Love in Straight Sets (9 page)

As her anxieties about navigating and speed and sweating through her socks gradually faded out, she relished the sound of her soles smacking against the road, the cool air that was fresh in her lungs and the lush scenery that she’d only ever seen from behind a car window. She drank in the sunshine, the palm trees, the bright blue sky, as her rational mind quieted down with every springing step.

It took less than a mile for her mind to be clear of everything except the rhythm of her body, the waft of the breeze and the hushed sound of Ben’s breathing beside her. She had no idea where they were, how to get back, how far they’d run or how much farther they had to go.

She’d never been more out of control—or more blissfully content.

* * *

His baggy shorts bunched between his thighs, his shirt stuck to his back and each strike of the pavement against his thin-soled canvas sneakers sent pain shuddering up through his shins. But as Ben watched Regan’s dark, tightly locked face open and glow like a blossoming daylily, he knew he had to push on.

If holding her felt like catching an impala, running beside her felt like setting one free. Her movement was as smooth and sure as it was on the court, but without any of the tension of strategy or restraint. There was joy in each step, radiance in her eyes, and Ben felt privileged to be there to behold it—and like the least worthy man in the world after she’d so squarely called him out on his distanced behavior.

He’d been in torment ever since they said goodbye in the hotel in Miami. He tried to slip out during the post-panel schmoozing, but Regan intercepted him on his way out the door.

“Are you heading out?” she’d asked, her back to the window that offered panoramic views of the city and the ocean beyond. He’d admired the cityscape earlier, but when she stood in front of it and stared up at him with eyes full of hopeful question, he completely forgot it was there.

“I’m having dinner with an old friend,” he’d answered, omitting the fact that he had two hours to kill before they were due to meet.

“Oh, fun,” she replied, and he’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at her poor attempt to fake some enthusiasm. “No time to stick around for a drink in the bar, then? Nonalcoholic of course.”

“Not this time. Remember, I have my spies—I’ll know if so much as a mouthful of beer passes those lips.”

He regretted those words before he’d finished saying them, as the image of her soft lips pressing against the cool rim of a bottle and the hoppy liquid swirling over her small pink tongue hardened him so instantly he nearly gasped. Thankfully Regan didn’t notice, and as he felt her gaze lingering on his back as he’d hobbled out of the room, his confidence in his ability to restrain himself until the Baron’s took a serious knock.

He could keep his hands to himself for six weeks, couldn’t he?

Now, as she glided beside him over the gently rolling sidewalk running along the perimeter of the golf course, he was grimly reminded that her allure was unlike anything he’d experienced before. There had been times during the past week that he’d been thankful for the frustrating decline in her performance, because being annoyed with her made it that tiny bit easier not to give in to his impulse to pull her to the rubberized court surface, drag down her formfitting shorts and slip his fingers between her legs until she cried out in ecstasy.

But it wasn’t simply the physical attraction, which he was sure he shared with tens of thousands of teenage boys who used photos of her as their computer desktop backgrounds. Now that he’d met the sensitive, delicate woman beneath the fierce attitude, he was so curious and intrigued that he struggled to focus on anything else.

She was the one thing he shouldn’t think about—yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. And if he couldn’t pull himself together, it was going to cost him his job.

She glanced at him and he quickly looked away, hoping she couldn’t see the red-hot lust that simmered just below the surface of his flesh whenever they were together.

“How far have we gone?” she panted.

He checked his watch. “About three miles. Ready for a break?”

She looked out over the verdant, beautifully landscaped view, as if taking a snapshot for her mental records. Then she nodded and slowed to a walk.

“It’s getting hot. Let’s sit for a minute.” She fanned herself as she led the way to a palm tree at the golf course’s edge and plunked down with her back against its stump. She pulled up her legs and perched her chin on her knees. “I can’t believe we ran three miles. It felt like one.”

