Invincible

by Joan Johnston

  “That’s great!” Steffan said.

  “We’ll catch up with you two tonight,” Max said. “I need to do some strategizing with my partner this afternoon.”

  Kristin watched as Elena and Steffan left the court. When they were out of earshot, she turned to Max, arched a brow and said, “Strategizing?”

  He checked out the empty tennis courts around them, then said, “We have work to do, Princess.”

  “I don’t think strategy is going to help,” she said. “The pro game is faster than it was when I left. Me playing an exhibition match was a bad idea.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” Max said.

  That stung. Kristin bristled, but before she could form a retort Max added insult to injury. “I was against this whole idea when it was suggested to me.”

  “Do you think I want to be here?” she shot back. “I’ll be happy to plead an injury and go home.” Except that wasn’t really an option, was it? Not when she was in such deep financial trouble. To win the rubies, she had to stay here and play the match.

  “The point is, we needed a female agent who’s conducted investigations in the past and who can also play world-class tennis. Someone whose presence here at Wimbledon—and in the women’s locker room—wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Your background was too perfect to pass up.”

  “I’m here,” she said. “But in case you didn’t know, I gave up my badge and my gun before I left the States. How am I supposed to help without them?”

  “You couldn’t use the gun here in England anyway, and you aren’t going to need to flash your badge.”

  “Mind explaining how that works?”

  “It’s pretty simple, really. I’m here—we’re here—at Wimbledon to evaluate whether the threat to the president might be coming from someone involved in tennis. That is, a player, a coach or someone in a player’s family. Those folks will all sit in the family box at Flushing Meadows, near where the president sits to watch the final matches. Any player who’s willing to sacrifice himself is also in a position to make an attack on the president from the court during the match.”

  “Why didn’t my FBI boss simply assign me to this job in the first place? Why jump through these crazy hoops?”

  “If an FBI agent started sniffing around, whoever we’re looking for might close up shop until the heat is gone. The tennis exhibition gives you cover.”

  “Exactly what is it you expect me to do?” she asked.

  “Most likely, the assassin is a male, but I want you to listen for chatter in the women’s locker room.”

  “I suppose you’ll be listening in the men’s locker room.”

  He nodded. “I also plan to date as many of the female players as I can. That won’t work with the gay players. You’re going to have to befriend them and find out what you can.”

  “What makes you think all these women will go out with you?” Kristin said sharply. She realized she was jealous. And was furious with herself for giving a damn.

  He grinned. “I’m good-looking. I’m rich. I’m also the uncatchable catch. I should be able to wrangle at least a first date with the straight unmarried players. That’s all I’ll really need.”

  “You think someone helping to plot an assassination is going to blurt out her guilt on a date?”

  His features hardened and she saw a man she didn’t recognize. A man who could be a covert operative.

  “I know what questions to ask,” he said. “I know when someone’s lying to me. I have resources that I can call on to find out more about a player if I think he or she’s suspicious. Our job isn’t to catch the assassin. It’s to report our findings to the CIA—and the FBI—so they can take action.”

  “Then wouldn’t it make sense if I date the male players?” she said.

  “I didn’t suggest it because I thought it would be awkward for you.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You’d have to fend off a lot of oversexed males.”

  Kristin laughed. “You don’t think I can do that?”

  “I don’t think you should have to do it,” he said flatly.

  That sounded distinctly like Max was jealous. “I think I can handle a bunch of tennis jocks. I don’t intend to let them get me alone in the dark. I’ve come a long way since you seduced me, Max.”

  He eyed her askance. “I don’t remember seducing you, Princess. I remember the two of us deciding we wanted to make love.”

  Max was shoving her into deep water. She quickly paddled her way back out. “Let’s leave the past where it belongs. In the past.”

  “Fine by me,” he snapped. “We’re going to have to meet somewhere to exchange information. Where are you staying?”

  “Park Plaza Victoria.” The duchess had insisted on paying for a room in the four-star hotel near Victoria Station, so Kristin could easily catch the train to Blackthorne Abbey. She waited for Max to ask her why she was staying so far from Wimbledon, but he didn’t.

  “It’ll be easier—more private—to meet at my flat.”

  “Where is that?” she asked.

  He gave an upscale address near Regent’s Park. “The fact we’re playing this exhibition match gives us good cover to get together until we actually play the match on opening day. People on the tour know we were friends. That should be sufficient for us to spend time together. If worse comes to worst, we can always fake a romantic relationship.”

  “Like you did last time?” she blurted.

  The barb apparently hit home, because he shot back, “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the good of the nation. Don’t push me, K.”

  She didn’t apologize, although the urge was there. “Do you have anyone in particular you suspect? Is there somewhere I should start?”

  “Let’s start with Steffan and Elena.”

  Kristin’s brows rose in surprise. “You suspect one of them? Or both of them?”

  “Neither of them,” he said. “But we can’t afford to leave any stone unturned. Steffan’s always had a crush on you. It should be easy to get him to talk.”

  “I never knew that.”

  He shrugged. “We were best friends. He knew I liked you, so he kept his distance.” He liked her. Had he ever loved her? “I’m pretty sure Elena had a crush on you.”

