TWICE VICTORIOUS Page 7

  The elevator sighed to a stop. As always, her breath caught as she saw the view from The Sky Room. All of downtown Portland was spread out beneath her, sparkling and clean. How long had it been since she'd taken time to come here, to her favorite restaurant, just to watch the city at night? Too long.

  "Do you want to wait in the bar?"

  Hating the need to admit weakness, Stell said, "Anywhere, as long as we can sit down." She was a complete idiot to have worn heels.

  Adam was instantly solicitous. Within seconds he had her seated at a table next to the window, was demanding a stool or a cushion so her foot could be slightly elevated. "Can I get you some ice? Is your foot swollen? How's your knee?"

  "I'm fine, Adam," she said, embarrassed by all the attention she was getting. "It's just a little ache. I should have worn sneakers, but I didn't have any to match this dress."

  "Do I detect a hint of feminine vanity?"

  "More than a hint, I'm afraid. You've never seen my wardrobe." No, and he wasn't likely to. Why she hadn't given the twenty-odd pairs of heels and the rack of wool suits to one of the thrift shops was beyond her. She'd never wear most of them again.

  "No. No, I haven't." He was eyeing her closely. "As a matter of fact, this is the first time I've seen you in a dress." His smile lit up their corner of the dim bar. "Very, very nice."

  Just then the maitre d' hotel appeared to tell Adam his guests had arrived. They joined the two couples at their table by the window, with a fabulous view of Portland at night. Adam made introductions, seated his guests with the best view, played the perfect host. She admired his graciousness, his poise.

  Ev and Angie Roberts were in their mid-fifties, comfortably round, and warmly friendly. In contrast, Arnold Schwartz, the cycling editor of Life Sport, was long and lean, a perfect advertisement for his subject. Leila Schwartz was also slim, but obviously not the dedicated cyclist her husband was.

  Arnold picked up on her name immediately. "Stell McCray? You're not the cyclist?"

  "She certainly is," Adam said. His voice was proud, and despite herself Stell glowed at the implied compliment.

  From then on, most of the dinner conversation centered on sports, beginning with the Sawtooth Classic and going on to the upcoming Winter Olympics. "I'm jealous," she said, when Leila spoke of their trip to Athens for the last Summer Olympics, their plans to spend the summer touring the Far East after Beijing.

  "So am I," Adam agreed. "I'm not even going to Vancouver. Juliana won that toss, so I've got to stay home and mind the store."

  "I'm surprised you weren't in Torino," Ev said. "Surely just being there would have been worth your while."

  "We made the decision that the cost of doing it right was far more than the benefits we'd have received. Our main market has been winter sports for a long time, and we weren't ready to expand then." He lifted his wineglass in a pledge. "We are now, or will be, as soon as we launch our new line of ActiveWear. Just wait. You'll see at least one team in KIWANDA OuterWear in 2010."

  Ev slapped him on the shoulder. "You'll do it, boy. I've never seen anyone like you for doing what you set your mind to. Why I remember, back in '89, at the Summer Nationals..."

  "Yes, well, are you folks ready for dessert?" Adam waved the waiter over. "The Sky Room is famous for its hazelnut cheesecake."

  Stell noticed the quick glare he threw toward Ev, but paid it little attention. Her leg was hurting with a vengeance, and all her concentration was devoted to keeping a smile on her face and tears from her eyes. Since Adam was the host tonight, she couldn't ask him to take her home, much as she longed to.

  The conversation slipped into a discussion of Adam's hopes to get KIWANDA CycleWear into some of the more prestigious sportswear catalogs. REI, and maybe Land's End. Stell was pleased that his company was getting exposure beyond the Pacific Northwest. Unfortunately she couldn't generate much enthusiasm. Not the way she was hurting.

  She managed to keep a smile on her face. When everyone finally refused just one more coffee refill, another round of liqueurs, she breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. Maybe now she could gracefully ask to be taken home.

