The sensual bubble burst. "You conceited jerk!" she cried indignantly, planting her hands on her hips. "I didn't do this for you. I did it for me. I rarely get to entertain and when I do, I usually take my guests out to dinner. This was a rare-What are you laughing at?"
"You. You can't take a joke worth a damn, but you're cuter than ever when you get riled."
Stevie stood there stewing while he moved to the grill, which he'd set up in one corner of the porch. She vacillated over whether or not to finish giving him a piece of her mind, but decided to leave well enough alone. Invariably their verbal skirmishes came out in his favor.
Over his shoulder, he said, "Five more minutes and the steaks will be perfect."
Stevie used that five minutes to carry out the green salad she had made, a loaf of French bread she had buttered and left warming in the oven and a pitcher of iced tea she had garnished with fresh mint she had discovered growing on either side of the back porch.
Judd sipped from his tall, icy glass and smacked his lips with appreciation. "The mint in the tea really reminds me of summers I spent here on the farm with my grandparents." For a moment he stared reflectively into space.
"What?" Stevie asked softly.
He focused on her and snorted a self-derisive laugh. "I just realized that happy hour has come and gone and I hadn't even missed it." He saluted her with his glass of tea. "Must be your company."
She basked in the warm glow coming from his eyes and began eating. A few moments later she said, "The steak is delicious, Judd."
"Well, don't get too excited. This about exhausts my culinary talents."
They resumed eating in silence. To make conversation, Stevie asked, "What's your novel about?"
"Writers never talk about the pieces they're currently working on."
"You haven't started working on it yet."
"Same rules apply to an idea."
"Why don't you talk about it?"
"Because talking about the story dilutes the compulsion to write it down."
"Oh." She returned to her food, but her mind stayed on that track. "I can understand that, I think. Before an important match, I don't like to talk about it. I don't want to discuss my strategy or the odds either against or in my favor. I'm immersed in my own thoughts. Sharing them would jinx the match."
"You're superstitious," he accused, pointing the tines of his fork at her.
"I didn't think so until now. But maybe so."
She finished her food and pushed the plate aside.
"I take my game very seriously. That's why your column has always been such a bone of contention, Mr. Mackie. You poke fun at me."
"It sells newspapers. I realize you take your game seriously. Maybe you take it too seriously."
"There's no such thing."
"Isn't there?" he asked, propping his elbows on the table and leaning closer to the burning candle. The flame flickered across his features, softening them, but enhancing their masculinity.
"Where's the husband, the kids, the house?"
"If I were a man would you be asking me those questions?"
"Probably not," he admitted. "But then…"
His eyes lowered to the neckline of the white peasant blouse. "You're not a man."
While she'd been busy eating, she had forgotten to give her neckline an upward tug every so often. It had dipped to cleavage level. The shadows cast by the single wavering candle made the valley between her breasts look velvety and mysterious.
Stevie, feeling threatened by his hot gaze and the personal slant their conversation had taken, immediately threw up a defensive wall and went back to their generic topic. "Everything, even success, comes with a price tag attached. You can't have it all."
"Some do. But not you. You don't have anything but your game."
"A damned good game," she said testily.
' 'Granted. But I bet if you polled most sportswriters, male sportswriters, and asked them what Stevie Corbett's finest contribution to tennis is, they wouldn't say, 'Her backhand.' If they were being honest, they'd more than likely say, 'Her backside.' It's just that I've got the guts to say, or write, what the rest of them are thinking."
She scooted back her chair and stood up quickly. "You're incorrigible, Mackie."
"So I've been told by everybody from my nursery-school teacher to Mike Ramsey as recently as this morning. He said- Stevie?" Judd slid out of his chair and rounded the corners of the table in one motion. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Dammit," he swore, "don't tell me nothing.
Are you in pain?"
She took several swift, shallow breaths.
"Sometimes, whenever I move too suddenly, like just then, it hurts a little."
Judd pressed his hand against her lower abdomen.
"Do you need your pain pills? Sit down, goddammit. I'll go get them."
"No, it's fine. Much better." When she glanced up at him, her smile was tentative, but brave. "It leaves as fast as it comes. I'm alright now."
His fingers pressed into her abdomen, kneading her through the skirt. "You sure?"
She was sure of only one thing, and that was that if he didn't take his hand away and stop doing with it what he was doing, her desire-weakened knees were going to buckle and her mouth would reach for a taste of his.
"I'm sure," she replied thickly.
He searched her eyes, seemingly reluctant to believe her, but several heartbeats later, he with drew his hand and stepped away. "You'd better go upstairs and lie down."
"Nonsense. It was just a twinge."
"Twinges don't make your lips go white."
"Kindly step aside so I can start clearing the table."
"Hell, no. Leave the dishes until tomorrow morning."
"I wouldn't think of it. Your grandmother would never forgive me. Now move."
He did so, but grudgingly, while he muttered curses beneath his breath. "How often do these twinges strike you?" he asked as he followed her into the house, bearing a tray of dirty dishes.
"Maybe once, twice a day. Really they're nothing to worry about." She filled the sink with soapy water. Each time she tried to move in any direction, she nearly stepped on him. "You're underfoot, Mackie. Why don't you be a good boy and go outside and play? Or work on your novel."
He slammed out of the kitchen, mumbling beneath his breath as he went through the shadowed rooms of the house. He knew pain when he saw it, and Stevie had been in pain. Did she think he was stupid enough to fall for her glib dismissal of it?
"A 'twinge,' my ass," he thought out loud.
She had downplayed that reminder of her illness the way he was currently de-emphasizing the swelling behind his fly. He wouldn't dare call it what it was. But what else could it be?
Stevie Corbett had been the warmest, softest thing he'd ever touched. Removing his hand from the folds of her skirt had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. He didn't know how he'd kept from touching her breasts just to see if they felt as fantastic as they looked.
To take his mind off how good she smelled and how badly he wanted to kiss her again and how much he ached, he carried the card table back into the dining room and set it up.
He positioned the lamp just so, adjusting the cheap lamp shade for maximum light. He replaced the typewriter and the ream of paper, stacking it and restacking it until all the edges were as straight as a knife blade. He checked the typewriter ribbon and made certain that pencils and erasers were within reach.
Then he just stood there, staring down at the card table, flexing his fingers at his sides.
'What are you doing?"
He spun around. Stevie was watching him curiously from the arched doorway.
"I'm setting up," he answered cantankerously.
"You don't just jump into writing without setting up, you know. It takes lots of preparation."
"Oh. It looked like you were just standing there, shivering in your shoes, knees knocking, afraid to start."