Читать книгу Mixed-Up Matrimony - Diana Mars - Страница 5

Notre Dame’s famed Golden Dome loomed straight ahead, gleaming under the rays of an autumn sun.

Bronson Kensington looked at it with mounting frustration. Ever since he’d received the call from Brandy Cavanaugh, his cousin and head tennis coach at Deerbrook High, fury at his only child had mounted.

How dare he? How could Christopher have done this to him? Even dared consider it?

As Bronson drove around the Courtney Tennis Center—the impressive Irish outdoor facility—he bitterly reflected that he would have loved having the opportunity to attend a school with the tradition, name-recognition and academic excellence that this South Bend university boasted.

Unlike his wealthy cousin, Bronson had been forced to settle for two years at a community college, after which he’d been able to transfer to Central Illinois College. He’d learned the hard way that top jobs were acquired through connections.

For his son, his pride and joy, Bronson wished the world. He wanted Christopher’s college years to be worry free, a golden time in his life he could look back on fondly.

As Bronson searched for a racy red Toyota Celica, he rocked his lower jaw from side to side. It was sore and stiff from his nervous grinding of teeth ever since he’d gotten the phone call from Brandy earlier in the day....

“Bronson, sorry to bother you at work—” she’d begun.

“What is it, Brandy?” Bronson had asked, alarmed. Although he and his cousin were close, their busy schedules meant they seldom had time to see each other, and Brandy would not call unless it was something urgent. “Christopher! Is he hurt? Was he in an accident? Did he—?”

“Hold on, hold on, Bronson,” Brandy Cavanaugh said in a soothing tone.

“What, then? My parents?” Bronson had been feeling uneasy lately, but he’d attributed the vague, free-floating anxiety to the inevitable worry that accompanied rearing a teen.

“No, you were right the first time. It’s Christopher—”

“Did he get into a fight? If so, I’m going to tan his hide so hard he’ll think he spent a week in the tropics—”

“If you’d just let me get a word in...” Brandy gently admonished.

Bronson took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll calm down.”

Hearing Brandy’s hesitation at the other end, Bronson felt his heart race and his palms sweat.

“You know I’ve had some of the boys work with the girls, to prepare them for the conference meets, and state.”

Visions of Christopher overpowering some fragile junior girl crowded his vision, turning it red. With his serve, his son could really hurt someone.

As if reading his mind, Brandy said, “And no, he didn’t mouth off, or nail someone on the court. I only let him hit with my top varsity player, Sabrina. And she can hold her own.”

Bronson had heard Christopher’s wild ravings about the number one girl player at the beginning of the school year, when Christopher had confided in his father his hopes of being accepted into Notre Dame. That had been before the deluge for orders at the factory, when Bronson had been forced to put in twelve-hour days and seven-day weeks at work just to keep up with the demand. He’d been trying to come home earlier the past couple of weeks, but lately his son never seemed to be home.

Impatient to get to the bottom of this, Bronson looked at his watch. A client was due any moment.

“Okay, so he’s not hurt, and he didn’t harm anyone. So what’s the big deal?”

“Did Christopher mention a girl named Hayward? Sabrina Hayward?”

“Yeah. He enthused about her when school started, but he hasn’t said anything lately.”

The silence at the other end of the line grew ominous.

Clenching his teeth, Bronson asked with deceptive mildness, “What does this Sabrina Hayward have to do with Christopher?”

“I’d noticed how friendly Christopher and Sabrina had become during practice, but I thought they were just friends. It’s quite common for competitors at their level to seek other juniors who can identify with the pressure they are under.” From Brandy’s gentle tone, Bronson could tell that his cousin was warning him to keep cool. But she’d better not talk about pressure. Pressure was working your way through school, and not knowing if there would be enough money to eat, let alone graduate. “They were supposed to hit together this morning with my assistant coach, since Christopher was being scouted at Notre Dame this afternoon and Sabrina has a tough invite coming up. Well, my assistant coach called in sick this morning. Imagine my surprise when I went over to the courts, and neither Christopher nor Sabrina was there.”

Bronson’s insides clenched into a rigid knot. “And?”

“I was worried, because they are both good students and responsible athletes.”

Bronson could tell his cousin was trying to soften the blow that was coming. But all she did was heighten the suspense...and it was killing him.

“Out with it, Brandy! Why isn’t my son in school?”

“I made some discreet inquiries, and finally found out that Christopher was certain he’d get a scholarship from Notre Dame, and he wanted Sabrina to be with him.”

Brandy paused for a moment before delivering the final blow. “They’ve decided to elope.”

* * *

Tamara Hayward finally located the object of her frantic search: a late-model, shiny black Mustang. How could Sabrina have been so inconsiderate?

