“I was involved almost from the beginning. C.J. told me about the boy and I looked into Frank’s background carefully. I decided he suffered from poor test-taking skills and a very poor school system. He didn’t lack for intelligence, but he did lack the usual Ashton background. That’s part of what intrigued me so much.”
Even through her astonishment she sensed his excitement. “This school has made great strides, but we’re becoming rigid. If we don’t keep growing, trying new challenges, then we’ll start teaching by rote. And that’s not teaching at all.”
He stood up to come around the desk and sit in front of her. “There are fifteen others, Carolyn. Fifteen other students whose grades and scores didn’t meet Ashton’s standards in some area. But they had something else. There are some gifted musicians, a very promising artist, a brilliant math student, two wonderful writers. And others. We’re tracking these sixteen very carefully, hoping their success will help us launch a permanent program.”
The red tag, she thought. Now she understood the red tag on Frank’s file.
Stewart leaned forward to meet her eyes. “I didn’t do this lightly. I talked to administrators at other schools. And I consulted with some of our top people in admissions.”
She hated the pain welling up in her, but she couldn’t stop it. “But not with me.”
“No.” He sat back. Then, seeming to come to some decision, he leaned forward again and took her unresisting hands in his. “I knew your feelings about athletics, and Ashton’s academic standing. I feared you’d be too—”
“Rigid?”
He met her angry look steadily. “If you like. I was going to say adamant. But that was only with the abstract idea. I knew that when you dealt with Frank—or anyone—as an individual that you’d do your best for them. I hoped it would open you to some new ideas, ideas you haven’t had much chance to examine because you’ve moved so quickly up the academic ladder. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to work with the team. The other reason is that you’re a damn fine teacher, and you’re the best one to help the boy realize his potential. And it’s working.”
His look challenged her to deny it. “Did you listen to what you said to C.J., Carolyn? First, you said Frank shouldn’t have been admitted, but then you said he should be getting extra help to develop his potential—the kind of potential Ashton should develop.”
She remembered saying the words, and being too furious to consider what she was saying. Or to be bothered that she’d contradicted herself. She’d believed in Ashton’s standards, and Frank didn’t meet those standards. But he did have potential. And she’d fight anybody who tried to prevent her from helping him.
“What you just said about Frank’s potential tells me that you want to keep the boy in school. And from what I’ve seen of his grades he’s making remarkable progress under your guidance. Wouldn’t you say his progress is good?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in danger in any of his classes?”
“No,” she admitted. “But he could do better. He’s operating under a tremendous handicap. It’s as if he started a race a mile behind everyone else.”
“I know that. So does C.J.” He stilled her impatient reaction to his defense of C.J. with a raised palm. “And, most importantly, so does Frank. But he made the decision to try to catch up. He’s quite a kid. In all of this his welfare is what should come first.”
Stewart stood up and placed an affectionate hand briefly on her shoulder. “Now that this is out in the open I think you and C.J. should discuss how to handle it from here. Whatever else there is between the two of you—” with his back to her as he returned to his chair, she couldn’t tell if he’d added special meaning to those words “—you both owe it to Frank and the rest of the players to get along. I think you should go talk to C.J.”
Oh, yes, she would talk to C.J. Draper. That she was sure of. He would know just how she felt about his lying to her, keeping her in the dark, accusing her of being underhanded when he’d manipulated her all along.
And she knew where to find him. A gym rat. Shooting hoops.
Both sets of double doors from the foyer to the gym were threaded with steel chain and padlocked for the night. Still, she could hear the distinct bounce of a ball against a hardwood floor. He was in there. She fought down an urge to futilely rattle the doors for admittance. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure. She backed up two steps, staring at the unhelpful doors. He was inside, so there had to be another way. Of course... through Dolph Reems’s office.
C.J.’s office was open and empty. Shrugging off her coat and tossing it aside as she passed through Dolph’s office, she headed for the gym door, held open by a rubber wedge. She kicked it away as she crossed the threshold and heard the faint click of the automatic lock behind her.
