TWICE VICTORIOUS Page 3

  Good grief! She hadn't been kissed like that since she was in college. If then.

  When Adam Vanderhook kissed a woman, he gave it his total attention, and it showed. He hadn't been thinking of KIWANDA, or of the modeling job he'd wanted her for. She didn't think he'd even been calculating his chances of getting her into bed, as many men she'd dated would have been doing.

  She would bet he hadn't been thinking at all, except about the tastes and touches and inner sensations inherent to the kiss. She'd never seen such total concentration devoted to anything but winning.

  What a great competitor he'd make. He had the necessary drive. According to Rick, he'd built KIWANDA OuterWear from a cottage industry into one of the Pacific Northwest's major clothing manufacturers.

  He had the body. She'd rarely seen such natural grace, such carefully leashed strength and coordination.

  He'd look great in cycling shorts, too.

  She looked up as he brought the crutches to her. "I hope you aren't taking that--" she gestured vaguely toward the hallway, "seriously."

  His grin was sheepish, but still packed a wallop. "I won't if you won't."

  "I'm taking very little seriously these days." She shrugged, not wanting to explain about waiting for her life's pieces to fall back into place. "Would you like something to drink?"

  "I'm fine, thanks. How about you? Can I get you anything?"

  She had to chuckle at that. "This is my house, remember. I'm supposed to be the hostess."

  "But I've got two good legs," he told her, "and it's hard to carry a cup of coffee when you've got crutches in both hands."

  "Don't I know it." Or anything else. She'd been having a heck of a time getting anything from one room to another. Finally she'd learned that if she piled stuff on a towel, then dragged it behind her as she stumped about the house, she could manage.

  "So, can I get you something?" His grin was mocking, but kindly.

  She capitulated. "I'd love a Coke. They're in the 'fridge."

  His eyebrow raised, and she realized he'd never been beyond the living room.

  "That way." She pointed. "At the end of the hall. Glasses are beside the sink."

  While he was gone, she let herself wonder about him. Was that unforgettable kiss a fluke, or could it be repeated? And did she want to repeat it? The last time she'd got involved with anyone, it hadn't lasted through the cycling season. He hadn't understood that everything had to take second place when she was in training. If she wanted to be the best, she had to give it everything she had, not take a day off whenever he got a notion to go out and play.

  Would Adam? Or would he feel that he deserved at least as much of her energy and attention as she gave her cycling?

  Stell leaned back and closed her eyes. Listen to her! All he'd done was kiss her and she was worrying about how he would fit into her future. He hadn't even showed signs of wanting to do it again.

  He'd been the one to break it off, not she. And he'd been the first to apologize.

  Suppose he didn't want her at all. Suppose his kiss had been the natural reaction of a healthy man to an unspoken invitation. After all, she'd practically fallen into his arms, hadn't she? What had he been supposed to do with her? Drop her?

  By the time he returned with two glasses filled with ice and Coca-Cola, she had herself in hand. "Thank you," she said, taking hers. She shifted her brace to rest on a magazine on the coffee table and tucked the other leg beneath her. "This is nice. I'm getting tired of having to sit in the kitchen whenever I want something to eat or drink. When I'm not on crutches, I have my dinners in here."

  Again that raised eyebrow. "While you watch the news? That's bad for the digestion."

  "While I watch whatever's on," she admitted. "I do it more for company than anything. And I usually eat pretty late. After I train."

  He frowned and was silent for a long time. Stell shifted, trying to get comfortable. Not only did he disconcert her, but her leg felt tired from always being stretched out.

  "Rick said you were training for some international race?"

  "The Sawtooth Classic," she said. "It's just about the biggest women's amateur race in the world."

  "Something like the Tour de France?" There was still the hint of a scowl on his face, but his voice was mild enough.

  "Something like that. Thirteen stages, with road races, time trials, a circuit race and a criterium." She shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable position for her leg. "It's the biggest and best women's race in the world. I was one of the standbys last year, because I missed an important qualifying race. It was held the first week in April, and I was hip deep in tax returns." Yes, and was miserable the whole time, wanting to be in the race so bad I could taste it. "The competition for team positions is pretty stiff."

