Opposites Attract

Her head fell back in complete abandonment as they joined. The moan was rich and deep, and from both of them. As one, they were catapulted up, beyond pleasure, into ecstasy.

Chapter 8
    Asher had driven in limousines all her life. As a child she’d ridden behind a chauffeur named George in a shiny maroon car with smoked glass and a built-in bar. George had remained the family driver though the cars had changed—an elegant white Rolls, a sturdy blue Mercedes.
    Lady Wickerton’s driver had been Peter and the car had been an old discreet gray Daimler. Peter had been as silent and as efficient as the car. Asher felt no thrill at being driven in the long black limo toward Wimbledon.
    As they passed through Roehampton, she watched the scenery. Tidy, healthy trees, trimmed shrubs, orderly flowers. In a few hours, she would be in Centre Court. Aching, sweating . . . and winning. This was the big prize. Credibility, prestige, press. They were all at Wimbledon.
    Once before she and Ty had taken the championships and led the dancing at the Wimbledon ball—in that year of her life that had brought complete joy and complete misery. Now she would play her old foe Maria Rayski with all the verve and all the cunning she had at her disposal.
    Though she’d thought her life had begun to come to order with her first win, Asher now realized she’d been wrong. The turning point was today, here in the arena that was synonymous with her profession. She would play her best here, on the surface she knew best, in the country in which she had lived like a prisoner. Perhaps true confidence would begin after this match was over.
    She thought of Ty, the young boy who had once vowed to play and win. Now, in the lush interior of the limo, Asher made a similar vow. She would have a championship season. Reestablish Asher Wolfe
for
Asher Wolfe. Then she would be ready to face the woman. The woman would face the only man who mattered.
    The crowds waited for her and other arriving players. The greetings were enthusiastic. Roaming spectators sipped champagne and nibbled on strawberries and cream. Signing autographs, Asher felt light, confident, ready. Nothing, she thought, could mar such a day. The Fourth of July, the brilliant sunshine, the scent of garden flowers.
    She remembered other Wimbledons. So little had changed. Fans mingled with players, chatting, laughing. The atmosphere was one of an informal tea party with the promise of a spectacle. But she could feel the nerves. They were there, just under the bonhomie, in the young players, the veterans, doubles and singles finalists. Mixing among them were rock stars and celebrities, millionaires and landed gentry.
    Asher saw faces from the past, players from her father’s generation. For them it was a reunion, nostalgia, tradition. There were people she had entertained in Grosvenor Square. For them it was a social event. The dress was summer-garden-party chic—picture hats and pastels. Because yesterdays had to be faced, Asher greeted former acquaintances.
    “Asher, how lovely to see you again. . . .” “What a sweet little outfit. . . .” “How strange it is not to see you at the club anymore. . . .” There was speculation, thinly veiled by stretched manners. She dealt with it calmly, as she had during her three years of marriage.
    “Where’s that old man of yours?”
    Turning, Asher clasped two large hands warmly. “Stretch McBride, you haven’t changed a bit.”
    Of course he had. When he’d first tickled Asher’s chin, he’d been thirty. His face had been unlined, his hair untouched by gray. He’d won nearly every major championship there was to win twice around. Though he was still tall, and nearly as lean as he had been in his prime, the twenty years showed on his face.
    “You always told a lie beautifully.” Grinning, he kissed her cheek. “Where’s Jim?”
    “In the States,” she answered, keeping her smile bright. “How have you been, Stretch?”
    “Just fine. Got five grandchildren and a nice string of sporting goods stores on the East Coast.” He patted her hand. “Don’t tell me Jim isn’t going to be here? He hasn’t missed it in forty years.”
    It was a struggle not to show the pain, much less not to feel it. “As far as I know, he won’t be. I’m awfully glad to see you again. I haven’t forgotten that you taught me the dump shot.”
    Pleased, he laughed. “Use it on Maria today,” he advised. “I love to see Americans win at