He pulled down the brim of his cap, squinting at a convoy of golf carts as he joined her on the ground. “It’s amazing how much less you notice the distance when you have something to look at. I usually run on the beach, first thing in the morning. Sand is more difficult, but the views are worth it.”

“How often do you go?”

“Three or four times a week. I like running, but I’m not built for it. Too top-heavy.” He raised his arms from his shoulders.

“That is quite a wingspan,” she remarked with an approving tone he enjoyed far too much.

“Orangutan arms, according to my sister. She used to make monkey noises to put me off my serve.”

“So that’s the secret to beating you, huh?” Regan leaned down, plucked some blades of grass and then rolled them between her fingers. “Is she older or younger?”

“Lindsay’s three years younger. She trained as a teacher, and now she works at this educational charity in Bulawayo, our hometown, but she really wants to join me here in the States. I’ve been trying to get her a visa, but immigration lawyers are expensive, and the school is always losing funding so I help Lindsay with her rent, and—”

He stopped himself, remembering in the nick of time that no matter how easily conversation flowed between them, Regan was his employer, not his friend. “Anyway,” he concluded, “It’s complicated. But I’m working on it.”

“Still, that’s nice that you help her out.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t.”

“Plenty of men aren’t.” She shifted beside him. “And your mom? Is she still in Zimbabwe?”

He shook his head. “She remarried a South African guy and moved there to live with him. She’s quite content, really involved with his kids and grandchildren. I know she misses me, but I don’t think she minds not being constantly reminded of my dad. Lindsay’s the one who suffers. She loves her job, but she’s very isolated out there. It’s a volatile place and you never know which way things will shift from one day to the next. She’s come out here for visits, but flights are expensive, and the Zimbabwean airlines are always having fuel shortages.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The issues mount up, and the next thing you know it’s been five years.”

“That sucks.”

He shrugged, pushing away the old wound of the knowledge that even at the height of his success, he’d never really starred in his parents’ lives. His father was such a huge character that when he left the family, his mother mourned more for the absence of the marriage than the children it left behind. In a way, he and Lindsay had only ever really had each other—it just took their father’s disappearance for them to realize it.

“It’s life.”

“Yeah, and sometimes life sucks.” She flicked the grass away and leaned back on her elbows. “I’m glad you’re talking to me again.”

Ben closed his eyes for one rueful second. He was, wasn’t he? And not about backhand techniques, about his goddamn family. He had to get a grip. How could he expect to clamp down on his physical urges when he couldn’t even keep his stupid mouth shut? The pressure of his self-restraint meant he’d already come close to losing his temper with her that morning. He had to pull himself together.

“You’ve seemed distracted all week,” she continued. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” If by
fine
he meant spinning dangerously out of control.

“I guess I was just concerned that, after what happened on Monday—”

“Nothing’s changed,” he lied. “Don’t worry.”

“Good.” She breathed with audible relief that sharpened the guilty knife-edge already stabbing him in the gut. “Because I have a totally cheesy request. Do you want to come to my birthday party?”

He couldn’t be more surprised if she’d stripped naked and told him to have her right there and then—although that would’ve been preferable. “Your what?”

“Sorry, that sounded like we’re eight years old. I mean, I’m having a big bash for my thirtieth tomorrow. Fancy hotel in Palm Beach, black-tie, champagne and plenty of what my PR manager describes as ‘local dignitaries.’ I’m heading out there tonight for a final view of the venue setup. That’s why I had to reschedule this afternoon’s practice session.”

Vague recollections of overheard snatches of conversation about tablecloths and a guest list surfaced in his mind. Regan’s publicist, a cheerful Brit called Sarah Philpott, often interrupted them to confirm details about her various appearances. He’d grown accustomed to ignoring her. “You might’ve mentioned it at some point. This is the one your parents are coming down for?”

“That’s it. I don’t know why I didn’t think to invite you before. Probably because—”

“You were pissed off with me the day you finalized the numbers?”

