Mixed-Up Matrimony
Diana Mars

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Cory, with love: May all the decisions you make in life fulfill all your dreams.

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

One

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?”

Two

The shock passed from children to parents.

Tamara and Bronson swung toward each other as if suspended by the same puppeteer.

“You’re—”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Sabrina and Christopher exchanged puzzled, and relieved, glances. As long as attention was diverted from them, they welcomed the respite.

Bronson was shaking his head, as if dazed. “That’s Sabrina Hayward?”

The condemnation in Bronson Kensington’s tone elevated all of Tamara’s motherly hackles.

“I told you she was good!”

“Yes, for a girl,” Bronson said, his expression stormy. It was obvious he was undecided as to whom to tear into first: his wayward son, the troublesome girl who had led him astray, or the mother of the player who had been giving his son fits on the court.

After Meghan’s revelation, Tamara had ample reason to distrust the Kensingtons. Bronson’s less-than-diplomatic words did not smooth the waters.

“Sabrina is good. Period. It’s obvious from your chauvinistic, superior attitude where Christopher got his bad judgment. I guess his irresponsible behavior toward my daughter is not entirely his fault, considering the example you set.”

“My example!” Bronson exploded. He regarded Tamara Hayward with intense dislike. He had obviously underestimated the opposition. If Sabrina was anywhere near as whip-smart and determined as her mother, Christopher did not stand a chance. Alone, that is.

But then, Christopher would never have to face anything alone, not as long as there was a breath left in Bronson’s body.

Belatedly noticing some college kids and alumni watching their heated debate with interest, Bronson said stiffly, “Do you think we could carry on this conversation somewhere more private?”

Tamara blushed, mortified. She had always considered herself a cool customer, and was seldom flustered under even the most adverse circumstances.

Her daughter’s well-being and future, however, could not begin to compare to any financial transaction or career consideration. She’d just have to assume the same objectivity and astuteness when dealing with Bronson Kensington as she did with any business adversary. More important, it would behoove her to make Bronson an ally, rather than an enemy—or at least, a bigger enemy than he already was.

Trying for an even tone, Tamara said, “All right. Should we continue our discussion at a restaurant after these two young people get a chance to clean up?”

Though at first ready to debate her suggestion, Bronson Kensington seemed to reconsider his tactics. Both parents had a lot to gain by teaming up.

The teenagers were already presenting a united front.

Turning to his son, Bronson said authoritatively, “Christopher, we’ll wait for you outside. Be there—pronto.”

“Dad,” Christopher said, his handsome, broad face acquiring a stubborn set, “I’m eighteen. You don’t have any right to order me around.”

“I’m paying for your training, car, living expenses—as long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say.”

“That can be changed, Dad. I can always get a job during the day and study for a GED at night.”

Sensing dangerous undercurrents, Tamara quickly intervened. “Perhaps we could all discuss this like adults, without any threats or ultimatums? Have you chil—aces had lunch yet?”

Sabrina spoke for the first time. “No, we haven’t, Mother.” Tamara winced at the sudden change of Mom to Mother. “But I also don’t appreciate your having followed me here. I am seventeen, after all.”

Tamara refrained from reminding her that Christopher could be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor and some other ugly charges. She did not want to issue any ultimatums, because she knew how strong-minded Sabrina was. Daughter took after mother in many ways, and strength of character was one of the characteristics they shared. Tamara shuddered to think that if she or Bronson pushed too hard, Christopher and Sabrina might not agree to talk to them at all, and might very well carry out their original plan.

A deathly chill went through Tamara. She wanted her daughter to be an independent, mature young adult.

She did not want to lose her only child simply because she and Bronson were not able to control their tempers—even if their anger and sense of betrayal were completely justified.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sabrina, but you know with everything that goes on nowadays, I worry about your safety constantly.”

“You knew I was safe, Mother,” Sabrina challenged, her posture defiant, her green eyes cool. “I was with Christopher.”

At this, Bronson stirred, and his gaze locked with Tamara’s. It was obvious that, in this, they were on the same wavelength. But still, his son did not stand to lose as much as her daughter. Boys, or men, never did. Women were in higher jeopardy in every department.

Resisting the urge to tell Sabrina that Christopher, at the moment, represented her main worry, Tamara merely said, “I would like to discuss some things with you, if you don’t mind. I think you’ll agree I’m entitled, after I drove almost three hours when I found out you skipped school today and didn’t tell me where you were headed.”

Tamara held her breath, awaiting her daughter’s response. Sabrina had always had a strong sense of fair play, and Tamara hoped her appeal to her daughter’s fairness would succeed where threats would not. When Sabrina said nastily, “Obviously, someone snitched, or you wouldn’t be here,” Tamara thought she had failed.

But then Sabrina’s stance softened slightly, and she added, “Okay, Mother, we’ll meet you. But at our South Bend motel room.”

Pinning Christopher with a laser look, Bronson roared, “Your motel room?”

“You’ve always emphasized the value of a dollar, Dad,” Christopher said, the mixture of defiance and defensiveness in his posture revealing his extreme youth. “And you have to admit, one room is cheaper than two.”

