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That also made sense, Kristin conceded. The French Open was at the end of the month, which didn’t leave much time for planning.
“The CIA figured since I have a tennis background, and I live in London, I’m the logical person to infiltrate the professional tennis locker rooms at Wimbledon and listen for what I might hear about an assassination attempt on the president.”
Kristin made a face. “I haven’t played professional tennis for the past ten years.”
“Neither have I,” Max replied. “Which is why the CIA arranged with Scotland Yard—and the cooperation of the All England Lawn Tennis Club—for an exhibition mixed doubles match to be played prior to opening day at Wimbledon. Since Foster knew you and I were friends when we played junior tennis, he suggested you as my doubles partner.”
“I didn’t know your uncle knew we were friends.”
Max didn’t reply to her non sequitur. He rubbed a hand across his nape and said, “I told him this was a bad idea.”
“Because I haven’t played tennis for ten years?”
“That. And because of what happened between us.”
There it was. The elephant in the room. Kristin said nothing, because she had no idea what to say.
He eyed her and said into the silence, “I knew it would be hard—maybe impossible—for us to work together. But I couldn’t very well explain why to my CIA boss or my uncle. Especially since I’m not quite sure myself what happened.”
He’d contacted her in every way he could after their one night of love. One night of sex, she amended. But she’d refused to communicate with him. It was all water under the bridge. There was no going back. So why speak of it now? Especially since he was right. It would be impossible for them to work together. So why put them both through the agony of trying?
“I presume you’re hoping I’ll get you off the hook by refusing your offer,” she said at last.
He nodded. “I was pretty sure you’d refuse. But I was obliged to bring you the offer.”
“Who will you get if I say no?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find someone.”
Kristin had a pretty good idea who that someone might be. A woman she disliked intensely. But she didn’t say the name, because she didn’t want to discuss what had happened ten years ago. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
“Well? What’s your answer, Princess?” Max said. “Want to play spy with me?”
Trust Max to make a joke of the whole thing. She wasn’t laughing. She met his gaze and said, “You’re off the hook, Max. My answer to your generous offer is no.”
“But—”
“Not just no,” she amended. “But hell no.”
2
Kristin was feeling frantic. Was her daughter a passenger on the flight from Switzerland that had landed at Miami International Airport an hour ago? Or had Felicity found some way to elude her chaperon before the plane took off? Would she be seeing Flick in a few minutes, when she cleared customs? Or had her precocious child managed to run away again?
Kristin paced impatiently at the waiting area for friends and family of arriving American Airlines passengers clearing customs. With any luck, her nine-year-old daughter had gotten on AA Flight 87 from London, which had connected with AA Flight 6485 from Zurich, Switzerland, where Flick had been enrolled in boarding school. The headmistress hadn’t wanted to wait until Kristin could come get her daughter. She’d insisted on putting Flick on the first available flight back to the States with a chaperon from the school.
Apparently, Flick had gotten into a fight with another girl. The headmistress’s decision had been final: Flick was no longer welcome at the school.
It was one more disaster to add to a growing list. How different—how much worse—her life was just seven days after she’d refused Max’s offer!
Over the past week since she’d met with Max Benedict, Kristin had lost weight from her already slender frame, so her cheeks looked gaunt. She had dark circles under her eyes from too many sleepless nights. A glimpse of herself reflected in the glass windows leading outside showed a heart-shaped face that looked haunted.
I should have gone to London, she thought. But making that choice wouldn’t have erased all the problems facing her now. She had to believe she’d made the right choice refusing Max, although his visit had left her feeling slightly anxious and surprisingly sad.
Several of those waiting for family to clear customs watched her warily, despite the fact she didn’t fit any sort of terrorist profile. As usual, her naturally curly blond hair was pinned up tight, although bothersome wisps had escaped. She wore a professional-looking collared white cotton blouse, crisp with extra starch from the dry cleaner, along with navy blue trousers. The matching navy blue jacket hid the Glock 27 she wore in a belt holster and had an inside pocket where she kept her FBI badge.
Although it was questionable whether either gun or badge would still be in her possession after her meeting with the FBI’s Shooting Incident Review Team (SIRT), an FBI version of Internal Affairs, later this afternoon.
Kristin’s glance darted from one individual to the next, automatically surveilling the waiting area. She focused intently on a suspicious-looking man who fit a profile the government wasn’t supposed to be using. His thick black eyebrows rose in alarm before he reached for a giggling two-year-old with black-button eyes and lifted her into his lap, holding her close to protect her from the crazy-looking lady.