“It’s a strong possibility.” She smiled sheepishly. “I know it’s short notice, but if you think you can get hold of a tux in time, you could ride with me. I could reserve you a room in the hotel for the night.”

Ben opened his mouth to offer the first fabricated excuse to pop into his head—something seemed to be forming about taking a friend to a hospital appointment, and he congratulated himself on such a chivalrous idea—but before he could speak she raced ahead, her eyes wide with an urgency that implied everything hinged on his agreement to come.

“I know you’re not too bothered about publicity, but I think it would be great to show you off as my new coach. You know, sort of make a point that pros don’t need to be trained by people a generation their senior and that former stars of the men’s game can just as easily cross over to—”

“Hang on.” He held up a hand to silence her. “Is this about a photo op? Because I’m happy to do what’s required, but I want to be clear on why I’m there.”

Regan chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, a gesture so endearingly girlish that Ben fought a visceral need to wrap his arm around her shoulders and press his lips to the top of her head.

“As with all these big events, there’s an element of public relations. The closer we get to the Baron’s, the more interest people will take in my preparation—and that includes you.”

The eyes she turned on him suddenly were so wide open and sincere, he thought those liquid brown depths might go all the way down to her heart. “But it’s also a big night for me. All of my family will be there, plus a lot of friends from my hometown that I barely get to see. I want this party to mark the beginning of the end of my professional career, and you’re an integral part of that transition. Also, as much as I say I hate you—” she smiled shyly, an unexpected but welcome expression, “—the truth is I like you. A lot. And I want to celebrate my birthday with people I like.”

Her simple statement warmed him from the inside out—and set off alarm bells as it did so. He was already playing too close to the line between professional and personal, and as much as he treasured what Regan was saying, it fell firmly into the latter category.

He was readying himself to make wall-building stipulations when she reached across the space between them and pressed her hand over his.

“Please say you’ll come.”

Ben’s heart jolted to a stop at her touch. Her palm was small over his, her fingers tiny in comparison, but it was her skin that sent pulses of stiffening, muscle-tightening desire ricocheting through his body. It wasn’t smooth and supple like the average woman’s. Instead he could feel the calluses at the base of her fingers, on the heel of her hand and on the edge of her thumb. They bore testament to the discipline of training, the ambition for perfection and the unadulterated, sometimes inexplicable love of a punishing sport.

They were sexier than any lingerie in the world.

“Okay,” he croaked, dragging his hand out from under hers on the pretense of tugging at the hem of his shorts—which were rapidly becoming too tight in the groin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ll be there.”

Regan’s face lit up like a floodlight as she clapped her hands together. “Great. Grand. Spectacular!”

“Don’t get too carried away.” He motioned for her to follow him as he pushed himself up from the ground, too full of anxious energy to sit still any longer. “We still have to run back. I may be uninvited in an hour.”

“Probably,” she agreed, although the delight curving her mouth assured him he wouldn’t get that lucky.

He glued his eyes to the pavement as they began to jog toward the clubhouse. The memory of her touch sizzled over his knuckles like a brand.

Had he really just agreed to spend the following evening at a five-star birthday celebration for the woman who filled his dreams yet was strictly off-limits? If he made the wrong move—or any move at all—he would be on every society page below the Mason-Dixon...and swiftly out of a job.

He hadn’t been this stressed since his finals match at the Baron’s more than ten years ago. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized the stakes were even higher. A silver gilt trophy was no prize at all next to the fiery, funny, endlessly complex woman running at his side.

Chapter Six

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look fine.”

Ben narrowed his eyes at his reflection. “Something’s not right.”

Matt peered into the mirror over his shoulder. “Your top button’s open. It’s making the bow tie look weird.”

Ben watched the color rise in his face. “I can’t close it. I tried earlier.”

“You have to. It’ll look wrong otherwise.”

“I can’t, it doesn’t fit.”

“Turn around.” Matt reached for Ben’s collar.

