Opposites Attract

have left him.
    “Where have you gone?”
    Asher turned her head to see him standing beside a tray, a bottle of champagne in his hands. Quickly she shook her head and smiled again. “Nowhere.” She cocked her head at the bottle. “All that just for us?”
    He walked to the bed and sat on the edge. “Did you want some too?” The cork came off with a resounding pop as she cuffed his shoulder. With an easy stretch he rolled the tray toward them. “Here, hold the glasses.” Without ceremony he poured champagne until it nearly ran over the rims.
    “Ty, it’ll spill on the bed.”
    “Better be careful then,” he advised as he set the bottle back in the ice. He grinned as she sat cross-legged, balancing two glasses in her hands. The sheet was held in place over her breasts by arms pressed tightly to her sides.
    She returned the grin with a glance of exasperation. “Aren’t you going to take one?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Hooking a finger under the sheet, he nudged it downward, exposing creamy flesh.
    “Ty, cut it out, I’ll spill it!”
    “Better not, we have to sleep here.” He urged the sheet a trifle lower. Frustrated, Asher looked from glass to glass. Wine swayed dangerously.
    “This is a dirty trick, Starbuck.”
    “Yeah, I like it.”
    Asher narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to pour both glasses into your lap.”
    “Terrible waste,” he decided, kissing her. “It’s good stuff. I always found it strange,” he began, lazily kissing her face as he spoke, “that I was bred for beer and you were bred for champagne, but you haven’t any head for it.”
    “I have a perfectly good head for champagne.”
    Chuckling, he brushed his lips over her throat. “I remember one very memorable night when we shared a bottle. Three glasses make you crazy. I like you crazy.”
    “That’s absurd.” The lift of brow challenged him. Without hesitation Asher brought a glass to her lips, losing the sheet as she drank it. Ty watched the linen pool into her lap before she drained the last drop. “That’s one,” Asher announced, lifting the second glass. Ty plucked it from her fingers.
    “Let’s spread it out a little,” he advised, amused. He drank, more conservatively, then reached for the tray of caviar. “You like this stuff.”
    “Mmm.” Suddenly hungry, Asher spread a generous amount on a toast point. Ty settled down to the bowl of cold shrimp and spicy sauce. “Here, it’s good.” Though he allowed her to feed him a bite, he wrinkled his nose.
    “Overrated,” he stated. “This is better.” He popped a shrimp into Asher’s mouth.
    “’S wonderful,” she agreed with a full mouth then chose another. “I didn’t know I was so hungry.”
    Ty filled her glass again. Could anyone else imagine her, he wondered, sitting naked in bed, licking sauce from her finger? Did anyone else know how totally open she could be? She was talking now, in fits and starts as she ate, replaying her match. Ty let her ramble, pleased just to hear her voice, to see her animation. She was satisfied with her serve, worried about her backhand volley.
    Publicly she chose her words with care, and made certain there were few of them. If a reporter could see her now, Ty mused, he’d wear a pencil down to the nub. She was full of joy and doubt, fear and self-congratulation. Words tumbled out without discretion. Her face was animated, her hands gestured. By the time she had slowed down, her second glass was empty. Perhaps she was completely happy, because she wasn’t even aware of the sensation. She was simply at ease, completely herself. Comfortably full, she toyed with the last of the caviar.
    “Are you worried about playing Chuck in the finals?”
    Ty bit into a shrimp. “Why?”
    “He was always good,” Asher began, frowning a bit. “But he’s developed over the past few years.”
    Grinning, Ty tilted more wine into her glass. “Don’t you think I can beat him?”
    She sent him a long, considering look. “You were always good too.”
    “Thanks.” After setting the caviar on the tray, he stretched lengthwise on the bed.
    “Chuck plays a bit like my father did,” Asher mused. “Very clean, very precise. His talent’s polished rather than raw.”
    “Like mine.”
    “Yes. That raw athletic ability is something every competitor envies. My father used to say that you had more natural talent than any player he’d seen in his career.” Over the rim of her glass she smiled down at him. “Yet he always