"An outrageous thing to do," she whispered.
"Was it?" He rolled off his spine and came to his feet. He didn't stop moving forward until he had her backed against the countertop. "You were soft and very sweet, Stevie. Your heart was beating so fast. Just like it was last night." He laid his hand against her chest. "Just like it is right now."
"Nothing happened."
He dropped his hand and stepped back. "Because Presley Foster bore down on me and threatened me with castration if I didn't get my hands off you."
Stevie covered her face with her hands, feeling again all the embarrassment she had at that black moment in her life. She had wanted the earth to swallow her whole, so she wouldn't have to endure her coach's censorious glare, Judd's contemptuous smirk or her own scalding humiliation.
"Presley was doing what he thought was best for me," she said miserably. "He was protecting me from getting hurt." 'Were you sleeping with him?"
She lowered her hands and gaped at Judd with horror, her face pale and stricken. "Are you crazy?"
"Were you?"
"No!'* She gulped reflexively. "Is that what you've thought all this time, that I was sleeping with my coach?"
"It crossed my mind."
"You're sick."
He shook his head ruefully. "Just realistic.
I've known of kinkier relationships."
"Then you've been around people I never want to meet."
"Indubitably."
Staring into space, she organized her thoughts.
"Well, this conversation explains a lot. No wonder you've taken potshots at me in your column.
Either you took me for a slut with a lover older than her father. Or I'm just one that got away.
Either way, your phenomenal ego couldn't handle my choosing Presley over you that night, so you carved me to bits in your columns as vengeance."
"One has nothing to do with the other."
I'll bet," she said bitterly.
He grabbed her upper arm. "It was years before I connected the champion player Stevie Corbett with that wide-eyed kid I met at a party in Stockholm."
"When you did, I bet you had a good laugh."
Angrily she pulled her arm from his grip.
Not really," he surprised her by saying.
When I think back to that night, it's with poignancy, not derision. Want to know one of my deepest, darkest secrets? Even if Foster hadn't stopped it, I doubt it would have gone much further than it had."
"Why not?"
"You were so damned young. Innocent. Fresh.
And I… well, I wasn't."
She was almost hypnotized by the sadness in his expression. However, in the nick of time, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously and asked, "If you knew I was innocent and fresh, then why'd you just ask me if I was sleeping with Presley?"
"Oh, I knew you weren't sleeping with him then. You were a virgin in Stockholm, right?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but again discovered that she was too flabbergasted to utter a peep. "But I wanted to know if you had ever slept with him and were still carrying a torch.
Now I know you didn't and you aren't."
Propping her hands on her hips, she glared up at him. "You sneaky lowlife, underhanded son-of a-"
"Before you launch into another round of name calling, could you fix me some breakfast?
This country air has given me a roaring appetite."
"Fix your breakfast?" she screeched.
"That was part of our deal, remember? You cook, I-"
"The deal is off, Mackie. What makes you think I'd stay here with you now?"
"Why is now any different from yesterday when you agreed?"
Last night for one, she thought. And for another, their reminiscent conversation about a shared experience she had hoped he'd forgotten.
She wasn't, however, going to cite those reasons.
"There's been too much water under the bridge. This is never going to work. One of us will end up murdering the other."
"Again, you're demonstrating a real flare for creativity, Stevie. If I get writer's block, I plan on consulting you first." He inspected the refrigerator.
"For right now, juice, toast and coffee will do. When we go to the store later today, remind me to buy bacon and eggs."
"Mackie?"
He came around. "What? And for future reference, you don't have to shout. I'm not hard of hearing."
"And I'm not staying."
He studied her for a moment, a picture of exasperation.
"Fine. The keys to the car are on the hall table. Be careful driving. But before you go, consider this."
He held up his index finger. "One. Your condo will probably still be staked out by the media.
The public will be panting to know whether or not you're going after the Grand Slam. Will you play Wimbledon in three weeks or not? Will you have surgery right away or won't you? What are the consequences if you don't? What's your prognosis if you do?"
"Can you give them answers to those questions, Stevie? No. Because those are the questions you're still grappling with yourself. What better place to arrive at some answers than the peace and quiet of the country, far away from the news hounds and unsolicited advisers?"
Another finger went up. "Two. You look like you need a vacation. You've still got unattractive dark circles under your eyes." His ring finger joined the first two. "Three. I got fired on account of you. The least you could do is cook a few meals for me while I try to hack out a rough draft for a novel. Selling it for publication may be my only hope of supporting myself in the future."
His pinkie sprang up. "And four, nothing infuriates me more than somebody who goes back on his word."
His reasons made sense, especially the first one, but Stevie glared at him mutinously, still not prepared to surrender unconditionally. "I need to practice. Do you realize how rusty I'll get if I don't play some tennis at least once every day?"
"Valid point." Gnawing the inside of his cheek, he considered their alternatives. "When we drive into town, we'll check the public school.
If memory serves me, it's got a tennis court. And since I'm the only famous or near-famous person from around here," he said with a conceited grin, "I think I can finagle permission to use it."
"If you can do that, I'll stay."
"Thank heaven that's settled," he muttered, turning to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee.
"I'll be in the dining room writing. You can bring me my juice and toast in there. I like it lightly browned and heavy on the butter."
"The juice or the toast?"
He was almost to the door when he turned and scowled. "Try and not make any distracting noise."
She was tempted to go after him and deliver a good swift kick to his taut, narrow buttocks.
But she didn't.
One evening over dinner, Stevie contentedly remarked that these were halcyon days. Judd gave her a reproving look and said, "You'll never make a writer if you resort to cliches like that."
Despite his teasing, that was the adjective that best described their days. She awoke early and puttered around in the yard. The mint growing near the back porch was thriving. She'd carefully weeded around long neglected, but stalwart, periwinkles, which were now profusely blooming in shades of pinks and purples in front of the house.
On one of their trips into town, she'd bought a package of zinnia seeds. They'd been planted and were already sprouting. She enjoyed watching the vibrant green shoots grow, thriving in the rich east Texas soil. Stevie regretted that she wouldn't be around to enjoy their brilliant blossoms.
Judd was a late and grumpy riser. Each morning he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself coffee she had brewed. It took at least three cups to make him civil. He then retired to the dining room to work on his novel. Later she would take him toast or cereal, but as often as not when she silently checked from the archway, it was still on the tray, untouched.