Well, there had been that one time years ago in Stockholm, but they hadn't exactly been alone and Stevie doubted that he even remembered.

He was taller than he looked from a distance, she realized. Their paths often crossed at local sporting or social or charity events. Sometimes he even waved at her from afar, cheerfully waggling his fingers in a smart-alecky manner that never failed to set her teeth on edge.

Perhaps it was his clothing, which could be described as "casual" at best, that made him appear shorter. With him standing this close, however, she was surprised to discover that her eyes were on a level with his collarbone. She hadn't remembered until he removed his sunglasses that his eyes were hazel-heavy on the gray.

She reached for the bottle of pills. He held them above his head of unruly chestnut hair and out of her reach. "Mr. Mackie!"

"Ms. Corbett!"

The teakettle suddenly whistled shrilly as though ending a round on an impasse. She turned on her bare heel and marched toward the kitchen. He followed her through the wide, airy rooms of her condominium.

"Nice place."

"For a writer that's extremely trite," she said, pouring boiling water over the tea bag in the mug. "Would you like some herbal tea and honey?"

He winced with disgust. "How about a Bloody Mary?"

"I'm fresh out of Bloody Marys."

"A Coke?"

"Diet?"

"Fine. Thanks."

She spooned honey into her tea and took a couple of sips before fixing his cold drink. When she passed it to him, he asked, "Tummy ache?"

"No, why?"

'My mother used to make me drink tea whenever I was recovering from a pukey bout with a stomach virus."

"You have a mother?"

He sternly lowered one eyebrow. "That had as much sting as that serve that aced Martina last month."

"As I recall you failed to mention that ace in your column, which said that Martina just had an off day."

"You read my column?"

"You watch my matches?"

Smiling with enjoyment over their verbal sparring, he took a drink from his glass and lowered himself onto a bar stool with a bent-wood back. Stevie thrust out her hand. "May I have my pills now, please?"

He scanned the label on the small bottle.

"These are pain pills."

"That's right."

"Toothache?"

She bared her front teeth, exposing them for his examination. "Want to see my molars?"

"Your molars look fine from here," he drawled, his eyelids lowering a fraction.

Stevie gave him a contemptuous glance. "The pills?"

"Muscular injury? Tennis elbow? Sprained shoulder? Stress fracture?"

"None of the above. Will you please give me the medicine now and stop behaving like a jerk?"

With a shrug, he set the bottle on the bar and slid it across to her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. You look like you need them."

"How can you tell?"

"Tension around your mouth." He touched one corner of her lips, then the other.

Stevie yanked her head away and quickly turned her back. She filled a small juice glass with tap water and swallowed two tablets. Retrieving her cup of tea, she sat down on the bar stool next to his.

She drank most of her tea in silence. He studied her every move. Obviously the adage that "if you ignored something long enough it would go away" didn't apply to him.

"What are you doing here, Mackie?" she asked wearily.

"I'm on assignment."

"Isn't there a ball game of some sort you could be writing about this afternoon? A golf tournament?

Other matches at Lobo Blanco?"

"You're the big sports story of the day, like it or not."

She averted her eyes and muttered beneath her breath, "I don't like it."

Judd set his elbow on the bar and propped his cheek in his hand. "Why did you collapse out there this morning? It couldn't have been the heat. It wasn't that hot."

"No. It was a perfect day for tennis."

"Stay up past your bedtime last night?"

She gave his dishevelment a critical glance, her disapproval coming through loud and clear. "I never carouse the night before a match."

"Might do your game some good if you did," he said with a crooked smile.

Wryly she shook her head. "You're hopeless, Mackie."

"So I've been told."

"Look, I'm very tired. I was on my way to bed when you showed up the first time. Now that I've taken the medication, I'd like to get some rest.

Doctor's orders."

"Your doctor recommended bed rest?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," he said, taking a sip of his drink.

"That could mean anything. But I guess if you were drying out or going through drug rehab, you'd be hospitalized."

"You think I've been on alcohol or drugs?" she demanded indignantly, her sagging posture improving dramatically.

He leaned closer and, pulling down her lower eyelids, examined her eyes. "Guess not. No dilation.

I doubt you're chemically dependent.

You've got good skin tones, no needle tracks, clear eyes."

She angled her head away from his touch.

"Yours certainly wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny."

Undaunted, he gave the rest of her an appraisal.

"No, come to think of it, you look too healthy to be dependent on anything except low cholesterol, high-fiber foods. Get hold of a bad batch of bean curd?"

She dropped her forehead into her palm.

"Would you please just go away?" She was disheartened on several counts. Chief among them was that she needed to be with someone right now, anyone, and Judd Mackie was the only one around. As much as it cost her to admit it, his obnoxious presence was preferable to solitude.

"That narrows down the possibilities considerably," he remarked.

"To what?" In spite of herself she was curious to hear his hypothesis.

"Publicity."

"Give me a break," she moaned. "I don't need it."

"Right," he admitted grudgingly, "you're already hyping enough products to keep your face smiling out of magazines and TV screens for years."

Narrowing his eyes, he assessed her through a screen of thick, spiky lashes. "Are you sure you didn't just fake a fainting spell to get out of playing that match?"

"Why would I do something like that?"

"That Italian broad is supposed to be good."

"But I'm better," Stevie staunchly exclaimed.

"You've been good," he conceded reluctantly,

"but you're getting up there in age. What is it now, thirty-one?"

He had struck a sore spot and she lashed out,

"This has been my best year. You know that,

Mackie. I'm on my way to getting a Grand Slam."

"You've still got to win Wimbledon."

"I won it last year."

"But your younger competition is breathing down your neck, players with a hundred times more talent and stamina."

"I'm noted for my stamina."

"Yeah, yeah, along with your saucy braid.

You're not an athlete."

"As much as any football player in the NFL."

"You don't look like an athlete. You're not even built like one."

Stevie, angered over his sneering accusation, followed the direction of his gaze down to her chest. Her robe was gaping open, revealing the smooth, pale slope of one breast. She hurriedly gathered the fabric together in her fist and stood up. "It's past time for me to throw you out."

Unperturbed, he continued smoothly. "Maybe your collapse was brought on by anxiety, pure and simple."

Stevie was seething, but said nothing. She wouldn't honor his ridiculous theories with a response.

Her expression remained impassive.

"You've always known, deep down, that you don't have what it takes to be a real champion.

You're one bowl of Wheaties short," he said tauntingly. "You're a flash in the pan."