  "Stell's still recovering from a spill," Adam told the others when Ev suggested that they find a bar with a good dance ensemble. "I think she'd rather just take off her shoes and put her feet up." His smile assured Arnold she wasn't seriously injured.

  "It's been a long day," she added. "One of my clients is being audited by the IRS." Her smile, she hoped, implied that she'd spent hours and hours getting the client ready for her audit.

  The truth was that she'd spent hours and hours working her leg this past week, and was paying for it tonight. Linda Bonner's books were in great shape.

  "You're hurting, aren't you?" Adam said later, as he guided the car along rain-slick streets.

  "Not too bad. I'm mostly tired."

  "Don't give me that crap! You looked like you were about to pass out."

  "I tell you, I'm just tired. I shouldn't have worn these shoes."

  "No, you shouldn't have. But it's more than that, isn't it, Stell? Your leg's giving you trouble, isn't it?"

  "Adam, I assure you that my leg's doing just fine. I just need to get it elevated, let it rest."

  "Have you got plenty of ice? I can pick you up a bag."

  "I've got everything I need." She sighed with exhaustion as he pulled into her driveway. "I had a lovely time tonight, Adam. Ev and Angie are wonderful people, and I got a real kick out of Leila's wacky sense of humor."

  "But you didn't like Arnold knowing you were hurt, did you?"

  "No, I didn't. Thank you for making my accident sound less serious than it was." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She didn't want to admit, even to Adam, who'd been there, just how serious her accident had been. If the word got out into the cycling community that her chances of recovering in time to train for next year's Sawtooth Classic were slim, she'd not even be considered for the team. So far the local cyclists had kept quiet about the extent of her injuries. She just hoped they'd maintain their silence long enough for her to get back into competition.

  Adam went around the car and pulled her door open. She was gathering her energy to stand when he swept her into his arms. "Got your key?"

  Speechless, she nodded. He paused long enough for her to unlock the door, then shouldered his way inside. Within seconds she was in a wing chair, an ottoman in front of her and her foot, minus its shoe, stretched out before her. She could hear Adam slamming doors in the kitchen.

  "Where's the ice bag?"

  Gingerly she lowered her foot to the floor. The ankle flexed without pain, but when she put just a hint of weight on her hip, it was like knives stabbing into her pelvis. Gasping, she fell back into the chair, fighting to control nausea.

  The world was still spinning and edged with red when Adam returned, carrying a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and an armload of her guest towels.

  "I wish I knew my way around your house. But I figured you'd rather have this soon, rather than wait for me to find all the right pieces." He lifted her foot and positioned it carefully on the towel-covered bag of ice. "How's the knee?" His fingers lightly explored her knee, swollen from an evening of use.

  She couldn't help wincing as he found a tender spot.

  Moments later he was fitting another makeshift icebag around her knee. "Better?"

  She nodded, still fighting the intense pain in her hip. Only her P.T. knew how slowly it was healing, compared with the ankle and knee. If Adam knew, he'd probably wrap her whole lower body in ice. Stell shivered at the mere thought.

  "Do you want me to stay?" he asked, after standing silently for several minutes. She'd felt his gaze on her face, but hadn't wanted to speak. Her voice would have trembled. Adam Vanderhook was the last man in the world she wanted to admit her weaknesses to. "Do you need help getting ready for bed?"

  Distracted as she was, she still felt an infinitesimal twinge of warmth at Adam's innocent off
er. She really had it bad. "No, but thanks," she told him. "I'll be fine."

  His expression was doubtful.

  "Honest. All I need is a little rest and my brace. It's on the chest in the front hall." Where she'd left it, too vain to wear such an unattractive device with her prettiest dress. Next time she'd know better. Trying to protect her knee had put extra strain on her hip.

  After the two hundred side leg lifts she'd done this afternoon, the strained tendons had justifiably rebelled. Maybe she'd better take tomorrow off, just do the simple exercises Carl had prescribed.

  Before he wrapped the brace around her leg. Adam traced a line of soft kisses from the top of her knee to her foot. Until this moment, Stell hadn't known how erogenous her legs were.

