Opposites Attract, Page 8

  whir of cameras. He was too weary to curse them. Someone was gathering his rackets. He could hear the clatter of wood on wood. The strength that had flowed freely through him only moments before drained. Exhausted, he let the drenched towel fall. His eyes met Asher’s.

  So blue, he thought. Her eyes are so blue. And cool, and deep. He could drown in them blissfully. The unbearable heat vanished, as though someone had opened a window to a fresh spring breeze.

  “Congratulations.” When she smiled, his fatigue slid away. Strangely it wasn’t desire that replaced it, but comfort, sweet simple comfort.

  “Thanks.” He took the racket bag she’d been holding from her. Their hands barely brushed.

  “I suppose the press is waiting for you inside.”

  The short retort Ty made was both agreement and opinion. On a low laugh she stepped closer.

  “Can I buy you dinner?”

  The quirk of his brow was the only indication of surprise. “Sure.”

  “I’ll meet you at seven in the lobby of the hotel.”

  “All right.”

  “Starbuck, what do you feel was the turning point of the match?”

  “What strategy will you use playing Prince in the finals?”

  Ty didn’t answer the reporters, didn’t even hear them as he watched Asher weave her way through the crowd. From overhead Jess watched with a small, fluttering sensation of déjà vu.

  Ty got under the stream of the shower fully dressed. He let the cool water sluice over him while he stripped. A reporter from World of Sports leaned against a tiled wall, scribbling notes and tossing questions. Naked, with his clothes in a soggy heap at his feet, Ty answered. Always, he handled the press naturally because he didn’t give a damn what they printed. He knew his mother kept a scrapbook, but he never read the articles or interviews. Lathering the soap over his face with both hands, he washed the sticky sweat away. Someone passed him a plastic jug of fruit juice. With the water streaming over him, he guzzled it down, replacing lost fluid. The weakness was seeping back, and with it the pain. He made his way to the massage table by instinct, then collapsed onto it.

  Strong fingers began to work on him. Questions still hammered in his ear, but now he ignored them. Ty simply closed his eyes and shut them out. A line of pain ran up his calf as the muscles were kneaded. He winced and held on, knowing relief would follow. For ten agonizing minutes he lay still while his body was rubbed and pounded. He began to drift. Like a mother’s memory of the pain of childbirth, his memory of the pain began to dim. He could remember winning. And he could remember dark blue eyes. With those two visions tangling in his mind, he slept.

  ***

  The floor of the lobby was marble. White marble veined with pink. Madge had commented that it would be the devil to keep clean. Her husband had dryly commented that she wouldn’t know one end of the mop from the other. Asher sat, listening to their comfortable banter while she told herself she wasn’t nervous. It was six fifty.

  She’d dressed carefully, choosing a simple crêpe de Chine as pale as the inside of a peach. Her hair fluffed back from her face, exposing the tiny pearl and coral drops at her ears. Her ringless fingers were interlaced.

  “Where are you eating?”

  Asher brought her attention back to Madge. “A little place on the Left Bank.” There was an enthusiastic violinist, she remembered. Ty had once passed him twenty American dollars and cheerfully told him to get lost.

  At the bellow of thunder Madge glanced toward the lobby doors. “You’re going to play hell getting a cab tonight.” She leaned back. “Have you seen Ty since the match?”

  “No.”

  “Chuck said both he and Michael were sleeping on the tables like babies.” A chuckle escaped as she crossed strong, short legs. “Some industrious stringer for a French paper got a couple of classic shots.”

  “Athletes in repose,” her husband mused.

  “It kind of blows the tough-guy image.”

  Asher smiled, thinking how young and vulnerable Ty looked in his sleep. When the lids closed over those dramatic eyes, he reminded her of an exhausted little boy. It was the only time the frenetic energy stilled. Something stirred in her. If the child had lived . . . Hurriedly she censored the thought.

  “Hey, isn’t that Ty’s sister?”