After all the late-night talks they’d had, after all the times Sabrina had deplored the subservient attitude of many of the cheerleaders at her school—as well as some of the other young women—who chased the football players like groupies, neglecting their own studies and ambitions simply to be part of a group, to belong, to make sure they would have a warm body on that all-important teenage altar, the Saturday night date—how could Sabrina have pulled a stunt like this?

When Meghan Donahue had stopped by the house that morning, Tamara had been in a rush. She’d overslept, which was unusual in itself, because even though Tamara was not a morning creature, she practiced punctuality like a religion—and she had been surprised to open the door so early in the day to her daughter’s best friend.

“Hi, Meghan. Did your car break down?”

Meghan had looked at the floor in the living room as if it contained the answer to life’s riddles.

“No, Mrs. Hayward. Sabrina swore me to secrecy, and I hate to betray her like this....”

Tamara had looked down at the girl’s curly red hair and felt the first stirrings of doubt.

“What is it, Meghan? I know you only have Brina’s best interests at heart, and I’m sure she won’t mind your telling me. Is she flunking something? Did she get called into the principal’s office?”

Meghan’s hazel eyes were positively tortured as she raised her head and looked at Tamara.

“Sabrina is going to hate me for this, and I know she will never count me as her friend again, but I just have to—”

Alarmed, Tamara grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “Yes, Meghan. What is it? Is she sick? Did she get into a car accident?”

“She’s eloping with Christopher Kensington, the boy she’s been going with since school started, right after the Notre Dame recruiter checks Chris out.”

* * *

Bronson saw the parking space in front of the Eck Tennis Pavilion and went for it. The spot was right next to Christopher’s Celica—the vanity plates read ACE ME 1.

His quick instinctive maneuvering earned him a loud, enraged honk. Looking behind him, Bronson saw a blond woman raise a frustrated fist at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. He’d cut her off, and was not a damn bit sorry. He had more important things to worry about than hurting the sensibilities of a spoiled rich brat driving her daddy’s brand-new Continental. The fact that he was driving a Porsche did not dawn on him. The only thing that concerned Bronson was finding that thoughtless son of his and teaching him the facts of life—and not the kind he was sure Christopher had been learning from that little hustler he’d met just weeks ago.

* * *

The nerve of the man! Tamara hit the steering wheel with her fist...and regretted it.

Gingerly rubbing her hand, she reflected that there were obviously no gentlemen left. That jerk had seen her aim fulminating looks—and a hand signal or two—in his direction, but had ignored her as if she’d been no more than a pesky fly circling his picnic table.

Well, she had more important things to worry about. And she needed to channel her hostility toward its true source. Sabrina was now a senior, albeit a modified one. Her daughter was so bright she had been able to complete her high school credits in three and a half years—and in a matter of weeks would be a high school graduate.

As she pulled into a no-parking zone, Tamara felt deep pangs of regret. Not only was she losing her baby, but her baby was losing far more. Besides her innocence, Sabrina was forsaking her chance for a promising future, a great education and possibly superstardom.

Young love was wild, impulsive, crazy.

But did it have to be stupid?

* * *

Bronson located Christopher right away. He was down in one of the courts, warming up with a talented youngster. The young boy, a slender blond who was either precocious or small for his age, had a forehand any pro would envy. He was giving Christopher a run for his money.

As the two played points on the farthest court, hitting winners from the baseline as well as the net, Bronson realized his son’s opponent might well be beating him handily if only he had a stronger serve. That—and the slight speed advantage Christopher’s long legs gave him—were the only things keeping him from being blown off the court.

* * *

Tamara looked at her daughter and her eyes grew moist.

Despite her anger, rage and disappointment, maternal pride overrode all other feelings. Sabrina was damn good—better than the boy she was playing. He had muscle, speed and a more developed all-court game on his side.

But Sabrina’s tremendous raw talent and fearless competitive spirit was making the boy run all over the court.

As her daughter hit a cross-court forehand winner, followed in quick succession by a down-the-line backhand and a searing volley, Tamara could not keep from applauding.

A man turned, a heavy frown on a handsome face dominated by incredible blue-gray eyes. Tamara stared him down. She knew it was bad etiquette to cheer, to make any kind of noise when two competitors were on the court.

But this was just a practice match. And if the stranger was one of the coaches evaluating the young man’s talent—a young man who she was in no doubt was the hated Christopher Kensington—well, then, Tamara was happy Sabrina was giving such a good account of herself.

A screaming return down the line brought forth that maternal pride once again, and Tamara found herself applauding—a bit more discreetly this time.

But the man did not take kindly to her partisanship, and he left the railing over which he’d been draped to come to her side.

“Have you ever read the Rules of the Game?”

His rude, superior tone incensed Tamara. He was the dark-haired boor from the parking lot. His arrogance extended not only to taking other people’s parking spots—next time she’d make sure not to bother extracting a bothersome eyelash until a space was safely under her wheels—but also to instructing hapless onlookers.

