Love in Straight Sets

by Rebecca Crowley

  “If I win, you quit.”

  He didn’t so much as flinch at her command, his face remaining as impassive as it had been all afternoon.

  “High stakes,” he said finally. “I like it.”

  He shoved the ball he was holding into the pocket of his chambray shorts and bent to pick up another. When he straightened, he was grinning. “Let’s play.”

  Doubt materialized at the edge of Regan’s consciousness, but she gave it a hard shove to the periphery as she withdrew one of her spare rackets from her bag and passed it to him.

  “Give me that ball can, as well.” He pointed to one near her feet. “Since this was your idea, I get to serve. And I have a feeling there won’t be much coming back my way.”

  “Unlikely.”

  She took her place on the baseline and watched Ben circle around to the other side. In low-top canvas sneakers and a lightweight collared shirt he looked more ready for a backyard barbecue than a three-game match against a world-ranked player. But he rolled his shoulders to warm them up as he walked, seemingly unfazed by the magnitude of this faceoff.

  He could be about to lose his job—didn’t that bother him? Regan frowned as she bounced on the balls of her feet, preparing for his serve. She’d made it hard for him, but he couldn’t be that keen to walk away from her. Could he?

  No one could be that confident in their game after more than ten years out of the circuit. He either had the world’s best poker face, or he had nothing to lose.

  Ben moved into position and leaned over to bounce the ball on the court. He caught it three, four, five times, and then straightened for the toss. She watched him intently, looking for any giveaway on his strategy, but his expression was as blank and unreadable as a smooth marble slab. He angled his hips slightly, held his racket poised behind him, threw the ball in the air and smashed it across the court with such force that his feet left the ground.

  Regan dove for the ball, but by the time her brain registered the hard pop that sounded more like the crack of a baseball bat than a tennis serve, the shot was long gone.

  “Fifteen love,” he called unnecessarily.

  “Hard to tell if it’s in when it’s going so fast you can’t see it,” she grumbled, returning to the baseline.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Play the point.”

  He withdrew another ball from his pocket and began to bounce it. She squinted across the court, scrutinizing his every move as he set up the serve. She took in his narrow stance as he pushed up onto the balls of his feet, the muscles in his calves flexing with untapped energy. He bent his knees and twisted his torso, winding his long, lean body into a powerful coil ready to spring.

  His left hand rose as his right shoulder dropped in anticipation, and as soon as he lobbed that yellow target into the air his slow, methodical posture exploded into motion. His racket flew up to meet the ball as his body twisted and unwound to release the kinetic force in his shoulders, his hips, his legs, right down to the feet that arched until they leaped from the sheer strength radiating through every muscle.

  The ball hurtled toward her with such speed, viciously controlled aim and fierce spin that she didn’t even care when it bounced way out of her reach. Watching Ben serve was more breathtaking than any artwork or ballet or natural landscape she’d ever seen. It was beautiful, it was magnificent and she wanted to learn exactly how he did it.

  “Thirty love,” he announced. She didn’t have to move more than an inch to reset her position, so awestruck by his last shot that she’d barely attempted to return it. She dug her heels into the ground as she leaned down in anticipation of his next serve, determined not to let this one get past her.

  Her stomach leaped with welcome exhilaration as he bounced the ball again. She had some fierce competitors on the circuit, but what got her adrenaline going was the challenge of defeating her opponent in a contest that really mattered, like a semifinal or a trophy match. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this excited to simply return the ball. Maybe Ben was right. Maybe Ivona was too easy a sparring partner.

  Not that she’d ever admit that to him, of course.

  She knew what to expect from him now—unfathomable speed and incredible accuracy—so as he readied his next serve, she focused on his body language in an effort to gauge his aim. Her best hope was to block his shot and use his own power to get the ball back over the net.

  Regan took in the long line of his body, the tight hips flaring up into a solid chest topped by broad shoulders. The racket was probably too short and weighted wrong for his grip, yet his movements were as spare and confident as if he’d been born with it in his hand. His face was serious and absorbed, and as he looked up to see the ball he tossed over his head, she caught the slightest baring of his teeth before he slammed it toward her.

  She threw herself after the shot and thrust out her arms, taking no backswing, wanting nothing more than to halt his ruthless serve. The ball hit the strings of her racket and she locked her elbows, tightening her jaw against the juddering impact that seemed to resonate up the handle and continue through every muscle, fiber and ligament in her body until it came to rest with a single hot throb at the apex of her thighs.

  The ball hit the net, which shuddered in ripples from the point of contact. Ben yelled out the score, but she could barely make out his voice over the roaring in her ears.

  She’d never played anyone who could hit so hard, serve so fast or disguise his moves so completely. She’d known Ben had his moment ten-odd years ago, but she had no idea there was still such a powerful core pulsating beneath that nonchalant exterior.

  The contradiction was as fascinating as it was jarring. And when she glanced over the net at his loose posture and easy smile, knowing a world champion lurked inside made him the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

  “Last point.” The words cut through the haze clouding her brain. “That was better. Nice block. See if you can chip it this time.”

