Sandra Brown: The Thrill of Victory

So what? He was too old now to think seriously about a career change.

His future, however, wasn't his main concern right now. Stevie Corbett's was. Where had his rival columnist heard about her illness? And how did she feel about the most intimate aspects of her life providing fodder for the sports page?

It didn't take him long to find out.

She exhibited her famous forehand, aiming the tennis racquet directly at his head.

"What the-"

"You bastard!"

He had ducked her first swing at him, then caught the handle of the racquet as she executed an arcing backhand. They wrestled over the racquet.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he shouted.

"You leaked the story. You told me our conversation was off-the-record. You liar! You-"

"I did no such thing."

"Oh, yes you did," she ground out. "You were the only one who knew."

He yanked the racquet out of her hands and threw it to the floor. "Do you think I'd feed the story to my competition? I didn't write the piece.

It was printed in another newspaper. I haven't even read the damn article yet."

Stevie curbed her frustration and fury and thought about that for a second. Why would he give the story to someone else? It didn't make sense. But not much in her life did these days.

"Then how did you know about the article?" she asked suspiciously. "And how did you get past the police?"

Since early morning, her yard had been crawling with reporters. Her manager had finally called the police, requesting that they cordon off her condominium.

' 'One of the patrolmen on duty owed me a favor."

"For what?"

"It has to do with his sister."

She rubbed her forehead. "I don't think I want to know."

"I don't think you do, either. Suffice it to say she sneaked into a locker room one night after a big game and served as hostess for a spontaneous victory celebration."

Stevie stared up at him, shaking her head in dismay. "I believe you. Why would you make up such a sordid tale?"

He took her by the shoulders and guided her back onto the bar stool in the kitchen, where she'd been sitting when he picked the lock on her back door and slipped through. That's when she had begun hurling insults at him and taking well-placed swats at his head with the racquet she had helped design.

"How did that columnist find out about me, Mackie?"

"I don't know. But I intend to learn." He reached for her kitchen extension and punched out a number. He asked for the sportswriter by name. Apparently they were friendly rivals.

"Hey, Mackie here. Congrats on your story about the Corbett broad." Stevie shot him a fulminating look, which he ignored. "How'd you manage to sweet-talk her into revealing the intimate details of her life? Or should a gentleman ask?" Stevie's mouth dropped open. Judd covered it with his hand. "Oh, no? She didn't tell you? Hmm. Her manager maybe?"

Stevie shoved his hand away from her mouth and adamantly shook her head.

"Okay, I give. Uncle. Who talked? Come on, the cat's already out of the bag so you might as well tell me." Stevie watched his brows pull to gether into a steep frown. "Look, you ornery cuss, I busted my buns yesterday trying to track down the reason for her collapse and came up empty. Just tell me who I missed."

He listened for a moment. His frown smoothed out, but he didn't look any happier. "I see. Well, you pulled a fast one on me this time, pal. Don't let it happen again." She overheard the vulgarity that was offered in a friendly, harmless manner. "Same to you. Have a nice day," Judd finished in a singsong voice.

"Well?" she asked as he replaced the receiver.

"A technician at Mitchell Laboratories."

"Where I had the sonargram done," she wailed softly. "I knew no one in my doctor's office would talk. I never thought of someone at the lab."

"Don't be naive. Anybody'll talk if you bait the trap right. Coffee cups?"

"Second cabinet, second shelf.'

"Want some?"

"No thanks. I've had plenty.'

He poured himself a cup and carried it back with him to the bar. He sat down on the bar stool beside her, exactly as they'd been the day before.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

"Fine."

"The circles under your eyes say otherwise."

She had avoided looking directly at him for fear that he'd see she hadn't slept well at all. The truth was that she'd had a very restless night filled with dreams that fluctuated from strange to erotic to terrifying. He'd played a roll in all of them. She was exhausted. But it irked her that he had so tactlessly pointed out how bad she looked.

"Well you look worse for wear, too," she retaliated snidely.

"It was a helluva evening."

"Then what are you doing here? Why aren't you wherever you call home sleeping it off? Or did you come to gloat?"

She noted the tensing around his mouth, indicating his irritation, but he calmly sipped his coffee. "I might be gloating if I'd written the article.

I didn't. If I had, I would have gotten the facts straight."

The starch went out of her then. Gloomily she said, "The way this article reads, I'm finished as a player, and all but dead and buried."

Judd came off the stool so quickly and cursed so viciously that she started in reaction. "Don't say anything like that again. It gives me the creeps."

"Well, I'm sorry I offended your sensibilities," she snapped. "But they happen to be my tumors and I'll talk about them any way I damn well please. If you don't like it, you can leave.

Which isn't a bad idea."

It was a bad idea. The idea of his leaving didn't appeal to her at all. Now that she knew he was innocent of the crime and no longer felt like murdering him, she was really glad to have him around. At least when he was with her, she had to keep her mental reflexes sharpened. That exercised her mind and kept it from dwelling on dismal thoughts.

To safeguard against his knowing how badly she wanted him to stay, she assumed an aloof and hostile expression. "There's nothing you can do here except further aggravate me, so you might just as well go."

"I came to drive you to the hospital."

"I'm not going to the hospital. I told you that yesterday. I've got two weeks-"

"Look, Stevie"

"No, you look, Mackie. This is my life, my decision, and nobody-"

The doorbell rang. "Ms. Corbett!" Someone began shouting through the door. "How do you feel about having cancer and giving up professional tennis?"

"Oh," she cried, "why don't they leave me alone?" Nerves already frazzled, she ducked her head and covered it with her arms.

Eventually the persistent reporter gave up or was hauled away by one of the policemen who were supposed to be guarding against such intrusions.

The house fell silent again. She flinched when Judd laid his hands on her shoulders.

"At least let me get you away from here for a few hours." He swiveled her bar stool around, separating his legs and positioning her knees between them.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"To make up for being such a jackal and sniffing out blood yesterday."

"But you didn't write the story."

"In a way, though, I still feel responsible." She made a scoffing sound. "I know you think I'm a sorry excuse for a journalist," he said, "just like I think you're a sorry excuse for an athlete.

I drink too much, party too hard and have a great capacity for self-indulgence. I'm unreliable and sarcastic. But basically, underneath this ruggedly handsome exterior, I'm a nice guy." ''Oh, sure."

His face broke into a roguish grin that made her tummy flutter. "Give me today and I'll prove you wrong."

She wanted to consent, but hesitated. For all his charm, he might still be working on a story about her. Maybe he was planning an in-depth character profile that would portray her as the shallow "deb of the tennis courts," as he had once dubbed her.