“Of course not, and you should also have an afternoon nap. I’m here to support you, sweetheart, so tell me what your program is, and I’ll do all I can to help you through it.”
“I’d like you to sit in my box with Gary and Clive. Will you?”
“Thanks. That’s where I want to be. The media will play it up, you know.”
“I don’t care about that. I’m proud of my relationship with you. And if anyone asks me, I’ll be glad to tell them who you are and who you are to me. Any objections?”
“On the contrary. I’ll be delighted.”
* * *
The sports photographers rushed Lynne when they arrived at Roland Garros for her first match two mornings later. He’d told himself that he was prepared for anything, but he hadn’t counted on the pushing and shoving, the clicking of cameras and the seeming lack of concern for Lynne’s safety. However, when she seemed unperturbed, he realized that it wasn’t an unusual situation but, thinking that she needed a bodyguard, he stuck close to her.
“Who’s this handsome gentleman?” a female reporter asked Lynne. He hoped she would say that he was her bodyguard but, as she had promised, she answered truthfully.
“Sloan McNeil.”
“And is he a special friend?”
“Very, very special,” Lynne said. “Now, unless all of you want me to lose this match, may I please pass? I promise an interview later, win or lose.”
To his amazement, the reporters parted, and they walked through like Moses crossing the Red Sea. “You handled that well,” he told her.
“And I have to answer all their questions later whether or not I feel like it.”
In Lynne’s box, he greeted Gary and introduced himself to Clive, who began biting his nails as soon as Lynne walked onto the court. Her opponent had a good record, but he had confidence in Lynne’s ability to beat her.
“What the hell!” Sloan exclaimed, jumping up when Lynne missed a line drive.
“Not to worry, man,” Gary said. “Save your nerves for later. If she gets past the quarters, she’s got Sharapova waiting for her. Then, you can get nervous.”
But watching her play in person was so much more draining than seeing her on television. However, he settled down as she began her first service game with two straight aces. Still, he couldn’t banish the anxiety until she won the match fifty-eight minutes later.
“How do you stand this?” he asked Gary as Lynne took her bows to the crowd’s wild applause.
“I don’t have a choice, Sloan. I work with her as best I can, but when you get right down to it, it’s up to her. She’s good, and she’s headed back toward greatness.”
“See you later,” he said to the two men, and headed for the entrance to the clubhouse, where he waited for about twenty minutes in the company of the reporters. “Are you two an item?” one of them asked him.
“I don’t give interviews,” he told them. “Ms. Thurston said she would give you an interview, and I’m sure she will.”
Minutes later, she appeared and, with her arms outstretched, rushed to greet him. Hang the reporters, he thought as he lifted her and twirled around with her locked in his arms. Then he brushed her lips with his own. “You were wonderful, but I was a wreck when that gal won the first game she served. I’ll get out of the way and let you talk with these reporters.”
He watched as she impressed him with her deft answers to their questions, some of which were personal. No, her ex-husband didn’t want her to play tennis. No, that is not why they divorced. Yes, she was involved with Sloan McNeil. No, he had not asked her to marry him. Would she if he asked her?
“He’s standing right here,” she replied. “Don’t you think he deserves to hear the answer to that in private?”
“Is he going to ask you?”
She nodded toward Sloan. “There he is. Ask him.”
“He doesn’t give interviews,” one replied.
She shrugged. “Ask him again in September at the US Open.”
“And not at Wimbledon?” the female reporter asked.
“That’s only three weeks hence,” she replied. “Now, I’m pooped, so I’d better go.”
Their applause startled him, and later, he asked her if it was common for reporters to applaud an interviewee.
“Not in my experience,” she said. “But most won’t give that long an interview after a match. What are we doing this afternoon?”
He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter past eleven. After you rest, and we have lunch, it should be around two o’clock. If you like art, we could go to the Louvre or to the Musée Auguste Rodin. I love his statues.”
“I’d like to see The Kiss. I’ve seen pictures and small reproductions, but it would be nice to see the original.”
“It’s life-size. Maybe we can do both.”
They got into the limousine that awaited them, and she sat shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh with him and rested her head on his shoulder. With his arm snug around her, he kissed her gently and closed his eyes. All this, and heaven was yet to come.
After lunch, they went first to the Musée Auguste Rodin at 77 rue de Varene to see the famous Rodin statues, and she lingered at The Kiss, the one in which a man adores a woman’s body, walked around it several time before she said, “It’s beautiful,” in a whisper of a breath. He realized that he was learning much about her that afternoon.
“You don’t seem fond of The Mona Lisa,” he said of Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting. “Why?”
“She doesn’t look feminine, and it’s a much smaller painting than I had imagined. Da Vinci’s St. John the Baptist is a much more arresting painting.”
“Strange,” he said. “When I first saw them hanging together, I thought the same thing. Now, I’m not so sure. Want to take a look at those twenty-two famous paintings by Rubens?”
“Sure. I may not get another opportunity.”
They strolled through the Louvre looking at paintings, sketches and sculptures until closing time. “I enjoyed that,” she told him. “I wish I knew more about art.”