Instinctively placing a hand on Bronson’s arm, which felt like corded steel under her cold fingers, Tamara jumped in verbally before Bronson could jump his son physically. “Wouldn’t it be better if we ate first?”

Noticing that Bronson’s words had further unified and alienated the kids, she suggested two of Sabrina’s favorite foods, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice. “How about getting some pizza, or maybe a steak with fries?”

“You know I don’t eat that greasy food anymore, Mother. Besides clogging the arteries, it’s bad for my quickness on court. We’ll meet you at the Knight’s Inn—or not at all.”

Tamara looked at Bronson, and would have laughed if she had not felt so much like crying. Apparently not a man used to remaining quiet, he looked as if he were about to suffer from apoplexy. His strong features were red and strained, and his blue-gray eyes shot off silver sparks. But there was deep pain behind them, which he was trying very hard to keep from his son.

Tamara felt a huge lump in her throat, and had to blink back a burning moisture from her own eyes. She and Bronson had more in common than she’d thought at first. They would really have to get on the same page if they were to divert disaster.

“Is that okay with you, Mr. Kensington?” she asked softly.

Bronson looked at her with a distant expression, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Shaking his head, he told her, “Please call me Bronson. And no, it’s not okay with me—”

Seeing Tamara’s warning look, he smiled wearily at her, and added, “But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The children grinned at each other, acting as if they had won a major victory.

Tamara’s throat closed again. How young and naive they were. They could win as many battles as they wanted, as long as she and Bronson won the war.

Putting his arm protectively around Sabrina’s shoulder, Christopher told her gently, “Come on, Bree. I’ll walk you to the locker room.” Over his shoulder, he tossed at his father, “We’ll see you two outside when Bree is done.”

Not only did Bronson’s large fists clench, but his whole body seemed to tense. Tamara feared again that father would attack son, and teach him a thing or two about manners.

Thankfully, Bronson was able to maintain control. She noticed the painfully visible way he forced his body to relax.

As the kids headed toward the locker rooms, Bronson muttered, “How touching.”

Tamara swallowed, unable to speak. Turning to her and correctly interpreting her look of fear, Bronson gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to kill my son. Yet.”

Tamara nodded. “Good. My daughter would never forgive you.” Carefully keeping her expression and tone neutral, she asked, “Do you think we could speak for a moment? Outside?”

“Going to beat me up? Go ahead. Take your best shot. You’re right—I am at fault, if my son can act like such an ass.”

“Let’s refrain from violence and assigning blame just yet, shall we?” Tamara suggested, warming to Bronson Kensington despite herself. Although she wanted to be on his good side and seek his support for the matter at hand, she did not want to like him too much. All they had in common was the children—whom they were obviously both crazy about—and they needed a temporary alliance in order to separate them. Anything beyond putting aside their common distrust and uniting for the matter at hand was out of the question.

Although she resisted generalizing, in her own experience—which had culminated in her marriage to Robert—good-looking men were too attached to their own refletions. What made Bronson even more dangerous was that he seemed quite different from her ex-husband. And that was a problem: he was already causing curls of awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could she deal properly with this crisis if she behaved in the same adolescent manner as Brina?

Putting on the car coat she had taken off when she’d entered the tennis lobby, Tamara took a quick look at the framed pictures of the Notre Dame tennis teams, men’s and women’s.

“How can they think of throwing all this away?” Tamara murmured, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Maybe because they’ve both been so spoiled they don’t know what life is really like,” Bronson answered softly, his eyes taking in the smiling faces of the women’s tennis team as they posed around the NCAA Championship sign.

About to protest, Tamara desisted. Maybe there was some truth in what he’d said. It would certainly be food for thought, when she had a free minute to dwell on it.

Right now they had to make sure they would be able to leave this campus with their respective children in tow.

And for that they would have to utilize all of their combined wiles and experience.

As they turned away from the pictures, Bronson touched Tamara’s shoulder gently with his hand, and she found she liked its strength and assurance. Fighting against the pleasing sense of companionship his contact aroused, Tamara once again reminded herself of why she’d rushed over to Notre Dame.

And she reminded herself that Bronson was Christopher’s father. Right now, he represented the enemy camp. If he happened to have more substance than Robert, well, she’d have to deal with it. He was fighting for his kid; she was fighting for hers.

His next words addressed her own sudden craving for some space and oxygen.

“Let’s go outside, shall we? I really need some fresh air.”

Three

“I don’t believe it!”

Tamara looked at the spot where her car had been. Carjacking? In South Bend? On the venerable Notre Dame campus?

Tamara turned outraged eyes on Bronson and caught the smile he was trying to hide.

“What’s so funny?” Tamara asked, even more furious. It was bad enough that Bronson had taken her parking space, but now he was laughing at her car’s disappearance!

Speechless, Bronson pointed toward the street that bordered Alumni Field.

Her maroon Continental looked like a wounded animal, suspended from the rear of a tow truck as it labored down Ivy Road.

Burying her head in her hands, Tamara debated whether to laugh or cry.

To say this was not her day would be a vast understatement.

“Need a ride?” Bronson asked, lips twitching.

