But that didn’t stop her from mourning that untaken path every single day.
“Excuse me,” chimed a voice from behind her. “Can I have your autograph?”
Dammit. Regan swiped at her eyes, pushing her mouth into a smile. There were so many professional tennis players and golfers living in this area that usually the fans left well enough alone, but she knew it never paid to be rude to her supporters. One autograph in a supermarket could lead to the purchase of one of her signature girls’ rackets, three T-shirts printed by one of her sponsors, or the limited edition Hunter ladies’ watch as a Mother’s Day gift...
Her hard-won smile vanished as soon as she turned around. “Oh, it’s you.”
Ben’s grin faltered right along with hers. “What’s wrong? I didn’t startle you, did I?”
“Nothing.” Regan sniffed, blinking hard to dispatch the last few wet traces from her lashes. “Allergies.”
“It occurred to me about two seconds too late that you might have a creepy stalker or something. I was bracing myself for the pepper spray.”
“Nope, never had a stalker. I hear they’re all the rage, though. Maybe I’ll hold auditions. Did you ever have one?”
The smile was back on his face. “I was nowhere near famous enough, plus it was long before stalkers were in vogue.”
For the first time, Regan took in the bike helmet in his plastic grocery basket, the padded fingerless gloves unraveling over his knuckles and the black spandex shorts that left little to the imagination. His rock-hard thighs bulged beneath the taut hems. Despite herself, she licked her lips.
“Nice getup, but you know the Tour de France is timed, right? You’re supposed to beat your competitors across the finish line, not stop off to pick up some orange juice.”
“No wonder I keep coming in last.” He shifted his basket to the other hand, his posture relaxed. “Cycling saves on petrol, plus I hate shopping so the promise of an evening ride is the only thing that can motivate me to face the grocery store. What’s your closing-time shopping excuse? Rosie told me the nutritionist gives her a list and then she buys everything you need.”
She arched a brow at the mention of her housekeeper. “When did you talk to Rosie?”
“In between our morning and afternoon sessions. She made me a sandwich. Two sandwiches, actually. And she sent me home with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Apparently you’re not allowed to eat them on the current diet regime.”
Regan wasn’t sure which was more infuriating—the image of Ben loitering in her kitchen, effortlessly charming her beloved housekeeper, or the revelation that her stupid sports nutritionist had apparently told Rosie that her favorite cheat treats were verboten.
“I’m going to fire that woman so fast her head will spin.”
Ben raised his palm in alarm. “She was just being nice because I hadn’t brought lunch. It was my fault, I was mooching.”
She gaped at him for a second before comprehension bubbled into a surprised giggle. “Not Rosie—the nutritionist. Someone recommended her to me, but if she’s taking Rosie’s cookies off the menu she can’t possibly know what she’s doing. The sheer joy I get from eating one of those is worth ten wheatgrass smoothies.”
“They are tasty,” he agreed, visibly relieved that he hadn’t cost her big-bosomed, endlessly maternal housekeeper her job.
“Anyway,” Regan said, suddenly uncomfortable with their easy accord given the power struggle that awaited them on the court tomorrow, “I’d better finish up. The store is closing soon.”
“Right, of course.” He glanced at the dingy tiles on the floor and back. “I could walk you to your car. I don’t mind waiting.”
Even as her eyes widened with surprise, her heart skipped a hopeful beat. “You don’t need—”
“I mean, we joked about it, but you’re a very famous and very beautiful athlete. It’s late, the parking lot is empty and there are a lot of psycho fans out there. I’m not saying I’m bodyguard material, but if it made you feel—”
“Beautiful?” The word leaped from her tongue before she could stop it, and only the fact that Ben looked as sheepish as she felt kept her from slapping her hands over her mouth.
“And famous,” he repeated evasively.
“I bet you say that to all your clients.”
“Actually no, considering most of them have been under the age of seventeen.” That winning grin was back on his face. “I don’t particularly want a police record.”
“I appreciate the offer.” She decided to cut her losses before anything more embarrassing tumbled from her lips. “But I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
Regan spun back to the bins of vegetables, taking an intense interest in the cucumbers while she waited for him to walk away. When his departing footsteps paused, she stole a surreptitious glance at one of the big, circular security mirrors mounted high on the wall.
Half-turned, he frowned in indecision. After a second he seemed to give himself a shake and pivoted, walking toward the checkout.
Regan stared into the mirror for several long moments after he departed, studying her own reflection and wondering what in the world had been going through his mind. If she didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn that the clear, full-signal broadcast emotion on his face was something it couldn’t possibly be—hot, naked desire.
In fact, the only reason she recognized it at all was because it echoed the simmering yearning that threatened to boil her traitorous blood.
* * *
Ben bit back a smile as Regan glowered at him from the net. She was a huge pain in his ass, but there was no denying she was cute when she was angry.
