TWICE VICTORIOUS (8 page)

"What in the...? Adam, what are you talking about?" He'd been angry all evening.
She'd sensed it from the moment he'd arrived, looking knock-your-socks-off gorgeous in
his dark gray suit, pale mauve shirt and fuchsia silk tie. Even when he'd smiled, she'd seen
the tiny frown brackets between his pale gold brows, the inverted half-circles around his
mouth that weren't laugh lines. "What is your problem?"

"You!" The word burst from him. "You're my problem, Stell. You and your idiotic
bicycle fixation." With obvious expertise, he released her seat belt buckle and pulled her
across the console to rest in his lap. "You're driving me nuts, woman." His mouth
descended on hers, passionately, possessively.

She didn't even consider objecting. The part of her that still thought of something
other than cycling, a very small, but absolutely ineradicable part, had been missing him all
week, had hungered for this very sort of kiss. That part went wild, freeing her inhibitions
and relaxing her control.

But when Adam's hand cupped her breast, sending waves of need through her, the
more sensible, single-minded part took control. "No, Adam. Not again." She wriggled free
and back to her own side of the car. "If you can't keep your hands off of me, you'd better
take me home."

She didn't tell him that if he touched her again, it wouldn't be only he who had
trouble keeping his hands to himself. That would be a self-defeating admission. He turned
around and faced forward. Even in the dim light she could see the white of his knuckles as
he gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Something was indeed bothering him, and
she had a hunch it was more than sexual frustration.

"I'm really sorry I missed your workshop this afternoon," she said, hoping she
could distract him by centering on his accomplishments. "Three different people told me it
was worth attending. How did you learn so much about starting on a shoestring?"

He laughed without humor. "The only way to learn. By doing."

"But I thought...." What had she thought? She realized she hadn't even read the
material about KIWANDA she'd received, back when her team was selected to model their
new line of CycleWear. All she really knew was that the company was local and very
successful.

"Not exactly a shoestring," he said, his voice sounding fondly reminiscent. "My
sister and I, with Mom's help, built KIWANDA from five yards of Urethane-coated nylon.
Of course, we had Roger's advice. He did all the creative money-magic that got us our first
production equipment."

"Your accountant?"

"My brother-in-law. He has a degree in Electrical Engineering, and a green thumb.
Money-green. He can find financing where there isn't any, and he can squeeze cash out of
a customer who hasn't paid any bills for months."

"Sounds like a talented man. And a good one to have around, that's for sure. What
did you make out of the nylon?"

He chuckled. "A hunting suit for Roger. He hates rain--grew up in Arizona--and
he's an avid bow-hunter. He refused to believe that no rugged, lightweight, really
waterproof clothing was commercially available. Everything was heavy, coated canvas that
was like wearing a lightweight suit of armor. He told us Oregonians owed it to the world to
develop some. Either that or stop claiming Oregon was habitable in the winter." His teeth
flashed in the light from a distant street lamp. "Juliana decided she had to clothe him, since
she wanted to marry the guy."

"And you saw the potential in the rain suit she made?" Of course. He would have.
Even before she'd been asked to model for KIWANDA, she'd heard of the uncanny instinct
Adam Vanderhook had for the marketability of unusual outerwear. One didn't work on the
fringes of Portland's financial community without being aware of who the hot names
belonged to.

"Not hardly. I laughed at it. Juliana hasn't forgiven me yet for making a better one.
It was Roger's idea to market it."

"But you did the work," she guessed. "You were the one who sold it."

"Only because Juliana is such a talented seamstress. If our potential customers had
seen the suit I made for Roger, they'd have died laughing. Most of the seams came
unstitched before he got back from his first hunting trip." Again his teeth flashed. "But he
kept warm and dry until they did."

She had to chuckle. That was why his abrupt change of subject caught her
flat-footed.

"Why are you wasting your time with penny-ante stuff?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me. You're bright, talented, and a top-notch CPA. I was talking to Ray
Wasatch the other day and your name came up. You could be pulling down top dollar if
you applied yourself."

