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ball."
    "The ball is a blur," she mumbled under her breath as she assumed her position.
    "What did you say?" he called politely, postponing his serve.
    "Nothing. Just serve."
    The next shot flew dangerously close to her head. "Dammit, you're serving too hard! That thing could have killed me," she shouted.
    "You're only mad because I'm aceing you. Do you want to quit?"
    "No. But I'm not a target. Don't serve it so hard."
    She could tell by his reach that the next one would be worse than the others. Furious, she dropped her racket and spun on her heels. "I'm not going to play anymore with a potential murderer."
    Ian didn't have time to curb his momentum. He had overshot his mark, and the ball didn't even bounce before it slammed into the soft cushion of flesh that was Shay's behind.
    She cried out sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes. The shocking pain made her nauseous. Her vision blurred. Pain, hunger, and too much sun all combined. She fell ignominiously onto the asphalt in a dead faint.

Chapter Three

    « ^ »

    " I 'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Shay, please forgive m me. I didn't mean to hurt you."
    The words were low and urgent, whispered and soothing. They fell on her ears like cool raindrops and coaxed her back to consciousness.
    Not yet. She didn't want to open her eyes yet. For a self-indulgent moment she wanted to be coddled, held against the solid wall of this magnificent chest. She loved feeling his chin moving over her head. Her cheek and nose were being pressed into his damp, warm neck. He smelled of male perspiration mingling with a brisk cologne. That scent, the heat emanating from him, the hand that stroked her hair, and the lulling voice induced her not to awaken from her faint. It was far more pleasant to remain helpless and protected.
    "I'm sorry, so sorry."
    They were on the grass. She could feel it beneath her bare legs. Ian must have carried her off the court and cradled her in his arms as he sat down on the early summer grass, soft and green. How marvelous it was to be held securely in strong arms. Had she been given the choice, she might have chosen to stay there forever with his deep voice vibrating through her body with each heartfelt word and his hand—
    She became aware of his hand. Not the one stroking her hair comfortingly. The other one. It was gently rubbing the area of her injury. Under her short skirt, with only the red tennis trunks between them, he was massaging her derrière. Gently he squeezed her, then his hand flattened, and he rubbed her with a slow, circular motion of his palm. And all the while he murmured his regret for having bruised and hurt her with his deadly serve.
    She allowed her hand to wander up his ribs to clutch at the breast pocket of his knit shirt. The contoured muscles flexed and hardened beneath her hand. Then she lifted the screen of dark lashes from her eyes, and she was looking directly into his eyes. Their faces were inches apart as he bent over her.
    He sighed his relief and closed his eyes for a brief instant before asking in a hushed voice, "Are you all right?"
    She nodded, captivated by his nearness and the fragrant ghost of his breath which drifted across her face. "Yes."
    "Shay, please forgive me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
    "I know." Why was she willing to absolve him so readily? She should be as mad as hell. Instead she was lying here, a victim of delicious lassitude, forgiving him with the benevolent generosity of a saint. To rail at him for his brutal game, which had finally resulted in her getting hurt, would require that she move away from him. Then he wouldn't be looking at her with unspeakable tenderness. His fingertips wouldn't be gliding over the features of her face as though he adored them. His other hand wouldn't be caressing—for there was no other word to describe the rhythmic stroking—the round fullness of her hip that even now throbbed with the impact of the rocketing tennis ball.
    He couldn't forgive himself so easily. "I was well