Tamara gazed at him through narrowed eyes. He looked quite handsome framed against the Eck Pavilion’s geometric entrance. His hair, more brown than black in the pale sunshine, fell rakishly over his forehead, while his opalescent eyes regarded her with renewed interest.

Was he watching to see if she’d crack?

Squaring her shoulders, Tamara shored up her lagging spirits. Too much was at stake for her to come unglued over an inconvenience...even a major one like being left without transportation in Indiana, while she lived in Illinois.

“Thank you, but I think Sabrina can give me one.”

Bronson kept staring at her thoughtfully, and then finally seemed to come to a conclusion.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” Bronson asked with amused resignation.

“Any reason I should? I certainly have not had an easy time of anything today. Why should you?” But Tamara softened her words with a smile. She was curious to see what he had to say.

“First of all, I’d like to apologize for taking your parking space. I would normally say that anyone who parks in a no-parking zone deserves anything she gets for taking the chance, but under the circumstances...”

“You mean my being in the same desperate hurry that made you take my spot in the first place,” Tamara supplied sweetly.

“Exactly.” Bronson grinned. “I was consumed with worry, and I can see you were, too.”

“And?”

“And I’d like to apologize for those cracks about your daughter. Up close, Sabrina looks nothing like a boy, but with that short hair, and stature—”

“Sabrina might be five-two, but she’s due for a growth spurt soon. She just looks short next to that sequoia you call your son—” Tamara cut herself off when she realized Bronson had been teasing. “I’m sorry. I should not have called your son an orangutan.”

“Apology accepted. Although I can see how you wouldn’t be kindly disposed toward Christopher at the moment.”

Tamara did not deny Bronson’s statement. “I’m not too thrilled with either of the children right now.”

“The children better not hear you call them that.”

Automatically glancing at the entrance to the Eck Center to see if the kids were coming out, Tamara asked Bronson, “How did you find out about them?”

“A frantic call from my cousin, who’s the head tennis coach at Deerbrook High.”

“Brandy Cavanaugh is your cousin?” Tamara felt like adding that it was no wonder Christopher played number-one varsity singles, but knew the comment would be unfair. It wasn’t nepotism that had gotten him the top spot: the boy really was talented. Although with the kind of build he possessed, he could have his pick of any sport.

Retraining her focus away from the inequities of gender-based athletic opportunities to the business at hand, Tamara asked Bronson, “How did Ms. Cavanaugh find out they were planning on eloping?”

“They were supposed to hit with Dale, the junior varsity coach, before first period. Christopher was to have been in school in the morning for a pre-Calc test, and then drive down here for his session with the scout.”

Tamara nodded. “Sabrina mentioned something about hitting with the top dog on the boys’ team before school because of the invitational coming up, which includes nationally ranked kids from out of state. She told me they were even coming from Kansas and Wisconsin. So when she left at five with an extra tennis bag, I thought nothing of it. She sometimes goes out with her friends on Fridays after classes or a home meet, and takes extra clothes with her.”

“I guess they had it all planned. I certainly knew nothing about Sabrina. Did you know about my son?”

Tamara’s smile was full of irony. “Did I look or sound like someone who knew what was going on? I know I’ve been putting in a lot of long hours at work, but I’ve always been able to trust Sabrina. She’s never lied to me before—not about anything important—and I certainly never opposed her dating, as long as she kept her grades up.”

“Apparently Brandy had heard some rumors about my son and your daughter, but she’d discounted them because of the envy factor. Being a top varsity player brings a certain amount of pressure and exposure, and jealous comments are always flying around. She told me this morning that she had confronted Christopher a few weeks ago, and he’d given her the old bromide about their being just good friends.”

“And Sabrina mentioned your son only in passing, and only in reference to how good a tennis player he was.”

“Brandy asked around and finally cornered my son’s best friend, Jonathan, who finally admitted that our kids were really serious about each other, but since they anticipated opposition from us—”

“And they were right!” Tamara interjected, her whole being a twisted mixture of shock, betrayal and pain.

“—they thought it better to just shoot first, and ask questions later.”

Tamara fought the traitorous tears that were threatening to roll down her cheeks. She strove for composure as Bronson’s sonorous voice washed over her, calming the waves of hurt and anger which this morning’s grim realities had stirred up in her.

“She checked to see if their cars were still there, and when they weren’t, she called me. I left my foreman in charge, and I really pushed the pedal. I was lucky the ever-present State Patrol on I-90 didn’t get me.”

Tamara’s gaze was grim. “Brina’s best friend stopped by early this morning. Even though Meghan and my daughter live only a couple of blocks away from school, they both like to drive there.”

“Teenagers’ love affair with cars,” Bronson said, rotating his head and trying to rub some tension away from his neck with a hand, which, to his surprise, was shaking.

Tamara smiled ruefully. “Despite their outspoken devotion to saving the environment, neither Brina nor Meghan will hear of conserving energy or cleaning up the air through carpooling.” Looking at her own hands, she noticed she had been wringing them so forcefully they were red and throbbing. Shaking her head, she said in a low, painful voice, “Apparently, Meghan didn’t sleep a wink last night, because of conscience pangs. She finally decided to tell me this morning, and she bled with each word she uttered.”

“The tribal code teenagers live by,” Bronson said, shaking his head. “Thank God our respective teens’ best friends showed more maturity and responsibility than they did.”

