front of her picked up her calm, steady voice and carried it to the rear of the room. She wore her old team tennis jacket with loose warm-up pants and court shoes. Around her face her hair curled damply. They'd barely given her time to shower after her most recent win at Forest Hills before scheduling the impromptu press conference. The cameras were rolling, taping her every movement, recording every expression. One of the print reporters quickly scribbled down that she wore no jewelry or lipstick.

“Did you expect your comeback to be this successful?”

Asher gave a lightning-fast grin—here then gone—something she would never have done for the press even two months before. “I trained hard,” she said simply.

“Do you still lift weights?”

“Every day.”

“Have you changed your style this time around?”

“I think I've tightened a few things up.” She relaxed, considering. Of all the people in the room, only Asher was aware that her outlook toward the press had changed. There was no tightness in her throat as she spoke. No warning signals to take care flashing in her brain. “Improved my serve particularly,” she continued. “My percentage of aces and service winners is much higher than it was three or four years ago.”

“How often did you play during your retirement?”

“Not often enough.”

“Will your father be coaching you again?”

Her hesitation was almost too brief to be measured. “Not officially,” she replied evasively.

“Have you decided to accept the offer of a layout in
Elegance
magazine?”

Asher tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “News travels fast.” Laughter scattered around the room. “I haven't really decided,” she continued. “At the moment I'm more concerned with the U.S. Open.”

“Who do you pick to be your opponent in the finals?”

“I'd like to get through the quarters and semis first.”

“Let's say, who do you think will be your strongest competition?”

“Tia Conway,” Asher answered immediately. Their duel in Kooyong was still fresh in her mind. Three exhausting sets—three tie breakers—in two grueling hours. “She's the best all-around woman player today.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Tia has court sense, speed, strength and a big serve.”

“Yet you've beaten her consistently this season.”

“But not easily.”

“What about the men's competition? Would you predict the U.S. will have two Grand Slam winners this year?”

Asher fielded the question first with a smile. “I think someone mentioned that there were still three matches to go, but I believe it's safe to say that if Starbuck continues to play as he's played all season, no one will beat him, particularly on grass, as it's his best surface.”

“Is your opinion influenced by personal feelings?”

“Statistics don't have any feelings,” she countered. “Personal or otherwise.” Asher rose, effectively curtailing further questioning. A few more were tossed out at random, but she merely leaned toward the mike and apologized for having to end the meeting. As she started to slip through a rear door, she spotted Chuck.

“Nicely done, Face.”

“And over,” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on my best friend's lady,” he said glibly as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Ty thought it would be less confusing if he kept out of the way during your little tête-à-tête with the members of the working press.”

“For heaven's sake,” Asher mumbled, “I don't need a keeper.”

“Don't tell me.” Chuck flashed his boy-next-door smile. “Ty had it in his head the press might badger you.”

Tilting her head, Asher studied his deceptively sweet face. “And what were you going to do if they had?”

“Strong-arm 'em,” he claimed while flexing his muscle. “Though I might have been tempted to let them take a few bites out of you after that comment about nobody beating Ty. Didn't you hear they were naming a racket after me?”

Asher circled his waist with her arm. “Sorry, friend, I call 'em like I see 'em.”

Stopping, he put both hands on Asher's shoulders and studied her. His look remained serious even when she gave him a quizzical smile. “You know, Face, you really look good.”

She laughed. “Well, thanks . . . I think. Did I look bad before?”

“I don't mean you look beautiful, that never changes. I mean you look happy.”

Lifting a hand to the one on her shoulder, Asher squeezed. “I am happy.”

“It shows. In Ty too.” Briefly he hesitated then plunged ahead. “Listen, I don't know what happened between you two before, but—”

“Chuck . . .” Asher shook her head to ward off questions.

“But,” he continued, “I want you to know I hope you make it this time.”

“Oh, Chuck.” Shutting her eyes, she went into his arms. “So do I,” she sighed. “So do I.”

“I asked you to keep an eye on her,” Ty said from behind them. “I didn't say anything about touching.”

“Oh, hell.” Chuck tightened his hold. “Don't be so selfish. Second-seeds need love too.” Glancing down at Asher, he grinned. “Can I interest you in lobster tails and champagne?”

“Sorry.” She kissed his nose. “Somebody already offered me pizza and cheap wine.”

“Outclassed again.” With a sigh Chuck released her. “I need somebody to hit with tomorrow,” he told Ty.

“Okay.”

“Six o'clock, court three.”

“You buy the coffee.”

“We'll flip for it,” Chuck countered before he sauntered away.

Alone, Asher and Ty stood for a moment in awkward silence while an airplane droned by overhead. The awkwardness had cropped up occasionally on their return to the States. It was always brief and never commented on. In the few seconds without words, each of them admitted that full truths would soon be necessary. Neither of them knew how to approach it.

“So,” Ty began as the moment passed, “how did it go?”

“Easily,” Asher returned, smiling as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I didn't need the bodyguard.”

“I know how you feel about press conferences.”

“How?”

“Oh . . .” He combed her hair with his fingers. “
Terrified
's a good word.”

With a laugh she held out her hand as they started to walk. “
Was
a good word,” Asher corrected him. “I'm amazed I ever let it get to me. There was one problem though.”

“What?”

“I was afraid I'd faint from starvation.” She sent him a pitiful look from under her lashes. “Someone did mention pizza, didn't they?”

“Yeah.” He grinned, catching her close. “And cheap wine.”

“You really know how to treat a woman, Starbuck,” Asher told him in a breathless whisper.

“We'll go Dutch,” he added before he pulled her toward the car.