  Nor had she remembered the healing power of kisses. It had been a long time since anyone had kissed her owies to make them well.

  When Adam left, she felt like champagne when all the bubbles were gone.

  * * * *

  Adam called the next day to check on her, but didn't have time to talk. There was a minor crisis in the receiving department and he spent the whole day straightening out mixed up orders. Then it was time for him to leave on his long-planned marketing trip to the East Coast. He didn't even have time for dinner, and the food he grabbed in the airport gave him heartburn that lasted past Denver.

  So it was almost two weeks before he saw her again.

  What am I doing here? Adam stood at the top of the steps, between the rows of fixed board seats. He'd never been to a cycle race at a velodrome before. He wasn't sure he wanted to be here now, even though it might be the only way he'd see Stell this weekend.

  He was tired, jet-lagged, and frustrated.

  No, he was just plain mad. At himself and at her. Hadn't he been the man who'd sworn never to get involved with a serious athlete?

  Playing second fiddle to an endorphin high wasn't his idea of a good time.

  "What'd you think of that finish?" Warren McCray said, climbing up to meet him. "I don't think I've seen a Points Race so close for years."

  "Pretty close," Adam admitted, even though he still hadn't figured out who'd won. Or what had been going on, for that matter.

  There had clearly been four teams represented on the track, each one with different garish shirts and logo-embellished black cycling shorts. Adam thought they were all men, but some of the women cyclists were so lean and trim that they made long, slim Stell McCray look voluptuous. The racers wore numbers on the left sides of their torsos, angled away from the spectators, so he hadn't even been able to keep track of individuals.

  He knew some of the racers had been lapped, but in the desperate sprint at the finish, he'd lost track of which ones.

  "That Rick--he's really improved this year. I wouldn't be surprised if he moved up to Cat Three before the season's over."

  "Yeah, that's his goal," Adam agreed. Had Rick been in this race? His employee's team jersey was purple and white; that's all Adam knew. With the helmets, the wraparound glasses, and the matching clothes, he couldn't tell one cyclist from another.

  What Adam wouldn't admit to anyone else was that he didn't understand at least half of what Warren said. He was still confused, especially about cycling categories. As a relative beginner Rick was a Cat Four, and Stell was a Cat One, the best. But what those categories meant or how cyclists went from one to the other was beyond his comprehension.

  "Let's go down front. The Kiddie Kilo's next." Warren led the way down to the front row, just behind the fence that separated the stands from the oval track with its steeply sloped ends. They found space between a very pregnant woman and a couple of boys in cycling clothes. Neither kid was much over twelve. At least this was a family sport, Adam decided, as one of the boys called the woman on his other side Mom.

  Most of the racers leaned their bikes against the wall below the bleachers and climbed up to take seats. At the same time, several small children, all wearing helmets, were lifted down onto the track. What in the world?

  The kids ran over to where half a dozen small bicycles and tricycles were parked. The tiniest child, a girl with dark ringlets, climbed aboard a hot pink trike with long iridescent streamers on the end of the handlebars. She could barely reach the pedals, but she sure made them spin. She and another small child, a little boy, rode to a chalked line about a quarter of the way around the track, while the rest of the children lined up at the start line right below him.

  Warren nudged Adam, regaining his attention. "Are you and Stell coming to the barbecue tonight?" Stell's cousin seemed to have appointed himself Adam's guide today. Between his races he'd come up to the stands and kept up a running commentary about the competitors.

  "Not this time. We've got other plans." Adam's eyes drifted to the center of the field, the grassy area contained within the oval track. Stell was with several other women cyclists, among them the petite redhead who'd modeled KIWANDA CycleWear. Felice, that was her name. Even as he watched, most of the women stopped their stretches and put on their helmets.

  Almost all the cyclists were in the stands now. A few were still in the center of the oval, where Stell continued stretching. He would never get enough of watching her. Each graceful movement was as carefully controlled as a dancer's, or a Karate adept's. She hardly looked up when the starter waved his flag and the start bell rang.