“Neither Brina nor Christopher is going to think so once they find out who told on them.” She shivered as the chilly winds buffeting the campus exacerbated the icy feeling her daughter’s actions had engendered.

She was startled out of her tormented reflections when Bronson’s hands lifted the collar of her coat to protect her against the rising wind. His fingers brushed against her throat, and their warmth stayed with her long after he’d reluctantly lowered his arms.

“Why don’t we sit in my car while we wait for the kids to come out?”

Bronson’s throaty tone was not lost on Tamara. She had not misread the sparks that had flown between them, even when they’d acted like two feuding roosters upon discovering each other’s identities.

Tamara looked at the silver Porsche. It would be crowded in that small two-seater. She was finding it harder and harder to view Bronson objectively, and sharing close quarters did not seem a good idea.

On the other hand, standing in the icy wind that promised rapidly dropping temperatures tonight was not very judicious, either. The last thing she needed was to come down with a cold or the flu. She was on overload right now, both physically and emotionally, and her immune system was probably too weak to fight any circulating virus.

Sighing, she nodded and followed Bronson to his car, feeling strangely like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

Bronson opened the door for her and then went around to the driver’s side. Tamara ignored his long leg accidentally knocking into hers as he got in, and turned in her seat, ostensibly to look at him, but actually trying to put more space between them. Despite the two huge strikes against Bronson—his good looks reminding her of her ex-husband and his being Christopher’s father—she felt the ripples of his sex appeal shrink the limited space in the car, steaming away the chill she’d felt outside.

Ignoring his all-too-knowing gaze, Tamara strove to remind them both of what was urgent. Even if their bodies seemed to have minds of their own.

“Meghan was almost hysterical. The poor kid was torn between loyalty to my daughter and concern over Brina’s welfare. Meghan said Sabrina had told her Christopher and she were in love, and planned on getting married, no matter what. I guess they see each other as some sort of Romeo and Juliet. Of course, Sabrina knew exactly what I’d say. Marriage before she even tries to accomplish her goal of turning pro, or at least graduating from college, would be premature.”

Bronson frowned. “Your daughter is thinking of turning pro? So is Christopher. We had discussed the possibility, but we weren’t sure if he could pursue his dream unless he received a scholarship and got help from the USTA Touring Pro program. At his advanced level, I cannot afford to front the cost of a traveling coach for him, plus equipment and tournament travel all over the world.”

Tamara chose not to follow this trend in the conversation. It was bound to cause friction between them, and right now she and Bronson needed harmony and cooperation.

“I know what you mean. I’ve been so busy trying to make ends meet, attempting to pay for Sabrina’s private lessons, equipment and tournaments—” Tamara noticed Bronson’s puzzled look. “If you’re thinking of the Continental, it’s paid up. It’s the only thing I’ve kept from the errant eighties, when everyone thought the sky was the limit.”

“Your company went under?”

“They ‘restructured.’” Tamara could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “After getting my MBA in night school, and seven years of slowly but steadily rising through the ranks, Sports Science Comp showed me—as well as several other executives—the door.”

“No retirement benefits, pension...gold watch?” Bronson asked sympathetically.

“Not even a pin,” Tamara said. “I’m self-employed now, and run a consulting firm. But the hours and overhead are brutal, and I’ve tried to keep the ugly facts from Sabrina.”

“Which was undeniably a mistake,” Bronson said quietly. Noticing that Tamara was still shivering, he reached into the back seat and grabbed a large green sweatshirt with NOTRE DAME emblazoned in gold on the front. “Why don’t you put this on? I’m sure it’ll fit over your coat.” As Tamara held the sweater in her hands, he added ruefully, “I guess I was anticipating that Christopher would enroll here.”

“I guess you were,” Tamara said, giving him back the sweatshirt.

She saw Bronson’s look of surprise, and heard the uncertain note in his voice when he asked, “Would you like me to turn on the heat? You’ll be even more chilled when you get into your daughter’s cold car.”

Tamara felt like answering that he had turned on the heat already, but knew innuendo would not be appropriate at the moment. She had no doubt Bronson would retaliate in kind, and who knew what that could lead to?

And even though Bronson’s kindness made her feel like a heel, she couldn’t stray from her original mission here. She didn’t dare to openly show her resentment of Christopher right now, because she needed Bronson. They needed each other. They had to solve one problem at a time: they had to stop their kids’ foolish plans.

Looking about the luxurious interior, she said, “You seem to be doing all right.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. I’m also self-employed, and find myself putting in a few more hours a day and still not coming close to the business I had in the mid and even late eighties.”

“I guess everyone is feeling the pinch in the nineties,” Tamara agreed. Remembering his earlier comment, she said, “You mentioned before that we’d been too easy on our kids. Do you think you spoiled Christopher that much?”

“My parents were not able to help me after putting my two older brothers through college,” Bronson told her. “I wanted Christopher to have everything he desired—he’s never held down a job—and everything I never had...especially after the divorce.”

Starting up the car, Bronson turned on the heater. “When it gets warm enough, you can take off your coat. Then you can put it back on when you get into Sabrina’s car.”