“One day, we’ll go to Florence and immerse ourselves in some of the world’s best. We’ll get some art books and study them, so we’ll understand what we’re seeing. What do you say?”
Her eyes shone with anticipation, and a smile seemed to attach itself to her face and linger there. “I’d love to see Italy with you. The art would be a bonus.”
* * *
The wheels of his mind revved up like an engine given a shot of gasoline. If all went well with his second service station, he’d be able to take her there if and when she married him. I’m getting ahead of myself. Must be this idyllic city.
Her play seemed to improve with each match, and after each one, she greeted him at the clubhouse gate as if she had been waiting years to see him. In his joy, he forgot to telephone Ben and Jasper, but when he finally did so, their reports relieved him of any worry. Lynne breezed through her round-four match against one of the hottest players on the tour, and he began to hope that she could win the tournament.
“I take each point as it comes,” she told him. “I don’t even look ahead to the next game.”
He marveled that she showed no interest in anything except that which he suggested, and that wherever they went, she didn’t indicate an interest in leaving until he suggested that they go. Perplexed, he asked her, “You’re not even a tiny bit feisty. Is that because you’re contented? Are you happy?”
They strolled along Saint-Germain-de-Pres holding hands like so many couples that they met. “I’m spending all of my free time with you. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”
“I get the urge to kiss you at the damnedest times,” he said.
She smiled up at him. “If you were French, you wouldn’t hesitate.”
He saw an
old Peugeot parked half on the sidewalk and half on the curb, leaned his back against it and pulled her into his arms. When she pressed a kiss against his mouth, he flicked his tongue across the seam of her lips, demanding that she open to him. What a mistake! She sucked him into her mouth, began to feast hungrily and he had to push her away, lest he have an erection in public.
“Try to remember that I’m practicing abstinence these days,” he said with as much of a smile as he could muster.
The afternoon of Lynne’s semifinal match arrived, and after telling Lynne goodbye at the club gate, he took his seat in her box and told himself to relax, a difficult thing to do with Clive sitting beside him chewing his fingernails down to the quick. She won the first set, but lost the second in a close final game. The third and final set went to a tiebreaker with six games each. Finally, a determined Sharapova stepped up to the plate and unleashed two consecutive aces and began hitting the corners.
“Go to the net,” Sloan yelled.
Lynne raised the level of her own game, and evened the score at seven games apiece. Her opponent made it 8–7, and Lynne began to rush her serves and to make unforced errors, and lost to the number one player by a hair.
* * *
She’d had it within her grasp and let it slip away. Years earlier, she had learned not to count her chicks before they hatched, and that’s what she did, thinking ahead to the finals and losing her concentration. She shook hands with the winner, bowed to the tumultuous applause and headed for the dressing room. After that match, no one could say that she wasn’t one of the top players.
“You’re number five in the world now,” a reporter said as she entered the clubhouse. “How does it feel?”
She forced a smile. “Not quite as good as number two. I should have won it.”
“You played a great three sets. What’s you favorite surface?”
“Hard court, then grass.”
“That’s what I remembered,” the woman said. “Good luck at Wimbledon. I wouldn’t be surprised if you won it.”
She thanked the woman, took a quick shower, dressed and rushed to meet Sloan. He was there, and that was what she cared most about. She sprang into his arms, taking all the love he could demonstrate in the presence of thirty or more photographers.
“Looks as if you lost your concentration in that last game,” one French female reporter said, and then she looked directly at Sloan. “Not that I blame you. I don’t see how you could concentrate at all with this guy waiting for you.”
Annoyance flared up in Lynne at the woman’s blatant flirtation with Sloan. “I managed,” she said, “because I knew he was waiting for me.” If there was anything she had learned in Paris, it was that as far as French women were concerned, every woman was a competitor, and every man was fair game. She answered a few questions, and then asked to be excused.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win,” he said. “I thought you had it in the bag, but you seemed less focused in that last set.”
“In the last two games, I was. I made the mistake of thinking about the finals and wondering whether I’d meet Davenport or Serena Williams. But that’s over, and I’m proud of the way I played. The girl I played is number one, and I almost beat her. Next time, I will.”
“I thought you outplayed her until the very end. You had more aces and more winners. You’ve really made a lot of progress. I suggest you get some rest, and we’ll get together around six. Okay?” The limousine arrived at their hotel, the driver handed him her duffel bag and a reporter blocked their way as they approached the door of the hotel.
“You played a great three sets, Miss Thurston,” he said. “Would you answer a couple of questions, please?” He wanted to tell the man to buzz off, but that was Lynne’s prerogative. “Are you and Mr. McNeil living together? Are you sharing a room here?”
“No and no,” she said. “And I’d appreciate it if you would allow me to pass. This minute.” The man, obviously from the United States, snapped a picture and ducked out of the way. He didn’t doubt that the accompanying story would bear no resemblance to the truth, but he didn’t share that thought with Lynne.
“Try to rest, and I’ll check on you at six,” he said when he reached his room door. He handed her the duffel bag, and pressed a quick kiss to her lips.
