Invincible

That also made sense, Kristin conceded. The French Open was at the end of the month, which didn’t leave much time for planning.

“The CIA figured since I have a tennis background, and I live in London, I’m the logical person to infiltrate the professional tennis locker rooms at Wimbledon and listen for what I might hear about an assassination attempt on the president.”

Kristin made a face. “I haven’t played professional tennis for the past ten years.”

“Neither have I,” Max replied. “Which is why the CIA arranged with Scotland Yard—and the cooperation of the All England Lawn Tennis Club—for an exhibition mixed doubles match to be played prior to opening day at Wimbledon. Since Foster knew you and I were friends when we played junior tennis, he suggested you as my doubles partner.”

“I didn’t know your uncle knew we were friends.”

Max didn’t reply to her non sequitur. He rubbed a hand across his nape and said, “I told him this was a bad idea.”

“Because I haven’t played tennis for ten years?”

“That. And because of what happened between us.”

There it was. The elephant in the room. Kristin said nothing, because she had no idea what to say.

He eyed her and said into the silence, “I knew it would be hard—maybe impossible—for us to work together. But I couldn’t very well explain why to my CIA boss or my uncle. Especially since I’m not quite sure myself what happened.”

He’d contacted her in every way he could after their one night of love. One night of sex, she amended. But she’d refused to communicate with him. It was all water under the bridge. There was no going back. So why speak of it now? Especially since he was right. It would be impossible for them to work together. So why put them both through the agony of trying?

“I presume you’re hoping I’ll get you off the hook by refusing your offer,” she said at last.

He nodded. “I was pretty sure you’d refuse. But I was obliged to bring you the offer.”

“Who will you get if I say no?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find someone.”

Kristin had a pretty good idea who that someone might be. A woman she disliked intensely. But she didn’t say the name, because she didn’t want to discuss what had happened ten years ago. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Well? What’s your answer, Princess?” Max said. “Want to play spy with me?”

Trust Max to make a joke of the whole thing. She wasn’t laughing. She met his gaze and said, “You’re off the hook, Max. My answer to your generous offer is no.”

“But—”

“Not just no,” she amended. “But hell no.”

2

Kristin was feeling frantic. Was her daughter a passenger on the flight from Switzerland that had landed at Miami International Airport an hour ago? Or had Felicity found some way to elude her chaperon before the plane took off? Would she be seeing Flick in a few minutes, when she cleared customs? Or had her precocious child managed to run away again?

Kristin paced impatiently at the waiting area for friends and family of arriving American Airlines passengers clearing customs. With any luck, her nine-year-old daughter had gotten on AA Flight 87 from London, which had connected with AA Flight 6485 from Zurich, Switzerland, where Flick had been enrolled in boarding school. The headmistress hadn’t wanted to wait until Kristin could come get her daughter. She’d insisted on putting Flick on the first available flight back to the States with a chaperon from the school.

Apparently, Flick had gotten into a fight with another girl. The headmistress’s decision had been final: Flick was no longer welcome at the school.

It was one more disaster to add to a growing list. How different—how much worse—her life was just seven days after she’d refused Max’s offer!

Over the past week since she’d met with Max Benedict, Kristin had lost weight from her already slender frame, so her cheeks looked gaunt. She had dark circles under her eyes from too many sleepless nights. A glimpse of herself reflected in the glass windows leading outside showed a heart-shaped face that looked haunted.

I should have gone to London, she thought. But making that choice wouldn’t have erased all the problems facing her now. She had to believe she’d made the right choice refusing Max, although his visit had left her feeling slightly anxious and surprisingly sad.

Several of those waiting for family to clear customs watched her warily, despite the fact she didn’t fit any sort of terrorist profile. As usual, her naturally curly blond hair was pinned up tight, although bothersome wisps had escaped. She wore a professional-looking collared white cotton blouse, crisp with extra starch from the dry cleaner, along with navy blue trousers. The matching navy blue jacket hid the Glock 27 she wore in a belt holster and had an inside pocket where she kept her FBI badge.

Although it was questionable whether either gun or badge would still be in her possession after her meeting with the FBI’s Shooting Incident Review Team (SIRT), an FBI version of Internal Affairs, later this afternoon.

Kristin’s glance darted from one individual to the next, automatically surveilling the waiting area. She focused intently on a suspicious-looking man who fit a profile the government wasn’t supposed to be using. His thick black eyebrows rose in alarm before he reached for a giggling two-year-old with black-button eyes and lifted her into his lap, holding her close to protect her from the crazy-looking lady.

So, probably not a terrorist, Kristin thought. Although he likely thinks you might be one. Get a grip. Be cool.

The last thing she wanted was for someone to point her out to airport authorities as a possible threat. That would be all she’d need to make her day perfect.

Why did Felicity have to pick now to get herself kicked out of that Swiss boarding school? Her daughter had refused to tell the headmistress what had provoked the fight. But there was no question of Flick staying after she’d blackened the left eye and broken the left front tooth of the Spanish ambassador’s daughter.

Kristin had faced not one, not two, but three serious traumas over the past week and managed to stay calm and collected. But Flick’s misbehavior, which had resulted in her ejection from school, had just handed Kristin the straw that might break the proverbial camel’s back.

On such short notice, she hadn’t been able to find a nanny or housekeeper she liked to take care of Felicity after school and on weekends while she was on the job. She was going to have to take time off work until she could get the help she needed. Which she didn’t want to do.

She didn’t want the Miami SAC to think she wasn’t able to handle the fallout from the shooting four days ago, which had come too closely on the heels of the shooting four months ago. And been equally disastrous.

You’re invincible, Kristin. Nothing can beat you.

How many times had her father spoken those words to her and her sister on the tennis court growing up? A hundred thousand maybe. She’d never quite believed him. Especially after her older sister, Stephanie, had died in a tragic auto accident at seventeen, leaving Kristin, four years younger, to bear the burden of her sister’s promise as a rising tennis star.

Their mother had long since left their father, because he ate, slept and lived tennis. Kristin had no choice but to try to please her father on the tennis court or be left out of his life altogether.

She hadn’t been as tall as Stephanie. Or as strong. And she didn’t have her sister’s fluid grace. Facts which caused her father endless frustration when he coached her. He was often disappointed in her performance and demanded that she practice to the point of exhaustion.

Which reminded her of the first time she’d met Max.

She’d been thirteen and had qualified to play at Wimbledon in the Girls’ Singles competition. She’d already won her first match, but her father wasn’t happy with her ground strokes. She had a day off between matches, so he’d insisted she spend time after her match practicing with a male hitting partner.

Her exercise clothes were sweat-soaked, despite the cool evening air. Her curly blond hair was bedraggled. She could barely swing her right arm to hit the ball. But until her father was satisfied, she couldn’t leave the court.

“Do it again, Kristin,” he ordered from the sideline. “This time, push through the ball with your whole body.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” she retorted as she slammed a ball down the line.

“That’s out!” he shouted. “By an inch. Keep the ball in the court, Kristin.”

She’d checked her grip and hit three more balls as hard as she could down the line. Every one landed just past the baseline.

“Damn it, Kristin. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m tired, Daddy.”

“You stay here and work until you can get the ball in the court.” He stomped off and left her there.