Opposites Attract

her stance for the next serve.
    Her anger had teeth. She could feel it gnawing at her. A photographer zoomed in on her face and captured the contradictory placid expression and frosted eyes. Temper was energy. Asher flew across the court, striking the ball as if it were the enemy. Yet her battle was sternly controlled. No one watching her would realize that she cursed Ty with each stroke. No one but Ty himself. Satisfied, he watched her turn her fury on her opponent.
    Oh, she was fabulous to see, he thought. Those long, slim legs, the strong shoulders. Her form was so smooth, so precise, yet beneath was that excitement, that smoldering passion. She was as she played, he mused, and he wanted her. No one but he knew just how reckless she could be, just how abandoned. The thought had desire moving through him.
    She was the woman all men fantasized about—part lady, part wanton. And his, Ty told himself fiercely. Only his.
    After watching Asher fire a backhand volley past Rayski, he glanced up. Eric’s smile was gone. As if sensing the scrutiny, the Englishman looked down. The two men studied each other as the crowd applauded Asher’s game. Ty laughed, softly, insolently, then walked away.
    Though the match held close to the last point, the impetus Ty had instilled in her carried Asher to the win. She was polite, even charming as she accepted the Wimbledon plate. Inside she was raging. The joy of victory couldn’t penetrate the fury and resentment she was feeling. Ty had turned the tide of her emotions away from Eric and onto himself.
    She wanted to shout. She smiled and raised her trophy for the crowd to see. She wanted to scream. Politely she allowed the army of cameras to snap her. Fatigue didn’t touch her. The ache in her arm might not have existed.
    At last freeing herself from the press and well-wishers, she simmered under the shower and changed. Determination made her remain at Wimbledon to watch Ty’s match. Stubbornness made her refuse to admire his game. Eric was forgotten. Asher’s only thought was to vent her fury at the first possible moment. It took five hard sets and two and a half hours before Ty could claim his own trophy.
    Asher left the stadium before the cheers had died.
    ***
    He knew she’d be waiting for him. Even before Ty slipped the key in the lock, he knew what to expect. He looked forward to it. His adrenaline was still flowing. Neither the shower nor the massage had taken it from him. Wimbledon always affected him this way. As long as he played, winning there would be his first goal.
    Now, the demanding games behind him, the win still sweet, he felt like a knight returning home victorious from the wars. His woman waited. But she wouldn’t throw herself into his arms. She was going to scratch at him. Oh, yes, he was looking forward to it.
    Grinning, Ty turned the knob. He had no more than shut the door behind him before Asher stormed out of the bedroom.
    “Congratulations, Face,” he said amiably. “Looks like I get first dance at the ball.”
    “How dare you say those things to me in the middle of the match?” she demanded. Eyes glittering, she advanced on him. “How dare you accuse me of tanking?”
    Ty set his bag and rackets on a chair. “What do you call what you were doing?”
    “Losing.”
    “Quitting,” he corrected her. “You might as well have put up a sign.”
    “I’ve never quit!”
    He lifted a brow. “Only for three years.”
    “Don’t you dare throw that in my face.” Raising both hands, she shoved him. Instead of being offended, he laughed. It pleased him enormously that he could rattle her control.
    “You did good,” he reminded her. “I couldn’t take a chance on your losing.” He gave her cheek an affectionate pinch. “I didn’t want to open the ball with Maria.”
    “You conceited, overconfident louse!” She shoved him again. “Gramaldi almost took you. I wish he had.” She shouted the lie at him. “You could use a good kick in the ego.” With the intention of storming back into the bedroom, she whirled. Catching her wrist, Ty spun her back around.
    “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
    “No.”
    “Aw, come on, Face.” He grinned appealingly. “Give us a kiss.”
    For an answer Asher balled her hand into a fist. Ducking the blow, Ty gripped her waist and slung her over his shoulder. “I love it when you’re violent,” he said huskily as she pulled his hair.
    To her own surprise—and annoyance—she had to choke back a