  Asher turned her head to see Jess and Mac crossing the lobby. “Yes.” Their eyes met, leaving no choice. Gripping her husband’s hand, Jess walked across the white marble.

  “Hello, Asher.”

  “Jess.”

  A quick moistening of lips betrayed nerves. “I don’t think you know my husband. Mackenzie Derick, Lady Wickerton.”

  “Asher Wolfe,” she replied smoothly, taking Mac’s hand. “Are you related to Martin?”

  “My uncle,” Mac informed her. “Do you know him?”

  The smile brought warmth to her eyes. “Very well.” She made the rest of the introductions with a natural poise Mac approved of. Cool, yes, he mused, remembering his wife’s description. But with an underlying vibrancy perhaps a man would discern more quickly than another woman. He began to wonder if Jess’s opinion of Ty’s feelings was accurate.

  “Are you a tennis fan, Mr. Derick?” Asher asked him.

  “Mac,” he supplied. “Only by marriage. And no, I don’t play, much to Uncle Martin’s disgust.”

  Asher laughed, appreciating the humor in his eyes. A strong man, she thought instantly. His own man. He wouldn’t take second place to Ty in his wife’s life. “Martin should be satisfied having cultivated one champion.” Her eyes drifted to Jess, who was sitting straight and tense beside Madge. “Is your mother well?”

  “Yes, yes, Mom’s fine.” Though she met the cool, clear gaze, her fingers began to pleat the material of her skirt. “She’s at home with Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “Our son.”

  Asher’s throat constricted. Mac noticed with some surprise that her knuckles whitened briefly on the arm of her chair. “I didn’t know you’d had a baby. Ada must be thrilled to have a grandchild.” The pressure on her heart was unbearable. Her smile was casual. “How old is he?” she made herself ask.

  “Fourteen months.” As the tension built in one woman, it flowed out of the other. Jess was already reaching into her purse for her wallet. “I swear he never walked, he started out running. Mom says he’s like Ty. He has his coloring too.” She was offering a picture. Asher had no choice but to accept it.

  There was some of his father in him—the shape of the face. But the Starbuck genes were strong. The baby’s hair was dark and thick, like his mother’s. Like Ty’s. The eyes were large and gray. Asher wondered if she could actually feel the air of perpetual motion around the child, or if she imagined it. Another baby would have had dark hair and gray eyes. Hadn’t she pictured the face countless times?

  “He’s beautiful,” she heard herself say in a calm voice. “You must be very proud of him.” When she handed the snapshot back her hands were perfectly steady.

  “Jess thinks he should wait until he’s twelve before he runs for president.”

  Asher smiled, but this time Mac didn’t find the reflected warmth in her eyes. “Has Ty bought him a racket yet?”

  “You know him very well,” Mac observed.

  “Yes.” She looked back at Jess steadily. “Tennis and his family come first, always.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Madge put in with a sigh, “but I can remember a dozen years ago when this one was a skinny teenager, chewing her fingernails at every one of Ty’s matches. Now you’re a mother.”

  Jess grinned, holding out her hands for inspection. “And I still bite my nails at Ty’s matches.”

  It was Asher who saw him first. But then, her senses were tuned for him. Ty stepped off the elevator dressed in slim black slacks and a smoke-gray shirt. He wouldn’t have chosen the shirt because it matched his eyes so perfectly. Asher knew he wore it because it would have been the first thing his hand had grabbed from the closet. H
e wore clothes with the casual style of one who gave no thought to them and still looked marvelous. A disciplined body and trained grace made it inevitable. His hair had been combed, but defied order. He paused briefly, even in stillness communicating motion. Asher’s heartbeat was a dull, quick thud.

  “Oh, there’s Ty!” Jess sprang up, hurrying across the lobby to meet him. “I didn’t get to congratulate you. You were absolutely wonderful.”

  Though his arm slipped around her, Jess saw that his eyes had drifted over her head. Without turning, she knew whom they focused on.

