Opposites Attract

Wimbledon. Tell your old man hello for me.”
    “Take care, Stretch.” Her smile evaded the promise she couldn’t give. With a parting kiss, he moved away.
    Turning, Asher found herself face-to-face with Lady Daphne Evans. The striking brunette had been one of Eric’s more discreet dalliances, and one of Asher’s more difficult trials. Her eyes automatically cooled, though her voice was scrupulously polite.
    “Daphne, you look exquisite.”
    “Asher.” Daphne skimmed cool eyes over Asher’s brief tennis dress, down long bare legs to her court shoes. “You look different. How odd to find you an athlete.”
    “Odd?” Asher countered. “I’ve always been an athlete. Tell me, how is your husband?”
    The thrust was parried with a quick laugh. “Miles is in Spain on business. As it happens, Eric escorted me today.”
    Though her stomach churned, her face remained composed. “Eric’s here?”
    “Yes, of course.” Meticulously Daphne adjusted the brim of her rose-pink hat. “You don’t think he’d miss this Wimbledon, do you?” Long mink lashes swept down, then up again. “We’re all very interested in the results. Will we see you at the ball, darling?”
    “Naturally.”
    “Well, I must let you mingle, mustn’t I? That’s traditional. Best of luck.” With a flash of a smile Daphne swirled her skirts and was gone.
    Asher fought the nausea, but began to nudge her way through the crowd. All she wanted was the comparative peace of the A locker rooms. The day ahead promised to be enough of a fight without contending with ghosts. With a few smiles and mechanically gracious greetings, she made her way out of the main throng. A few moments to herself—that was what she needed before the stands began to fill, before her strength and abilities were put to the test.
    She knew Eric well enough to be certain he had asked Daphne to seek her out. Yes, he would want to be sure she knew he was there—before the match. As she slipped into the locker room, Asher noticed her hands were shaking. She couldn’t allow it. In thirty minutes she would have to be in complete control.
    When she walked onto the court Asher was careful not to look into the crowd. It would be easier on her nerves if the people who watched and cheered remained anonymous.
    As she attempted to empty her mind of all but the first game, Asher watched Maria Rayski.
    On her own side of the court, Rayski paced, gesturing occasionally to the crowd, tossing comments. Her nerves were undisguised. It was always so, Asher mused. Rayski chewed her nails, cracked her knuckles and said the first thing that came into her mind. In a wary sort of fashion Asher had always liked her. At five foot ten, she was tall for a woman and rangy, with a deadly stretch. Fatalistically Asher recalled she had a habit of badgering her opponent.
    Well, she decided as she chose her game racket, Rayski’s histrionics might just keep her mind off who was, and who was not, in the stands. She eyed the television camera dispassionately. With the wonder of technology, the match would be relayed to the States with only a brief delay. Would her father even bother to watch? she wondered. Silently she walked to the base line for the first serve.
    There was no cautious testing in the first games. Rayski went straight for the jugular. Both were fast players, and while Rayski was more aggressive, Asher was a better strategist. A ball could take ungodly bounces on grass, particularly the lush grass of Wimbledon’s Centre Court. To defend, to attack, required instinct and timing. It also required complete concentration.
    The lead jockeyed back and forth during the first set as the players gave the fourteen thousand spectators the show they’d come to see. Over the elegant, century-old court, they sweated, gritted their teeth and scrambled, not for the enjoyment of those who paid to see, but for the game. Rayski tossed an occasional taunt over the net between rallies. Asher might have been deaf for all the response she gave. She had her rhythm—nothing was going to interfere with it. She placed her ground strokes with deadly precision, charged the net for short angling volleys. Both her form and her energy seemed at perfect peak.
    Everything changed when the women took their seats for the towel-off before the third set.
    Because she had forgotten about everything but the game, Asher’s defenses were lowered. An inadvertent glance up in the stands had her eyes locking with Eric’s. A