"And I could be working seventy-hour weeks, lightening my coffee with antacids
instead of cream, and working myself into a coronary before I'm fifty." She shook her
head, knowing he could see the motion in the dimly-lit car. "No way. I'm doing exactly
what I want to do, and at the pace I set for myself."

"Doesn't it bother you that you're wasting your education?"

"Am I? I'm applying what I learned. I perform a valuable service, and the rewards
are worthwhile." Although she knew she was climbing onto her soapbox, she didn't care.
She got darned tired of Adam's conventional attitude, for this wasn't the first time she'd
encountered it, not by a long shot.

"My clients deserve the same quality of financial advice as the big corporations.
More, maybe, because the small business owner faces a disproportionate level of taxes and
fees. And most of them need advice on how to manage their money efficiently. They're too
busy balancing income and outgo to worry much about what to do with their occasional
cash surplus. I can show them how to make short term investments, make decisions about
capital expenditures, budget..." She stopped, aware she was lecturing. "Let's just say I can
help with all the things the average small business owner hasn't the time or experience to
do."

"Hey, I didn't mean..."

"Sure you did! People like you just can't see that some people don't want to
expand, don't want to grow. Open your eyes, Adam. There are a lot of us out here who are
perfectly content to stay small, and not have to contend with the hassle of being
employers."

"It just seems such a shame that someone with your potential is missing out on
opportunity. Stell, there's no limit to how far you could go."

"That's enough, Adam. I'm content with my life, and I don't want to go far. Drop
it."

"Well, I still can't understand why anyone would want to stagnate, but if that's
your idea of a good life, I'll be the last one to argue."

Darn the man! He sounded so patronizing. It was her turn.

"Look Adam, what would you do if I suggested that you would improve the
quality of your life if you were to take up some competitive sport? You've proven you've
got the necessary drive, the single-mindedness that it takes to be a champion." She leaned
toward him. For a second it seemed as if he was shrinking back against the door, away
from her. "And look at you! You're in excellent shape, but I'll bet you maintain your fitness
in a gym."

His grunt of agreement was all she needed. "Had you ever considered getting
outside and doing something besides running? Take up windsurfing, maybe? I mean,
you're a prime candidate for all the stress-related illnesses and you don't seem to be doing
anything about it."

"I'm healthy." His tone was flat, forbidding.

"Yes, but how much more healthy would you be if you were doing something
energetic, demanding, and competitive? I'll bet you've never really gotten involved in any
sport. Not enough to know how rewarding it can be." She reached across the car, gripped
his forearm. "Do you have any idea of what you're missing?"

With an abrupt jerk, Adam pulled his arm free. Turned the ignition key. "It's time I
took you home."

She barely had time to fasten her seat belt before they were out of the parking lot
and roaring up Sixtieth toward her home.

* * * *

"Steve says hello."

Adam looked up from the April financial statement. His sister was standing in the
door of his office, looking innocent as hell. "Steve?" Memories overwhelmed him,
memories he'd kept firmly locked away for a long time.

"Steve Francisco. Your old buddy. Your best friend." Juliana's eyes were full of
questions. "He's in Denver, setting up a Salle."

So Steve was finally getting around to doing what they'd once planned to do
together. Deliberately he looked down at the papers before him, but the words and
numbers they held were a jumble of black and white, meaningless shapes blurred by
intrusive memories. "So?" One word was all he could manage.

"He called Mom last night. He wanted your phone number." Her words hung in
the air, waiting for his response.

Adam wasn't sure what he felt. "Did she give it to him?"

"Yes."

"Damn!" The pen in his hand snapped. Adam looked at the pieces, tossed them
aside.

Juliana dropped into the chair across from him, glaring. "It's been seventeen years,
Adam. When are you going to forgive Steve for your own stupidity?"

It was just like her to blame him for the loss of a once firm friendship. She had
played big sister to his best friend since third grade. When Steve had faltered, not believing
they could be the best, Juliana had always urged him on, sharing her unwavering faith in
his ability.