The bleachers were pushed back against the walls, all except one partially opened section, the closest to where she stood. C.J.’s discarded sweatpants and a key ring were thrown across the bottom step. The gym was empty, except for C.J. in shorts and sweatshirt, playing one on none.
He dribbled the length of the court toward her, feinting away from imaginary opponents, driving through an imaginary defense. She knew he was aware of her, but he never faltered as he leaped and released the ball on a delicate, arcing path to the basket. The net made a swishing noise as she said, “I want to talk to you, C.J. Draper.”
The ball bounced once, barely reaching knee level before he scooped it up and headed toward the opposite end of the court. Again the ball arced neatly into the basket. Again he scooped it up and headed back. But this time he found Carolyn squarely in his path.
“I want to talk to you!”
He pulled up in front of her, close enough for her to see the sweat glistening on his bare arms and neck. “Get off my court with those shoes.”
“C. J.—”
“Get those shoes off if you’re going to stay here.” He bounced the ball just inches from the toes of her pumps, then drove around her for another basket.
He wouldn’t get rid of her that easily. She stood on one foot to remove a black pump, and threw it with the force of anger. The other quickly followed. The twin thuds pulled C.J.'s head around, first to the shoes lying in the corner formed by the partially opened bleachers, then to Carolyn’s defiant stance in the middle of the court.
One corner of his mouth twitched. He dribbled toward her, slower and slower as he got closer. Then, just as she dived for the ball so enticingly near, he bounced it past her with a quick flick of his wrist, sidestepped her and continued dribbling toward the basket without missing a beat. Her slick nylons on the smooth floor slid her off balance, and she barely prevented herself from falling.
“Better take the hose off, too . . . if you’re going to stay.”
She glared at his back as he lazily approached the basket. She pulled off her panty hose with no regard for their delicacy, jammed them into the pocket of her suit jacket and, with quick, long strides, got close enough to send the flame-red jacket in the same general direction as her shoes.
“You know, you seem angry, Professor.” The lazy drawl of their first encounters was back. “When I get angry, very angry at someone very aggravating—” he shot her a laser look from his blue eyes as they faced each other at mid-court “—I come out here and shoot hoops. Sorry, that’s baskets to you, Professor. Usually I don’t care much for company when I shoot hoops. In fact, I went to some pains to make sure I wasn’t interrupted. But I guess you didn’t get the hint.”
She grabbed for the ball, but he was too quick for her. “Maybe that’s what you need. To shoot some baskets.” He moved to the basket, soaring toward it to lay the shot in. Then he recovered the ball and returned to midcourt.
“I know what I’m angry about, Professor. I’m angry that someone I asked not to do something—”
“Demanded!” she amended as she lunged for the ball.
“Went ahead and did it with no regard for who it might hurt.”
She started a move toward his right hand, and he dribbled behind his back to switch to his left. Too late, he saw it was a fake. She grabbed the ball before he could secure it, then stepped back with her prize. “Now, Mr. Draper!” she said, gloating with victory.
“Now, Professor Trent,” he said, acknowledging her upper hand mildly.
“I wasn’t given the information about Frank Gordon that I needed to do my job.”
Her pride wouldn’t let her point out that she also hadn’t had the information to betray Frank as he’d so unjustly accused her of doing. How could she tell the reporter anything about Frank’s background when she seemed to be one of the few who didn’t know?
“Maybe not. Why don’t you go ahead and shoot the ball? You’re not bad for someone who doesn’t like basketball.”
Absently she dribbled the ball with the long-forgotten movement of high school physical education classes. “The information I needed—”
“Of course, I was forgetting you were a swimmer, weren’t you? Once an athlete always an athlete. Go ahead, shoot.”
“You didn’t trust me. You lied to me.” She pushed the ball toward the basket with all the force behind those words. It came up short, hitting hard against the front rim and ricocheting back to midcourt.
C.J. easily pulled it in and headed for the basket. “Maybe, but you didn’t trust me, either. You were so sure you knew more about everything than I did that you couldn’t believe I would know why a reporter might want to talk to you.”
“You could have told me!”
“I did tell you.”
“Not about reporters! About Frank!”
