Page 20 of The Challenger

“Dallas Evener. No promises, but I can let you know when his next deal is,” he offers. “A mil is his minimum.”

“I'm not asking for me,” says the woman who parks her money in mutual funds and promptly forgets all about it. “One of my friends works in the start-up world, and finding money is her full-time job. A warm intro never hurts.”

“If you want, I’ll hook you up, no problem.” He pops the lid off a fresh can of balls, and I never tire of hearing that satisfyingwhoosh. “Want to get into it? I’ll make you lunch after. The specialty of the house.”

“Let’s do it.”

I unzip my racket bag and test the flex of my fresh strings, mentally filing the name Dallas away for tonight. June and I plan to connect before she leaves for Vancouver to spend Christmas with her mother, a widow who moved from England to Canada to be closer to her only child. June wanted me to come along because she knows the holidays are my dark time, but being alone is often better.

Chavez pockets two balls and hands one to me. “I’ll dial it back. Make it fair.”

“You scared I might beat you?”

He laughs and flashes me his knuckles. “As a reminder.”

“Then play to win,” I say. “Give me everything you got.”

* * *

Chavez startseasy in the warm-up to feel me out but throws in vicious lefty spins and deep, knifing volleys once we move to the baseline. I have to use more of my knees, bending low to absorb his power and pace. But he needs to adjust too. My heavy, flat shots push him beyond the baseline he prefers to crowd, and when we start practicing serves, I scoop him with a couple of short and wide ones. After a testy glare, his response is three aces whizzing past me and leaving nothing but a vapor trail.

“One set?” he asks, with a confident smirk.

“Game on.”

In the end, I hold all my service games, only to get crushed in the tiebreak. We shake hands at the net, and I can tell he’s impressed I didn’t die like a dog in the street. The fact he’s breathing hard gives me a little thrill.

“You’re a hustler out there,” he says.

“Footwork is my greatest asset.”

He leans on the net with a slow, broad smile. “I don’t know about that.”

The day is warm for December and carries on its breeze the deeply sexy scent of his exertion combined with coconut suntan lotion. A faint embarrassment gnaws away at my insides. Me in the bath last night, under a blanket of lavender-scented bubbles, cursing the eighty-three other women who had made it farther with him than I had.

Chavez playfully walks his fingers up my arm. “Time to get wet?”

A chill seeps into my bones despite the heat. I never said anything yesterday when he brought up the pool, and he obviously hasn’t gotten that far in my book.

“Uhm … I’ve never learned how to swim. But I’m happy to dip my legs in.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking in surprise. “Whatever. We can shower and be done with it. But I’d still like to see you in a bikini.”

We stroll to the cabana and Chavez gives me a rundown of the famous Old Hollywood names who once owned this mansion. After showering, I wriggle into my bikini, and the usual triangle number feels like a lot less fabric with the anticipation of his eyes roaming over it. I hop onto a daybed facing the pool and sink into the softness of fat, feathery pillows. I’ll feel the effects of our hitting tomorrow, but for now, I’m content to dream of a manservant running me drinks and the latest hot script to read. It’s hard not to fantasize of the movie-star life while lounging in opulence that makes the most deluxe resort look like a Detroit backyard.

“They came with the place, in case you were wondering.”

Chavez emerges from the shower in a fresh pair of shorts, toweling off his hair. He’s referring to two stone cherubs at the far end of the pool, water arcing hilariously high from their dinks.

“I wasn’t judging,” I say.

“Everyone judges me for those.” With a rueful smile, he heads for the wet bar, which I noticed is decently stocked for a non-drinker. I bet this is the hub whenever he throws a party because, with seating for twelve and a jumbo TV over the fireplace, where else would you want to hang out? “Water for my heavy hitter?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

He joins me on the daybed with two chilled Perriers. The cold bubbles go down easy, and our silence is companionable, but it’s hard to think of activities such as speaking with our shoulders and thighs touching in the shade. A water droplet runs down his chin to ping off a torso so ripped I could coax some high C notes out of it if I had a mallet.

“Are you excited about Australia?” I ask.

---