Diana Mars - Mixed-Up Matrimony

“She’s eloping with Christopher Kensington, the boy she’s been going with since school started, right after the Notre Dame recruiter checks Chris out.”

* * *

Bronson saw the parking space in front of the Eck Tennis Pavilion and went for it. The spot was right next to Christopher’s Celica—the vanity plates read ACE ME 1.

His quick instinctive maneuvering earned him a loud, enraged honk. Looking behind him, Bronson saw a blond woman raise a frustrated fist at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. He’d cut her off, and was not a damn bit sorry. He had more important things to worry about than hurting the sensibilities of a spoiled rich brat driving her daddy’s brand-new Continental. The fact that he was driving a Porsche did not dawn on him. The only thing that concerned Bronson was finding that thoughtless son of his and teaching him the facts of life—and not the kind he was sure Christopher had been learning from that little hustler he’d met just weeks ago.

* * *

The nerve of the man! Tamara hit the steering wheel with her fist...and regretted it.

Gingerly rubbing her hand, she reflected that there were obviously no gentlemen left. That jerk had seen her aim fulminating looks—and a hand signal or two—in his direction, but had ignored her as if she’d been no more than a pesky fly circling his picnic table.

Well, she had more important things to worry about. And she needed to channel her hostility toward its true source. Sabrina was now a senior, albeit a modified one. Her daughter was so bright she had been able to complete her high school credits in three and a half years—and in a matter of weeks would be a high school graduate.

As she pulled into a no-parking zone, Tamara felt deep pangs of regret. Not only was she losing her baby, but her baby was losing far more. Besides her innocence, Sabrina was forsaking her chance for a promising future, a great education and possibly superstardom.

Young love was wild, impulsive, crazy.

But did it have to be stupid?

* * *

Bronson located Christopher right away. He was down in one of the courts, warming up with a talented youngster. The young boy, a slender blond who was either precocious or small for his age, had a forehand any pro would envy. He was giving Christopher a run for his money.

As the two played points on the farthest court, hitting winners from the baseline as well as the net, Bronson realized his son’s opponent might well be beating him handily if only he had a stronger serve. That—and the slight speed advantage Christopher’s long legs gave him—were the only things keeping him from being blown off the court.

* * *

Tamara looked at her daughter and her eyes grew moist.

Despite her anger, rage and disappointment, maternal pride overrode all other feelings. Sabrina was damn good—better than the boy she was playing. He had muscle, speed and a more developed all-court game on his side.

But Sabrina’s tremendous raw talent and fearless competitive spirit was making the boy run all over the court.

As her daughter hit a cross-court forehand winner, followed in quick succession by a down-the-line backhand and a searing volley, Tamara could not keep from applauding.

A man turned, a heavy frown on a handsome face dominated by incredible blue-gray eyes. Tamara stared him down. She knew it was bad etiquette to cheer, to make any kind of noise when two competitors were on the court.

But this was just a practice match. And if the stranger was one of the coaches evaluating the young man’s talent—a young man who she was in no doubt was the hated Christopher Kensington—well, then, Tamara was happy Sabrina was giving such a good account of herself.

A screaming return down the line brought forth that maternal pride once again, and Tamara found herself applauding—a bit more discreetly this time.

But the man did not take kindly to her partisanship, and he left the railing over which he’d been draped to come to her side.

“Have you ever read the Rules of the Game? ”

His rude, superior tone incensed Tamara. He was the dark-haired boor from the parking lot. His arrogance extended not only to taking other people’s parking spots—next time she’d make sure not to bother extracting a bothersome eyelash until a space was safely under her wheels—but also to instructing hapless onlookers.

Well, she could teach him a thing or two about the rules of the game—and not only in tennis.

“Oh, you mean as in the rules of parking? As in the unspoken rules of etiquette? Well, I guess according to you, take your eye off a parking spot for a millisecond, and voilè ...it’s gone!”

The transformation in the man’s expression would have been funny had Tamara not been so incensed. His next words did nothing to make the day any brighter.

“Oh, you’re the girl— woman —from the parking lot. You’re a lot older than I thought....”

Had Tamara not gone through an emotional wringer for the past few hours, her customary sense of humor might have come to the fore. But this cretin had picked the wrong day to antagonize and insult her.

“And charming to boot,” she told him icily as she straightened to her full five feet six inches.

A dull red tinged the man’s chiseled cheekbones.

“What I meant to say was, I thought you were a teenager, a college student—”

“Oh, and rudeness to young people is excusable?”

“No, what I meant was—” Flustered, Bronson tried to recover lost ground. “If you would do your makeup before you leave the house—”

“My makeup!” That tore it. Not only did Tamara not use makeup—to Sabrina’s eternal dismay—but she would never sit in a car admiring her face in a mirror. Luckily, good genes had provided her with the youthful, blooming quality of a woman ten years younger than her thirty-nine.

“I bet you use your big frame to crowd your way to the front of the line at sport events, or buffets, or bathroom lines. If I’m not mistaken, you also go through the express checkout with thirty items, and pop out a checkbook or credit card.”

His gaze narrowed. “Listen, if I wasn’t busy watching this match—”

“Practice match,” Tamara interrupted. “And apparently you weren’t too damn busy to come over and complain.” Tamara didn’t care if she sounded rude. This man really did rub her the wrong way, and it wasn’t only because he was as good-looking as her ex-husband. She had sworn off handsome men, and this Neanderthal would be on her blacklist...right at the top.

“You should talk,” the man shot back. His eyes kept going back to the match, and he told her, “I’d love to spar with you some more—”

“Don’t bother!”

“—but I’ve better things to do.”

As he turned to leave, Tamara asked sweetly, “Oh, you mean you finally remembered you were scouting that rather mediocre young man?”

Six feet of muscled, lean flesh whipped around on a dime.

“I’m not watching the little guy. I’m watching the six-foot-two genius.”

“You call that genius?” Tamara kept her voice low, because the two teenagers had not noticed their presence, so engrossed were they in their practice match. “He’s just passable—good one-handed backhand, adequate slice and serve, good retriever. That’s about it.”

“Good retriever?” The man once again approached Tamara. “That boy has excellent speed, and a great backhand volley and groundie. His serve clocks in at almost one hundred and twenty an hour on flat ones—and he still has not finished growing!”

Since Sabrina was only five-two—although she’d been projected to grow to a respectable five-seven in the next year or two—height was a sore subject with Tamara.