TWICE VICTORIOUS (9 page)

"We're early," he said, pulling to a stop beside the parking attendant's booth.
"About fifteen minutes. Do you want to walk around, or shall we go on up?" As soon as
he'd spoken he thought of her leg. Could she walk around, especially in those shoes?

"Let's go up. I've always liked the view."

With his hand on her waist, Adam felt how tightly she was holding herself. Was
she apprehensive at meeting Roberts and Schwartz? Or was there something else
wrong?

* * * *

Adam's hand was warm on her back. Sternly Stell reminded herself of the
resolution she'd made after their abrupt parting last week. She would see him occasionally,
because she found him interesting, amusing, and generally good company, but she would
not let her hormones overwhelm her good sense. From now until she crossed the finish line
in the Idaho mountains next June, she was not going to get passionate about anything but
cycling. Anything!

That wasn't saying she couldn't try her hand at a little reforming. She still wanted
to get him on a bicycle.

The elevator sighed to a stop. As always, her breath caught as she saw the view
from The Sky Room. All of downtown Portland was spread out beneath her, sparkling and
clean. How long had it been since she'd taken time to come here, to her favorite restaurant,
just to watch the city at night? Too long.

"Do you want to wait in the bar?"

Hating the need to admit weakness, Stell said, "Anywhere, as long as we can sit
down." She was a complete idiot to have worn heels.

Adam was instantly solicitous. Within seconds he had her seated at a table next to
the window, was demanding a stool or a cushion so her foot could be slightly elevated.
"Can I get you some ice? Is your foot swollen? How's your knee?"

"I'm fine, Adam," she said, embarrassed by all the attention she was getting. "It's
just a little ache. I should have worn sneakers, but I didn't have any to match this
dress."

"Do I detect a hint of feminine vanity?"

"More than a hint, I'm afraid. You've never seen my wardrobe." No, and he wasn't
likely to. Why she hadn't given the twenty-odd pairs of heels and the rack of wool suits to
one of the thrift shops was beyond her. She'd never wear most of them again.

"No. No, I haven't." He was eyeing her closely. "As a matter of fact, this is the
first time I've seen you in a dress." His smile lit up their corner of the dim bar. "Very, very
nice."

Just then the maitre d' hotel appeared to tell Adam his guests had arrived. They
joined the two couples at their table by the window, with a fabulous view of Portland at
night. Adam made introductions, seated his guests with the best view, played the perfect
host. She admired his graciousness, his poise.

Ev and Angie Roberts were in their mid-fifties, comfortably round, and warmly
friendly. In contrast, Arnold Schwartz, the cycling editor of Life Sport, was long and lean,
a perfect advertisement for his subject. Leila Schwartz was also slim, but obviously not the
dedicated cyclist her husband was.

Arnold picked up on her name immediately. "Stell McCray? You're not the
cyclist?"

"She certainly is," Adam said. His voice was proud, and despite herself Stell
glowed at the implied compliment.

From then on, most of the dinner conversation centered on sports, beginning with
the Sawtooth Classic and going on to the upcoming Winter Olympics. "I'm jealous," she
said, when Leila spoke of their trip to Athens for the last Summer Olympics, their plans to
spend the summer touring the Far East after Beijing.

"So am I," Adam agreed. "I'm not even going to Vancouver. Juliana won that toss,
so I've got to stay home and mind the store."

"I'm surprised you weren't in Torino," Ev said. "Surely just being there would
have been worth your while."

"We made the decision that the cost of doing it right was far more than the
benefits we'd have received. Our main market has been winter sports for a long time, and
we weren't ready to expand then." He lifted his wineglass in a pledge. "We are now, or will
be, as soon as we launch our new line of ActiveWear. Just wait. You'll see at least one
team in KIWANDA OuterWear in 2010."

Ev slapped him on the shoulder. "You'll do it, boy. I've never seen anyone like you
for doing what you set your mind to. Why I remember, back in '89, at the Summer
Nationals..."

"Yes, well, are you folks ready for dessert?" Adam waved the waiter over. "The
Sky Room is famous for its hazelnut cheesecake."

