Thinking that she would try a similar shot on the next point, she moved to the net too soon.
Judd sent a long backhand into the corner of the court and announced with satisfaction, "Thirty, fifteen."
She tied it up on his next serve. "Thirty all," she called out gaily.
Judd's smile wasn't quite as ingratiating as it had been, she noted with satisfaction. She watched his toss, saw the granite set of his jaw, saw his arm go back then arc forward. But just before he hit the ball, he said, "You forgot to wiggle."
The ball whizzed past her like a missile, bounced in the corner of the service court and landed against the fence with a solid thwack. Stevie rounded on her complacent opponent, who was inspecting the strings of his racquet.
"What was that?"
"That was an ace, something that doesn't get pulled on you very often."
She marched toward the net, a study in fury.
'`I'll tell you something else that doesn't get pulled on me. I've never played anybody who opened a conversation just as he was serving the ball. Nobody I know would resort to such a dirty, underhanded trick. Nobody but you, that is.
What did you say, anyway? Something about a wiggle?"
"I said you forgot to wiggle."
She propped her hands on her hips. "And what, pray tell, does that mean?"
"Aw, come on, Stevie. We're alone here. We can be open with each other." He leaned across the net and gave her a knowledgeable wink. "I was referring to that little wiggle you give your backside every time you win a point."
Her mouth dropped open. "I have no idea-"
"Sure you do. You do it all the time. It's to make certain that everybody watching, whether from the stadium bleachers or on television, realizes that you've just done something swell."
It took an act of will to stop grinding her teeth.
"I don't have to stand out here in this heat and listen to your insults." Reflexively she lifted her long braid off her chest and tossed it over her shoulder.
Judd aimed the handle of his racquet at her like an accusing finger. "That's another one."
"Another one what?" ' 'Another one of your cuteisms. The one with the braid is to show your degree of frustration either with yourself, your opponent or a line judge."
"Cuteisms?"
He flashed a proud grin. "I coined the word to encompass all the mannerisms you use to draw attention from your game to yourself. Since the way you look is irrelevant to the way you play, you're very clever to use such a tactic."
Stevie was too furious to speak. If she tried, she'd only succeed in sputtering incoherently. She turned her back to him and marched toward the parked car.
"Aren't we going to finish the match?"
"No!"
"You're quitting when it's match point?"
"Yes!"
"Why, because I'm about to beat you?" he taunted, falling into step behind her. "You couldn't stand being beaten by me, could you?"
"I'm having an off day. You said so yourself.
It's the heat. I haven't practiced in days."
"Neither have I," he pointed out uncharitably.
"And it's just as hot on my side of the court."
She slung her gear into the back seat of his car and got into the passenger side, slamming the door. He got behind the wheel and drove while she sat beside him, fuming in hostile silence.
The pressure had been steadily building. They had been working up to this fight for days. Erroneously Stevie had thought she would welcome a full-fledged blowout as a means of clearing the air. But she was far from having a good time. Probably because Judd definitely had the upper hand in this argument.
"There's nothing wrong with being a showman."
They were more than halfway home before he made that seemingly innocuous observation. It was enough to send Stevie's simmering temper skyrocketing.
"You don't get to be a top-seeded player by being cute, Mr. Mackie."
"Calm down. I'm not going to tell anybody that I beat you."
"You didn't!"
"Only because you refused to finish the match like the spoiled brat you are."
"You weren't playing tennis," she shouted.
"The points you scored were scored by playing badly, not well. You were making a mockery of me and of the sport. Your game had nothing to do with talent, skill or finesse." Wanting to drive the next point home, she turned her head to look at him. "The same goes for your writing."
He brought the car to a jarring stop in front of the house. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You figure it out."
Leaving her things in the car, she got out and bounded up the porch steps. They hadn't bothered with locking the front door. She sailed through it and headed for the stairs. She had almost reached the top when Judd, taking the steps two at a time, caught up with her and grabbed hold of her braid.
"Ouch! Let go of me."
"Uh-uh. Not until you explain that last crack about my writing. What do you mean by saying that I lack talent and skill, etcetera?"
"I didn't say you lack them. There's just no evidence of them in your column."
"I graduated with a degree in journalism, remember?"
"What you print every day isn't journalism, it's gossip," she said, warming to her topic.
"Anybody with an inferiority complex and an ax to grind could write what you do. So could anybody who wanted to avoid a real job by boozing it up every night and calling it research. Not to mention the womanizing."
"I haven't touched a drink since we got here.
And as for womanizing…" He encircled her waist with his arm and yanked her hard against him. "I haven't done any of that since I left Dallas, either."
"Let me go."
"No way, baby. I've earned this kiss."
His mouth came down hard upon hers. She resisted by bowing her back, which only brought her up harder and higher against him. She tried to free her lips, but he captured her jaw in one hand and held her head steady while his tongue plumbed her mouth repeatedly.
Their breathing was harsh and loud in the otherwise silent house. The sounds of strenuous denial that Stevie uttered deep in her throat diminished to whimpers of desire. Her hands, which had been trying to push him away, began clutching handfuls of his damp tennis shirt. She angled her head, giving his lips better access to hers. Her tongue joined his in love play.
He raised his head suddenly and peered into her wide, dazed eyes. "Stevie?"
"What?"
Taking her hand, he slid it down his body and pressed it against the distended fly of his tennis shorts. "It wouldn't be fair of you to start something you don't intend to finish, would it?"
She shook her head and reflexively squeezed the rigid proof of how much he wanted her. "Oh, God." Groaning, he gave her another searing kiss.
Pent-up frustration erupted in an explosion of sexual desire. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Their kisses were carnal, ravenous.
Still clinging to each other, they stumbled into the nearest bedroom, his. Blindly he reached for the switch of the ceiling fan. It began to rotate over their heads and cast flickering shadows on the walls as they worked off shoes and bent to remove their socks. They bumped heads but barely noticed in their haste.
He whipped his T-shirt over his head. Stevie did the same. He reached for the front clasp of her bra and unfastened it, shoving the lace cups aside. He touched her briefly, feathering her nipples with his fingertips, making them instantly stiff.
Eyes trained on them, he unzipped his shorts and let them drop. Stevie shrugged off her bra and removed her shorts. Judd, with some difficulty and a near-comical grimace, removed his jock strap.
Stevie couldn't bring herself to glance down, though she wanted to. She hooked her thumbs into the elastic of her panties, but couldn't bring herself to take them off, either. She looked up at him with silent appeal.