Mixed-Up Matrimony. Diana Mars
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