Love in Straight Sets Read Online Free Page A

ridiculous. If you think I’m going to completely change the equipment I’ve used for years only months before the Baron’s—” she pointed the offending, half-inch-too-short object at his chest for emphasis, “—you’ve got another think coming.”
    In one swift, decisive movement Ben was behind her, wrapping his hand around her wrist before she could gather the wherewithal to protest.
    “Let me show you,” he murmured, reaching around her shoulders to guide her hands onto the racket’s handle in a backhand grip.
    Shocked into silence by his unexpected touch, Regan’s eyelids fluttered rapidly against the warm, escalating desire that swelled in her sternum. His body was a hard wall of heat at her back, the arms that moved over her own were lean and wiry with muscle, and she caught the fresh, grassy notes of his aftershave cutting through the stale smells of sweat and rubber that pervaded the clubhouse. His scent reminded her of lazy summer afternoons spent watching dragonflies skim the surface of the pond behind her parents’ house, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from giving into the instinct to drop the racket, turn on her heel and press her face against his strong, solid chest.
    “You’d normally hold it here, but if your racket were longer, your hands would be here.” He pried her fingers from the grip and slid them down, his big hands covering hers as he pressed them into position. “Now think about that extra half inch of coverage. That’s a half inch you don’t have to stretch or dive for, and you’ll be a half inch less likely to miss a shot.”
    Tennis was the last thing on her mind as his voice resonated in her ears, her flesh heating so intensely at every point of contact that she was surprised she wasn’t smoking. As the long line of his upper arm crossed her body it brushed her breast, sending her into a state of such hyperawareness that even the slightest sweep of the hair on his bare calf against her own had her breath quickening, her pulse pounding—
    Abruptly he dropped his hold on her and stepped back, and Regan snapped back to the present as if she’d been pushed naked into a snowbank.
    “I’ll speak to Des about ordering new rackets.” Ben strolled to the other side of the net to begin gathering up the balls and dropping them in the machine, and as his officious command finally registered in Regan’s brain, her mouth clamped shut.
    “You most certainly will not,” she called across the court, her barely contained fury giving her voice the shrill, screechy tone that always made her cringe. “Having me hold the racket in a different place for two seconds is not a convincing argument to change everything this close to a Grand Slam. I’m surprised any coach working at this level would suggest such a thing.”
    “I thought Des told you,” he replied, his back to her. When he straightened with a ball in hand, he shot her a dazzling, wry grin that set her heart racing all over again. “I’m not at your level.”
    “No kidding,” she muttered, impatiently tapping her racket against the sole of her shoe while he resumed his task. The view of his behind was almost as good as the front, and she fixed her eyes on the baseline, biting down hard on her lower lip.
    He was right, when it came to professional tennis he wasn’t at her level—in fact he seemed nowhere near it. If she had any hope of boarding that plane from London with a trophy in hand, she had to keep a tight rein on her training—not to mention her stupid, schoolgirl crush.
    It’s just the pressure and isolation of playing at this level with so much on the line. I’m letting it get to me , she decided, rolling her shoulders.
    Ben might have charmed his way through the feisty teenage girls and bored mothers of the amateur circuit, but this was the big league. She was finally in touching distance of the ultimate prize and wasn’t about to let some smooth-talking has-been ruin it with subpar training and