TWICE VICTORIOUS Read Online Free Page B

not wanting to explain
about waiting for her life's pieces to fall back into place. "Would you like something to
drink?"
    "I'm fine, thanks. How about you? Can I get you anything?"
    She had to chuckle at that. "This is my house, remember. I'm supposed to be the
hostess."
    "But I've got two good legs," he told her, "and it's hard to carry a cup of coffee
when you've got crutches in both hands."
    "Don't I know it." Or anything else. She'd been having a heck of a time
getting anything from one room to another. Finally she'd learned that if she piled stuff on a
towel, then dragged it behind her as she stumped about the house, she could manage.
    "So, can I get you something?" His grin was mocking, but kindly.
    She capitulated. "I'd love a Coke. They're in the 'fridge."
    His eyebrow raised, and she realized he'd never been beyond the living room.
    "That way." She pointed. "At the end of the hall. Glasses are beside the sink."
    While he was gone, she let herself wonder about him. Was that unforgettable kiss
a fluke, or could it be repeated? And did she want to repeat it? The last time she'd got
involved with anyone, it hadn't lasted through the cycling season. He hadn't understood
that everything had to take second place when she was in training. If she wanted to be the
best, she had to give it everything she had, not take a day off whenever he got a notion to
go out and play.
    Would Adam? Or would he feel that he deserved at least as much of her energy
and attention as she gave her cycling?
    Stell leaned back and closed her eyes. Listen to her! All he'd done was kiss her
and she was worrying about how he would fit into her future. He hadn't even showed signs
of wanting to do it again.
    He'd been the one to break it off, not she. And he'd been the first to apologize.
    Suppose he didn't want her at all. Suppose his kiss had been the natural reaction of
a healthy man to an unspoken invitation. After all, she'd practically fallen into his arms,
hadn't she? What had he been supposed to do with her? Drop her?
    By the time he returned with two glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola, she had
herself in hand. "Thank you," she said, taking hers. She shifted her brace to rest on a
magazine on the coffee table and tucked the other leg beneath her. "This is nice. I'm getting
tired of having to sit in the kitchen whenever I want something to eat or drink. When I'm
not on crutches, I have my dinners in here."
    Again that raised eyebrow. "While you watch the news? That's bad for the
digestion."
    "While I watch whatever's on," she admitted. "I do it more for company than
anything. And I usually eat pretty late. After I train."
    He frowned and was silent for a long time. Stell shifted, trying to get comfortable.
Not only did he disconcert her, but her leg felt tired from always being stretched out.
    "Rick said you were training for some international race?"
    "The Sawtooth Classic," she said. "It's just about the biggest women's amateur
race in the world."
    "Something like the Tour de France?" There was still the hint of a scowl on his
face, but his voice was mild enough.
    "Something like that. Thirteen stages, with road races, time trials, a circuit race
and a criterium." She shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position for her leg.
"It's the biggest and best women's race in the world. I was one of the standbys last year,
because I missed an important qualifying race. It was held the first week in April, and I
was hip deep in tax returns." Yes, and was miserable the whole time, wanting to be in
the race so bad I could taste it. "The competition for team positions is pretty
stiff."
    "Like the Olympics," he said, not asking. The flat, hard tone of his voice chilled
her, as if she were sharing the room with an iceberg.
    "Yes, but even tougher to qualify for. The Classic is just as demanding."
    "It's rough," he said, his voice gentle and full of understanding, "to have to give up
something you've worked so hard for."
    Stell stared, unable to