TWICE VICTORIOUS (2 page)

"What are you talking about? What about my leg?" Stell tried to sit up, to grab his
arm, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. "Darn it, Warren, tell me!" she cried,
knowing she didn't want to hear.

"Hey, calm down." He stood, well back from the bed so her reaching hand
couldn't touch him. "They said they told you--"

"Nobody's told me a darned thing. I just woke up." As she spoke, she remembered
the pain, remembered the sober young doctor asking her if she knew what day it was.

Of course she'd known. It was Tuesday, and the mayor's name was Elinor Greene,
and she'd piled up during a Prime lap at PIR. After that, the world had grown fuzzy,
fuzzier, fuzziest, until the doctor's voice had become an irritating racket, full of words she
hadn't wanted to hear. She had deliberately tuned him out, concentrating instead on
keeping unconsciousness at bay.

Warren watched her cautiously, as if she were Mount St. Helens about to blow.
"The effects of the concussion shouldn't last more than a week or two. They don't know
about your leg, Stell. It's pretty badly torn up and they have to wait until the swelling's
gone down to tell for sure."

"How long?" She tried again to move her legs, but they were both splinted.
Concentrating on the pain, she isolated the biggest ache in her left leg. "Warren?" Even she
heard the rising hysteria in her voice as her cousin blurred and became twins before her.
"How long before I can get back in training?"

"Look, I gotta go. I'll be back to take you home tomorrow, okay?"

Before she could protest, he'd disappeared.

Stell grabbed the call bell. She wanted answers and she wanted them now.

The nurses wouldn't tell her anything. The doctor was not in the hospital. By the
time he made his rounds that night, she was beyond anger, beyond tears.

Almost beyond hope.

"It's really too early to determine what the long term implications of your injuries
are, We'll have to wait until the swelling goes down to get a complete picture, but I can tell
you it doesn't look good. You did a real number on that leg. Why you didn't break every
bone in it, I can't even guess. But you've got massive soft tissue injuries."

He went on and on, describing torn and stretched muscles and tendons, but she
tuned him out.

"How soon can I be riding?" she demanded.

"It's too soon--"

"Tell me!"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Stell, you may never ride at the level you have
been."

She closed her eyes, ignored his reassuring words. They were probably lies,
spoken to cheer her up.

What she heard, over and over in her mind, was
may never ride again...may
never ride...never ride....

* * * *

The doorbell rang again. Stell bit her lip, wondering if she'd made a mistake,
refusing Warren's offer to stay with her for a couple of days. "I'm coming," she called. In a
lower voice, she said, "Don't get yourself in a snit. I might just decide not to answer the
door at all." Twenty-four hours after her release from the hospital, she was still awkward
on her crutches.

A dark shape was visible through the long, sheer-curtained window beside the
front door. A large, dark shape. For a moment she seriously considered ignoring whoever
was leaning on her doorbell. She'd already learned how exhausting visitors could be,
especially those who oozed sympathy. No. It might be Rick's boss. She couldn't imagine
what the president of KIWANDA OuterWear would want with her, but this morning she
had promised Rick she'd talk to him. She pulled the door open.

"Ms. McCray?"

His voice! It reminded her of the warm, caring voice she'd heard in the eerie,
pain-filled world where she'd floated for so long. "All right....be all right...will she be..." Over
and over. Keeping her from drifting, pulling her back from the never-never land where
pain was the only thing she knew.

Forcing her thoughts back into focus, she looked into blue eyes as familiar as the
voice. "I'm Estelle McCray," she agreed, waiting for him to identify himself.

"Adam Vanderhook."

His smile was about five hundred watts. She stared dumbly at the hand he held
out. This was not what she'd expected Rick's boss to look like.

"Ms. McCray?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. Come on inside." She motioned. "Sorry. I'm kinda spacey
sometimes. The concussion..."

"Of course. How's the leg."

She didn't want to talk about it. "Okay. Clumsy." She turned and led him, slowly,
at the best pace her crutches allowed, into her living room.