“Careful, don’t mess up the bow tie. It took me forty-five minutes of instructional internet videos to get it tied.”

“Why didn’t you get a clip-on?”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been invited to a party at the Wykeham Hotel.” Ben smiled despite the nerves somersaulting in his stomach. “Classy guys—of which I am one—do not wear clip-on bow ties.”

“And classy guys wear their tuxedo shirts buttoned all the way up, so your membership in that category is in doubt.” Matt forced the button through the hole with grunting effort and stood back to see the effect. “Damn, dude, how big is your neck?”

“It’s not normally an issue,” Ben grumbled, turning back to the mirror. The shirt did look better, but it came at the expense of his ability to breathe. He muttered a curse as he caught sight of himself in the rented formal wear and stuck out his hand. “Beer.”

Matt opened a can from the six-pack stacked on the dresser and handed it over. “I don’t know what you’re so uptight about. You mingle politely for an hour, then enjoy the free food and booze until it’s time to leave. What could possibly go wrong?”

“What could go wrong?” Ben repeated, pausing for a slug of beer. “Oh, I don’t know. I could say the wrong thing to the wrong person and wind up in the gossip columns. Or get fired. Or blacklisted. Wait, I know—I’ll get fired, which will be splashed all over the gossip columns, and then I’ll be blacklisted. You’re right. No pressure.”

“Seriously, you need to chill. You’re an ace at these things. You never worried when you were coaching all those whiny teenagers, and you didn’t need to. You’re the tennis-mom whisperer. You’re the master of calm.”

“More like the master of cheesy in this getup.” He glowered at the beer in his hand. Matt was right—he’d been to plenty of his clients’ bar mitzvahs and sweet sixteen parties over the years. Kids who spent at least four hours a day swinging a tennis racket tended not to have huge circles of friends, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to be called in to make up the numbers.

But there was a big difference between a sparsely decorated function room in a bowling alley and a black-tie bash at the Wykeham. And the gulf between the bored, multiply face-lifted mothers he politely batted away and the raging inner war he fought whenever he thought of something as innocent as Regan’s ankles was easily the size of several Grand Canyons.

There was no comparison whatsoever between the mild contempt he held for his former clients and his dizzyingly vacillating yet always intense feelings for his current one.

He heard the scrabble of claws as his aging greyhound, Boris, raced down the hall toward the front door. A second later the doorbell rang. He stared at Matt in panic.

“This is crazy. They’ll all be able to see that the tux is cheap and the shirt doesn’t fit. I’m going to humiliate myself.”

“Dude, listen to me.” Matt put his hands on Ben’s shoulders. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You have a Grand Slam trophy, a successful coaching career and a very cool accent. Go knock ’em dead.”

With an unconvinced nod, Ben charged through the small house before he could change his mind, with Matt close on his heels. He grabbed Boris’s collar and yanked open the door expecting to greet a chauffeur, but quickly had to adjust his gaze several inches down.

“Regan,” he breathed, unable to stop himself. “You look magnificent.”

She wore a short strapless dress in a vivid royal blue. Her hair was loose, diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat, and her towering heels brought out every line and curve in her muscular legs. She looked like a bold flower that had burst out of his patchy lawn, and he swallowed hard as his trousers began to feel as tight as his collar.

“You clean up all right too.” She smiled up at him, then down at his dog. “And who is this?”

“Matt Stevens.” Appearing behind him, his friend pushed around his elbow and stuck out his hand. “I’m the turf manager over at Cavan Isles, the golf club. Do you play golf? Because I get an employee discount and—”

“She meant the dog. This is Boris, and we’d better go before he slobbers all over that fancy dress.” He passed the greyhound’s collar to his friend. “Thanks for your help, Matt. See you later.” Then he patted the interior pocket where he’d stowed her gift, spread his palm at the small of her back and led Regan down the uneven walkway to the Bentley parked at the curb, eager not to give his friend the opportunity to say something deliberately embarrassing.