“If that day ever comes,” Tamara said wryly. “Sabrina has always been a fast dresser—comes from all those years of being called on to play doubles after finishing her singles matches in ninety-plus weather. I’m sure that the delay is not attire-related.”

Bronson grinned. “I’m sure you’re right.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and then lower still, taking in her curved but athletic form. When his eyes returned to her face, Tamara could feel twin flags burning in her cheeks. All of a sudden the interior of the car—as well as her interior—was suffocatingly hot.

Trying to distract Bronson from his disturbing scrutiny and her body from its traitorous response, Tamara said, “Your wife took you to the cleaners?”

“Cleaners?” Bronson asked, his face a blank, his voice husky. Clearing his throat, he recovered swiftly. “Ah, no. Joanna wasn’t after my money. Just her freedom, and a ‘meaningful career.’ She hasn’t seen Christopher in years.”

Tamara shook her head. “Amazing, the parallels between our lives. Robert has not shown any interest in Brina, either.”

A charged silence fell between them. Tamara felt as if she were swimming underwater, and knew that, without the specter of Sabrina’s future floating in the intimate confines of the car, she and Bronson would have been doing more than talking.

Horrified at letting her body’s demands arise at a time when her daughter’s needs were paramount, Tamara fought the attraction. She forcibly removed her gaze from Bronson’s frank, glittering one, and changed position so she could look out the passenger-side window.

Tamara could feel fear creeping into her in twisted tendrils. Was it possible that she had been so busy trying to provide Sabrina with material things that she had neglected her emotional sustenance? Tamara had never been one to doubt herself, but something was wrong if her only child had chosen to confide in someone other than her own mother.

Bronson’s hand shot out and gripped both of Tamara’s, which she’d been torturing in her lap. “Don’t.”

She looked up from their entwined fingers, startled. Even the slightest contact with him seemed to touch a chord deep within her.

“Don’t blame yourself. We taught our children right from wrong. Life is not always neat, and it’s not always fair. Don’t let your daughter do a guilt trip on you, or she’ll walk all over you.”

Tamara wanted to protest that Sabrina was not that calculating, that manipulative. But today she had seen a side to her daughter that she had never known before—either because Sabrina had hidden it from her, or because her daughter had changed so drastically, so quickly, that Tamara had not been able to detect it.

And it was definitely a side that Tamara did not like. At all.

Bronson’s other hand covered hers, squeezing them reassuringly. From the renewed tension in his body, Tamara could tell the children had come out of the tennis center.

Four

Nervously, Tamara opened the door and got out of the Porsche.

Sabrina looked at Tamara with condemning eyes. “Do you and Mr. Kensington know each other, Mother?”

Bronson had also gotten out of the car and had come to stand by her. Tamara could feel him stiffen next to her at Sabrina’s insolent tone, and it took all of her willpower to keep from lashing out at this stranger, who was once her daughter, who stood so challengingly before her. Glancing pointedly at Sabrina’s hand, which was held tightly in Christopher’s, she said coolly, “Not as well as you know Christopher, Sabrina. Bronson and I just met today.”

Since Sabrina had stopped addressing her as Mom today, Tamara had also dropped her own shortened version of Sabrina’s name, Brina. It hurt like the very devil to do so, but if Sabrina wanted a war, she was going to get one. As Bronson had said, she could not show any weakness that either of the kids could capitalize on.

“Ready for lunch now?” Tamara asked.

“Christopher and I decided to eat later. We’re not really hungry now, and it’s better if he waits until the scout takes a look at him. He shouldn’t play on a full stomach, because it’ll slow his footwork.”

“Well, I didn’t have any lunch—or breakfast, for that matter. I’m sure your mother is in the same boat, since she has to work like the dickens to keep you in lessons and a private school. I vote we go out to lunch—there are plenty of restaurants in the nearby mall.”

Christopher seemed ready to object to Bronson’s peremptory suggestion, but after one look at his father’s face he desisted. Perhaps he was choosing which battle to fight.

Tamara felt renewed stabs of fear. Sabrina was hot-tempered, very much like Bronson. She could be counted on to blurt out exactly what she felt. But if Christopher was the self-possessed type, who kept things close to the vest...well, she and had Bronson better stay on their toes.

“I’ll ride with you, Sabrina. My car got towed.”

“You parked it in a red zone, Mother?” Sabrina asked, her voice full of that unique blend of condemnation and superiority that teenagers seemed to master as soon as they hit those magical years.

Once again Bronson came to her rescue. Although it was unneeded, it felt good to have a man rise to her defense.

“Your mother was so concerned about you that she gave no thought to her job or her car. All she wanted was to make sure you were all right.”

“How do you know so much about my mother?” Sabrina asked, her tone and expression vibrating with hostility.

“It’d be obvious to a blind person how much she cares about you. And as for the rest, the fact that she’s single, yet manages to send you to a good school, pay for your car and tennis expenses means she must be sacrificing like mad on your behalf. The least she deserves is some consideration, and a hot meal.”

An awkward silence ensued. It occurred to Tamara that Bronson had hit the nail on the head. Sabrina was spoiled. She had been given everything at great cost to Tamara, and because her daughter had kept up her grades and worked so hard at tennis, Tamara had tried to make everything else easier for her.