  He winced. “I’m going to be walking a fine line with her. She’s made her interest known in the past.”

  Yeah. I saw the two of you kissing the morning after you made love to me. She had her tongue halfway down your throat. You weren’t fighting too hard to get free.

  He shrugged and said, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shot her a grin and said, “I’m willing to kiss a few beautiful women in the service of my country.”

  Kristin growled low in her throat. Just let that hussy try to kiss Max tonight. She’d find an excuse to lay her out cold. Thanks to her FBI training, she knew exactly how to do it.

  “See you tonight,” Max said as he sauntered away.

  Kristin felt unsettled. And frustrated. And unhappy. I still want him. I still care. But I’ll be damned if I ever let him get close enough to hurt me again.

  12

  Max didn’t like the way Steffan was looking at Kristin. Like he was a wolf and she was raw red meat. Kristin had been drinking champagne since the four of them—he, Elena, Kristin and Steffan—had arrived at the Black Kitty Kat, a popular hangout for pros playing at Wimbledon. Steffan and Kristin were huddled together on a red leather couch in a dark corner. Hell, she was practically sitting in his lap. Max expected Steffan to make his move any minute. He wondered how Kristin would react.

  Max knew his friend the tennis pro had worked his way through a lot of beautiful women—models and actresses, waitresses and schoolteachers. But he couldn’t very well warn him away from Kristin without looking ridiculous.

  After all, he and Kristin weren’t involved romantically. His chance with her had come and gon
e. They were merely friends. Or had been friends. He wasn’t sure they were even that now, just colleagues on a job together. But didn’t partners look out for each other?

  He wished he knew more about the Kristin he’d met this afternoon. Her figure hadn’t changed much, but she was a woman now, not a sixteen-year-old girl. Her long, golden-blond curls were no longer in a flyaway ponytail but constrained in a tight bun at her nape. Enticing tendrils had escaped, suggesting that all he had to do was pull a few bobby pins free and the old, happy-go-lucky Kristin would escape along with her curls.

  He remembered too well what she looked like under the tennis dress she’d been wearing on the court today, which left little to the imagination. She had a scar on her abdomen, where she’d had her appendix removed. Otherwise, her body was flawless. Her bosom was small, but a handful was plenty for him. And she was, by God, all legs. He would never forget having them wrapped around him.

  At eighteen, sex was fun, a joyful experience he’d wanted to share with his best friend. The future never entered his mind. He’d never considered the possible consequences of taking their relationship from friends to lovers. He tried to remember now why he’d pushed her to have sex with him. Before that night, their relationship had consisted of simply hanging out and enjoying each other’s company—except for that one, brief, enticing look at her naked body.

  When she’d let that robe fall and he’d realized how beautiful she was, he’d wanted to make love to her then and there. The opportunity to take things further had been thwarted by her father’s appearance. Later, she’d pretended like it had never happened. So despite how much he might have wanted to touch, he’d kept his hands off her.

  But her beauty—and his desire—wasn’t why he’d spent so much time with her. It was because K was the one person with whom he could let down his guard. She’d seen him in tears. She’d seen him raging after he’d lost a match. She’d seen him euphoric after he’d won and celebrated his victory with a night of great sex with another woman.

  K never judged him. She was simply there for him. She’d been a solid sounding board for nearly three years, despite her youth.

  When had he decided their relationship should include sex? He tried to remember what had happened to provoke such a decision. Had some other woman rejected him? He shook his head. He’d been shot down plenty of times before that night and never needed to find succor in K’s body. Ah. That word, succor, was a clue.

  Relief. From what had he needed relief?

  Why hadn’t he wondered sooner about this? Probably because he’d never needed to explain his behavior to the one person to whom it would have mattered. It had been enough to know he’d screwed everything up.

  He’d never asked Kristin why she’d bolted after the night they’d spent together. He’d felt hurt and humiliated. He’d come up with a thousand reasons why she’d walked away. He’d finally decided she simply regretted what they’d done.

  Had he pushed her into having sex before she was ready? Maybe. A little. But she’d been willing. And eager. Until he’d hurt her.

  He’d been surprisingly clumsy. He’d made love often enough to know that a woman needed more time to be ready for sex than a man. But he’d wanted her so badly, he’d rushed things. He hadn’t known she was a virgin. He’d been taken off guard because he’d never encountered one before. She’d cried out in pain when he’d broached her. He remembered kissing the salty tears off her cheeks.

  The timing had been terrible, too, because she had to play in the Girls’ Singles Championship match at Wimbledon the next morning. Afterward, she’d asked him to leave her hotel room so she could get a decent night’s sleep.

  He’d walked out the door, never dreaming he wouldn’t see her again for ten years. He’d tried to talk with her after she’d lost the championship match, but she’d avoided him like he was the British press. She’d left the country the same afternoon.

  Maybe, if he’d been able to talk to her, he would have explained what had made him want to be closer to her than mere friendship allowed. Maybe, if he’d been able to talk to her, he would have told her the secret he’d discovered about his mother that had left him bewildered and afraid.

