Opposites Attract

pleasure to feel the tiny pulse jump erratically. “So,” he murmured softly, “Lady Wickerton graces the courts again.”
    “Ms. Wolfe,” Asher corrected him stiffly. “I’ve taken my maiden name back.”
    His glance touched on her ringless hands. “The divorce is final?”
    “Quite final. Three months ago.”
    “Pity.” His eyes had darkened with anger when he lifted them back to hers. “A title suits you so well. I imagine you fit into an English manor as easily as a piece of Wedgwood. Drawing rooms and butlers,” he murmured, then scanned her face as if he would memorize it all over again. “You have the looks for them.”
    “The reporters are waiting for you.” Asher made a move to her left in an attempt to brush by him. Ty’s fingers clamped down.
    “Why, Asher?” He’d promised himself if he ever saw her again, he wouldn’t ask. It was a matter of pride. But pride was overwhelmed by temper as the question whipped out, stinging them both. “Why did you leave that way? Why did you run off and marry that damn English jerk without a word to me?”
    She didn’t wince at the pressure of his fingers, nor did she make any attempt to pull away. “That’s my business.”
    “
Your
business?” The words were hardly out of her mouth before he grabbed both her arms. “
Your
business? We’d been together for months, the whole damn circuit that year. One night you’re in my bed, and the next thing I know you’ve run off with some English lord.” His control slipped another notch as he shook her. “I had to find out from my sister. You didn’t even have the decency to dump me in person.”
    “Decency?” she tossed back. “I won’t discuss decency with you, Ty.” She swallowed the words, the accusations she’d promised herself never to utter. “I made my choice,” she said levelly, “I don’t have to justify it to you.”
    “We were lovers,” he reminded her tightly. “We lived together for nearly six months.”
    “I wasn’t the first woman in your bed.”
    “You knew that right from the start.”
    “Yes, I knew.” She fought the urge to beat at him with the hopeless rage that was building inside her. “I made my choice then, just as I made one later. Now, let me go.”
    Her cool, cultured control had always fascinated and infuriated him. Ty knew her, better than anyone, even her own father—certainly better than her ex-husband. Inside, she was jelly, shuddering convulsively, but outwardly she was composed and lightly disdainful. Ty wanted to shake her until she rattled. More, much more, he wanted to taste her again—obliterate three years with one long greedy kiss. Desire and fury hammered at him. He knew that if he gave in to either, he’d never be able to stop. The wound was still raw.
    “We’re not finished, Asher.” His grip relaxed. “You still owe me.”
    “No.” Defensive, outraged, she jerked free. “No, I don’t owe you anything.”
    “Three years,” he answered, and smiled. The smile was the same biting challenge as before. “You owe me three years, and by God, you’re going to pay.”
    He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back so that Asher had no choice but to meet the huddle of reporters head-on.
    “Asher, how does it feel to be back in the States?”
    “It’s good to be home.”
    “What about the rumors that you’re going to play professionally again?”
    “I intend to play professionally beginning with the opening of the European circuit in Rome.”
    More questions, more answers. The harsh glare of a flash causing light to dance in front of her eyes. The press always terrified her. She could remember her father’s constant instructions: Don’t say any more than absolutely necessary. Don’t let them see what you’re feeling. They’ll devour you.
    Churning inside, Asher faced the pack of avid reporters with apparent ease. Her voice was quiet and assured. Her fingers were locked tightly together. With a smile she glanced quickly down the hall, searching for an escape route. Ty leaned negligently against the wall and gave her no assistance.
    “Will your father be in Rome to watch you play?”
    “Possibly.” An ache, a sadness, carefully concealed.
    “Did you divorce Lord Wickerton so you could play again?”
    “My divorce has nothing to do with my profession.” A half-truth, a lingering anger, smoothly disguised.
    “Are you nervous about facing young rackets like Kingston and old foes like Martinelli?”
    “I’m looking