the urge to take advantage of me, you can do it off camera.’
‘In your dreams, Malone.’
‘There’ve been plenty of those, Wilde.’
To his delight, she blushed, dropped her gaze to focus on her fiddling fingers before she removed them from the table, hid them in her lap. He gave her five seconds to compose herself and, on cue, her gaze snapped to his, con fi dent, challenging.
‘You really want to do this here?’ he murmured, grateful when Elliott jerked his head towards the restrooms and made a hasty exit.
‘Do what?’
She was good, all faux wide-eyed innocence and smug mouth. Well, she might be good but he was better. He’d always lobbed back every verbal volley levelled his way, had enjoyed their wordplay as much as their foreplay.
She stimulated him like no other woman he’d ever met and the thought of spending a week getting reacquainted had him as jittery as pre-Grand Slam.
‘You know what.’
He leaned into her personal space, not surprised when she didn’t flinch, didn’t give an inch.
‘You and me. Like this.’ He pointed at her, him. ‘The way we were.’
‘Careful, you’ll break into song any minute now.’
‘Feeling sentimental?’
‘Hardly. I’d have to care to want to take a stroll down memory lane.’
‘And your point is?’
She shrugged, studied her manicured nails at arm’s length. ‘I don’t.’
He laughed, sat back, laid an arm along the back of his chair, his fingers in tantalisingly close proximity to her shoulder.
‘You always were a lousy liar.’
‘I’m not—’
‘There’s a little twitch you get right here.’ He touched a fingertip just shy of a freckle near her top lip. ‘It’s a dead giveaway.’
She stilled, the rebellious gleam in her eyes replaced by a flicker of fear before she blinked, erasing any hint of vulnerability with a bat of her long eyelashes. ‘Still delusional, I see. Must be all the whacks on the head with tennis balls.’
‘I don’t miss-hit.’
‘Not what I’ve seen.’
‘Ah, nice to know you’ve been keeping an eye on my career.’
‘Hard to miss when your publicity-hungry mug is plastered everywhere I look.’
She paused, her defiance edged with curiosity. ‘Is that why you’re doing this? Publicity for your comeback?’
‘I’m not making a comeback.’
The familiar twist low in his gut made a mockery of his adamant stance that it didn’t matter.
He’d fielded countless questions from the media over the last year, had made his decision, had scheduled a press conference. And while he’d reconciled with his decision months ago the thought of leaving his career behind, turning his back on the talent that had saved him, niggled.
Tennis had been his escape, his goal, his saviour, all rolled into one. While he’d originally resented being dumped at the local tennis club by his narcissistic parents, he’d soon found a solitude there he rarely found elsewhere.
He’d been good, damn good, and soon the attention of the coaches, the talent scouts, had made him want to work harder, longer, honing his skill with relentless drive.
He’d had a goal in mind. Get out of Melbourne, away from his parents and their bickering, drinking and unhealthy self-absorption.
It had worked. Tennis had saved him.
And, while resigned to leaving it behind, a small part of him was scared, petrified in fact, of letting go of the only thing that had brought normality to his life.
‘You’re retiring?’
‘That’s the plan.’
He glanced at his watch, wishing Elliott would reappear. Trading banter with Kristi was one thing, fielding her curiosity about his retirement another.
‘Why?’
Her gaze, pinpoint sharp, bored into him the same way it always did when she knew he was being evasive.
He shrugged, leaned back, shoved his hands in his pockets to stop them from rearranging cutlery and giving away his forced casual posture.
‘My knee’s blown.’
Her eyes narrowed; she wasn’t buying his excuse. ‘Reconstructed, I heard. Happens to athletes all the time. So what’s the real reason?’
He needed to give her something or she’d never let up. He’d seen her like this before: harassing him to reveal a surprise present, pestering him to divulge the whereabouts of their surprise weekend away. She was relentless when piqued and there was no way he’d sit here and discuss his real reasons with her.
‘The hunger’s gone. I’m too old to match it with the up-and-coming youngsters.’
‘What are you, all of thirty?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘But surely some tennis champions played ‘til they were—?’
‘Leave it!’
He regretted his outburst the instant the words left his mouth, her curiosity now rampant rather than appeased.
Rubbing his chin, he said, ‘I’m going to miss it but I’ve got other things I want to do with my life so don’t go feeling sorry for me.’
‘Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?’
The relaxing of her thinned lips belied her response. ‘You’d be the last guy to pity, what with your jet-set lifestyle, your homes in Florida, Monte Carlo and Sydney. Your luxury car collection. Your—’
‘You read too many tabloids,’ he muttered, recognising the irony with him ready to capitalise on the paparazzi’s annoying scrutiny of his life to boost the rec centre’s profile into the stratosphere.
‘Part of my job.’
He laughed. ‘Bull. You used to love poring over those gossip rags for the hell of it.’
‘Research, I tell you.’
She managed a tight smile and it struck him how good this felt: the shared memories, the familiarity. He knew her faults, she knew his and where that closeness had once sent him bolting, he now found it strangely intriguing.
‘We need to get together