“You want me to do what?” she demanded. On the other side of the court Ivona’s eyes darted nervously between the two of them, unsure where to place her loyalties.
“You heard me,” he replied calmly. “From now on I’m fining you for etiquette infractions. Your racket only went a few inches, so we’ll call that one a racket slam as opposed to a throw. That’s two laps and ten push-ups.”
Regan stared at him in furious silence, her shoulders tense and her eyes bright with anger.
He drew a circle in the air with his index finger. “Two laps, champ. Let’s go. I don’t have all day.”
“Laps?” she repeated. “Like around the court? Running?”
“No, in the swimming pool. Of course around the court.”
“It’s eighty degrees out here. It’s too hot.”
“If it’s not too hot to play tennis, it’s not too hot to run. Get moving, we’re wasting time.”
She crossed her arms. “Running circles around the court is a waste of time.”
“Then you shouldn’t have slammed your racket.”
“Fine, I won’t do it again.”
“Then you won’t have to run laps again. But this time we’re not moving on until you do.”
Her defiant expression was so familiar that he struggled not to laugh out loud. It was exactly the look he’d given his coach when he was fifteen and had to be trained to channel his intense fits of temper into the power behind his swing. Although that old, surging anger still occasionally broke through his carefully constructed dam, for the most part he’d learned to control it. It was obvious that no one ever taught Regan the same lesson, which was why the eerie beauty in her wild style was too often interrupted by hotheaded tantrums.
“This is pointless. I said I won’t slam my racket again. Now let’s get on with the match.”
Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “How much did you rack up in fines last year? I seem to remember a particularly long tirade at an Australian umpire gracing the sports pages, but there must have been others.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know.”
“No idea? Ballpark figure?”
“Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five dollars.” Des appeared on the other side of the metal fence that encircled the court. The door clinked open and shut as he joined Ben on the sideline. “And eighty-five cents.”
Regan’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she stalked to the perimeter and broke into a reluctant jog.
“She’ll never forgive you for this,” Des declared cheerfully, giving Ben a hearty slap on the back.
“Probably not.”
“And enforcing the new rules in front of her sparring partner? Absolute genius. I underestimated you, Percy. You’re not a very nice guy at all.”
Ben shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
Regan was on her way toward them, her mouth set in a grim line as she rounded the corner.
“I hate you both,” she muttered as she jogged past. Ben’s mouth went dry as he watched the smooth bounce of her retreating behind. He quickly turned to her manager, hoping Des hadn’t noticed the way Ben’s pupils dilated every time his precious player came within touching distance.
“Ivona has to go.”
Des nodded. “She should’ve gone a long time ago, but Regan knows her from the early days. Ivona’s husband ran off with her doubles partner and she had nowhere to go, so Regan insisted I hire her. She’s been with us ever since.”
Ben’s surprise must have shown on his face because Des added, “Regan’s mostly bark, with very little bite. If you can get past the noise, she’s loyal to a fault.”
An interesting assertion—but he’d believe it when he saw it. Ben rocked back on his heels. “I’m sure you realize that she’s also a control freak. It’s the main thing holding her back.”
Des frowned. “I thought you said it was discipline?”
“That’s the means to the end. She needs to learn to let go and play with more heart, less mind. If I can wrest some of that control from her hands, it should give her space to breathe and listen to her instincts.”
Regan was beginning her second lap, and Ben cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pick up the pace, champ,” he called. “Anything less than workout tempo earns another ten push-ups.”
She gave him an unobstructed view of her middle finger.
Des snorted. “You want to take control, huh?” He chuckled as he shook his head. “Well, good luck.”
“I have someone in mind to replace Ivona.” Ben ignored the manager’s doubt. “Do you want to fire her, or shall I?”
Des squinted at the blonde figure standing motionless near the net, her gaze following her sparring partner’s progress around the perimeter. “I’ll do it. Regan doesn’t need another reason to hate you. Tell Ivona to see me in the house when you’re finished.”
“Will do.”
“Regan tells me several times a day that you have no idea what you’re doing. She plays best when she’s angry—keep up the good work.” Des shot him a parting grin and made his way back out through the fence.
Discarding Des’s slightly sinister comment as a poor attempt at humor, Ben narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched Regan approach the end of her second lap. His brain had churned with questions since the moment he came upon her in the grocery store, her eyes wide and wet and full of an emotion as complex as it was unnamable. For once the routine shock of arousal that seared through him every time he laid eyes on her was tempered, but not by his self-control. Instead his heart lurched with an instinct to protect her, to comfort her, to bundle her to his chest and promise to fix whatever upset her.
The unstoppable surges of lust were bad, but this new compulsion was far more unnerving.
And even more unshakeable.
“Wait.” He crossed toward her as she knelt on the clay to start her push-ups. “I’ll count.”
Let her fire him the minute she stepped off the court at the Baron’s. He didn’t care. He’d help her become the champion she deserved to be if it was the last act of his career.