She glanced over her shoulder as he opened the door and motioned for her to slide in. “Is that your roommate?”

“No, thank God.” He joined her in the plush backseat and pulled the door shut. “I live alone. Matt’s an old friend.”

“He’s watching us leave.” She waved through the window, and Ben turned just in time to see his friend giving him two big thumbs-up. He twisted in his seat, trying to block Regan’s view in case Matt had any more vulgar gestures in his repertoire.

“Not that I’m complaining, but given it’s a half-hour drive,” he changed the subject as the driver pulled into traffic, “I was expecting a limo.”

“Remember I told you I have some weird hang-ups?”

He nodded, tightening his jaw against the memory of that hushed, shared moment in the corridor.

“Well, riding sideways is one of them. It freaks me out. That said—” she reached down and produced a bottle of champagne from the floor, then plunked down the armrest to reveal a cup holder already loaded with two flutes, “—there are certain features one can’t live without.”

“I guess I can turn a blind eye to all of the nutritionally challenged beverages you’ll be consuming, despite the approach of a certain tournament in London. You’re only thirty once, right?”

“Let’s hope so.” Regan expertly opened the bottle, filled their glasses and held hers out in a toast. “From the backseat of a Bentley to the winner’s podium at the Baron’s.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He clinked his glass against hers and took a sip.

The driver merged onto the highway and Ben stretched his legs in the spacious backseat. “I got the seeds for the Tallahassee Invitational. From the looks of things, it’ll be nearly all the players you’re likely to meet at the Baron’s. Between now and then we should probably—”

“Enough.” She held up her palm. “No tennis talk tonight, okay? It’s my birthday, I want to relax.”

“Of course.” He balanced his glass on his knee, racking his brain for a safe topic of conversation, one in which he’d be less likely to blurt out any of the inappropriate thoughts that were being fueled by her light, fruity perfume, by the brush of her fingers against his as she’d handed him the champagne, by the smooth, tanned legs crossed beneath the hem of her skirt...

“Do you know a lot of people around here? Like Matt?”

“I guess you could say I’ve got a critical mass of friends, yeah. I lived in California when I first came to America and went to college out there, but I moved to South Florida a few months after I graduated, so I’ve had plenty of time to build up my social circle. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “It’s such a weird area. With everyone living in gated communities, it’s hard to meet people.”

“I don’t live in a gated community. Neither do any of my friends.”

“Oh.” She colored slightly, and Ben instantly regretted his dry remark. “Well, that must help. I guess hanging out with so many professional athletes skews my perception of the place.”

“Like Spencer Vaughan?”

Regan snapped to attention as he cringed so hard he worried his face might fall through his neck. Stupid beers. He hardly ever drank and they’d clearly loosened his tongue more than he thought. He put the champagne flute back in the cup holder, reminding himself there was a long night ahead.

“What about him?”

He shrugged. “I ran into him at the panel on Monday. You two were together at one point, right?”

“Dating Spencer Vaughan is like a rite of passage for the women’s game.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s an okay guy. He’ll be there tonight, with Tanya.”

Ben tightened his fingers on his knee. An okay guy? He blinked against a memory so old it was starting to blur at the edges, of Spencer pressing a glass of whiskey into his hand at a post-tournament reception in Berlin, slapping him on the back and recounting his latest sexual exploits in lurid, gory detail. At the time Ben was a shy, awkward and decidedly virginal teenager squinting in the bright lights of life beyond his sheltered upbringing. While his fellow players guffawed and joined in, he’d recoiled at their tales of plucking and discarding their female counterparts like broken racket strings.

The mere thought of Spencer’s hands raking over Regan’s young, unsuspecting body had him reaching for the champagne again, as though it might put out the hot anger prickling over his skin.

She watched him as he took a sip. “I take it you know Spencer?”

“I do.”

“Not a fan?”

“We’re very different people.”

“I noticed.” She tilted her head. “I didn’t know you had a dog. Was he a racing greyhound?”