  "Like the Olympics," he said, not asking. The flat, hard tone of his voice chilled her, as if she were sharing the room with an iceberg.

  "Yes, but even tougher to qualify for. The Classic is just as demanding."

  "It's rough," he said, his voice gentle and full of understanding, "to have to give up something you've worked so hard for."

  Stell stared, unable to speak, for long seconds. "Give up? What do you mean? I haven't given up anything?"

  "But you won't be able to race now. Not with your leg." His gesture showed his doubt.

  "The devil I won't!" She scrabbled for her crutches, forced herself to her feet. "I may have ruined my chances this year, but I'll be on the team next year, and I'll race. Nothing's going to stop me! Do you hear? Nothing!" She didn't need this. Not someone who didn't believe in her, who offered pity instead of encouragement.

  Adam stood and raised his hands before him. "Hey, I didn't mean anything. I just thought, well, you're in pretty bad shape. Rick said it could be months before you were back on your bike."

  "Rick's a pessimist. My leg's going to be fine. Frank Pauvel is one of the best sports medicine specialists around, and he's a cyclist, too. He understands how important it is for me to keep training."

  "Stell, you can't push something like this," Adam told her, his voice again full of that gentle pity. "If the tendons are damaged, it could take months, even years, before you can ride again. I know. I've had..."

  "Don't!" She didn't want to hear what he'd had. Shin splints, probably, so he couldn't take his morning run along with all the other sleek young executives who crowded Portland's early morning streets in their expensive, colorful running clothes. "I think you'd better leave now, Mr. Vanderhook. I've got to be at my doctor's at two, and I still have to shower and eat lunch. If you'll excuse me?"

  She had to give him credit. He left without any further urging, and even bade her a friendly goodbye. But he had the last word, too. "Keep me posted on your recovery. I'd still like to see you model our CycleWear." His fingers lightly stroked her cheek, sending tiny thrills through her.

  She stared at him blankly as he touched his brow before he pulled the front door closed behind himself. Hadn't he heard anything she'd said?.

  She'd like to tell him where he could put his modeling job, but her mother had raised her to be a lady.

  * * * *

  "You've got a lot of soft tissue damage," Frank Pauvel told her, once he had her in tears. For a painful eternity he'd been twisting and bending her injured leg, poking at it, and frequently referring to the x-ray and the MRI images in the lighted holder on his wall. "Nothing we can fix with surgery, either."

  "Great," she said, relieved. "How soon can I start training again?" Her heart almost stopped when he looked up, shaking his head.

  "Stell, you don't understand. If we could fix it with surgery, you might be back on your bike in a few months. As it is..." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

  "But if it's only soft tissue damage...I mean, it's not as if anything's broken." Surely he was being unduly pessimistic. "Frank, I know about strains and sprains. I-E-R. Ice, elevation, and rest. I've been wracked up before. I've always been back in training in a week or two." />
  "Not this time." He ran his fingertips gently down her thigh and across her knee, the knee that hadn't stopped hurting since her accident. "You won't be doing any competition riding this summer, Stell."

  She looked into his eyes. They were sympathetic. Pitying.

  "Maybe never."

  Stell saw individual hairs in his dark handlebar moustache, a blackhead on his nose, the white line of an old scar along his left eyebrow. Her heart thundered in her ears, and her stomach tried to climb out her mouth. She was distantly aware of his hand on her nape, forcing her head between her knees. Never...never...maybe never. His words sounded in her mind, until she jerked herself upright and thrust them out.

  "You're kidding, right?" That couldn't be her voice. Not that thin, tremulous soprano. She gulped, clenched her fingers against the sides of the examining table. "If I take it easy all summer, by fall I should be..."

  "Stell, I can't promise you'll be back on your bike in a year, let alone by fall. Haven't you heard anything I've said?"