“Yeah, and you could have raised a stink about it. Look what you did today.”
He put the ball up, but it caught the right rim and squirted away. C.J. grabbed for it, but this time Carolyn was there. She wrapped her arms around the orange leather sphere and twisted away with flying elbows. “That’s because you lied about it.”
“Shoot it, Carolyn. Don’t just stand there.”
Stung, she dribbled from the sideline around to the free throw line and let go with a shot. To her deep amazement—and gratification—it swished through the net without touching the rim at all.
“Not bad, Professor.” C.J.’s voice held genuine praise.
He dribbled out to her at the free throw line. They faced each other and started a fast-footed drill of feint-and-follow.
“That’s how you reacted now,” he said between moves, “after knowing Gordo for four months. What would you have done back in October?” His movements were dizzyingly fast, but she followed every one. “I didn’t know—” his words came out in pants, but the movement never stopped “—if I could . . . risk it. Gordo’s just . . . getting his feet . . . now.”
Her breath came hard, her heart raced, but she wouldn’t give in. “I . . .wouldn’t . . . hurt him.” Lunging, she knocked the ball away. She was a step quicker because he had to pivot on his weak left leg. She got the ball and held it with one hand against her side.
“Not even to get rid of basketball at Ashton—to get rid of me?” he asked.
He thought she’d do that? He thought that of her? “No, not even for that,” she snapped.
She stood with her hands on her hips, the ball tucked casually under one arm. Her breathing lifted her breasts high under the demure white blouse.
C.J. stopped just inches from her and stared down. He’d never seen her like this before, and he was willing to bet she’d never looked like this before. She’d never looked more beautiful. Sweat ran from her temple down to the side of her cheek and throat, then disappeared under the collarless neck of her blouse. Her hair was mussed and wild. Tendrils clung to the dampness around her face.
He’d stayed away from her for months, playing at being only colleagues. He’d sat beside her on a dark bus, looking into her eyes as they glowed in the light of a passing truck—tiger’s eyes softened by concern—and fought the ache he seemed to always carry for her. He’d welcomed her presence at the games and pretended it didn’t drive him nearly mad.
Then some fan had marched in with a clutch of news-print in his hand, saying he worked at the
Tribune
and had seen the proofs of this story. Accusations in oblique headline style. Coyly worded questions. Facts and figures that didn’t add up. And her name coming out at him as if it were in boldface. He hadn’t even seen what the article said about her—just her name.
He’d seen Frank’s hunted look, and something had exploded in him. Was it four months of evasions and secrets? Or four months of frustrated longing?
Vaguely he was aware of her looking up at him now, her eyes opening wider, their color turning to an amber glow. Impulsively he reached his fingers to twist a curl at her temple.
Some stronger instinct pushed his mouth to follow. Exploring, learning, his tongue reached out to touch the dampness of the skin beside her eye. With a groan deep in his throat, he tasted the saltiness, and something more, a tart sweetness that was hers, that came from inside her. His tongue followed the dampness, replacing it with its own mark, tracing it in her hair, along her temple, over her cheek.
Just below the point of her jaw, he found the hammering of her pulse. He could hear her breath, sharp and shallow. His lips closed on her skin, tasting, teasing. The heated air around them seared each breath, but no matter how he burned, he needed more and more breaths to fill his lungs.
He fired kisses along her jaw, her chin, her cheek, her forehead, tormenting himself with the nearness of her mouth. Then he pulled back just enough to see her eyes again. The amber fire in their depths gave one answer. He needed another.
Urgently he pulled her hands off her hips. The ball’s hollow bounces echoed away from them in the silent gym. He slid his hands up the soft material of her blouse, gripping her arms to raise them to his shoulders. She hardly seemed aware when her arms continued the motion, winding around his neck, drawing them closer.
But it wasn’t close enough to satisfy him. One hand on her back, one on the curve of her hip, brought them together along the lengths of their bodies. He saw the realization of his desire blaze into her eyes.
He watched her struggle with emotions she couldn’t master. He waited—dreaded—the moment when the mask would slide into place over the vulnerability. But it didn’t.