So why was he surprised at her attack? He'd always known how she felt, even
though she'd said very little at the time he'd decided to come home for good.

"Don't you ever wonder what might have been if you hadn't decided to be so nobly
self-sacrificing, Adam? And why it was so easy for you to make that sacrifice?" Without
waiting for an answer, she rose and walked out of his office, pulling the door quietly
closed behind her.

Wonder? Of course he'd wondered. Back then he'd spent far too many black,
lonely nights questioning his decision to give up the sport that had consumed him for so
long. Even now, with a satisfying, successful life and a golden future in store, he still
occasionally wondered if he'd done the right thing.

Then he'd think about KIWANDA, and know he had.

ATTACK: a sudden attempt to pull ahead
of the pack or any other group of riders

"I'm a glutton for punishment," Adam muttered to himself as he dialed. It had been
a week since he'd seen Stell. A week of peace and quiet. A week without contention,
without arguments over whether business or sports were more or less healthy.

A week of aching loneliness.

At the fourth ring, her answering machine kicked on. He waited for the record
tone, tapping two fingers against the shining cherrywood of his desk. Finally, "Stell, this is
Adam. I'm having dinner with some representatives of Life Sport tonight and I just found
out their wives will be there. Are you free?"

A click and her voice cut in. "Adam, I'm here. I was just trying to get some work
done."

He tried to ignore the accelerated beat of his heart as she answered. It hadn't been
his idea to invite her this evening, but Juliana's. When his sister had pointed out the
competitive advantage he'd have if a world class cyclist was his date, he'd had to
agree.

Soon it was all arranged and Adam hung up, half glad she'd accepted. The other
half of him was wishing he'd never gotten acquainted with Stell McCray.

The glad half spent the rest of the afternoon looking forward to the evening and
not getting a lot of work done.

"Why me?" Stell asked that evening as he escorted her to his car. "You must have
three dozen names in your little black book, all of whom could help you sell KIWANDA
to Life Sport."

He carefully avoided touching her arm as she slipped into the car. "None of them
know cycling like you do." His words echoed in his ears as he went around to the driver's
side. "And," he continued, once he was in his seat, "it's not black. It's burgundy."

"It would be." She chuckled. "I'm glad you didn't deny having one."

Adam was relieved that she didn't seem inclined to return to the topic of
conversation that had ended their last date. "Any good businessman has an address book,"
he said, putting as much sanctimoniousness into his voice as he could. "Don't you?"

"Yes, but all mine contains is client names." From the corner of his eye, he saw
her lean back, as if she were tired. "Are you trying to sell KIWANDA to Life Sport?"

"I don't have to. It sells itself." He saw a flashing red light ahead and quickly
steered the car to the left. If the drawbridges across the river were closed, they'd better take
the freeway downtown or Roberts and Schwartz would think they'd been forgotten.
"Tonight's in the way of saying thanks. They're going to do a feature on KIWANDA
CycleWear in the winter issue."

As they swooped down onto the freeway, Stell said, "Where are we going?"

Adam looked upriver as they climbed high above it. Sure enough, traffic was
backed up at all three downtown bridges, whose spans were raised high above the water. It
looked like a Navy ship coming in to moor at the Esplanade. "The Sky Room. It's got the
best view of downtown."

"Oh, my. Are you sure I shouldn't have worn my diamonds?"

"Do you have any?"

"Of course I do. All successful Yuppies have them. And I was, you know."

"Successful? Or a Yuppie?"

A gurgle of laughter accompanied her answer. "Both, Adam. I was both."

"I never doubted it." He slanted a look sideways, liking what he saw. Tonight she
was wearing a slim blue dress of supple knit. He'd bet it was a wool blend, from the way it
clung to her, defining her small, high breasts and her tight, sexy bottom. She'd tossed a
matching suede jacket into the back seat, for so far the May night was warm and balmy.
Rain, always a possibility this time of year, was still only a promise in the low clouds.