Diana Mars - Mixed-Up Matrimony

But then Sabrina’s stance softened slightly, and she added, “Okay, Mother, we’ll meet you. But at our South Bend motel room.”

Pinning Christopher with a laser look, Bronson roared, “Your motel room?”

“You’ve always emphasized the value of a dollar, Dad,” Christopher said, the mixture of defiance and defensiveness in his posture revealing his extreme youth. “And you have to admit, one room is cheaper than two.”

Instinctively placing a hand on Bronson’s arm, which felt like corded steel under her cold fingers, Tamara jumped in verbally before Bronson could jump his son physically. “Wouldn’t it be better if we ate first?”

Noticing that Bronson’s words had further unified and alienated the kids, she suggested two of Sabrina’s favorite foods, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice. “How about getting some pizza, or maybe a steak with fries?”

“You know I don’t eat that greasy food anymore, Mother. Besides clogging the arteries, it’s bad for my quickness on court. We’ll meet you at the Knight’s Inn—or not at all.”

Tamara looked at Bronson, and would have laughed if she had not felt so much like crying. Apparently not a man used to remaining quiet, he looked as if he were about to suffer from apoplexy. His strong features were red and strained, and his blue-gray eyes shot off silver sparks. But there was deep pain behind them, which he was trying very hard to keep from his son.

Tamara felt a huge lump in her throat, and had to blink back a burning moisture from her own eyes. She and Bronson had more in common than she’d thought at first. They would really have to get on the same page if they were to divert disaster.

“Is that okay with you, Mr. Kensington?” she asked softly.

Bronson looked at her with a distant expression, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Shaking his head, he told her, “Please call me Bronson. And no, it’s not okay with me—”

Seeing Tamara’s warning look, he smiled wearily at her, and added, “But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The children grinned at each other, acting as if they had won a major victory.

Tamara’s throat closed again. How young and naive they were. They could win as many battles as they wanted, as long as she and Bronson won the war.

Putting his arm protectively around Sabrina’s shoulder, Christopher told her gently, “Come on, Bree. I’ll walk you to the locker room.” Over his shoulder, he tossed at his father, “We’ll see you two outside when Bree is done.”

Not only did Bronson’s large fists clench, but his whole body seemed to tense. Tamara feared again that father would attack son, and teach him a thing or two about manners.

Thankfully, Bronson was able to maintain control. She noticed the painfully visible way he forced his body to relax.

As the kids headed toward the locker rooms, Bronson muttered, “How touching.”

Tamara swallowed, unable to speak. Turning to her and correctly interpreting her look of fear, Bronson gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to kill my son. Yet.”

Tamara nodded. “Good. My daughter would never forgive you.” Carefully keeping her expression and tone neutral, she asked, “Do you think we could speak for a moment? Outside?”

“Going to beat me up? Go ahead. Take your best shot. You’re right—I am at fault, if my son can act like such an ass.”

“Let’s refrain from violence and assigning blame just yet, shall we?” Tamara suggested, warming to Bronson Kensington despite herself. Although she wanted to be on his good side and seek his support for the matter at hand, she did not want to like him too much. All they had in common was the children—whom they were obviously both crazy about—and they needed a temporary alliance in order to separate them. Anything beyond putting aside their common distrust and uniting for the matter at hand was out of the question.

Although she resisted generalizing, in her own experience—which had culminated in her marriage to Robert—good-looking men were too attached to their own refletions. What made Bronson even more dangerous was that he seemed quite different from her ex-husband. And that was a problem: he was already causing curls of awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could she deal properly with this crisis if she behaved in the same adolescent manner as Brina?

Putting on the car coat she had taken off when she’d entered the tennis lobby, Tamara took a quick look at the framed pictures of the Notre Dame tennis teams, men’s and women’s.

“How can they think of throwing all this away?” Tamara murmured, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Maybe because they’ve both been so spoiled they don’t know what life is really like,” Bronson answered softly, his eyes taking in the smiling faces of the women’s tennis team as they posed around the NCAA Championship sign.

About to protest, Tamara desisted. Maybe there was some truth in what he’d said. It would certainly be food for thought, when she had a free minute to dwell on it.

Right now they had to make sure they would be able to leave this campus with their respective children in tow.

And for that they would have to utilize all of their combined wiles and experience.

As they turned away from the pictures, Bronson touched Tamara’s shoulder gently with his hand, and she found she liked its strength and assurance. Fighting against the pleasing sense of companionship his contact aroused, Tamara once again reminded herself of why she’d rushed over to Notre Dame.

And she reminded herself that Bronson was Christopher’s father. Right now, he represented the enemy camp. If he happened to have more substance than Robert, well, she’d have to deal with it. He was fighting for his kid; she was fighting for hers.

His next words addressed her own sudden craving for some space and oxygen.

“Let’s go outside, shall we? I really need some fresh air.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Tamara looked at the spot where her car had been. Carjacking? In South Bend? On the venerable Notre Dame campus?

Tamara turned outraged eyes on Bronson and caught the smile he was trying to hide.

“What’s so funny?” Tamara asked, even more furious. It was bad enough that Bronson had taken her parking space, but now he was laughing at her car’s disappearance!

Speechless, Bronson pointed toward the street that bordered Alumni Field.

Her maroon Continental looked like a wounded animal, suspended from the rear of a tow truck as it labored down Ivy Road.

Burying her head in her hands, Tamara debated whether to laugh or cry.

To say this was not her day would be a vast understatement.

“Need a ride?” Bronson asked, lips twitching.

Tamara gazed at him through narrowed eyes. He looked quite handsome framed against the Eck Pavilion’s geometric entrance. His hair, more brown than black in the pale sunshine, fell rakishly over his forehead, while his opalescent eyes regarded her with renewed interest.

Was he watching to see if she’d crack?

Squaring her shoulders, Tamara shored up her lagging spirits. Too much was at stake for her to come unglued over an inconvenience...even a major one like being left without transportation in Indiana, while she lived in Illinois.

“Thank you, but I think Sabrina can give me one.”

Bronson kept staring at her thoughtfully, and then finally seemed to come to a conclusion.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” Bronson asked with amused resignation.

“Any reason I should? I certainly have not had an easy time of anything today. Why should you?” But Tamara softened her words with a smile. She was curious to see what he had to say.