She had ended up making it too easy.

“I’ll follow you in my car, Christopher,” Bronson told his son.

After a slight hesitation, Christopher let go of Sabrina’s hand. “Will you be all right, Bree?”

Tamara could not contain herself. “What do you think I plan on doing to her, Christopher? Beating her up? Kidnapping her? Keeping her out of school like you did?”

“Christopher had nothing to do with my decision to skip school, Mother,” Sabrina said quickly, coming to the boy’s defense. “It was totally my idea to come here today and help him warm up. The coach was delayed at a clinic he was giving, but he left word he’ll still take a look at Christopher this afternoon.”

“Which means I won’t be having any lunch, Dad,” Christopher said pointedly. “You know I can’t eat this close to playing. And I don’t want to keep the recruiter waiting. He’s going to be at the national tournament in Florida next month, but he was interested enough in me that he said he’d approve an early admission if he liked what he saw of me indoors.”

“Which means Christopher has to be back here in ninety minutes, Mother.”

Bronson and Tamara looked at each other. The teenagers’ united front and fearless defiance signaled open warfare. This was going to be even harder than they’d anticipated.

Without another word, Bronson and Tamara went their separate ways, Bronson to his car, waiting to follow Christopher’s Celica, and Tamara joining her daughter in the Mustang.

Tamara buckled herself in on the passenger side of her daughter’s car. It was truly humiliating to have had the Continental towed, today of all days, and after all the lectures she’d given Sabrina on being responsible for her car.

She would call the university from the restaurant and arrange to get her car later. Right now she wanted to have a little talk with her daughter, the stranger.

* * *

Bronson watched Tamara get into her daughter’s car and admired anew the luscious curves and long legs that were elegantly folded into the Mustang. With her blond hair, gray eyes and youthful complexion, she looked more like Sabrina’s sister than her mother.

Except when one got close enough to look into that steady gaze. He had read knowledge and experience there, which could only have been acquired through the bruising wringer of responsibility, bills, and single parenthood.

The pain visible in those luminous gray eyes was enough to make Bronson want to choke his own son—and her daughter. Instead of being grateful for all they’d been given, they had gone ahead with their own selfish agenda and had not even had the guts to confront either him or Tamara.

Bronson had just met the woman, and knew he had not made a great first impression. He planned on changing that. He understood what she was going through—hell, he felt as if he’d been branded with a hot iron that reached deep into his soul—and her only crime, like his, was loving so much she had put her kid’s welfare and happiness before her own. Like him, she had sacrificed, tried to make up for a missing parent, and been betrayed by the person who had been the very center of her life.

Christopher and Sabrina might well be at the mercy of their hormones, and all the turbulence of adolescence in a world that made it increasingly harder to grow up. But they had been shown love, self-sacrifice, devotion. They were smart enough to know right from wrong, and nothing—not their raging hormones, nor the pressures from the outside world—excused their lack of honesty and, yes, downright betrayal.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me about Christopher, Sabrina?” Tamara asked her daughter quietly as soon as they pulled out of the Eck Tennis Pavilion parking lot.

“I tried to, Mother,” Sabrina said, smoothly maneuvering the car as she headed toward Angela Boulevard. “But you were always too busy.”

“Oh, come on,” Tamara said, shifting in her seat to look at Sabrina’s expression. Her chest constricted. Her daughter might think she was an adult, but the baby roundness of her face, the innocent look in those green eyes...they spoke of a child protected against the harshest realities of the world, with its cruelties, unfair rules, and gaping jaw waiting to devour the unprepared.

Had she overprotected Sabrina?

Sabrina shot her a quick glance, and the hostility and coldness Tamara read there froze the blood in her veins.

“You know you were always too busy. The only things you cared about were that I got good grades and practiced hard.”

Mystified, Tamara shook her head.

“And what is wrong with that, may I ask? You know you need good grades to get into a good university. And in order to have any chance at turning pro, you need a high national ranking—which would also allow you to get into top schools like Stanford, Northwestern, or Notre Dame—”

“What about my social life, Mother? Why should I have to give up everything?”

Anger shot through Tamara, and she had to contain herself to keep from raising her voice. “You know that the reason you don’t have a higher ranking is that I didn’t send you to more tennis camps, and gave you the choice to attend concerts and dances instead of participating in important tennis events—”

“It’s all about tennis, isn’t it, Mother?”

“What do you mean—all? You made a choice not to attend one of the tennis camps in Florida, or California. As a matter of fact, I was quite willing to move to either coast so you could play year-round and have more access to competition and world-class pros—”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Mother!” Sabrina practically shouted. Shocked, Tamara looked at her daughter. Only in the past few months had she even dared raise her voice at Tamara.

“Sabrina, calm down. You’re driving, remember?” Tamara reminded her as they approached an intersection. As the light turned yellow, Sabrina slammed on the brakes and swore.

Tamara paled and watched, speechless, as both Bronson and Christopher, who had made the light, pulled over to the side of the road to wait for them.

Another admirable trait of her daughter’s was her self-control. When her opponents were cursing up a blue streak on court, she had always maintained a calm, reserved demeanor. A tournament director in Kentucky who had seen Chris Evert play as a junior had compared Sabrina’s sportsmanlike behavior during matches to the legendary champion’s.