  He’d pursued Kristin relentlessly after she’d left London. He’d wanted his best friend—and lover—back. She’d refused his calls. She hadn’t answered his emails. He’d even flown to Miami to see her. Harry had met him at the door and told him to go away and stay away. Kristin didn’t want to see him.

  So he’d given up. He didn’t need to be kicked in the balls more than once to learn his lesson. And he’d kept his secret to himself.

  Max wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he agreed to work with K on this job. That they’d be friends again, he supposed. And friends didn’t let friends get seduced against their wills. In his experience, tipsy women rarely made intelligent decisions.

  Don’t make the mistake of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, a voice in his head warned. Maybe she wants to be seduced. Or maybe it’s all an act, and she’s pretending to be into Steffan to get whatever information she can from him.

  Despite the shooting incidents—the second one coming a few days after Max had met with her—her boss had sworn Kristin was one of the best investigators he’d ever seen. Max already knew she was smart. Apparently she was also intuitive. So maybe he should leave well enough alone.

  To be honest, he and Elena had been huddled as close, or closer to each other, at the mirrored bar, except they were on separate bar stools. Despite how things might look, he wasn’t going to be spending the night with the female athlete. Not that she wasn’t interested. He was the one who’d backed off.

  Elena hadn’t offered him much information about herself. Not that he’d asked her a whole lot of questions. To be honest, he’d gotten distracted watching Kristin.

  Max jerked when Elena whispered in his ear, “If you want her, Max, go get her.”

  He pulled away and said, “It isn’t like that between us.”

  Elena lifted a dark brow. “What is it like?”

  He thrust a hand through his dark hair, shoving it off his forehead. “We’re just friends.”

  “Friends?” Elena said, cocking her head to eye him more closely.

  “Friends,” Max repeated firmly. He’d been so busy keeping an eye on Kristin, he realized he’d forgotten entirely about Veronica. “I’ve been dating a reporter for the Times. For a couple of weeks, anyway.”

  Elena shot him a grin. “Isn’t that about your limit?”

  “Just about,” Max replied in an effort to confirm his love-’em-and-leave-’em playboy image.

  “If she’s the flavor of the week, why isn’t she here with you?” Elena said.

  “She’s on assignment in the United Arab Emirates.”

  Elena’s eyes went wide. “She’s a political reporter?”

  Max chuckled. “Hardly. She’s doing a feature on arranged marriages. She’s been traveling a lot, to India, Pakistan and Africa, among other places, doing research.”

  “I’ll choose my own spouse, thank you very much,” Elena said. “If I ever decide to get married, that is. How about you? A reporter for the Times doesn’t sound like your usual date. How serious are things between you? Will you invite me to the wedding?”

  “Don’t marry me off just yet. Veronica and I barely know one another.”

  “But you like her.”

  He took a swallow of Scotch before he said, “She’s nice.”

  “So why can’t you take your eyes off Kristin?”

  He smirked to hide his uneasiness at her question. He couldn’t deny he’d been watching her. Nor could he explain that they were partners in an investigation. He was beginning to feel like an idiot for suggesting that the two of them should date their way through the tennis world in search of an assassin.

  “I guess I know how disposable women are to Steffan,” he said at last. “I don’t want K to get hurt.”

  Max was looking at
Kristin as he spoke, so he was watching when Steffan made his move. He held his breath as the tanned athlete leaned in to kiss her.

  Kristin accidentally—on purpose?—spilled her champagne on his silk shirt. She made a moue of distress and brushed at the stain with her free hand, accidentally spilling more champagne on his lap.

  Steffan held his moss-green shirt out, shaking it off, then reached for a paper napkin and dabbed at his black slacks. He was obviously now more worried about the condition of his silk shirt and trousers than his seduction of Kristin.

  “She looks like she can handle herself,” Elena said with a laugh. She focused her dark eyes on him and said, “I’m more concerned about you.”

  Max frowned. “Concerned? Why is that?”

  “I don’t think you’re over her.”

  The lines on Max’s forehead deepened. “It’s been ten years, Elena. Whatever might have been possible between us is a lost cause now.”

  “I wonder…” Her eyes narrowed as she perused his face. “How about if we do an experiment?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “This,” she said.

  Max didn’t react quickly enough, and her lips were on his before he could turn away. Her kiss brought to mind the last time she’d kissed him, on her way to the Girls’ Singles Championship match at Wimbledon.

  “A kiss for luck,” she’d begged.

  He’d laughed and said, “I don’t know what kind of luck you think I can bring, but sure.”

  In the few moments Max had been musing, she’d deepened the kiss at the bar. He put a gentle hand on her cheek and pulled away. “That was nice, Elena, but—”

  She looked him right in the eye and said, “But you’re in love with another woman.”

  He wondered if she meant Veronica. Or Kristin. He wasn’t yet in love with Veronica. And he’d long since gotten over Kristin. He changed the subject by asking, “How’s your father?”

  Elena’s father, Anton, had been her coach until she turned eighteen, at which point she’d fired him. It turned out he was almost as crazy as he was clever. He’d gone on to coach other top-ranked women players, so he was usually around when his daughter played.