Twenty minutes later they sat together at a tiny round table. There was the scent of rich sauce, spice and melted candles. From the jukebox in the corner poured an endless succession of popular rock tunes at a volume just below blaring. The waitresses wore bib aprons sporting pictures of grinning pizzas. Leaning her elbows on the scarred wooden table, Asher stared soulfully into Ty's eyes.

“You know how to pick a class joint, don't you?”

“Stick with me, Face,” he advised. “I've got a hamburger palace picked out for tomorrow. You get your own individual plastic packs of ketchup.” Her lips curved up, making him want to taste them. Leaning forward, he did. The table tilted dangerously.

“You two ready to order?” Snapping her wad of gum, the waitress shifted her weight to one hip.

“Pizza and a bottle of Chianti,” Ty told her, kissing Asher again.

“Small, medium or large?”

“Small, medium or large what?”

“Pizza,” the waitress said with exaggerated patience.

“Medium ought to do it.” Twisting his head, Ty sent the waitress a smile that had her pulling back her shoulders. “Thanks.”

“Well, that should improve the service,” Asher considered as she watched the woman saunter away.

“What's that?”

Asher studied his laughing eyes. “Never mind,” she decided. “Your ego doesn't need any oiling.”

Ty bent his head closer to hers as a defense against the jukebox. “So what kind of questions did they toss at you?”

“The usual. They mentioned the business from
Elegance.
”

“Are you going to do it?”

She moved her shoulders. “I don't know. It might be fun. And I don't suppose it would hurt the image of women's tennis for one of the players to be in a national fashion magazine.”

“It's been done before.”

Asher conquered a grin and arched her brows instead. “Do you read fashion magazines, Starbuck?”

“Sure. I like to look at pretty women.”

“I always thought jocks tended to favor other sorts of magazines for that.”

He gave her an innocent look. “What sorts of magazines?”

Ignoring him, Asher went back to his original question. “They're playing up this Grand Slam business for all it's worth.”

“Bother you?” As he laced their fingers together, he studied them. There was an almost stunning difference in size and texture. Often he'd wondered how such an elegant little hand could be so strong . . . and why it should fit so perfectly with his.

“A bit,” Asher admitted, enjoying the rough feel of his skin against hers. “It makes it difficult to go into a match thinking of just that match. What about you? I know you're getting the same kind of pressure.”

The waitress brought the wine, giving Ty a slow smile as she set down the glasses. To Asher's amusement, he returned it. He's a devil, she thought. And he knows it.

“I always look at playing a game at a time, one point at a time.” He poured a generous amount of wine in both glasses. “Three matches is a hell of a lot of points.”

“But you'd like to win the Grand Slam?”

Raising his glass, he grinned. “Damn right.” He laughed into her eyes as he drank. “Of course, Martin's already making book on it.”

“I'm surprised he's not here,” Asher commented, “analyzing every volley.”

“He's coming in tomorrow with the rest of the family.”

Asher's fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. “The rest of the family?”

“Yeah, Mom and Jess for sure. Mac and Pete if it can be arranged.” The Chianti was heavy and mellow. Ty relaxed with it. “You'll like Pete; he's a cute kid.”

She mumbled something into her wine before she swallowed. Martin had been there three years ago, along with Ty's mother and sister. Both she and Ty had gone into the U.S. Open as top seeds; both had been hounded by the press. The two of them had shared meals then, too, and a bed. So much was the same—terrifyingly so. But there had been so much in between.

There'd been no small boy with Ty's coloring then. No small boy with that air of perpetual energy to remind her of what was lost. Asher felt the emptiness inside her, then the ache, as she did each time she thought of the child.

Misinterpreting her silence, Ty reached over to take her hand. “Asher, you still haven't spoken to your father?”

“What?” Disoriented, she stared at him a moment. “No, no, not since . . . Not since I retired.”

“Why don't you call him?”

“I can't.”

“That's ridiculous. He's your father.”

She sighed, wishing it were so simple. “Ty, you know him. He's a very stringent man, very certain of what's right and what's wrong. When I left tennis I did more than disappoint him, I . . . wasted what he'd given me.”

Ty answered with a short, explicit word that made her smile. “From his viewpoint that's the way it was,” she went on. “As Jim Wolfe's daughter I had certain responsibilities. In marrying Eric and giving up my career I shirked them. He hasn't forgiven me.”

“How do you know that?” he demanded. His voice was low under the insistent music, but rich with annoyance. “If you haven't spoken to him, how can you be sure how he feels now?”

“Ty, if his feelings had changed, wouldn't he be here?” She shrugged, wishing they could have avoided the subject for a while longer. “I thought, at first, that when I started playing again it might make the difference. It hasn't.”

“But you miss him.”

Even that wasn't so simple. To Ty, family meant something warm and loving and eternal. He'd never understand that Asher looked not so much now for her father's presence or even his love, but simply his forgiveness. “I'd like him to be here,” she said finally. “But I understand his reasons for not coming.” Her brow clouded for a moment with a realization that had just come to her. “Before, I played for him, to please him, to justify the time and effort he put into my career. Now I play for myself.”

“And you play better,” Ty put in. “Perhaps that's one of the reasons.”

With a smile she lifted his hand to her lips. “Perhaps that's one of them.”

“Here's your pizza.” The waitress plopped the steaming pan between them.

They ate amid noise and their own casual chatter. Even the pressure of the upcoming matches had no effect on Asher's mood. The cheese was hot and stringy, making Ty laugh as she struggled against it. The contents of the squat bottle of Chianti decreased as they drank leisurely, content to let the meal drag on. Tennis was forgotten while they spoke of everything and nothing at all. A group of teenagers poured in, laughing and rowdy, to feed another succession of quarters into the jukebox.