He rose, towering six inches over her head, a dark avenging angel with broad, muscular shoulders and powerful arms. But physical strength wasn’t his only—or even his greatest—advantage. “Whatever you do, it won’t be enough, K. I have more money, more time, more resources.”
“I’m her mother!”
“And I’m her father.”
“What do you want, Max?”
“Marry me, K.”
“You’re not a good bet, Max,” she said bluntly.
“Maybe I wasn’t in the past. I can change.”
“Not fast enough,” she said even more brusquely.
“We’re good together, K. Admit it.”
He saw she didn’t want to. At last she said, “Yes, we’re good together. In bed—”
“And out,” he finished for her.
“I think I could love you,” she continued inexorably.
The words were a balm to his heart, but when he took a step toward her, she held out a flattened hand to keep him at bay. Tears were streaming down her face, but her eyes looked fierce and her jaw was clenched.
“This isn’t just about us, Max,” she said ruthlessly. “Not anymore.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She was going to give him up to save her—their—daughter from him. “I can be a good father to Flick,” he argued.
“You think being a father is wielding a baseball bat at one of the bad guys. You think it’s taking a child on a horseback ride. You think it’s buying her clothes—”
“It is all those things,” Max protested.
“It’s also holding a sick child’s head while she vomits in the toilet, or cleaning vomit off the carpet, when she doesn’t make it to the bathroom. It’s listening to her whine when she’s tired and having the fortitude to send her away to boarding school when it’s the best thing for her.”
“How is boarding school the best thing for Flick?” he asked angrily. “How is being away from her mother for months at a time best for our daughter?”
“I had to work to support us. A lot of times it meant being away nights and weekends. My father was busy eighteen hours a day with his tennis academy. Flick was left alone with babysitters and housekeepers. I got off work so late the only interaction I had with Flick was to kiss her forehead after she was sound asleep.”
“So quit.”
She glared at him. “You haven’t heard a word I said. I have bills to pay! I need my job! I can’t be home for Flick. At least at boarding school she gets to spend her days and nights with girls her own age. Girls in her same situation. When she comes home on holiday, I take my vacation days and spend every minute with her.”
“Quality time?” he said sarcastically.
“Make fun of me if you will,” she said. “It’s worked for us. I’m not saying the situation is perfect. But you can see Flick is happy and well-adjusted. I did the best I could.”
“I can do better,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I can arrange to be there when Flick comes home for dinner every night.”
“Can you?” she demanded. “Are you willing to give up a challenging and rewarding job? Willing to give up traveling the world, at least during the school year? What, exactly, are you planning to do during the day while your daughter is away at school? The dishes? I doubt it!” she snapped.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? As time goes by, and Flick goes off to college, where will you be? Home, without a life of your own, that’s where!”
Max had to admit she was asking questions he’d never had to consider. Raising issues that had never crossed his mind. He was rich enough never to have needed to work. He’d done a great deal of gambling and sailing and playing polo and riding around in flashy cars with fast women in his teens and early twenties. He’d quickly gotten bored. He’d wanted to lead a life that mattered.
The CIA had been delighted to have him. He’d worked for his country for the past four years—and done some good, he thought. The undercover investigation he was involved in right now might save the president of the United States from being assassinated. If he did quit, what would he do with his life?
Being a parent was a big job, but Kristin was right. The job changed dramatically when Flick turned eighteen and left home for college and began to lead her own life.
That was only nine years from now.
He was reminded again of how much of his daughter’s life he’d missed. And more determined than ever not to miss another minute of it.
“What if we just live together, without being married?”
“Live together where?” she asked. “Miami?”
“You don’t have to work, K. You can come to London and—”
“My life needs purpose, too,” she said simply. “I work for the FBI. In the United States.”
“Maybe not for much longer,” he couldn’t help pointing out.
She paled. “Maybe not. But until I’m forced to quit, I’m not going to quit.”
“I can support you.”
“Yes, but will you? What happens if you get bored with us, Max? What happens if another woman catches your fancy?”
“We can write a contract—”
“That your lawyers can fight in court,” she pointed out.
“I can put money in a bank account for you and Flick.”
“If we have your money, why do we need you?”
Max had never felt so frustrated. “Is that all you think I have to offer? Financial security?”
“It’s the only thing I’d be willing to count on you providing.”
“You can trust me, K.”
“Based on what?”
“Give me a chance, K. Please.” He couldn’t believe he was begging.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Max. I can’t take the risk.”
“You can’t keep me out of Flick’s life.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Max. You’ll get an assignment from the CIA that takes you to Argentina or Morocco or Belarus, and we won’t see you again. Until then, the less you see of Flick, the better. I don’t want her to spend her life waiting and hoping that you’ll come back someday.”
“That’s not fair, K,” he said quietly. “You were the one who shut me out of your life.”