  “Quit coaching and play me,” she retorted, but shifted her grip to do as he suggested.

  A half hour later the sun was low, the air was cool and Regan watched helplessly as Ben’s game-winning shot flew past her. She was sweaty, breathless and more exhausted by those three games than she had been in some finals. His economical precision and tightly reined power had run her up and down the court in hot pursuit while he barely moved from the baseline. He was inscrutable, unflappable and a devastatingly fierce opponent.

  And she’d loved every minute.

  “Looks like you’re stuck with me.” Ben approached the net, the slight panting lift of his shoulders and sheen of sweat on his brow the only evidence that he’d done anything more physical than climb a flight of stairs.

  “I have to hand it to you,” she conceded, letting her racket fall to the ground and closing both hands over the white plastic band at the top of the net. “You’re not bad for a retiree.”

  “Less of a sad wannabe than you were expecting?”

  Regan cringed at the repeat of her own phrase. “Maybe that was a little harsh.”

  “Maybe.” He shifted his weight. “Look, I don’t know what went wrong with your previous coaches, and I don’t particularly care. You run the rest of your life however you want, but when we’re on the court, I’m in charge. Is that clear?”

  Instinctively she snapped her head back, ready to issue a sarcastic reply, but before she could speak Ben reached across the net to curl his fingers under her chin, tilting her face until her eyes met his.

  “Trust me,” he implored, his tone free of the sternness it held a second earlier. “Loosen the reins. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Her knees threatened to give way as his touch blazed through her like wildfire, its heat stemmed only by the cooling tenderness in his gaze. Her mind reeled with conflicting emotions, torn b
y equally brutal yet totally opposite urges to let him in and shut him out. Could he know how his words hit her in her most secret, vulnerable core? That there was nothing she wanted more than to give over control and free herself from her self-imposed restraints—and that the idea of doing so was so distressing she didn’t dare entertain it.

  His eyes were patient but expectant as they remained leveled on hers. She thought about the way it had taken everything she had just to stop his serve, the way he was able to channel so much strength and power with such accuracy. As easygoing and amiable as he seemed, she understood now that there was steel in his spine and in his champion’s heart. She was looking at the one man who had the potential to reach past all her defenses and expose each and every defect in the athlete she’d worked so hard to create.

  That he could find her flaws was a given. Whether he knew how to fix them remained to be seen.

  He was waiting for her answer. And with a swallow so thick and rough it grated her throat, she nodded.

  Chapter Four

  The soft squeak of Ben’s sneakers was interrupted by the jarring scrape of aluminum against asphalt as his heel skidded on a crushed beer can. He stumbled backward as his ankle twisted painfully beneath him, but he winced more from the sound of the ball swishing through the basket than the ache in his foot.

  “Time-out,” he announced. “Alcohol-related injury.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that beer is not a performance enhancer?” Matt Stevens, a turf manager for a nearby golf course and his longtime friend, propped the basketball on his hip with a grin.

  “But it’s the only way I can cope with the sight of your face. Softens the edges.” Ben circled his foot to satisfy himself nothing was sprained, then kicked the beer can across the cracked blacktop. “I think we can comfortably say that game was yours, anyway. Let’s call it a day.”

  “You’re always so gracious in defeat,” Matt quipped as they made their way over to one of the sagging picnic tables arranged haphazardly around the grass that bordered the court. “Is it because you’re such an experienced loser?”

  “Meet me on the tennis court and we’ll see. I’ll even let you serve.”

  “Not a chance.” Matt snorted.

  They took seats on opposite sides of the table and spent a minute in amiable silence, sipping from their water bottles and enjoying the light breeze that floated through the quiet park. Their Sunday afternoon pickup game was a years-old tradition, and they both knew that the end of the action on the court meant the beginning of the personal news catch-up.

  For the first time that he could remember, Ben was dreading this portion of the afternoon. He knew exactly what Matt would ask, and while part of him wanted to talk through all the strange and conflicting thoughts going through his head, Ben also had the irrational desire to keep everything about Regan entirely to himself.

  As if he could read minds, Matt broke the silence first. “How’s the queen of clay?”

  Ben puffed out his cheeks, deciding how honest he wanted to be.

  Very, he determined. “She’s complicated.”

  “That’s not the word I expected.”

  “No? Enlighten me, then.”

  Matt’s grin would’ve put the Cheshire cat to shame. “I was waiting for hot.”

  “She is that. In all senses of the word.”

  “How so?”

  Ben stretched his legs under the picnic table, flexing his calves. “Her serve is boiling, her backhand is simmering, her footwork is steaming and her temper is scalding.”

  “And her body is smoking.”

  “Watch it,” he warned, his whole body tensing as his own temperature flared dangerously at his friend’s comment.

  “Chill.” Matt held up his palms. “It was just a joke.”

  And one that he would normally let roll off his back without a second thought. Ben sighed. “Sorry. This job is messing with my head.”

  Matt’s eyes widened. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. Benjamin ‘Black Ops’ Percy is sleeping with Regan Hunter, the reigning diva of American tennis.”

