"Okay, I'll go start the charcoal while you're bathing. I found granddad's grill in the garage and scrubbed it clean today. There was even a sack of charcoal."
A half hour later, she had met him coming up as she was returning downstairs. She was fresh and clean, her hair still damp. He was dirtier than ever. Besides the grime he'd collected during the day, he'd added an overall dusting of charcoal powder.
"The water comes out rusty," she had told him. "But if you let it run a second or two it clears up."
"Thanks for the warning," he had replied as he trudged past her.
Now, they faced each other over the candlelit table. The night sounds coming from the surrounding woods were loud and distinct, the smell of cooking steaks mouth-watering, the breeze balmy.
Stevie, feeling foolishly nervous and self-conscious, groped for something to say. "The coals were just right."
"Good."
"I went ahead and put the steaks on the grill, but you might want to check them."
She was plagued by a sudden shyness and couldn't imagine where it had originated. Maybe the peasant blouse had been a poor choice; it was making her feel foolishly feminine. It was a size too large. The neckline was wide and kept slipping off one shoulder. If her clothes hadn't been so dirty, she would have put them back on after her bath.
As it was, she was standing before a man who could joke about bedding triplet contortionists, feeling ridiculously gauche and vulnerable.
He surveyed it alclass="underline" the candle, the flowers, the table setting, her. Especially her. He left his eyes on her for a long, ponderously quiet moment.
"Trying to impress me, Stevie? Maybe I should warn you before your heart gets broken that I'm not the marrying kind."
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."