Strike to the Heart(3)

I walked up to her. “I’m Zane.”

“Jo.”

I usually preferred brunettes, but I’d make an exception for this blonde. I grasped her hand and she trembled. I rubbed my thumb over her palm. There was interest in her eyes, and it wasn’t just my male ego wanting to see it there.

I took the bottle from her hand and put it on the floor. I gave the slightest tug and she came into my arms, her body molding to mine. My hands slid to her hips and ass—round and perfect.

Jo looked up at me with a question in her eyes and I answered it. I kissed her. She tasted sweet and sexy. I wanted more—so much more. I knew it right then. I also knew if I continued, she was going to balk. I was essentially a stranger, so I couldn’t blame her.

“Let’s get out of here. Do you want to?” I saw her reluctance. “We’ll just get coffee. Talk. No pressure.”

Jo nodded. “I need to tell my friend I’m leaving or she’ll worry.”

I smiled as happy satisfaction broke the sensual spell. “I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

Weaving my way through the crowd, I stepped out into the hall. I needed to pull back and I knew it. I was coming on too strong. I wanted to know this woman. I wanted to know what she was thinking as much as I wanted to know the weight of her breasts.

I waited. As I began to wonder if Jo would stand me up, she was there. “Want to change your mind?” I held out my hand and she took it.

“No, I don’t want to change my mind.”





Chapter 2

Jo

The waitress topped off our cups, all the time eyeing Zane without subtlety.

“How do you know the host?” Zane sipped his coffee without adding cream or sugar.

“The host?” I wanted cream and sugar. And a danish and maybe a latte with caramel swirled on top. But I couldn’t have any of those things.

“Of the party.”

“Oh, I don’t. My friend found out from a friend that a bunch of players were going.”

“I recognized you at the party. I wanted to let you know that.”

Zane’s confession made me tense, but it was honest. At least I didn’t have to wonder. It’s hard—no, make that impossible—for a top-ranked player to roam around unnoticed all the time. I don’t exactly wear a t-shirt emblazoned with Jo Parker-Barrow on the front, but I get recognized anyway and asked for autographs.

If I’m someplace where people don’t follow tennis or I wear a cap and sunglasses, I could actually get pretty far. But in the middle of New York City during the US Open? There was a billboard for athletic shoes in Times Square with my face on it. Going unnoticed was impossible at the moment.

I decided to appreciate his honesty. “Ah, okay.”

“I’m surprised to see you out partying so close to the tournament.”

I stiffened as his statement tapped into the little voice that had been whispering the same thing into my ear. “I don’t play until Tuesday.”

“Still, when I—” He shook his head. “Never mind. Forget what I said. That was rude. You know your job.”

My job. That’s what tennis was. It wasn’t simply a passion or a hobby. It was a job. A full-time, all-consuming job. A never-ending round of traveling, workouts, practice, and promotions. Don’t get me wrong, I love tennis. I love playing. I love the sensation when my racket connects with the ball perfectly and I knew I’d made a great shot. It would unfold right in front of me in slow motion—the action of a split second stretching out over time as the ball traversed the net and headed toward the ground. The crowd would hold their collective breath as my opponent scrambled.

“You’re not saying anything I haven’t already thought,” I admitted, surprising myself. I was usually reserved with my inner thoughts—the real ones, anyway. I’d learned that was best.

Zane grasped my hand. “Give yourself a break. You probably deserve it.”

“If I don’t win my match, I’m going to think of this evening and wonder.”

A mischievous smile split his face. “Then perhaps we need to make it memorable.”

I wasn’t naive. I knew what he meant. Zane wanted to get me somewhere, strip off all my clothes, and make me forget all about the spin on my serve. I was halfway to wanting the same thing. Maybe three-quarters.

The waitress brought the check and struck a pose as she asked if we needed anything else. Her attention was directed completely at Zane, as if I weren’t sitting right there at his table. To his credit, his eyes skipped over the ample bosom on display with no reaction and she flounced off, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

Zane laid down several bills on top of the ticket and took my hand, pulling me out of my seat.