He nodded. “He’s retired now. Like me.”

She smiled as if something had just occurred to her. “Hang on. Don’t tell me he’s named after—”

“Boris Becker? The master of serve and volley? Of course he is.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “And do you make him run with you, like you made me run yesterday?”

“Sometimes. But he’d rather chase birds in the park than trot along on a leash.”

“I know how he feels,” she murmured, turning to look out the window.

Ben frowned. Something in the lilt of her voice and the weight of her expression told him that was more than a joking dig at his totalitarian training methods. Was she talking about the rigidities of professional sports? The expectations of her fans? Or a wish to escape her own sometimes uncontrollable emotions?

They were all fair desires—and he had personal experience of each one.

He was on the brink of saying as much when she announced, “We’re here.”

He tugged on the collar that was suddenly tighter than ever as the Bentley slowed to a crawl. The Wykeham was an old, stately hotel on the Palm Beach seafront, and it loomed elegantly against the setting sun. No red carpet obscured the long brick walkway that led from the street to the entrance, however, there might as well have been given the hordes of camera-wielding fans and journalists lining either side. He hadn’t faced this much public attention since he was a player, and the waving arms and flashing bulbs were like a hand closing on his shirtfront and yanking him ten years into the past.

“I didn’t realize there would be so much press,” he said dumbly, his throat dry.

“Don’t worry,” Regan chirped, snapping a compact mirror shut after giving her hair one last fluff. “We’ll be inside in five minutes.”

As the driver lined up his door with the trio of security guards holding clipboards, Ben felt as though he was staring down a tunnel to the long-ago days he constantly fought to forget. Painful, stabbing flares of his old life ran like ticker tape through his mind.

Three teenage girls accosting him in the Berlin airport, squealing and begging for his autograph. Seeing his name engraved on the side of the Baron’s Open trophy and holding it aloft to a cheering crowd. Waking up in a Los Angeles hotel room to find that his credit card had been declined and his father was gone. Raising his right hand at his American naturalization ceremony, his happiness at finding a new home undermined by the anguish of permanently losing his old one. Deeply buried emotions wrenched free and bubbled up until his head swam with them: the humiliation of his father’s betrayal, the terror of financial free fall, the restless isolation of displacement and, above all the hammering, the unrelenting guilt of tearing his family apart.

He stared out the window at the crowds, but all he could see was the naive, foolish boy who never realized he meant less to his own father than a string of zeros in a bank account until it was too late.

“Go on,” Regan urged at his side, dragging him back to the present with her encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine.”

With his ears ringing, his chest tight and his limbs so numb, he moved as if through thick mud. Ben gripped the handle, sucked in a breath, pulled to release the catch and swung open the door.

The flashbulbs exploded like blinding, cacophonous, never-ending fireworks.

* * *

Regan’s heart fluttered with excitement as she slid across the leather seat. She loved moments like this—moments when all eyes turned on her and she got to bask in her own triumph. It was like standing on the winner’s podium, relishing a hard-won victory.

Whenever she made her way past the flashing bulbs in designer gowns, professional makeup and hairstyles that took hours to perfect, she thought about the clique of country-club girls on her high school tennis team who mercilessly mocked the off-brand shoes, freebie T-shirts and thrift-store rackets that bore testament to her parents’ low incomes. How did they feel when they saw her on television, grinning through post-match interviews and signing autographs for the ball girls, or lighting up the society pages in the Floridian papers? They probably grumbled and made a big show about changing the channel or turning the page—and then let their hands hover over the remote control just one second longer, taking a candid minute to rethink the assumptions they made about her all those years ago.

Maybe it was stupid to devote so much energy to proving other people wrong—especially people she hadn’t seen in years and wasn’t likely to see ever again. But as petty as it was, moving on was easier said than done

She grabbed her clutch and looked up at the open door, ready to face her adoring public, but the smile slid from her lips when she saw Ben’s stricken expression.