Well, she could teach him a thing or two about the rules of the game—and not only in tennis.

“Oh, you mean as in the rules of parking? As in the unspoken rules of etiquette? Well, I guess according to you, take your eye off a parking spot for a millisecond, and voilè...it’s gone!”

The transformation in the man’s expression would have been funny had Tamara not been so incensed. His next words did nothing to make the day any brighter.

“Oh, you’re the girl—woman—from the parking lot. You’re a lot older than I thought....”

Had Tamara not gone through an emotional wringer for the past few hours, her customary sense of humor might have come to the fore. But this cretin had picked the wrong day to antagonize and insult her.

“And charming to boot,” she told him icily as she straightened to her full five feet six inches.

A dull red tinged the man’s chiseled cheekbones.

“What I meant to say was, I thought you were a teenager, a college student—”

“Oh, and rudeness to young people is excusable?”

“No, what I meant was—” Flustered, Bronson tried to recover lost ground. “If you would do your makeup before you leave the house—”

“My makeup!” That tore it. Not only did Tamara not use makeup—to Sabrina’s eternal dismay—but she would never sit in a car admiring her face in a mirror. Luckily, good genes had provided her with the youthful, blooming quality of a woman ten years younger than her thirty-nine.

“I bet you use your big frame to crowd your way to the front of the line at sport events, or buffets, or bathroom lines. If I’m not mistaken, you also go through the express checkout with thirty items, and pop out a checkbook or credit card.”

His gaze narrowed. “Listen, if I wasn’t busy watching this match—”

“Practice match,” Tamara interrupted. “And apparently you weren’t too damn busy to come over and complain.” Tamara didn’t care if she sounded rude. This man really did rub her the wrong way, and it wasn’t only because he was as good-looking as her ex-husband. She had sworn off handsome men, and this Neanderthal would be on her blacklist...right at the top.

“You should talk,” the man shot back. His eyes kept going back to the match, and he told her, “I’d love to spar with you some more—”

“Don’t bother!”

“—but I’ve better things to do.”

As he turned to leave, Tamara asked sweetly, “Oh, you mean you finally remembered you were scouting that rather mediocre young man?”

Six feet of muscled, lean flesh whipped around on a dime.

“I’m not watching the little guy. I’m watching the six-foot-two genius.”

“You call that genius?” Tamara kept her voice low, because the two teenagers had not noticed their presence, so engrossed were they in their practice match. “He’s just passable—good one-handed backhand, adequate slice and serve, good retriever. That’s about it.”

“Good retriever?” The man once again approached Tamara. “That boy has excellent speed, and a great backhand volley and groundie. His serve clocks in at almost one hundred and twenty an hour on flat ones—and he still has not finished growing!”

Since Sabrina was only five-two—although she’d been projected to grow to a respectable five-seven in the next year or two—height was a sore subject with Tamara.

“Being bigger and more powerful is the only thing your ‘genius’ has over his opponent, because he loses in the raw talent and creativity department.”

“‘Raw’ is the right adjective,” the man said condescendingly. “And when a player does not possess a complete game, he can afford to be fearless...after all, what pressure is there on an inferior player to beat a superior opponent?”

“Inferior? Are you so blind you can’t spot true talent?”

“True talent? What’s the matter with you? Are you—?” Suddenly a crafty look came over the man’s face. His wide forehead smoothed out, and the two laugh lines bracketing his sensual mouth deepened. “I get it. You’re an opposing scout, and are trying to psyche me out. Don’t worry...I’m not in the game of recruiting. You can have Christopher.”

Was there no end to the conceit of this man?

“Were I in the business of recruiting, you wouldn’t stand a chance,” Tamara threw at him. “Besides, I’d do a lot better than that overgrown orangutan down there—”

“You are really something,” the man said with a smile that suddenly caused Tamara’s hormones to zing. He turned his head to glance at the kids.

Tamara breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re done.”

She looked down on the courts from the open balcony. Ordinarily she would have been on the upstairs viewing area, but this goon had kept her from assuming her normal vantage point.

Now she looked on as both Christopher and Sabrina toweled off, coming together as if drawn by a magnet, their bodies almost touching. She wasn’t sure how they could even dry off with so little space between them.

Her stomach knotted. She was sure Sabrina had given her an ulcer, something her high-powered career had not managed to accomplish.

So lost was Tamara in grim thoughts that she had missed part of what the odious man was saying. He’d grabbed her arm and propelled her forward.

Leaning over the balcony, his anger temporarily on hold, Bronson called out, “Christopher, come meet this woman coach. She’s really—”

Bronson stopped in midsentence at the horrified look on the youngsters’ faces.

Both teenagers dropped their towels, their expressions mirror images of shock.

“Dad!”

“Mom! What are you doing here?”