Opposites Attract

slow, icy smile spread over his face as he lifted a hand in salute—or reminder.
    ***
    What the devil’s wrong with her? Ty asked himself. He shifted closer to the edge of his seat and studied Asher with narrowed eyes. She’d just dropped two games straight, the second one on a double fault. True, Rayski was playing superbly, but so had Asher—until the third set. She was playing mechanically now, as if the life had gone out of her. Too often she was missing basic shots or failing to put anything extra on a return. Rayski’s serve was not her strongest weapon, yet she was repeatedly breezing service winners past Asher.
    If he didn’t know her better, he would have sworn Asher was tanking the match. But Asher wasn’t capable of deliberately losing.
    Carefully Ty watched for signs of an injury. A strained muscle or twisted ankle would explain the change in her. She gave no sign of favoring a leg. The composure on her face was as perfect as a mask. Too perfect, Ty reflected as the third game went to fifteen-love. Something was definitely wrong, but it wasn’t physical. Disturbed, he quickly scanned the crowd.
    There were dozens of faces he knew, some by name, some by reputation. There was an award-winning actor he’d once played a celebrity tourney with. Ty had found him an earthy man with a credible forehand. He recognized the ballet star because Asher had once dragged him to see
The Firebird.
Beside the ballerina was a country-western singer with a crossover hit. Ty passed over them, looking for an answer. He found it sitting near the Royal Box.
    There was a cool, satisfied smile on Eric’s face as he watched his ex-wife. Beside him, a thin, flashy woman in a rose-colored hat looked bored. Rage rose in Ty instantly. His first instinct was to yank Eric up by his five-hundred-dollar lapels and rearrange the expression on his face with his fists.
    “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, already rising. The hand that grasped his wrist was strong.
    “Where are you going?” Madge demanded.
    “To do something I should’ve done three years ago.”
    Still clinging to his arm, Madge twisted her head to follow the direction of his eyes. “Oh, boy,” she said under her breath. Through her fingertips she could feel Ty’s temper. Only briefly did she consider the personal satisfaction she would gain from letting Ty do what he wanted. “Hold on,” she snapped between her teeth. “Listen to me. Punching him out isn’t going to do anything for Asher.”
    “The hell it won’t,” he retorted. “You know why he’s here.”
    “To upset her,” Madge managed calmly enough. “Obviously he’s succeeding. Go talk to her.” A strong man might have cringed from the blazing look Ty turned on her. Madge merely arched a brow. “You want to start a fight, Starbuck, do it after the match. I’ll referee. Right now, use your head.”
    His control didn’t come easily. Madge watched him struggle for it, lose it, then finally win. Though his eyes were still stormy, the hand under hers relaxed. “If talking doesn’t work,” he said flatly, “I’m going to break him in half.”
    “I’ll hold your coat,” she promised before Ty slipped away.
    Knowing he’d have only a moment, Ty decided to use words sparingly—and make them count. After losing the game without making a point, Asher slumped into her chair. She didn’t see Ty waiting for her.
    “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
    Her head jerked up at the harsh tone. “Nothing.” She was tired, already defeated as she mopped at the sweat on her face.
    “You’re handing the match to Rayski on a platter.”
    “Leave me alone, Ty.”
    “Going to give him the satisfaction of watching you fall apart in front of fourteen thousand people, Face?” There was sarcasm without a trace of sympathy in his voice. He noted the quick, almost indiscernible flash in her eyes. He’d wanted to see it. Always, she played better if there was anger beneath the ice.
    “I never thought I’d see you tank a match.”
    “Go to hell.” Whirling, she stalked back to the base line. Nobody, she thought as she waited for Rayski to take position, nobody accused Asher Wolfe of tanking. Rayski crouched in her pendulum receiving stance while Asher gave the ball a few testing bounces. Tossing it, she drew back her racket and lunged. The effort of the serve came out in a force of breath. The finely pulverized chalk at the base line rose on contact. Without giving the ace a thought, Asher took