But this out-of-control teenager was nothing like the daughter she had raised.

As the light turned green, Sabrina leaned on the accelerator and took the turn with a squeal of tires.

“Sabrina, take it easy!” a horrified Tamara yelled as they almost hit a car in the next lane.

Sabrina slowed down and swore again.

“Stupid jerk!”

“I’m sorry to say, Sabrina, but the jerk in this case is you. What’s happened to you, anyway?”

As her daughter turned a wounded, confused look on her, Tamara regretted her outburst.

“That’s what I mean, Mother. The only time you’re ever with me, or have anything nice to say to me, is when I get A’s or win a match—or preferably the damned tournament.”

Expertly passing, Sabrina caught up to Christopher’s Celica, which was the lead car, and motioned for him to open his window. When he did, Sabrina said, “Chris, let’s skip the restaurant altogether. Let’s just go over to the room and get this over with.”

Christopher looked from Sabrina to Tamara, accusation plain in his gaze, and nodded. “You go ahead. I’ll tell Dad, and I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

Bronson swore fluently, as he saw Sabrina head toward the highway. He was glad he was alone in the car, because he really felt like throttling the two kids.

Obviously, things had not gone too well with mother and daughter, since Sabrina had changed their plans and had indicated to Christopher that she did not even want to keep them company while they had some lunch.

Fear joined anger as Bronson followed his son to the motel. Had they lost before they had even begun?

Five

Tamara’s throat constricted as Sabrina parked in front of Room 401. The door had a non-smoking symbol, and Tamara tried to swallow. At least Sabrina’s rebellion had not extended to smoking.

Christopher and Bronson parked in adjacent spaces, and Christopher left the Celica as if shot by a cannon. Reaching the driver’s side of Sabrina’s car, he opened the door for her.

“Are you okay?” he asked Sabrina, his dark blue eyes drilling holes into Tamara.

Bronson left his car and opened the door for Tamara.

“Are you all right?” Bronson asked, his stern gaze drilling holes into Christopher.

If she hadn’t been so exhausted from so many shocks in one day, Tamara would have laughed.

It was almost funny. Almost.

Mother and daughter answered simultaneously.

“I’m all right.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

An awkward moment ensued as both Sabrina and Christopher searched for the hotel key.

Bronson and Tamara looked at each other, and Tamara saw the fear and disappointment she knew must be visible in her own eyes reflected in Bronson’s gaze.

“I got it,” Sabrina said, waving the brown plastic key chain.

Sabrina walked to the door, Christopher glued to her side. She opened the room and walked in, Christopher at her heels.

Tamara swallowed again and looked up at Bronson. Though his eyes were shadowed with worry, he gave her a crooked smile and put a supportive hand at her back as they walked into the Knight’s Inn.

* * *

“Christopher has the best chance for a scholarship, Mom,” Sabrina insisted. “And I want to be with him.”

Tamara took a deep breath, and wrapped her hands around the knee of her crossed leg.

They’d been at this for the past twenty minutes. Both she and Bronson had been shocked beyond what they believed possible: both kids were putting their relationship above their futures and were refusing to listen to reason.

Tamara and Bronson were sitting on one double bed, facing Sabrina and Christopher, who occupied the other one.

While Tamara had been glad they’d not been confronted with a single, queen-size bed, she was not sure whether that was by design, or because they only had a room with double beds left when the children checked in.

At least, to her they were children. And to Bronson, too, she suspected. And they would be even when they got to be fifty, and had their own kids, and maybe grandchildren.

What was really eating at Tamara was that Bronson seemed distanced from her, now that he’d realized Christopher was still seriously considering attending college.

“Sabrina, you have one semester in which you can play a lot of tournaments and get your rankings up. And, if necessary, you can go to one university freshman year, and then transfer to one of the powerhouses in your sophomore year.”

“Or turn pro then, right?”

“If you wish,” Tamara conceded, frowning at Sabrina’s disdainful tone.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said, Mother? I told you, I don’t care about tennis right now. I want to be with Christopher.”

“So apply to the same school,” Tamara said. “If you don’t get in, you can always try again next year.”

“Next year is too late!” Sabrina yelled, leaping off the bed.

Tamara paled. “Are you—are you pregnant?” she got out, feeling as if all the oxygen had suddenly been vacuumed from the motel room.

“That’s just like you, isn’t it, Mother, jumping to conclusions.”

“I think your mother has every right to ask that question,” Bronson said quietly. “Otherwise, why would you be eloping?”

“We had planned on eloping because Sabrina and I want to be together. Haven’t you two listened to anything we’ve had to say?”

“We’ve been listening, but nothing that either of you has been saying has made any sense,” Tamara said.

Sabrina looked at Tamara with an expression bordering on hate. Tamara shivered and clasped her hands tightly together.

“Who told you where we were, Mother? Was it Meghan? I’ll never speak to her again. If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t have found out.”

“I thought you just told us that you had changed your minds about eloping,” Bronson interjected.