So, probably not a terrorist, Kristin thought. Although he likely thinks you might be one. Get a grip. Be cool.
The last thing she wanted was for someone to point her out to airport authorities as a possible threat. That would be all she’d need to make her day perfect.
Why did Felicity have to pick now to get herself kicked out of that Swiss boarding school? Her daughter had refused to tell the headmistress what had provoked the fight. But there was no question of Flick staying after she’d blackened the left eye and broken the left front tooth of the Spanish ambassador’s daughter.
Kristin had faced not one, not two, but three serious traumas over the past week and managed to stay calm and collected. But Flick’s misbehavior, which had resulted in her ejection from school, had just handed Kristin the straw that might break the proverbial camel’s back.
On such short notice, she hadn’t been able to find a nanny or housekeeper she liked to take care of Felicity after school and on weekends while she was on the job. She was going to have to take time off work until she could get the help she needed. Which she didn’t want to do.
She didn’t want the Miami SAC to think she wasn’t able to handle the fallout from the shooting four days ago, which had come too closely on the heels of the shooting four months ago. And been equally disastrous.
You’re invincible, Kristin. Nothing can beat you.
How many times had her father spoken those words to her and her sister on the tennis court growing up? A hundred thousand maybe. She’d never quite believed him. Especially after her older sister, Stephanie, had died in a tragic auto accident at seventeen, leaving Kristin, four years younger, to bear the burden of her sister’s promise as a rising tennis star.
Their mother had long since left their father, because he ate, slept and lived tennis. Kristin had no choice but to try to please her father on the tennis court or be left out of his life altogether.
She hadn’t been as tall as Stephanie. Or as strong. And she didn’t have her sister’s fluid grace. Facts which caused her father endless frustration when he coached her. He was often disappointed in her performance and demanded that she practice to the point of exhaustion.
Which reminded her of the first time she’d met Max.
She’d been thirteen and had qualified to play at Wimbledon in the Girls’ Singles competition. She’d already won her first match, but her father wasn’t happy with her ground strokes. She had a day off between matches, so he’d insisted she spend time after her match practicing with a male hitting partner.
Her exercise clothes were sweat-soaked, despite the cool evening air. Her curly blond hair was bedraggled. She could barely swing her right arm to hit the ball. But until her father was satisfied, she couldn’t leave the court.
“Do it again, Kristin,” he ordered from the sideline. “This time, push through the ball with your whole body.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” she retorted as she slammed a ball down the line.
“That’s out!” he shouted. “By an inch. Keep the ball in the court, Kristin.”
She’d checked her grip and hit three more balls as hard as she could down the line. Every one landed just past the baseline.
“Damn it, Kristin. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m tired, Daddy.”
“You stay here and work until you can get the ball in the court.” He stomped off and left her there.
Her hitting partner shrugged his shoulders and said, “Why don’t we call it quits?”
“You heard him,” she said. “I need to practice.”
“I didn’t plan to be here all night. You’ll have to find someone else to hit with you,” he said as he stuffed his racquet back into his bag.
Kristin stared at the teenage boy in disbelief. “My father is paying you—”
“Not enough,” the kid said. “See you tomorrow morning.”
Kristin stood on the court, her shoulders slumped, knowing she couldn’t head back to the locker room for at least another hour without getting grounded. That was her father’s favorite punishment, and it worked because she hated being confined indoors in some motel or hotel while on the road.
She heard someone behind her say, “Hey, kid. I’ll hit with you.”
She turned around and saw an older boy, with the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen, standing on the opposite side of the court. It took her a moment to recognize him. “I know you. You’re—”
“In need of some hitting practice,” he said with a grin. He retrieved a racquet from his bag and dropped the bag on the sideline. “I was practicing my serve on the next court over. I couldn’t help overhearing your coach. Sounded like he was a little tough on you.”
“My dad just wants me to be the best I can be,” she said. “Aren’t you—”
A tennis ball was coming at her fast and with a lot of spin. She interrupted herself to hit it back. When the ball was on his side of the court she finished “—Max Benedict?”
“That’s me,” he said, whipping the ball back at her. “What’s your name?”
She could hardly believe she was hitting with one of the top five male players on the junior tour. A fifteen-year-old! She took a small backswing and slammed the ball back at him. Max Benedict was also a hunk.
