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became partners. He played well but methodically. His returns and serves were not spectacular. Celia was coached by a patient John, who didn't seem to care if they won as long as she was having a good time and not getting too tired. Shay relaxed, knowing she was playing better than anyone else. She didn't even push herself. It surprised her when Ian complimented her on a routine return and a less than fabulous lob.
    "Good shot," he said laconically.
    "Thanks," she returned in kind.
    Except when necessary, they didn't look at each other. He certainly wasn't paying special attention to her, and she'd be damned before she'd stand before him like a tongue-tied teenager admiring his physique, which the tennis whites set off to full advantage.
    What irked her was that she knew she looked good in her tennis outfit. It had a white halter top that left her back bare and showed off her tan. The white pleated skirt came to just below her hips. Beneath it her red trunks peeked out flirtatiously.
    And this prude, this stick man, hasn't even noticed, she thought scornfully.
    Before they had played a full match, Celia mopped her brow with a handkerchief and said she'd had enough. "Why don't we go to the market and buy those steaks you wanted to grill while the children continue to play?"
    "Great idea," John concurred.
    Since Shay hadn't really exerted herself, she looked forward to having the whole court to herself. She nodded in agreement.
    "We'll be back in half an hour," John called as he ushered Celia to the car.
    "Want to rest a minute before we start?" Ian asked Shay as the car drove out of sight.
    "I don't need to rest, but if you do, I'll be glad to wait."
    "I'm ready," he said grimly, and without even tossing for it, chose the side of the court with the sun behind it. "You can serve first."
    "Thanks so much," she said with dripping sarcasm, taking up several balls and moving to the service line. Warmed up from the earlier game with their parents, she zinged an impressive serve into his court. Before she knew what had happened, the ball was sailing in a straight line across the net to bounce within half an inch of the base line behind her. She muttered a curse.
    "Was it in or out?" he called graciously from his side. Was he daring her to cheat and say it was out?
    "In," she called back.
    "I thought so."
    Her mouth was set with firm determination when she applied all her strength to her next serve. It bounced with a spin in the corner of the box and ricocheted in the opposite direction. She didn't have time to gloat. The ball, parallel to the ground, shot like a fighter jet back across the net. She swung wildly, missing it by several feet.
    Ian acted far too casual as he twirled his racket like a baton and whistled under his breath. So, she'd been suckered again. Was there such a thing as a tennis shark? Well, there was nothing to do but make the most of it, stay on her toes, and play as well as she could against an obviously superior player.
    Though her serves were good, she scored only one point, and that one she felt Ian had given her. Not out of charity. The wicked arch of his brows told her he knew exactly what he was doing. He had given her the point only to heighten her mounting aggravation.
    "My serve," he said after he'd won the game.
    "I know the rules."
    His grin was wide, disarming, charming; she wanted nothing more than to wipe it from his mouth.
    "Bad loser?" he taunted.
    "Just serve the damn ball."
    He shrugged, overlooking her curse word. "Okay."
    She never saw it. She saw his arm arc high over his head, saw him go up on his toes, saw his torso stretch, saw his arm sweep downward. The next thing she knew the ball was spinning away from her at a crazy angle.
    "Fifteen love," he said in a deadpan voice. She would have much preferred him to shout with glee.
    The next serve was just as hard, just as fast, just as lethal. "You're serving too hard," she shouted at him.
    "You're not watching the ball. Keep your eye on the