  "I heard everything, but it didn't make a lot of sense. Iliotibial bands, static tendons. What are those?"

  He shook his head, sighing, "How can you spend so many years on a bicycle and not have any notion of how your legs work?"

  She shook her head. "Does it matter? As long as they do?" She'd learned about nutrition because she wanted peak efficiency. She hadn't thought it necessary to learn the long, jaw-breaking names of all the bones and muscles and tendons that propelled her bicycle. In fact, she'd often thought Warren somewhat of a hypochondriac, because of his fascination with human anatomy.

  "Look, I know this has been a shock," Frank said, his voice so full of pity she wanted to scream. "You need time to think about it, time to adjust."

  She'd never adjust. She was going to ride the Sawtooth Classic in fourteen months. She would go to the physical therapist he recommended, but she wouldn't be patient. Medical people were always conservative. They just didn't understand that you couldn't take a year or two off to recover from a minor accident.

  "Take it easy, Stell," Frank told her as he ushered her out of the examining room. "One day at a time."

  "Sure, Frank. Thanks."

  During the taxi ride home, her anger cooled and her determination faltered. What if Frank were right? What if her leg wouldn't heal? What if she never rode again?

  No. That was an intolerable thought. She'd just have to be positive.

  But she was so tired. And she hurt.

  The phone was ringing when she limped inside her back door, but Stell didn't answer it. She just didn't feel up to talking to anyone right now. Tossing her purse on the kitchen table, she pulled the refrigerator door open. That mousse Carmen Kroll had brought by--the one she had expected to throw away uneaten--should still be edible. She moved covered dishes and casseroles around, thinking that she should clean out all the leftover dabs of this and that so she would have room for the veggies she needed to pick up, now that she was free of the crutches.

  There it was! She pulled the soufflé dish out and peeled back its plastic wrap. The rich, seductive scent of chocolate filled the kitchen. Chocolate, with brandy overtones. Dark, sinful, delicious, sugar-sweet. She reached for a spoon.

  For almost five years she had been avoiding dishes like this, knowing that even though cycling burned fuel almost as fast as she could take it in, sugar wouldn't stay with her as well as complex carbohydrates. The kind of cycling she did placed enormous demands on her body and made good nutrition absolutely imperative.

  None of that mattered now....

  Now she wished she'd listened more carefully, so that she could have followed Frank's patient explanation of her injuries and the implications thereof.

  Stell dipped the spoon into the decadent mixture of chocolate and eggs, hardly noticing the rich taste on her tongue. Darn Frank Pauvel, anyway. Why hadn't he made sure she understood, while she was still in the hospital? She remembered refusing to listen to something he was trying to tell her, something she hadn't wanted to hear. But he was the doctor. He should have made sure she did listen.

  And what kind of sports medicine specialist was he anyhow, telling her to learn to live with her injuries? His job was to fix her up, so she could race. Not to discourage her, to undermine her confidence.

  The jarring screech of steel against porcelain sent shivers up her spine and brought her back to the present. She looked down and was amazed to discover the soufflé dish empty.

  While she had been wallowing in self pity, she'd eaten the whole mousse.

  Shoving the dish aside, Stell stared out across her back yard. The camellia bushes that framed her breakfast nook windows were in full bloom, and daffodils swayed along the edges of the steps into the lower level of the yard. So did dandelions.

  Now that the stiff brace was off, maybe she could sit on the ground comfortably. She'd pull a few weeds and not think about Frank's verdict.

  She didn't know what she would do if he was right.

  Chapter Three

  HILL CLIMB: a timed race on an uphill course

  "The timing of that storm was perfect. All the trails looked fresh and new. It almost made me want to take up cross-country skiing."

  Adam looked at his sister with amazement. "That'll be the day." She was a dedicated, self-professed sloth, avoiding any aerobic activity like the plague. She kept her figure and agility with Yoga, much to his envy. He had to work out regularly to keep his muscles from turning into flab.