He watched her, adding to her clumsiness. The crutches were proving to be a lot
more difficult than she'd imagined. Sitting down was almost impossible, if grace was the
object. She let the crutches drop beside the sofa and tried to let herself down gently, using
the arm for support. Her leg, in its absurd fiberglass brace, needed to be elevated as often
as possible, so she sat sideways and stretched it out along the cushions.

Rick's boss sat in one of the wing chairs, looking completely at home in her
antique-filled living room. His smile was sympathetic. "Broken?"

"No, but they don't want me to use the knee." She shifted uncomfortably. "Rick
said you wanted to talk to me?"

"I do. KIWANDA still wants you to be one of the models, even though it may be a
while before you can."

"Only a week or two. None of the abrasions are deep, so they shouldn't leave
scars. Nothing that a little makeup wouldn't cover, anyway." She really wasn't looking
forward to modeling fancy, upscale cycling clothes, but it was for the good of her team,
after all. They'd been supportive enough of her ever since she decided to go big time. It
was the least she could do for them.

"I wasn't worrying about that," he said.

She wasn't sure just what his expression meant. Compassion? Or pity? Stell wasn't
about to be an object of anybody's pity! "So what's your concern?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were going to be able to ride soon enough to work
for us. We're scheduled to begin shooting in a couple of weeks. Will you be back on your
bike so soon?"

"Of course." She'd be back on her bike as soon as this stupid brace was removed,
if she had her way.

He smiled, and she felt her temperature go up a couple of degrees. Ye gods! Was
this what concussions did to you?

"That's great. After the other night, I'm really looking forward to seeing our
CycleWear in use. I think you'll find it's far more comfortable than anything you've worn
before."

She doubted it, but who was she to discourage him? What she knew about
KIWANDA OuterWear could be written on the head of a pin. They just weren't her kind of
clothes. Too spendy. "What made you decide to start making cycling gear?"

"We see a tremendous market in weekend recreation, especially adults who are in
it for exercise and pleasure. Our marketing studies show that a vast number of people are
participating in amateur athletics, both organized and casually. With our reputation for
quality, we feel that we can carve out a significant portion of the market for ourselves. Our
CycleWear is just one of the lines we plan to introduce. Until recently, only serious cyclists
wore jerseys and shorts. Now we see a market segment in weekend athletes who are
interested in looking good while they get their cardiac conditioning."

She couldn't help but smile. He sounded like he'd memorized his little spiel, a
false note in an otherwise sincere impression. He was right, though. The new breed of
cyclist, riding mountain bikes fitted with shock absorbers, were a far cry from the people
she'd been riding with for years. "And you expect them to buy your gear?" They probably
would. Anyone who could afford a thousand dollar bike as a toy could afford the two
hundred dollar jacket to go with it.

"The firm that designed our advertising campaign is one of the best."

"Which means they create a market if one doesn't exist." She remembered some of
the courses she'd taken as part of her MBA program. While she didn't entirely approve of
modern advertising techniques, she had to admire their effectiveness.

His chuckle told her that his streak of skepticism was wide as hers. "Exactly."

He had the nicest smile, one that warmed her heart and more.

"And what besides cycling gear are you planning to convince the unsuspecting
public it can't live without?"

"You name it, we're going to make clothing for you to wear while doing it."

"Dogsled racing?"

"We already do that. Part of our regular OuterWear line."

"Windsurfing?"

"Naturally."

"Tiddly Winks?"

"I'm sure we'll have something suitable for the World Class Tiddler."

He had an answer for everything, although she couldn't have been more pleased at
this one. How many people knew the correct term for a Tiddly Wink competitor? "Give me
time. I'll think of something you haven't considered."

"All the time in the world. In the meantime, keep in touch. I'll want to know as
soon as you're available."

"I can do that." She reached for her crutches, but before her fingers touched them,
he was on one knee beside her. His face was only inches from hers and his smile begged,
no, demanded, a response. She licked her lips, feeling trapped. He was much too close and
much too...too devastatingly male.
Stop it
, she told herself again.
You're
imagining things. All he wants is your body in his clothes, not in his bed.