She pressed her palms against her damp eyes. “Point taken.”
There was no sense arguing anymore. They weren’t going to agree. Instead he said, “I’d like to play tennis tomorrow with Flick.”
She opened her mouth to deny him, he was sure, but changed her mind. “All right. What time?”
“No objection?”
“I’m sure Flick will enjoy it.”
“How about ten?”
“Fine.”
“Will you come with us?” he asked.
“You and Flick on opposite sides of a tennis court? I wouldn’t miss it,” she said with a Cheshire grin.
“Why is that?”
“I expect to see your daughter kick your ass.”
28
Max couldn’t believe his nine-year-old daughter was handing his ass to him on the tennis court. He could see Kristin laughing behind her hand in the stands.
He should have paid more attention to the fact that Flick’s grandfather was one of the best coaches in tennis. And the fact that Flick herself was the daughter of two world-class tennis players. Which meant she’d been born with great eye-hand coordination and stunning reflexes.
“Forty-love, Dad,” Flick said, announcing the score.
She’d already won the first set six games to four. She was up five games to three in the second set. And she had three of the four points she needed to win the sixth game.
He was proud of his daughter but flabbergasted at how easily she was beating the pants off him. They’d only been playing an hour. He was about to lose the match.
When they’d arrived at the court, they’d spun a racquet to decide who served first. Flick had called “Up” and the W on her Wilson te
nnis racquet had been right-side-up when the racquet landed on the ground.
“I choose this side, Dad. That means you can serve first.”
Max realized he’d ended up on the side of the court that required him to look directly into the sun during his first service game. Nevertheless, he’d taken it easy on Flick. He didn’t want a hundred-and-twenty-mile-an-hour tennis ball to hit Flick and injure her.
She returned his half-baked serve short and at such a sharp angle that the ball was off the court before he could reach it to return it. She did it four times in a row. He lost the first game love-forty.
It was her turn next. They had to change sides of the court between the first and second game. Max figured Flick would have the sun in her eyes, too. Then he realized she played tennis left-handed. Which meant she would serve with the sun at her back. Clever girl!
While he waited for Flick’s first serve, Max wondered just how hard—how many miles-per-hour—a nine-year-old could hit a tennis ball. As it turned out, it didn’t matter how hard she hit the ball, because she could place her serve wherever she wanted it.
She hit her first serve directly at his body. He couldn’t get out of the way and returned the ball straight up in the air. She sent the second serve down the T in the middle and curving away. He never got a racquet on it. An ace.
She hit her third serve short and out wide. He got to that one and returned it crosscourt. She came in to the net and returned the ball down the line on the opposite side of the court. He couldn’t get across the court fast enough to reach it.
When Flick got ready to serve for the fourth time, Max glanced at Kristin and saw her beaming at their daughter. She grinned at him. Gloating. He was not going to lose a game forty-love to a nine-year-old.
Flick’s fourth serve was so short—barely over the net—that he never got to it before it died.
Flick shot her mother a grin and announced, “That’s game, Dad.”
He’d grabbed his towel and wiped his face to hide his chagrin.
Other than restricting the force of his serve, Max had played Flick as he would any other opponent. She’d shoved every serve right back down his throat and made her own serves impossible to return. He’d lost game after game after game.
Until he found himself in the spot he was in now. Which was to say, about to lose. He had one more chance to save this game. He bounced on his toes, then crouched down, ready to spring for the ball when it came at him.
Her serve went straight up the T. He never got a racquet on it. Another ace.
Flick came trotting to the net, her hand outstretched to shake his. “That’s game, set and match.”
Max dropped his racquet on the grass, reached over the net and caught his daughter under the arms and lifted her up into his embrace. “Brilliant game, Flick. You’re bloody marvelous!”
Her arms circled his neck, tennis racquet still in hand. She stuck her nose against his sweaty throat and whispered in his ear, “Don’t say bloody, Dad. It’s a bad word in England. It’ll make Mom mad.”
He laughed and swung her in a circle, making her giggle, and set her back on her feet. He caught her shoulders as he went down on one knee, so he could look into her sparkling blue eyes. “How the hell did you get so good?”
She grinned and looked back over her shoulder at her mother, who was making her way onto the court to join them. “I used to practice with the students at the Lassiter Tennis Academy. And with Mom, of course. And I played at school. After a while, no one wanted to play with me, though, because I beat them all.”
He was amazed she was so good, considering she’d been at boarding school since she was seven. And considering no one would play against her. He wondered why Kristin wasn’t nurturing her talent. That was something he could help with for sure.
“Would you like to play competitive tennis?” he asked Flick.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so, Dad.”
“Why not? You’re really good.”
“It wouldn’t be fun if it mattered whether or not I win.”
Kristin laid a hand on Flick’s shoulder and said, “You did great, sweetheart!”