“My name’s Kristin Lassiter,” she blurted. She felt a blush starting at her throat at just the thought of a boy as good-looking as Max being romantically interested in her. Which she knew was ridiculous. He dated older women. As opposed to barely teenage girls, like her.
“You’ve got great strokes, K,” he said as he tried to lob her.
She backed up to get the ball that had been hit high into the air and slammed it back down at him. “My name’s Kristin, not Kay,” she corrected.
“The letter K’s easier to say,” he replied as he ran for her overhead and snapped it back down at her.
Kristin struggled to get out of the way, so she could return the ball, but she was tired and her feet wouldn’t move. “Ah!” she cried as she swung and missed.
“Finally!” he said as he trotted to the net. “I was beginning to think you’d never miss.”
She crossed to the net, shoving flyaway curls off her face. “I miss plenty. Just ask my father.”
“You’re great, kid. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“Why would I lie?”
She eyed him askance. “I don’t know. Why are you playing with me? I mean, you’re really a great player. And you’re two years older than me.” She flushed at having revealed that she knew his age.
“You remind me of my younger sister, Lydia,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s thirteen, too. I couldn’t imagine Lydia putting up with a tenth of what your dad put you through tonight. I’ve had my own problems with well-intentioned parents. I guess I wanted to help.”
Kristin rose to her father’s defense. “He just wants me to win.”
“There are more important things than winning,” Max said.
“Name one thing,” she challenged.
“Having fun. Enjoying the game,” he replied.
“It wouldn’t be much fun if I didn’t win,” she pointed out.
“Wouldn’t it?”
She made a face. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it much. I’ve been too focused on winning.”
“Next time you play, think about having a good time. And winning,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Gotta go.” He winked at her and waved a hand at someone behind her.
When she turned to look, she saw a female player—someone on the women’s tour, rather than the junior tour—waiting for him on the sideline. He dumped his racquet in his bag, stalked over to the woman and kissed her on the lips.
He never looked back.
That was all it had taken for Max Benedict to capture her heart. A few minutes hitting tennis balls together. A considerate word of encouragement. A stray curl tucked behind her ear. A wink as he walked off the court. She’d loved him from that moment on.
Kristin grunted with disgust, then realized she was standing in an airport waiting area full of people who might wonder what she found so disgusting. She grimaced and crossed to stare out the windows at the traffic crawling by. What a fool she’d been all those years ago. She’d been well aware her feelings of love weren’t mutual. To Max, she’d been a substitute for the little sister he apparently missed while traveling on the tour.
He’d often come to hit with her on the practice court during that summer at Wimbledon, at times when her father wasn’t around.
Max made her believe in herself. He made her believe she could have fun on the tennis court. He made her believe she could win.
She became invincible.
She won the Girls’ Singles Championship that summer at Wimbledon and the next two years, as well. She won at Roland Garros in Paris. And she was the Girls’ Singles U.S. Open Champion at thirteen, fourteen and fifteen. She was the bright future of American tennis. The public was fascinated by the tall, honey-blonde phenom, a killer without mercy on the tennis court—who looked like an angel off of it.
Her tennis career ended abruptly at age sixteen, when she lost in the Wimbledon Girls’ Singles Championship match to the rival she’d beaten the previous two years. When she’d discovered, with frightening, daunting clarity, that she wasn’t so invincible after all.
Kristin heard a commotion and turned around.
“Mom?” Felicity burst into tears as she bolted out of the doorway from customs.
Kristin barely had time to take two steps and open her arms before her daughter threw herself into them. She could feel Flick trembling and felt her insides clench at the sound of her daughter’s wrenching sobs. She tightened her grip to offer comfort. Why was Flick so distraught? What was going on?
“Mrs. Lassiter?” the chaperon who’d accompanied Flick through customs inquired. The elderly woman was small and compact and wore a tailored wool suit that might have been comfortable in Switzerland but looked out of place in Miami.
“I’m Special Agent Lassiter,” Kristin said, to avoid having to explain that it was Ms. not Mrs., since she’d never been married.
“There was an incident on the plane—”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Flick protested. “I told them I didn’t want anything to eat, but they wouldn’t believe me.” Flick was tall for her age, and because her vocabulary was so grandiloquent—Flick’s own description of her extravagantly colorful speech—she was often mistaken for a child far older than she was.
Kristin could imagine the rest. “I’ll be glad to pay for any damages.”