Stell noticed the quick glare he threw toward Ev, but paid it little attention. Her
leg was hurting with a vengeance, and all her concentration was devoted to keeping a smile
on her face and tears from her eyes. Since Adam was the host tonight, she couldn't ask him
to take her home, much as she longed to.

The conversation slipped into a discussion of Adam's hopes to get KIWANDA
CycleWear into some of the more prestigious sportswear catalogs. REI, and maybe Land's
End. Stell was pleased that his company was getting exposure beyond the Pacific
Northwest. Unfortunately she couldn't generate much enthusiasm. Not the way she was
hurting.

She managed to keep a smile on her face. When everyone finally refused just one
more coffee refill, another round of liqueurs, she breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief.
Maybe now she could gracefully ask to be taken home.

"Stell's still recovering from a spill," Adam told the others when Ev suggested that
they find a bar with a good dance ensemble. "I think she'd rather just take off her shoes and
put her feet up." His smile assured Arnold she wasn't seriously injured.

"It's been a long day," she added. "One of my clients is being audited by the IRS."
Her smile, she hoped, implied that she'd spent hours and hours getting the client ready for
her audit.

The truth was that she'd spent hours and hours working her leg this past week, and
was paying for it tonight. Linda Bonner's books were in great shape.

"You're hurting, aren't you?" Adam said later, as he guided the car along rain-slick
streets.

"Not too bad. I'm mostly tired."

"Don't give me that crap! You looked like you were about to pass out."

"I tell you, I'm just tired. I shouldn't have worn these shoes."

"No, you shouldn't have. But it's more than that, isn't it, Stell? Your leg's giving
you trouble, isn't it?"

"Adam, I assure you that my leg's doing just fine. I just need to get it elevated, let
it rest."

"Have you got plenty of ice? I can pick you up a bag."

"I've got everything I need." She sighed with exhaustion as he pulled into her
driveway. "I had a lovely time tonight, Adam. Ev and Angie are wonderful people, and I
got a real kick out of Leila's wacky sense of humor."

"But you didn't like Arnold knowing you were hurt, did you?"

"No, I didn't. Thank you for making my accident sound less serious than it was."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She didn't want to admit,
even to Adam, who'd been there, just how serious her accident had been. If the word got
out into the cycling community that her chances of recovering in time to train for next
year's Sawtooth Classic were slim, she'd not even be considered for the team. So far the
local cyclists had kept quiet about the extent of her injuries. She just hoped they'd maintain
their silence long enough for her to get back into competition.

Adam went around the car and pulled her door open. She was gathering her
energy to stand when he swept her into his arms. "Got your key?"

Speechless, she nodded. He paused long enough for her to unlock the door, then
shouldered his way inside. Within seconds she was in a wing chair, an ottoman in front of
her and her foot, minus its shoe, stretched out before her. She could hear Adam slamming
doors in the kitchen.

"Where's the ice bag?"

Gingerly she lowered her foot to the floor. The ankle flexed without pain, but
when she put just a hint of weight on her hip, it was like knives stabbing into her pelvis.
Gasping, she fell back into the chair, fighting to control nausea.

The world was still spinning and edged with red when Adam returned, carrying a
plastic bag filled with ice cubes and an armload of her guest towels.

"I wish I knew my way around your house. But I figured you'd rather have this
soon, rather than wait for me to find all the right pieces." He lifted her foot and positioned
it carefully on the towel-covered bag of ice. "How's the knee?" His fingers lightly explored
her knee, swollen from an evening of use.

She couldn't help wincing as he found a tender spot.

Moments later he was fitting another makeshift icebag around her knee.
"Better?"

She nodded, still fighting the intense pain in her hip. Only her P.T. knew how
slowly it was healing, compared with the ankle and knee. If Adam knew, he'd probably
wrap her whole lower body in ice. Stell shivered at the mere thought.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked, after standing silently for several minutes.
She'd felt his gaze on her face, but hadn't wanted to speak. Her voice would have trembled.
Adam Vanderhook was the last man in the world she wanted to admit her weaknesses to.
"Do you need help getting ready for bed?"