  “I’m not, I swear,” Ben insisted, shaking his head.

  “So says Black Ops, the man notorious for suddenly producing disproportionately attractive girlfriends having given zero indication that a chase was underway.”

  “Consider your moral objection to my refusal to kiss-and-tell duly noted. The only thing between me and Regan is mutual distrust. We’re more like two cobras sizing each other up than lovebirds.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, her manager laid down the law on the first day. One touch and I’m fired.”

  “He actually said that? Severe.” Matt looked thoughtful. “Although it might be worth it. Did you see those photos of her in that women’s sports edition of—”

  “Stop, please. This is my client we’re talking about.” Ben bit back another rush of possessive anger. If his friend knew how difficult obeying Des’s orders was, how he spent every minute of their sessions pushing explicit fantasies to the back of his imagination and shoving his trembling hands in his pockets, he’d never live it down.

  “Anyway, you’re wrong—it wouldn’t be worth it. This is my best-paying gig ever, and if I can hang on to it I’ll finally be able to afford to bring my sister over.”

  His friend immediately sobered, knowing how much money Ben sent to support his sister in Zimbabwe on top of saving to pay for an immigration lawyer. “Fair enough. Better keep your hands to yourself in that case. How’s it going otherwise?”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the table, trying to work out the answer. “It’s okay. She’s so tightly wound I don’t know how she manages to sit still, but I guess that’s where she gets her energy on the court. She’s constantly unreasonable and unnecessarily hostile, but I like her. In a weird way, I think I get it. Tennis is an intense and solitary sport. Sometimes the enormous amounts of focus it requires spill over into other areas of your life.” He shrugged, pleased that he’d managed to articulate what had been bouncing around in his brain for the past week. “Tennis players aren’t exactly known for their laid-back personalities.”

  “Except you, apparently.”

  Ben smirked. “Not anymore.” He glanced at his watch. “Anyway, I’ve enjoyed our date, but I have to bail. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m going to a press thing in Miami with Regan tomorrow.”

  “Well, aren’t you fancy,” Matt mocked as they rose to begin packing their belongings. “Who decided it would be a good idea to broadcast your ugly mug into thousands of unsuspecting homes?”

  “Miss Hunter herself, of course. It’s some panel-type thing about the future of women’s sports. Lots of female viewers, hence—” he pointed at himself, “—eye candy.”

  “Yeah, like those chocolate bars stuffed with razor blades they warn trick-or-treaters about.”

  “You’re so sexy when you’re jealous,” Ben teased, expertly catching the basketball Matt threw at his head.

  “Whatever.” They shouldered their sports bags and were halfway to the parking lot when Matt ventured, “So you know you said Regan is off-limits? Presumably that only refers to you, right? What if I were to—”

  “I’d personally knock out each one of your teeth,” Ben replied, realizing with a jolt that he meant every word.

  * * *

  Regan peered up at the cloudy sky through the windscreen of her car. Gray and opaque, it reflected her mood so accurately it was eerie.

  From the moment her alarm went off that morning, she was overtaken by a creeping, unshakeable feeling of dread until every nerve was on high alert. She’d struggled with anxiety for years without ever figuring out a rhyme or pattern to it. But as soon as she cut the shrill beep of the alarm only to be overcome by an immediate, nagging sense of worry about what the
day held, she knew she was in its grip.

  She skipped her morning coffee in the hope that the lack of caffeine would dull her nerves, but her heart still felt as if it was jangling around in her chest when she climbed into her car for the ninety-odd-minute drive to Miami. As she looked between the key and the ignition she considered calling Des and asking to catch a lift with him, before remembering he’d gone into the city early to work on some paperwork with her lawyer.

  She didn’t waste a second wondering whether to ask Ben. Not only would that much time spent in such close proximity push her already fragile composure to its limit, she knew he’d want an explanation and that he’d see right through whatever weak fabrication she concocted. No one understood the full impact the anxiety had on her life—not her family, not her doctor, not even Des. There was a long list of people she didn’t want to find out about it, and Ben Percy was at the very top.

  At first the trip had gone okay. She liked driving, even found it relaxing sometimes. After twenty minutes of singing along to a classic country station that played many of the same songs she’d heard in her dad’s pickup as a little girl, she was feeling confident. Maybe this day wasn’t going to be nearly as bad as she’d thought.

  Then she hit gridlock. Although she kept her gaze firmly away from the scene of the accident, between the flashing lights of the emergency services, the torn pieces of tire rubber that had drifted over into her side of the highway, the bumper-to-bumper cars and the towering sound barriers that seemed to be getting taller and closer by the second, soon her hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. She seriously considered switching off the engine and getting out of the car to alleviate the crushing sense of being trapped.

  Luckily the traffic eased just as her panic began to rise, and by the time she reached the towering hotel in downtown Miami she had regained tenuous control of her faculties, although her mood was black as tar.

  She was definitely hiring a driver to take her to Palm Beach for her thirtieth birthday party on Saturday, she concluded as she found a parking space. No way was she turning up to that with frazzled nerves and wobbly steps.