“Right. But I wanted to take a boat ride down the Seine. Can we do that tomorrow?” He nodded as the light of her smile quickened his heart. “See you later, love,” she said.
Something had changed since they arrived in Paris. He had the feeling that she loved him more deeply, that he was dearer to her. He hoped so, because she had become everything to him, his life.
* * *
Lynne showered, dried her body and crawled into the bed. Exhausted. She hadn’t let Sloan know that she was worn out. She had used all of her energy and skill in an effort to win that match. Yes, she lost concentration near the end, but the broiling heat had also depleted her strength, perspiration soaked her clothing and dripped into her eyes, and she’d been barely able to see. Maria deserved to win because she let down in the end, while Maria capitalized on every opportunity.
“I’m not going to sweat it,” she told herself. “I played well, and the next time I will win.”
Seconds after she stretched out her tired frame and sank her head into the pillow, she heard the telephone ring. Thinking that the caller would be Sloan, she rolled over on her stomach and answered.
“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and seductive.
“What the devil do you mean by traipsing around Paris with that guy? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re all over the papers and the TV.” She held the receiver away from her ear as her brother, Brad, ranted on. “I dare you to tell me he isn’t after your money. Mechanics don’t earn enough to hang out in Paris at five-star hotels and eat in top restaurants.”
“How are you, Brad? Apparently you haven’t been watching me play or reading about my tennis matches, for if you had, you would certainly have congratulated me on what I’ve achieved.” She hung up, dialed the operator and told her she didn’t want any more overseas calls. No point in mentioning it to Sloan; he had a big enough grievance against her brother.
That night, they dined at a small family restaurant on the Left Bank. She had no idea how he found it but, although the place lacked ambience, she had rarely enjoyed a meal so much. They strolled along the banks of the Seine, crossed it at Pont des Arts and moseyed along the quay until they came upon a bench and settled themselves there.
“I could live like this forever,” she told him as lovers strolled past them. An old woman stopped and gave Sloan a pink flower, the stars twinkled and moonlight drenched them as they gazed at each other, blissfully unaware of the world around them.
They reached the hotel around eleven o’clock, took the elevator to their rooms and lingered at Sloan’s door. His kiss was more brief than usual, and his eyes projected an unmistakable and urgent need, but he said, “See you at nine in the dining room, and thanks for a special evening.”
“Thank you, too,” she said as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then hurried off to her room. After a quick shower, she brushed her teeth, applied lotion to her body and slipped on a short nightgown that Victoria’s Secret would have been proud of and got into bed. She flipped on the television and an advertisement of the cancan at the Lido brought her to reality.
I’m miserable, because I want to be with him, and he made it clear that while we’re here, I’m the one calling the shots. She grabbed the robe that matched her peach-colored silk nightie, decided to carry it instead of wearing it and knocked on his door.
“Come in.”
She opened the door gingerly and, when she stepped inside, he stood by the window wearing green boxer shorts, but he didn’t move. “I got lonely,” she whispered, and he rushed to her.
“I’m
so glad you came. I was standing there thinking that, after what we shared this day, if you could get in that bed and go to sleep, knowing that I was on my way out of my senses wanting you, something had to be wrong.”
“I almost did, then I remembered that you left it up to me and I made tracks, and fast.”
“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said of her nearly transparent gown. “You’re so beautiful that I have to pinch myself sometimes.”
“I could say the same about you,” she said and raised her arms to him. Within minutes he threw the gown from her body and began to worship her, starting with her feet, licking her legs, thighs, pausing long enough to anoint her vagina with his surging tongue until she cried out, and moving up to her belly.
“Honey, put me in the bed,” she moaned.
He lifted her and placed her in his bed, rid himself of his shorts, climbed beside her and locked her body to his. She held her breast for his kiss, and when he sucked her nipple into his warm mouth, her hips twisted and she reached down to hold and caress him, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“If you touch me, I’ll explode.”
“I want you to explode inside of me,” she moaned. “Get in me.”
He handed her a condom and she rolled it on him, caressed and stroked him as his talented fingers massaged her most vulnerable spot until the liquid flowed over them. She locked one hand around his and, with her other hand on his buttocks, forced his entrance as she raised her hips to receive him.
“Don’t do that. You’ll make me hurt you,” he groaned.
“Nothing this good could hurt,” she said, and swung up to meet his thrust. It didn’t last long. They were so hot for each other that as soon as he began his powerful strokes, tremors raced through her, and then he was in her, on her, beneath her and all around her. He sucked her nipples, put his hand between them and rubbed until she screamed from the pleasure that he gave her. Heat seared the bottom of her feet, and lights flashed behind her closed eyes before the pumping and squeezing began in her vagina and she could feel herself locking to him, gripping him, squeezing him until she thought she would die. All of a sudden, the bottom fell out of her and she screamed as he thrust her into ecstasy and his shout of “You’re mine. This is mine, you hear?” reverberated through the room. He kissed the tears of joy from beneath her eyes, and she fell asleep in his arms with him locked inside her.
McNeil's Match Page 27