  Asher didn’t see, nor did she speak.

  “Well, Starbuck, you earned your pay today,” Madge commented. “The Dean and I are going to the Lido to hold Michael’s hand.”

  “Tell him I lost three pounds on the court today.” He spoke to her, lightly enough, but his eyes never left Asher’s.

  “I don’t think that’s going to make him feel a hell of a lot better,” she returned, giving her husband a nudge as she rose. “Well, we’re off to fight for a taxi. Anyone going our way?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mac began, picking up the hint easily, “Jess and I were on our way out too.”

  “Want a lift, Ty?” Madge’s husband gave her an offended look as she ground her heel into his foot. But he shut his mouth firmly when Madge shot him a deadly glance.

  Even to a man who rarely comprehended subtleties, it became obvious there were things being said without words. The little group had simply ceased to exist for Ty and Asher. After a hard look at the silent couple The Dean straightened his glasses and grinned at his wife.

  “I guess not, huh?”

  “You’re so quick, babe.” Madge began shepherding the rest toward the doors. “Anyone know some French obscenities? It’s the best way to get a cab in the rain.”

  Asher rose slowly. From behind her she could hear the ding of a bell on the desk and the whoosh of the storm as the doors were opened then quickly closed. For a moment Ty thought she looked like something that should be enclosed in glass. Not to be touched, not to be soiled. She reached out her hand.

  When he took it, it was warm. Flesh and blood.

  In unspoken agreement they turned away from the doors and walked to the elevator.

  Chapter 6

  They didn’t speak, but then they didn’t need to. With one hand still holding hers, Ty pushed the button for his floor. The elevator began its silent rise. Once, the hand in his trembled lightly. He found it unbearably exciting. The numbers above their heads flashed ponderously until at last the car stopped. When the doors slid open they stepped into the carpeted hall together.

  Asher heard the key jingle against loose change as Ty reached into his pocket. She heard the click of the lock before he released her hand. The choice was still hers. She stepped out of the light into the dimness of the room.

  It smelled of him. That was her first thought. The air carried Ty’s lingering fragrance. Something sharp, something vital. Something she had never forgotten. All at once her nerves began to jump. The poise that had carried her this far fell away. Searching for something to say, she wandered the room. It was untidy, with a shirt thrown here, shoes tossed there. She knew if she opened the closet, she would find a neat stack of rackets, the only semblance of order. Instead, she moved to the window. Rain ran like tears down the glass.

  “It’s going to storm all night.”

  As if to accent her words, lightning split the sky. Asher counted to five then heard the thunder answer. Hundreds of lights spread through the darkness. The city was there, crowded, moving—distant. Staring through the wet glass, she waited for Ty to speak.

  Silence. The patter of rain on the window. The distant hum of traffic. Another moan of thunder. Unable to bear it, Asher turned.

  He was watching her. The small bedside lamp threw both light and shadow into the room. His stance was neither relaxed nor threatening, and she understood. He had given her a choice before she entered. Now he wouldn’t let her go. A bridge had been burned. Asher felt nothing but relief that the decision was already made. But her fingers were numb as she reached to loosen the thin belt at her waist.

  Crossing to her, Ty laid his hands over hers, stopping the movement. Asher stared up at him, unsure, as nervous as the first time. Without speaking he took her face in his hands to study her. He wanted to remember her this way—in shadowed light with the fury of a storm at her back. Her eyes were dark with traces of fear, traces of desire. In a gesture of surrender her arms had dropped to her sides. But he didn’t want surrender—perhaps she had forgotten.

  As he lowered his head Ty watched her lids shut, her lips part in anticipation. Gently he kissed her temple, then the other, then the delicate curve of an eyebrow. Without haste, his eyes closed. He reacquainted himself with her face through taste and touch. Her lips beckoned, but he nibbled along the line of her jaw, on the hollow of her cheek.