Where had that thought come from? Of course he only wanted her as a
model.

She stood, quickly, grateful for his help. Otherwise she would have put pressure
on her leg, and that was what the doctor had warned her not to do. "You know, there are
three other women on our team. You don't have to wait until my road rash heals." She
almost hoped he would take the hint. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the
idea of spending time anywhere near Adam Vanderhook.

"No! I want..." His grip on her elbows was almost rough. "We want you!"

A thrill shot through her, warm and exciting.

Stell McCray swayed as he released her, and Adam had to clench his fists to keep
from taking her into his arms. He had never felt the slightest attraction to a woman like her,
and he wasn't going to start now. Never mind that she moved, lean and lithe, through his
dreams. Forget that he'd been turning to look at every close-clipped dark head, hoping to
catch a sight of a woman he knew couldn't be anywhere nearby. Anything between him
and an amateur athlete was going to be strictly business. He knew only too well that there
was room in a person's life for only one obsession. When he was with a woman, he wanted
to be the focus of her passion, not share it with dreams of a trophy.

"Okay now?" he asked, knowing that his abrupt reaction had caught her off
balance. Again his eyes swept over her, seeing the long, red-black scabs on her forearms.
He knew her legs were similarly scabbed and he wondered if they itched. He still
remembered how his floor burns had itched, enough to make him crazy.

"Fine." She pulled her arm free. "If you don't mind, I won't see you out. Just make
sure the door latches behind you."

She sounded tired. Didn't she have anyone who could stay with her? She'd said she
was still feeling the aftereffects of the concussion. "Spacey" she'd said. What if she fell? Or
became unconscious?

He knew, only too well, how dangerous a concussion could be. That time Steve
had gotten tangled in the wires....

Damn! He hadn't thought about Steve in years. Not since his once-best friend had
taken the Olympic gold.

"I'll expect to hear from you, then," he told Stell. "I hope you'll decide to do
it."

Now why, he wondered as he let himself out, did his mind refuse to picture her
wearing KIWANDA CycleWear?

He kept imagining her clad in nothing at all.

TIME TRIAL: a race against
time

"Honestly, Cindy, I'm getting along just fine." Stell twisted the telephone cord
around one finger and grimaced. In the two weeks since she got out of the hospital, her
best friend had called her at least three times a day.

"But are you sure you've got plenty of food in the house? I could stop by the store
on my way home and pick up whatever you need."

"I don't need..." She sighed, telling herself to hold on to her temper. It wasn't
Cindy's fault that Stell was ready to bite heads off with the slightest provocation. "Cindy, I
really, truly don't need a thing. I've still got most of the gallon of milk you brought by night
before last, and I've only used four slices of bread. There's enough food in the 'fridge to
feed an army, and I couldn't get another thing into the freezer."

"Well, if you're absolutely certain...."

"I am. Now don't worry about me. I've got my leg in a brace, not my whole
body."

"But what if you fall?"

"Then I'll drag myself to the phone and call you." She grimaced, not wanting to
admit how much trouble she would have getting to her feet again. This morning she'd been
on the floor for about a half hour, doing her stretching, or as much of her routine as she
could with the brace and the assortment of aches and pains remaining from the crash.
Getting back up had been painful and very close to impossible.

Still, if she fell, she fell. She'd pick herself up and get on with her life.
It's no
different from falling in a race. You can't let the pain win.

In six weeks she'd be back in full training, so she couldn't baby herself now.

The doorbell chimed. A good excuse. "Look, I've got to go. I'll talk to you
later."

"You're sure you don't need anything?"

"Not a thing. Thanks Cindy."

Stell sighed as she reached for her crutches. Cindy was a good friend, but way too
much of a mother hen.

She stumped down the hall and peeked through the narrow, sheer-curtained
window before unlocking the door. The form outside was familiar. It had been standing in
that exact same place two weeks ago.