Opposites Attract Read Online Free Page B

determination he saw in his seven-year-old eyes. But Asher’s journey had begun that day, with her father as her guide and her mentor.
    Fourteen years later, after her own defeat in the semifinals, Asher had watched Starbuck’s victory. There had been nothing similar in the style of her father and the style of the new champion. Jim Wolfe had played a meticulous game—cold control with the accent on form. Starbuck played like a fireball—all emotion and muscle. Often, Asher had speculated on what the results would be if the two men were to meet across a net. Where her father brought her pride, Ty brought her excitement. Watching him, she could understand the sense of sexuality onlookers experienced during a bullfight. Indeed, there was a thirst for blood in his style that both alarmed and fascinated.
    Ty had pursued her doggedly for months, but she had held him off. His reputation with women, his temper, his flamboyance and nonconformity had both attracted and repulsed her. Though the attraction was strong, and her heart was already lost, Asher had sensibly listened to her head. Until that day in May.
    He’d been like a god, a powerful, mythological warrior with a strength and power that even the biased Italian crowd couldn’t resist. Some cheered him; some cheerfully cursed him. He’d given them the sweat they had come to see. And the show.
    Ty had taken the championship in seven frenzied sets. That night Asher had given him both her innocence and her love. For the first time in her life she had allowed her heart complete freedom. Like a blossom kept in the sheltered, controlled climate of a hothouse, she took to the sun and storm wildly. Days were steamier and more passionate—nights both turbulent and tender. Then the season had ended.
    Now, as Asher practiced in the early morning lull on court five, the memories stirred, sweet and bitter as old wine. Fast rides on back roads, hot beaches, dim hotel rooms, foolish laughter, crazy loving. Betrayal.
    â€œIf you dream like that this afternoon, Kingston’s going to wipe you out of the quarterfinals.”
    At the admonishment, Asher snapped back. “Sorry.”
    â€œYou should be, when an old lady drags herself out of bed at six to hit to you.”
    Asher laughed. At thirty-three, Madge Haverbeck was still a force to be reckoned with across a net. Small and stocky, with flyaway brown hair and comfortably attractive features, she looked like an ad for home-baked cookies. She was, in fact, a world-class player with two Wimbledon championships, a decade of other victories that included the Wightman Cup and a wicked forehand smash. For two years Asher had been her doubles partner to their mutual satisfaction and success. Her husband was a sociology professor at Yale whom Madge affectionately termed “The Dean.”
    â€œMaybe you should sit down and have a nice cup of tea,” Asher suggested while tucking her tongue in her cheek. “This game’s rough on middle-aged matrons.”
    After saying something short and rude, Madge sent a bullet over the net. Light and agile, Asher sprang after it. Her concentration focused. Her muscles went to work. In the drowsy morning hum the ball thudded on clay and twanged off strings. Madge wasn’t a woman to consider a practice workout incidental. She hustled over the court, driving Asher back to the base line, luring her to the net, hammering at her by mixing her shots while Asher concentrated on adjusting her pace to the slow, frustrating clay.
    For a fast, aggressive player, the surface could be deadly. It took strength and endurance rather than speed. Asher thanked the endless hours of weight lifting as she swung the racket again and again. The muscles in the slender arm were firm.
    After watching one of Asher’s returns scream past, Madge shifted her racket to her left hand. “You’re pretty sharp for three years off, Face.”
    Asher filled her lungs with air.