“Yes, we did,” Christopher said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not planning on getting married soon. We’ll wait until Sabrina graduates this January. She’ll work during spring semester, while I finish high school, and I’ll work too, during the summer. Then we’ll both live on campus—Notre Dame has accommodations for married students.”

Tamara jumped off the bed as Christopher was talking. She let him finish, and then went to stand in front of her daughter.

“Sabrina! What do you mean, you’ll be working? What about all your plans for turning pro? And especially for an education?”

“Things change, Mother,” Sabrina said, retreating from Tamara’s wrath and snuggling closer to Christopher, as if for protection.

More than anything, that little gesture destroyed Tamara. She stumbled backward and felt for the bed, encountering instead Bronson’s hand, which helped her sit down.

Normally Tamara would have been furious at seeing pity and sympathy in Bronson’s eyes, but right now she felt totally numb. Sabrina had acted as if her own mother were a monster, someone she needed to be defended against.

Sabrina had until very recently looked up to her, and imitated her in many things. They’d been mother and daughter. They’d been close friends. For her whole life Tamara had put her daughter first, and now Sabrina had withdrawn from her. Totally.

Tamara felt like withdrawing herself. The pain was horrifying, worse than when she’d fallen from a tree and broken her leg and her wrist; worse than when she’d given birth to Sabrina in a natural labor that seemed to stretch into an infinity of endless agony.

As if from far away, Tamara heard Bronson talking. “—and you know how strongly I feel about your continuing your education, Christopher. But why should Sabrina have to give up hers?”

“Because if I plan on turning pro, Dad, someone has to help me type the term papers, do the homework, and practice. Sabrina can take a couple of lessons a week to stay sharp, so that I’ll be able to hit with her. She’s the best warm-up partner I’ve had yet.”

The egotism of the statement would ordinarily have had Tamara attacking it and its issuer vigorously. But she was still reeling from Sabrina’s uncharacteristic, cruel behavior.

It was again Bronson who stepped in. “I think Tamara had a point about wasting Sabrina’s talent. And her education. Have you thought about her welfare?”

“Since when have you cared about anything other than my turning pro, and having everything you never had, Dad? Do you have the hots for Tamara?”

Bronson stood slowly, removing his hand from Tamara’s, clasped tightly in her lap. He had seen red before when it came to his son—what parent of a teenager hadn’t?—but this was too much.

“It’s Ms. Hayward to you, boy. And you will apologize to her immediately.”

Christopher tried to look defiant, but apparently the sight of his father’s rigidly held body and the sound of his low growl reached him.

“Sorry, Ms. Hayward,” he mumbled, drawing closer to Sabrina.

Tamara shook her head. If he was really sorry, he would think of Sabrina’s future first. Of her well-being. His apology, forced as it was, didn’t signify anything. And Christopher’s was not the apology she wanted.

“Why, Brina?” she asked, unconsciously using the nickname. Her throat was arid, and she swallowed so that the words could come out more coherently. “Why do you want to throw your future away? If you don’t want to turn pro, fine. If you don’t want a tennis scholarship, that’s fine by me, also. I’ll try to come up with the money to pay for all four years of school. I’d hoped you’d attend Yale or Northwestern, but any school would do.” Her hands extended in unconscious supplication. “Only don’t just quit on everything—particularly yourself. You’re too bright, too talented, to let these precious years pass you by.”

“Are you any happier, Mom? You don’t have a love in your life. Can you tell me that having a career has fulfilled you?”

“I can tell you that when your father and I divorced, it was hard at first. But you were always my priority. And a career has satisfied, me, yes. College and a career are not for everyone—men or women. But I know you, Sabrina. You will be sorry—maybe not now, or next month, or even next year, while you’re living this fantasy. But you will be sorry—and then it will be too late to do anything about it—especially about your tennis. Don’t let life pass you by.”

“Life will pass me by if I can’t be with Christopher. I’m choosing love over career, Mother.”

Tamara let her hands fall to her sides. She could not take everything in at once. She would have to regroup, because she could not reconcile this hostile, changed young woman with the child that she had worshiped, adored, and put above all else.

“Being with Christopher doesn’t mean you have to give up tennis, Sabrina,” Bronson said, kneeling in front of her so as not to intimidate the girl. “You can still pursue your dreams, and especially your education.”

“My only dream is to be with Christopher,” Sabrina said stubbornly. She looked up at the boy, who returned her adoring look.

Tamara tried to throw off the lethargy of shock from her body. This was her baby, for heaven’s sake!

“What made you change your mind about eloping, Sabrina?”

“I didn’t want to go through all the hassle of you forbidding me to marry Christopher. I figured that someone would snitch. I didn’t think it would be Meghan!”

“Yeah, Dad. Who told you? One of my ‘friends’? Jonathan, maybe?”

“As a matter of fact, it was my cousin, Christopher,” Bronson said.

“Brandy?” Christopher said, his tone horrified. “I thought she was cool, that she’d be on my side.”

“That’s why you went to her, and told her all about Sabrina, the girl you planned to marry, right?” Bronson said sarcastically. “Why did she have to find out through the grapevine? Or is it that you were afraid, and ashamed of acting like less than a man?”

Bronson’s harsh words brought a crimson tide to his son’s cheeks. “I am

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