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