Tempest in Eden

"Thanks so much," she said with dripping sarcasm, taking up several balls and moving to the service line. Warmed up from the earlier game with their parents, she zinged an impressive serve into his court. Before she knew what had happened, the ball was sailing in a straight line across the net to bounce within half an inch of the base line behind her. She muttered a curse.

"Was it in or out?" he called graciously from his side. Was he daring her to cheat and say it was out?

"In," she called back.

"I thought so."

Her mouth was set with firm determination when she applied all her strength to her next serve. It bounced with a spin in the corner of the box and ricocheted in the opposite direction. She didn't have time to gloat. The ball, parallel to the ground, shot like a fighter jet back across the net. She swung wildly, missing it by several feet.

Ian acted far too casual as he twirled his racket like a baton and whistled under his breath. So, she'd been suckered again. Was there such a thing as a tennis shark? Well, there was nothing to do but make the most of it, stay on her toes, and play as well as she could against an obviously superior player.

Though her serves were good, she scored only one point, and that one she felt Ian had given her. Not out of charity. The wicked arch of his brows told her he knew exactly what he was doing. He had given her the point only to heighten her mounting aggravation.

"My serve," he said after he'd won the game.

"I know the rules."

His grin was wide, disarming, charming; she wanted nothing more than to wipe it from his mouth.

"Bad loser?" he taunted.

"Just serve the damn ball."

He shrugged, overlooking her curse word. "Okay."

She never saw it. She saw his arm arc high over his head, saw him go up on his toes, saw his torso stretch, saw his arm sweep downward. The next thing she knew the ball was spinning away from her at a crazy angle.

"Fifteen love," he said in a deadpan voice. She would have much preferred him to shout with glee.

The next serve was just as hard, just as fast, just as lethal. "You're serving too hard," she shouted at him.

"You're not watching the ball. Keep your eye on the ball."

"The ball is a blur," she mumbled under her breath as she assumed her position.

"What did you say?" he called politely, postponing his serve.

"Nothing. Just serve."

The next shot flew dangerously close to her head. "Dammit, you're serving too hard! That thing could have killed me," she shouted.

"You're only mad because I'm aceing you. Do you want to quit?"

"No. But I'm not a target. Don't serve it so hard."

She could tell by his reach that the next one would be worse than the others. Furious, she dropped her racket and spun on her heels. "I'm not going to play anymore with a potential murderer."

Ian didn't have time to curb his momentum. He had overshot his mark, and the ball didn't even bounce before it slammed into the soft cushion of flesh that was Shay's behind.

She cried out sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes. The shocking pain made her nauseous. Her vision blurred. Pain, hunger, and too much sun all combined. She fell ignominiously onto the asphalt in a dead faint.

Chapter Three

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"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Shay, please forgive m me. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The words were low and urgent, whispered and soothing. They fell on her ears like cool raindrops and coaxed her back to consciousness.