Free Love in Straight Sets by Rebecca Crowley Page B

everything except how to counter each move. She’d known nothing but the exhilaration of competition. It was bliss.
    And it was fleeting.
    “I’ve always had to prove something to someone,” she concluded finally. “That’s what sports are all about, right? Winning, losing, moving up in the rankings. If I had no competitive spirit to drive me forward I’d probably quit tennis and take up yoga instead.”
    “I’m not sure yoga would suit you. There’s a lot of lying down and not moving.”
    “Think I should stick with tennis, then?”
    “Well, you’re too short for basketball.”
    Regan wrinkled her nose. “I hate team sports. I don’t play well with others.”
    Ben’s laugh was deep and rich, and it reminded her of the warm caramel sauce her mother drizzled over freshly baked coffee cake. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
    She sniffed in mock offense. “What are you implying?”
    “Not a thing.”
    The faint ping of the elevator sounded from down the corridor. The smile fell from Regan’s face as she remembered what brought them to this point—and what still lay ahead. She dug in her purse for her phone. Although they weren’t yet late, they’d used up most of their early margin and she already had two missed calls and a text from Des. Loath though she was to shatter the strange peace of their powwow on a hotel floor, it was time to face reality.
    When she turned to suggest they be on their way she found Ben watching her, his expression smooth and unreadable. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway his face was a study in masculine perfection, and as his olive-green gaze fixed on her she could feel her own eyes widening in response.
    “Do you still want to know what I think of you after what happened?”
    Regan swallowed her apprehension and nodded.
    “I think you’re strong and smart and fun. I think you’re incredibly brave for telling me about the panic attacks. I want you to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. And I think that all those other opinions you’re worrying about probably aren’t nearly as harsh as your own.”
    She blinked, his words as touching as they were terrifying. How had he seen straight through her?
    She was readying her defensive retort when, without warning, he reached out and brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingers trailing over the bare skin he exposed.
    Her breath fluttered and caught in her throat. Her heartbeat was picking up again, but not with the frantic pounding of anxiety. Instead the adrenaline thudding through her veins carried excitement, arousal and a forceful yet totally unexpected hope.
    Ben’s hand hesitated at the back of her neck, his fingertips lingering at her hairline. His touch was agonizingly light, yet it sent a shower of sparks coursing out from the almost imperceptible point of contact. She held herself completely still, afraid of what might happen—or might not happen—if she made the slightest movement.
    The pressure of his fingers increased until he was cupping her nape, his thumb tracing a tantalizing trail behind her ear. Her chest rose and fell with the rapid hitches of her breathing, her mouth had gone dry and she was sure her taut nipples must be visible through her shirt. Ben’s eyes were hooded with unnamable intent, and they flicked down to her lips before lifting again to meet her own. He swallowed hard and drew her closer.
    She leaned into him slowly, drinking in the scent of his aftershave, savoring the steady guidance of his fingers. The characteristically laid-back, boyish ease in his features had vanished, leaving behind only the strong, angular planes of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t used to disappointment.
    Her hand found its way onto his thigh, bulky with muscle and anvil-hard beneath the cloth of his trousers. The silence between them was so total and heavy with expectation, the scrape of her shoulder against the wall was almost earsplitting as she turned to