  His thumb brushed her bottom lip as he whispered kisses over her face. He remembered every curve. Her breath shuddered out as he kissed the corners of her mouth. He brushed his over it, retreating when Asher sought more pressure. There was only the fleeting promise of more. With a moan she gripped his forearms. He’d waited for the strength. He’d waited for the demands. Again he touched his lips to hers, allowing his tongue a brief taste. Now her arms wrapped possessively around him. Now passion exploded, mouth against mouth. Lightning flashed, illuminating them as one form in the ageless wonder of lovers.

  “Undress me,” she whispered breathlessly, hardly able to speak as her lips fused again and again with his. “I want you to undress me.”

  In answer, he lowered the zipper slowly, allowing his fingers to trail along her bare skin. He found more silk, something thin and fragile. The dress slithered down her body to lay at her feet. Growing impatient, Asher worked her hands between them to deal with the buttons of his shirt while her mouth continued to cling to his. She felt the hard muscle, the line of ribs, the mat of hair. A moan wrenched from her out of deep, desperate need.

  The thigh-length chemise was too much of a barrier. Longing for the intimacy of flesh against flesh, Asher reached to draw down the strap. Again Ty stopped her.

  “Don’t rush,” he murmured, then tore at her control with a deep, lingering kiss. The pressure was hard and demanding, the lips soft and heated. “Come to bed.”

  In a haze she let him lead her, felt the mattress give under her weight, then his. Anticipation shivered along her skin. “The light,” she whispered.

  As he circled her throat with his hand, Ty’s eyes met hers. “I need to see you.” Thunder exploded as his mouth crushed down on hers.

  When she would have hurried, he set the pace. Languorous, sleepy, enervating. It seemed her lips alone would pleasure him enough for a lifetime. She was so soft, so moist. Far from pliant, Asher moved against him, inviting, insisting. Her urgency excited him, but Ty chose to savor. Over the silk his hands roamed to trace her shape from thigh to breast. The peaks strained against the sheer material.

  He took his mouth to her shoulder, catching the narrow strap of silk with his teeth. Inch by inch he lowered it until her flesh was exposed to him. She was firm and creamy-white in contrast to the tan of her arms and shoulders.

  “So lovely,” he whispered while his fingertip brought down the second strap.

  When she was naked to the waist, his mouth ranged down slowly, though with her hands in his hair she urged him down. With lips parted, Ty sought the peak of her breast. Asher arched, pressing him down. She wanted him to be greedy, wanted to feel the rough scrape of his tongue. When she did she could no longer be still. Her body vibrated with the beat of a hundred tiny pulses. Desire, raw and primitive, tore through her with the power to obliterate all but one thought. She was woman; he was man. Seeking pleasure, Asher moved under him, letting her hands roam.

  He abandoned gentleness because she wanted none. It had always driven him wild when her passion was unleashed. She had no inhibitions, no shame. When
they came together like this she was all fire, and as dangerous as the lightning in the night sky. Ty wasn’t even aware of his control slipping away. Hard-palmed hands ran bruisingly over tender skin. Short, manicured nails dug into strong shoulders.

  His breathing was ragged when he tore the garment from her. She gave him no time to view her nakedness. Her fingers were busy, struggling to remove the last barrier of his clothing. Their frantic movements took them over the bed, tangling in the sheets. Her skin was damp and trembling, but her hands were so strong, and so certain. There could be no more waiting.

  A pain stabbed into him as he entered her. It was sharp, then sweet. He thought he heard her cry out as she had that first night when he had taken her innocence. Then she was wrapped around him—legs, arms. Her mouth fastened on his. The storm crashed directly overhead. They rose with it.

  ***

  His hand lay lightly on her breast. Asher sighed. Had she ever known such pure contentment? she wondered. No, not even when they had been together before. Then she hadn’t known what it would be like to do without him. She shuddered then moved closer.

  “Cold?” Ty drew her to him until her head rested on the curve