Sandra Brown: The Thrill of Victory

"What's the word on the street?"

"Nothing. Her manager read a statement to the press. It amounted to three sentences that don't tell us a damn thing."

"Which hospital is she in?" Judd was already mentally compiling a list of reliable sources in the medical community who would squeal on their own mothers if the money was green enough.

"She isn't."

"Isn't in the hospital?" The adrenaline rushing through his system ebbed. His quick brain applied the brakes and threw everything into reverse.

He coughed another rough laugh and took another drink of the coffee he'd set aside and forgotten. "Leave it to you to blow this all out of proportion, Mike. Cute little Stevie probably had a rough night. As I did."

Ramsey shook his head adamantly. "She had to be carried off the court. This was more than a rough night." He pinned Judd to the chair with a hard stare. ' 'You're going to find out what it was… before anyone else does. And you're going to be playing catch-up ball because the story has already been reported on the radio. Didn't you hear it while you were driving in?"

Judd shook his head. "I didn't turn on the radio.

Headache."

"Figures. Here." Ramsey took a tin of aspirin out of the lap drawer of his desk and tossed it to his most intuitive, incisive reporter, who also happened to be the most exasperating. He kept the stock of aspirin for Judd alone.

"Take three of them, all of them, whatever it takes to get yourself in shape and on the phone or out beating the bushes, but find out what brought on Stevie Corbett's collapse." He jabbed the space between them with his current cigarette.

"I want your story in time for the evening edition."

Judd glanced at his watch. "I kinda had this lunch, uh, thing, set up."

"Cancel."

"No," Judd drawled as he lazily rolled out of the chair, "that won't be necessary. I'll just call the young lady and move our date to mid afternoon.

By then I'll have this Corbett story sewn up and ready to go to press."

At the door, he gave Ramsey a mocking salute.

"You know, Mike, if you don't calm down, you're going to die young."

He left the door standing open. Everyone in the city room heard Mike Ramsey call Judd a name that flattered neither him nor his mother.

Oh, my Lord, you."

Stevie Corbett slumped against her front door, which she had just pulled open. She was wearing a short kimono-style robe that overlapped across her chest and was tied with a self-belt at her waist. The light green silk looked as cool and fresh as a ripe honeydew melon.

The details of her attire were noticed by the sportswriter, her nemesis, and the last person on earth she wanted to talk to at that moment.

"I thought you were somebody else," she said.

"Obviously. Who's the lucky dog you were expecting?" His voice was heavily spiced with insinuation.

"My doctor is sending over some medication.

I thought you were the delivery boy."

"That's what peepholes are for," Judd reminded her, tapping the small round hole in the door.

"I didn't think to look."

"Got your mind on other things, huh?"

She glanced beyond his wide shoulders, hoping for a glimpse of the expected pharmaceutical delivery. "Yes."

"Like making a fool of yourself at Lobo

Blanco Tennis Center this morning."

Her eyes snapped back to his. "As usual, Mr.

Mackie, your choice of words is inflammatory and incorrect."

"Not from the way I hear it."

"The way you hear it? You weren't there?"

She drew a sad face. "What a pity. You would have tremendously enjoyed my humiliation."

He smiled and the lines in his tanned face deepened. "I'm graciously volunteering my shoulder for you to cry on. Why don't you invite me in and tell me all about it?"

"Why don't you go straight to hell?" In contrast to her words, her smile was positively angelic.

"You can read about my ignominious fall in your competitor's column."

"I don't have a competitor."

"Nor do you have any modesty, or scruples, or talent, or taste/'

He whistled. "That tumble you took this morning did nothing to improve your rotten disposition."

"I have a lovely disposition around everybody except you. And why should I? I'm not a hypocrite. Why should I be pleasant to the columnist who writes scathing articles about me?"

"My readership expects me to be acerbic," he said blandly. "My acid wit is my trademark just like this single long, blond braid is yours." He reached out and ran his fingers over the plaited strands, starting at her shoulder and following it down to the curve of her breast.

Stevie slapped his hand away and tossed the heavy, thick braid over her shoulder. "I ducked the press today. How did you slip past?"

"I know who to bribe for home addresses and such. Why are you ducking the press?"

"I don't feel well, Mr. Mackie. I certainly don't feel like swapping insults with you. If I'd known you were on the other side of my door, I Ј| certainly would never have opened it. Please leave."

One question?"

"Why did you faint?'

"Goodbye."

She slammed the door in his face, almost catching the hem of his jacket in the crack. For a moment, she rested her forehead against the wood. Judd Mackie of all people! Only yesterday his column had made snide mention of her playing in the tournament at Lobo Blanco.

"This writer can only wonder what the fashion-conscious Ms. Corbett, who recently got lucky at the French Open, will wear to dazzle her adoring hometown fans," he had written. "If only her backhand had as much swing as her cute little skirts."

For years, since she'd become a top-seeded player, Mackie had taken potshots like that at her. If she won, he credited luck for the victory.

If she lost, he cruelly elaborated on the reasons why.

Sometimes he was painfully correct in his observations.

Those were the times she resented his columns most. He never had a charitable word to say about her either as a person or as an athlete.

Lately, however, she hadn't given his poison pen much room to maneuver. She'd been win ning-most recently The French Open, which had put her halfway to getting the Grand Slam.

Next, Wimbledon. Wimbledon?

Where the very word usually generated expectation and excitement, it now evoked foreboding.

Right now, Judd Mackie was the least of her problems.

Absently she laid her hand over her abdomen and headed toward the kitchen to brew herself a cup of tea. Sometimes drinking something warm made her feel better.

No sooner had she filled the kettle again and set it on the heating burner than her doorbell rang again. This time she wisely used the peephole, but saw through it only the distorted, fisheye view of a prescription bottle. She opened the door.

Judd Mackie was still lounging against the doorjamb, idly shaking the brown plastic bottle of pills in front of the peephole.

Stevie uttered an exclamation of outrage and surprise. "How did you manage that?"

"With a five-dollar bill and my sincere promise to hand-deliver the prescription. I passed myself off as your concerned brother."

"And he believed you?"

"I have no idea. He took the money and ran.

Smart fellow. Now are you going to ask me in?"

Sighing with resignation, she stepped aside.

For several moments after the door closed behind him, they stood regarding each other closely. For all the name-calling and backbiting that had gone on between them over the years, this was the first time they'd ever been alone together.

Well, there had been that one time years ago in Stockholm, but they hadn't exactly been alone and Stevie doubted that he even remembered.

He was taller than he looked from a distance, she realized. Their paths often crossed at local sporting or social or charity events. Sometimes he even waved at her from afar, cheerfully waggling his fingers in a smart-alecky manner that never failed to set her teeth on edge.