  Juliana grinned. "Well, yes, but I did say 'almost.'" She tossed a folder on the table in front of him. "Here's the first batch of photos. They look great. I can't believe we're having such good luck."

  "Not like the early days, when we did our own promotion photos. Roger must have shot twenty or thirty rolls of film."

  "And that fool bird dog of Al's. He minded perfectly until Roger aimed the camera at him, then he went crazy. Do you remember who that other fellow was, the one who wore the rainsuit?"

  Adam shook his head, thinking back to when he and Juliana were trying to get KIWANDA off the ground. Every penny they could save by doing things themselves meant that much longer they could keep striving for success.

  "We sure were naive," he said, leaning back and lifting one leg to rest on the conference table. "If we'd known then what we know now...."

  "We'd never have tried starting an outerwear business." Juliana smiled as she repeated words they both had spoken many times before. Her eyes seemed to look back into the past, and Adam knew she remembered as well as he did the long evenings at Mom's dining room table, cutting and sewing heavy fabric, arguing over the choice of colors for each garment, working out design details, until it would both protect the wearer and last for years. And look good all the while.

  Those had been the days, all right. If Adam hadn't given up his youthful dream, if he hadn't put duty before passion, they never would have founded KIWANDA OuterWear. It was hard to believe, now, that it had all been a whim, at first. Juliana had been newly graduated from college and not sure of what she wanted to do with her life. The traditional uses for a degree in Home Economics were not nearly glamorous enough for his big sister. Nor remunerative enough, he suspected.

  And he had been desperate. For the first time in his life, he was learning what it was like to be ordinary, and he'd hated it. Without work experience, the only job he'd been able to get was as a snack food delivery man. After six months, his employers had been impressed with his performance, but he'd never been so bored in his life.

  He and Juliana made the first rainsuit when Roger, her fiancé then, complained that he couldn't find anything that was light and waterproof and bright enough to protect him from other hunters while he was pursuing deer and elk. Juliana offered to make him one. Adam couldn't avoid adding his two cents worth, until his sister, in exasperation, told him if he had so many good ideas, he should prove them.

  He did, and Roger preferred his unconventional design to Juliana's more traditional one, even
with the crooked seams and amateur workmanship.

  It had taken Juliana weeks to forgive him. By then they were deep in planning KIWANDA OuterWear, with Roger's help.

  He became aware that Juliana was looking at him expectantly. She'd said something, but his mind had been years away. "Sorry. What did you say?"

  "Wake up, baby brother. I said that they want to start the CycleWear shoot Monday. The sooner we can get done, the sooner we'll be ready to send everything to the printers."

  "But they can't...." He dropped his leg from the table and stood up. Stell's scabs were probably almost gone by now. It had been three weeks since her accident. But she wouldn't be in any shape to be photographed. He still believed he could convince her to model, but he might not be able to do it in a day.

  "Why can't they?"

  Why indeed? Stell wasn't the only attractive, photogenic woman cyclist in Portland, or even on her team. That little redhead was cute as a button.

  And what difference did it make who they used, anyway? He still didn't believe the company should be expanding in the direction of active sportswear right now. The only reason he'd stopped opposing the expansion was because he owed his sister. She'd been supportive enough of his ideas once or twice when she hadn't approved of his reasons.

  "Never mind. I was thinking of something else. I'd like to see the proofs of the CycleWear photos when they're done. If they're as good as these..." He flipped through the photos in Juliana's folder. "You're on a roll, big sister. Go for it."

  She clasped her hands together above her head. "The winner!"

  Part of Adam envied Juliana. Starting a new product line, even if it was one he wanted absolutely nothing to do with, was exciting. She was having more fun than enough.

  He followed her out, turning toward his office as she headed toward the advertising department. It really wasn't that important, but he'd just check and see if Rick had heard how Stell was doing.

  * * * *

  "Keep going. ...G...H...I...J..." The stocky Physical Therapist kept his hand on her calf, as if to lend her strength. "Don't stop now. You're doing great!"