“I beat Dad, Mom!”
“You sure did!” Kristin said.
“Of course, he didn’t serve hard, like Harry does,” Flick said.
“Your grandfather serves hard?” Max said.
Flick’s brow furrowed. “He used to. Before his stroke, I mean. Usually ninety or a hundred miles an hour. No more than that,” Flick said.
“To a kid?” Max said incredulously.
Flick shrugged. “Like you said, Dad. I’m good. Thanks to Gramps.”
Max laughed. There was no false modesty in his daughter.
Her young brow furrowed and she said, “I wonder who’s teaching all of Gramps’s students until he gets well.”
Max turned to Kristin and asked, “Do you have any idea who’s running your dad’s academy while he’s recuperating?”
“He has a few assistants keeping his classes going,” Kristin said. “That’s all I know.”
“Who’s going to take his place?” Max asked.
“As soon as Gramps is well, he’s going back to work,” Flick replied. “He told me so himself.”
Max exchanged a look with Kristin. “Have you heard about this?”
Kristin looked appalled. “I had no idea, Max. I can’t believe Harry thinks—” She cut herself off.
Max didn’t need Kristin to tell him Harry wasn’t going to be back on the tennis court—unless he was in a wheelchair—anytime soon. He also knew why she’d cut herself off. Apparently, Flick had no idea her grandfather might very well be spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair or a walker.
“Flick, why don’t you run ahead to the locker room,” Kristin said. “I need to talk to your dad.”
“Sure, Mom. I’m sorry I beat you, Dad. Promise you aren’t mad?”
“I’m not mad,” Max promised. “I loved that you beat me.”
“You won’t mind playing with me again?” Flick asked apprehensively.
“I look forward to playing with you anytime you like as often as you like,” he assured Flick.
The smile that appeared on her face made his heart leap.
She took off for the locker room at a run and shouted back over her shoulder, “I had a really good time, Dad! Thanks!”
As soon as Flick was out of earshot, Max said, “She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she is,” Kristin agreed.
“I had no idea she had so much talent. It’s too bad she doesn’t want to compete.”
“You know what life on the tour is like, Max. All those weeks on the road, living in motel rooms, sitting on airplanes, the friction and competition between players. Would you really want her to live like that?”
“I guess not.” He toweled off his face and the back of his neck. “Speaking of living lives of quiet desperation—”
“Is that what we did all those years ago?” she interrupted with a rueful smile.
He continued as though she hadn’t interrupted. “Maybe you should have a conversation with Harry the next time you see him about what he wants to do with his academy. He’s living in fantasyland if he thinks he’s going to be on the court anytime soon. Unless he plans to show up in a wheelchair.”
“I don’t want to discourage him, Max, by forcing him to acknowledge that his career may be over. He’s having enough trouble dealing with his condition as it is.”
“How about a reality check?”
She looked pained. “I just can’t. I think the hope of getting back on his feet is all that’s keeping him going. As of this morning he’s agreed to go to speech therapy, and I want to encourage him as much as I can to do as much as he can. Flick and I are going to see him later this afternoon.”
He smiled. “So your threat worked?”
She nodded. “I never thanked you for your support yesterday, getting Harry to agree to therapy. I appreciated it.”
“So
I’m good for something,” Max said.
“Something,” she agreed.
Max recovered his tennis racquet from the ground and stuffed it in his tennis bag. “How about going out with me tonight?”
“All right.”
“Where would you like to go?” he asked.
She smiled and said, “You’re the one who asked me out. What did you have in mind?”
He laughed and admitted, “I didn’t expect you to say yes.”
Her smile disappeared. “I thought we could talk some more about…everything.”
He started to say “I’d rather not” but bit his tongue. The more time he spent with Kristin, the more time he had to convince her he was a man worthy of her trust. And her love.
“Sure,” he said at last. “We can leave the house around eight. I want to say goodnight to Flick before we go.”
“Flick would like that,” she said.
“Maybe tonight she’ll let me check the closets and the windows and under the bed for her,” he said.
“After the solid trouncing she gave you this morning, I think that’s the least she can do,” Kristin said with a laugh. “I’m going to go check on Flick in the locker room.”
Max watched her walk away. He realized there was a whole day ahead of him that they were going to spend apart, unless he did something about it. “Hey, Princess, wait up,” he called out.
Kristin paused and turned to wait for him.
He wondered at the tension he saw in her shoulders and the worry he saw in her eyes. What was it she feared? He was no threat to her. Except maybe to her peace of mind. But he couldn’t walk away. Not if he wanted a life with her and their child.
He put a smile on his face and asked, “What are you and Flick doing for lunch?”
29
Bella was sitting up in bed with several pillows stacked behind her, engrossed in a Stephen King novel Flick had recommended to her, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, when a soft tap came at the door. “Who is it?” she called.
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