* * *
“Des is firing Ivona, isn’t he? That’s why he asked her to meet him in the clubhouse.”
To his credit, Ben paused in reaching for a ball to face her directly. “Yes. I know she’s your friend, but it’s not working.” He resumed their now-routine process of clearing the court after each practice. “I know someone looking for a new sparring partner for his client, plus Des is planning to give her a solid payout. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”
Regan fixed her eyes on the white line bisecting the court, pain radiating into her temples from her tightly clenched jaw as she fought to hold it together. She’d spent so much of the past two weeks exploding at Ben’s interferences that she knew doing so again would have no effect. But that didn’t make it any easier to keep her temper in check.
“I want you to know I’m really unhappy about this.” She chucked a ball into a can with more force than necessary. “I don’t think it’s unfair to expect to be consulted on such major decisions.”
“Consider your objection lodged and marked for review.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “Response times will vary. There’s a high staff turnover at the Office of Regan’s Opinions, yet the work keeps pouring in.”
His breezy tone, casual posture and bemused smile at his totally unfunny joke pushed her over the edge. Few things rankled her more than not being taken seriously, and she was sick to death of his flippant dismissals of every suggestion she made. She knew she was more than capable of losing her temper and needed to give her coach the margin to do his job, but there was a fine line between teasing intervention and bald disrespect. As far as she was concerned, Ben was committing a blatant foot fault.
“You may be getting one over on Des, but I see right through you.” She crossed her arms and gave him her hardest stare.
“Oh yeah? How’s the view?”
“Pathetic.”
That got Ben’s attention, she noted with satisfaction.
The rigid line of his jaw betrayed his thinly concealed annoyance when he turned to face her. She sensed his grip on his patience loosening, and worry about his simmering anger undermined her triumph.
He squared his broad shoulders, squinting against the glare of the low-hanging sun. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“It’s obvious—you have no idea what you’re doing. You’ve only gotten this far by training wealthy teenagers who’d either be successful regardless or are so talentless that good or bad coaching won’t make a difference. After all, you used to be one of them, right? A spoiled rich boy with all the advantages money could buy.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, but she was on a roll. On impulse she took an accusatory step forward, then another.
“Did you really think that you have anything to teach me? I’m a champion despite people like you, not because of them. People who want all the credit for their own successes without ever considering the huge amounts of luck and privilege that pushed them along the way. Well, that isn’t the case here. I earned my seat at the professional table—no one bought it for me. And no washed-up has-been whose budget coaching techniques couldn’t get a high school player from one end of the court to the other is going to stand in my way, not when I’m so close to having it all. Is that clear?”
She was so angry she was trembling. They were only inches apart now, close enough to see the coppery highlights in his ginger-brown hair, the thick lashes fringing his eyes and the angular definition in the planes of his face. Emotion smoldered in his irises, and she could tell from the stiff way he held himself that she’d gotten to him, finally put the tiniest dent in his impenetrable armor. Yet he maintained his resolute, unflinching silence.
Her rage boiled higher as they stood locked in a noiseless stalemate, until her craving for a reaction had her fisting her hands to keep from shaking him. She didn’t care
whether he shouted or argued or even laughed in her face. Anything would be better than simply standing there, watching her with leashed fury flickering behind his eyes.
A split second before she thought she might start screaming just to end the standoff, Ben leaned forward ever so slightly, one side of his mouth quirking.
“One person on this court has their name on the Baron’s Open trophy. And it’s not you.”
He spun on his heel and was bending to pick up another ball before Regan had a chance to blink. Whatever salve his cool tone had applied to her temper dissolved in the fresh heat of her anger as his words sunk in.
“Yeah, like a decade ago,” she retorted, aware that her petulant whine made her sound closer to thirteen than thirty. “You were only a kid then. I bet you couldn’t beat me now.”
He didn’t turn around. “I bet I could.”
“Prove it. Play me right now.”
He shook his head as he put the lid on a can. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come on, let’s clear the rest of these up.”
“Why not? Are you scared?”
“No, I’m retired.”
She snorted. “Tennis coaches are all the same. They spend their lives bossing around the players they know they never could’ve beaten. The profession is full of sad wannabes propping up their egos by shouting at people who are actually talented.”
Ben’s shoulders rose and fell with a resigned sigh. He remained rooted to the spot for a minute, as if deciding whether or not to engage. Then he pivoted to face her.
“First to three games. If I win, I don’t want to hear a single complaint for the rest of the week.”
“And if I win?”
“Your choice.”
Regan peered at him through the slanting light of the late afternoon. She thought about how he so cavalierly dispatched with her training routines, his infuriating imperviousness to her hostile defiance and the way her double-crossing heart beat that little bit faster every time he walked in a room.
She liked Ben—that was the problem. Her life had no room for distractions.
Love in Straight Sets Page 4
