Opposites Attract Read Free

by her, already debating the match.
    She was a tall, reed-slim figure tanned gold from hours in the sun. Her hair was short, sculptured and misty blond. The style flattered, while remaining practical for her profession. During three years of retirement, Asher hadn’t altered it. Her face seemed more suited to the glossy pages of a fashion magazine than the heat and frenzy of a tennis court. A weekender, one might think, looking at her elegant cheekbones in an oval face. Not a pro. The nose was small and straight above a delicately molded mouth she rarely thought to tint. Makeup on the courts was a waste of time, as sweat would wash it away. Her eyes were large and round, a shade of blue that hinted at violet. One of her few concessions to vanity was to darken the thick pale lashes that surrounded them. While other women competitors added jewelry or ribbons and bows to their court dress, Asher had never thought of it. Even off the court her attire leaned toward the simple and muted.
    An enterprising reporter had dubbed her “The Face” when she had been eighteen. She’d been nearly twenty-three when she had retired from professional play, but the name had stuck. Hers was a face of great beauty and rigid control. On court, not a flicker of expression gave her opponent or the crowd a hint of what she was thinking or feeling. One of her greatest defenses in the game was her ability to remain unruffled under stress. The standard seeped into her personal life.
    Asher had lived and breathed tennis for so long that the line of demarcation between woman and athlete was smudged. The hard, unbendable rule, imposed by her father, was ingrained in her—privacy, first and last. Only one person had ever been able to cross the boundary. Asher was determined he would not do so again.
    As she stood staring down at the empty court, her face told nothing of her anger or turmoil—or the pain she hadn’t been prepared for. It was calm and aloof. Her concentration was so deep that the leader of the small group of people that approached her had to speak her name twice to get her attention.
    She’d been recognized, she discovered. Though Asher had known it was inevitable, it still gave her a twist of pleasure to sign the papers and programs thrust at her. She hadn’t been forgotten.
    The questions were easy to parry, even when they skirted close to her relationship with Ty. A smile and double-talk worked well with fans. Asher wasn’t naïve enough to think it would work with reporters. That, she hoped, was for another day.
    As she signed, and edged her way back, Asher spotted a few colleagues—an old foe, a former doubles partner, a smattering of faces from the past. Her eyes met Chuck Prince’s. Ty’s closest friend was an affable player with a wrist of steel and beautiful footwork. Though the silent exchange was brief, even friendly, Asher saw the question in his eyes before she gave her attention to the next fan.
    The word’s out, she thought almost grimly as she smiled at a teenage tennis buff. Asher Wolfe’s picking up her racket again. And they’d wonder, and eventually ask, if she was picking up Ty Starbuck too.
    “Asher!” Chuck moved to her with the same bouncy stride he used to cross a court. In his typical outgoing style he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. “Hey, you look terrific!”
    With a laugh Asher drew back the breath his greeting had stolen from her. “So do you.” It was inevitably true. Chuck was average in almost every way—height, build, coloring. But his inner spark added appeal and a puckish sort of sexuality. He’d never hesitated to exploit it—good-naturedly.
    “No one knew you were coming,” Chuck complained, easing her gently through the thinning crowd. “I didn’t know you were here until . . .” His voice trailed off so that Asher knew he referred to the ten seconds of potent eye contact with Ty. “Until after the match,” he finished. He gave her shoulder a