  The children took off. Even the two tiny ones were pedaling furiously. Two of the older ones--they looked to be five or six--pulled ahead of the rest and were in a neck-and-neck battle for the lead. The whole pack was going all out as they rounded the end and accelerated along the back straightaway.

  The crowd got noisier, with almost everyone calling out encouragement. Adam found himself willing the tiny girl with ringlets to pedal faster.

  Faster! She was being overtaken, even though she was some distance ahead of the littlest boy.

  The leaders passed the little riders. Soon so did the rest of the pack. Adam's favorite simply lowered her head and pedaled even harder. "The poor kids," he muttered, not liking to see them left so fat behind.

  "They're doing fine," Warren said.

  Adam ignored him. No child that small should be expected to compete.

  The pack of older kids was at the back of the track when the two little ones approached the stands. Still ahead, the little girl seemed to be flagging. The crowd's cheers increased.

  The start/finish line was a strip of black paint on the concrete of the track. The little girl's front tire rolled across it about six inches ahead of the boy's, and the starter waved a checkered flag. More cheering. A young woman in a lime green and yellow jersey jumped down to the track and grabbed the girl in a big hug, while another woman in jeans ran to the little boy. They pulled the kids off the track just in time for the pack to whisper by, to more cheers of the crowd.

  "What's going on?"

  Warren tugged on his elbow. For the first time, Adam realized he was standing. He sat.

  "There are actually two races. Watch."

  The pack approached the start/finish line again. To tumultuous cheers, a boy on a fat-tired bike led them across. He slowed, and led the lengthening line of riders around the track, waving one hand above his head.

  Once the kids had parked their bikes on the grass again, they gathered around the three-tiered stand. It wasn't as fancy as some Adam had seen, but it was made just like the winner's podium at many athletic events. Someone lifted the little girl onto the top level and the boy who'd almost caught her to the next one. A judge draped a medal around each small neck. The girl clapped her hands and bounced, while the boy clasped his hands above his head in a victorious acknowledgement.

  Everyone clapped and cheered.

  Adam found his throat growing tight.

  Three older kids replaced the little ones, and were given their medals. Adam applauded and cheered as loudly as anyone. Despite his disapproval of children so young in competition, he had to admire them. They'd gone all out, as a good competitor should.


  Another three kids climbed onto the podium. No, four, for there were two on one of the lower levels. Again the award ceremony.

  "See," Warren said softly. "Everyone wins."

  "Doesn't that give them a false sense of accomplishment?" One of the first things he'd learned, many years ago, was that each contest has only one winner.

  "Nope. The ribbons are for finishing, not winning. At their age, riding a kilometer is quite a feat."

  "If you say so." He still didn't approve, but now he wasn't quite sure what it was he didn't approve of.

  The adult races began again. Warren left him alone, because he was riding in the Madison, a race that looked something like a relay, except that the only thing the riders seemed to be relaying was each other. Each team of two took turns leading, and when the follower approached, the leader reached back, grabbed his partner, and pulled him ahead, almost slinging him forward. I wish somebody would explain this one to me. What's the point?

  Once again he looked into the central oval. Stell had stopped her stretching, and was sitting on the grass with two other women, watching the race. How could she stand being here and not competing? If he were in her shoes, he'd stay as far away from cycling as he could. Having your heart cut out of you wouldn't be any more painful than losing your reason for being. He knew.

  Just then Stell looked up and smiled at him. Adam's heart lurched. She was so lovely!

  He waited as she flowed to her feet and walked across the track. At fifty feet he noticed her limp more than he did at close quarters. It didn't seem to be improving.

  "Hi. Enjoying yourself?"

  "Sure."

  "Doesn't sound like it. Do you want to leave?"

  "I am getting hungry." He'd brought a picnic from Elephant's Deli, packed into a fancy basket he'd borrowed from Juliana. There was even chilled wine. "Do you want to leave your car here, come back for it later?"

  She shook her head. "Not if we're going any distance. I was awake way too early this morning, and I'll turn into a pumpkin in about two hours."