Ken leaned forward in concentration, his right hand hovering over his queen. Finally, solemnly, he moved the antique ivory carving. “Check. Checkmate,” he concluded.

Chris pressed her lips together in irritation. For the last two nights he’d beaten her consistently at chess, cribbage, Scrabble, two-handed pinochle, hangman, and Monopoly. Monopoly was the worst. He’d immediately landed on Boardwalk and Park Place, built hotels on all his property, and bankrupted her with such enthusiasm that it sent chills down her spine at the thought of him turned loose on corporate America. At least he wasn’t patronizing, she concluded morosely, trying to find something positive in her latest defeat.

Ken moved the chess board from the couch to the coffee table. He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty. You must be tired.”

“A little, but it’s Friday and I can sleep later tomorrow.”

“Do you teach on Saturday?”

“I have a few lessons during the public skating session. And then there are freestyle sessions from four to seven.”

“About this freestyle…”

“Umm?”

“What is it?”

“That’s when the competitive skaters practice.”

Ken stretched his long legs in front of him as he sank back into a corner of the couch. “I figured, but I’m not sure why it’s called freestyle.”

“Freestyle refers to the type of skating. It’s a time when jumps, spins, and routines are practiced. When the ice dancers train, they have their own time called a dance session.”

“Ice skating is a strange sport.”

“I always thought football was a strange sport.”

“Point taken.”

Chris curled her legs under her and watched Ken. His eyes were turned toward the fire flickering in the fireplace. His lean, hard-muscled body reclined along the contours of the couch, reminding her of a powerful jungle cat enjoying the warmth of the sun. His glossy black hair curled over his ears and joined the close-cropped beard. His chest rose and fell slowly under a soft red plaid flannel shirt. He had learned to cook eggs, roast chicken, and bake brownies-just for her. He had kept the house neat, thoughtfully turned the porch light on to welcome her home each evening, and kept her mind occupied with games played in front of a roaring fire every night after dinner. He had followed the plan and allowed her some space to get to know him without sexual involvement. But the sexual involvement was always there. The extraordinary attraction they felt for each other constantly simmered below the surface. There were unguarded moments when raw hunger flared across Ken’s face and her own skin burned with the desire to mold itself against his hard body-and he would ease the tension with gentle teasing. “Think you can make it to Saturday?” he’d taunt. Chris would assume a haughty look and tip her nose into the air. “I don’t know what you mean.” And then they would both relax into smiles and chuckles.

Chris bit her lip as she studied Ken. Saturday was an hour and a half away. Her stomach churned at the thought. Nothing had changed in the past two days. If anything, it had gotten worse. She was falling in love. Hopelessly, deeply in love. Every instinct she possessed told her it was a terrible mistake, but she felt powerless to control the direction of her emotions. Just when she needed to be level-headed and logical, she found herself once again blinded by love.

Everything about Ken seemed perfect. Even his mistakes. She cringed as she admitted to herself that she’d actually thought it was adorable when he somehow lost a pot holder in a caldron of spaghetti sauce and didn’t discover it until it had been cooked into oblivion. How could she possibly trust herself to assess his character when she could think of nothing but his dark, unfathomable eyes and terrific tush? Shame on me, she laughed.

Ken opened his eyes and focused them on Chris. “Honey, that was such a naughty laugh.”

“It sort of slipped out by mistake.”

He looked at his watch. “Practicing for Saturday? You only have an hour and a half left.”

The churning in her stomach increased. Dessert rose to the middle of her throat and sat waiting for further instructions. She felt beads of cold sweat break out on her upper lip. “I’m going to be sick.”

Ken sat up. “Are you serious?”

She nodded, covering her mouth with a shaky hand, hoping to ward off nausea.

“That’s impossible. You looked so healthy just a minute ago.”

“I have spent the better part of my life throwing up.” Her voice was shaky. “I have thrown up in every ice rink in the country…and some in Europe and Canada. I have even thrown up in Japan. Take my word for it…I’m going to throw up.”

“Dammit! It was the spaghetti sauce. I knew we shouldn’t have eaten it.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek. “Chris, I’m really sorry. Honestly, I don’t know how that pot holder got into it.”

“It’s not food poisoning-it’s nerves. I always throw up when I get nervous. That’s why I was so relieved to quit skating; I could never get used to performing.”

“Nerves?” His face showed a mixture of concern and amazement.

“You! Saturday,” she choked, running toward his bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and locked it. She sat on the cold tile floor and rested her forehead against the porcelain tub.

Ken knocked at the door. “Chris?”

“Go away.”

“Open the door!”

“I’d sooner die.”

“Open the door.”

“I look awful when I throw up. My nose runs and my eyes get all red and watery.”

“I don’t care how you look, you idiot. Just open the damn door.”

Chris crawled over to the bowl and opened the lid. “I can’t,” she croaked. “I’m going to be sick!”

The wet towel felt good against her flushed face. She’d seen the last of dessert and the last of the spaghetti, and she felt a little better. Ken supported her back with his cast-clad arm. He handed her a fresh washcloth. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s a little embarrassing for me, too. This is the first time anyone’s ever thrown up over the prospect of going to bed with me.”

Chris raised her eyes to his. “I’d like to make some witty retort, but I’m too sick.”

He pushed the hair from her sweat-slicked forehead. “Do you always run a fever when you get nervous?”

Chris tried to stand. She held onto the sink and swayed dizzily. “Oh boy.”

He scooped her into his arms, cursed the awkwardness of the cast, and sidled through the bathroom door with her. “I think we should get you into bed.”

She rested her head against his broad shoulder. “Jump back, Jack. I still have another hour.”

His voice rumbled against her as he carried her up the stairs. “I’ll add that to my list of your many attractive features. Attractive feature number thirty-two: can ward off lecherous men while nauseous.” He squeezed her a little and kissed the top of her head. “It will come in handy when you’re pregnant, again.”

“Pregnant again?” She thought her voice sounded small and very far away, and she was glad she was too sick to get jittery over his implication.

He flicked the light switch, bathing her bedroom in warm shades of pink and apricot. “Pregnant, again,” he repeated as he lay her down on the bed. “Don’t you want to have a larger family? I had the distinct impression you enjoyed motherhood.”

She looked at him through hazy, feverish eyes. “Are you going to make me pregnant?”

He sat at the edge of the bed and removed her shoes. “Only if you want me to,” he told her softly. “When we’re happily married, and you’re sure it’s the right thing.”

“Happily married. The very idea gives me a headache.” Chris touched her temple with her fingertips. “I feel awful.”

“My official diagnosis is flu.” He rummaged through her drawers and returned to the bed with a football jersey-style nightgown emblazoned with the Redskins emblem. “This looks like it would be comfortable to throw up in.” He unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing and eased it over her shoulders, groaning when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. “I’m making a monumental effort to keep my eyes above your neck,” he told her as he tugged the nightshirt over her head. “I hope you appreciate my gentlemanly effort.”