Distracted as she was, she still felt an infinitesimal twinge of warmth at Adam's
innocent offer. She really had it bad. "No, but thanks," she told him. "I'll be fine."

His expression was doubtful.

"Honest. All I need is a little rest and my brace. It's on the chest in the front hall."
Where she'd left it, too vain to wear such an unattractive device with her prettiest dress.
Next time she'd know better. Trying to protect her knee had put extra strain on her hip.

After the two hundred side leg lifts she'd done this afternoon, the strained tendons
had justifiably rebelled. Maybe she'd better take tomorrow off, just do the simple exercises
Carl had prescribed.

Before he wrapped the brace around her leg. Adam traced a line of soft kisses
from the top of her knee to her foot. Until this moment, Stell hadn't known how erogenous
her legs were.

Nor had she remembered the healing power of kisses. It had been a long time
since anyone had kissed her owies to make them well.

When Adam left, she felt like champagne when all the bubbles were gone.

* * * *

Adam called the next day to check on her, but didn't have time to talk. There was a
minor crisis in the receiving department and he spent the whole day straightening out
mixed up orders. Then it was time for him to leave on his long-planned marketing trip to
the East Coast. He didn't even have time for dinner, and the food he grabbed in the airport
gave him heartburn that lasted past Denver.

So it was almost two weeks before he saw her again.

What am I doing here?
Adam stood at the top of the steps, between the
rows of fixed board seats. He'd never been to a cycle race at a velodrome before. He wasn't
sure he wanted to be here now, even though it might be the only way he'd see Stell this
weekend.

He was tired, jet-lagged, and frustrated.

No, he was just plain mad. At himself and at her. Hadn't he been the man who'd
sworn never to get involved with a serious athlete?

Playing second fiddle to an endorphin high wasn't his idea of a good time.

"What'd you think of that finish?" Warren McCray said, climbing up to meet him.
"I don't think I've seen a Points Race so close for years."

"Pretty close," Adam admitted, even though he still hadn't figured out who'd won.
Or what had been going on, for that matter.

There had clearly been four teams represented on the track, each one with
different garish shirts and logo-embellished black cycling shorts. Adam thought they were
all men, but some of the women cyclists were so lean and trim that they made long, slim
Stell McCray look voluptuous. The racers wore numbers on the left sides of their torsos,
angled away from the spectators, so he hadn't even been able to keep track of
individuals.

He knew some of the racers had been lapped, but in the desperate sprint at the
finish, he'd lost track of which ones.

"That Rick--he's really improved this year. I wouldn't be surprised if he moved up
to Cat Three before the season's over."

"Yeah, that's his goal," Adam agreed. Had Rick been in this race? His employee's
team jersey was purple and white; that's all Adam knew. With the helmets, the wraparound
glasses, and the matching clothes, he couldn't tell one cyclist from another.

What Adam wouldn't admit to anyone else was that he didn't understand at least
half of what Warren said. He was still confused, especially about cycling categories. As a
relative beginner Rick was a Cat Four, and Stell was a Cat One, the best. But what those
categories meant or how cyclists went from one to the other was beyond his
comprehension.

"Let's go down front. The Kiddie Kilo's next." Warren led the way down to the
front row, just behind the fence that separated the stands from the oval track with its
steeply sloped ends. They found space between a very pregnant woman and a couple of
boys in cycling clothes. Neither kid was much over twelve. At least this was a family sport,
Adam decided, as one of the boys called the woman on his other side Mom.

Most of the racers leaned their bikes against the wall below the bleachers and
climbed up to take seats. At the same time, several small children, all wearing helmets,
were lifted down onto the track.
What in the world?

The kids ran over to where half a dozen small bicycles and tricycles were parked.
The tiniest child, a girl with dark ringlets, climbed aboard a hot pink trike with long
iridescent streamers on the end of the handlebars. She could barely reach the pedals, but
she sure made them spin. She and another small child, a little boy, rode to a chalked line
about a quarter of the way around the track, while the rest of the children lined up at the
start line right below him.