"At least let me get you away from here for a few hours." He swiveled her bar stool around, separating his legs and positioning her knees between them.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"To make up for being such a jackal and sniffing out blood yesterday."

"But you didn't write the story."

"In a way, though, I still feel responsible." She made a scoffing sound. "I know you think I'm a sorry excuse for a journalist," he said, "just like I think you're a sorry excuse for an athlete.

I drink too much, party too hard and have a great capacity for self-indulgence. I'm unreliable and sarcastic. But basically, underneath this ruggedly handsome exterior, I'm a nice guy." ''Oh, sure."

His face broke into a roguish grin that made her tummy flutter. "Give me today and I'll prove you wrong."

She wanted to consent, but hesitated. For all his charm, he might still be working on a story about her. Maybe he was planning an in-depth character profile that would portray her as the shallow "deb of the tennis courts," as he had once dubbed her.

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Mackie.

I'll take my chances here."

Almost simultaneously her telephone started ringing and the doorbell pealed again. "Did you plan that?" she accused.

He chuckled, delighted with those unexpected endorsements of his idea. "Providence is on my side. Go get whatever you might need during the day. We won't be back until after dark tonight."

The instructions were given as though the matter had been settled to his satisfaction.

"Mackie, even if I wanted to spend the day out on the town with you, which I don't, it wouldn't work anyway. We're both too well-known. We couldn't go anywhere in the city without being recognized and hounded."

"That's why we're going out of the city." 'Out of the city? Where?"

"You'll see.

"How do you plan to sneak past all those reporters?"

"Will you quit stalling and go get your things?" he asked impatiently.

Stevie warily studied his face. It looked no more trustworthy than a pirate's. They would probably spend the day quarreling. But the alternative of being held under siege in her own house was even more gruesome.

Mind made up, she spread wide the short skirt of her white cotton culottes, which she had on with a T-shirt and sandals. "Can I go like this?"

"Sure can. Get your purse."

In under five minutes, she reentered the kitchen carrying a canvas tote bag into which she had stuffed everything she might conceivably need. Judd was at the sink, rinsing out the coffeepot.

"You make yourself right at home, don't you?" ' 'Hmm.'' He unhurriedly dried his hands on a dish towel, then tossed it aside. "I do."

He stepped forward, slid his arms around her waist, pulled her against him, angled his head to one side and settled his lips upon hers.

Stevie was caught so totally unaware that she didn't put up a struggle or utter a single sound of protest. He kissed her lightly, gently bouncing his lips against hers, until they rested there.

On its way up to her neck, his hand grazed her breast. It brushed against the tip and caused it to bead. His touch couldn't even be counted as a bonafide caress, but Stevie's reaction was very real. A sudden infusion of heat spread through her middle. Its intensity heightened when he readjusted their bodies, fitting his into the notch of her thighs.

As his fingers closed around her neck, his tongue playfully probed at the seam of her lips, lazily, halfheartedly, as though he didn't give a damn whether she parted them or not. If she did, fine. He would kiss her. If not, fine. He would be amused, not angry or disappointed.

Stevie parted them.

Then his tongue, warm and wet, entered her mouth and leisurely explored. At least the kiss started off leisurely. The change came on so gradually that it wasn't noticeable until the thrusts of his tongue went deeper, the strokes became faster, and the suction of his mouth grew hungrier. The whole character of the kiss altered.

Likewise, so did their responses to it.

When Judd's response became so obvious it could be felt through their clothing, he quickly set her away. She gazed up at him with a mix of desire and bewilderment.

"Why did you kiss me like that?"

"Curiosity." He croaked the word, cleared his throat and repeated it. "We've both been thinking about it, right? Ever since I saw your breasts yesterday, we've been wondering what it would be like to be together. Now that our curiosity has been satisfied, we can relax around each other and enjoy the day. Right?"

Stevie knew that if she became anymore relaxed, she would melt into a puddle of wanting woman on the kitchen floor. But she nodded wordlessly.

Going along with this idea of his would probably end up being a big mistake.

You missed your calling." They were underway.

Stevie spoke to him over the thrum of his sports car's engine as he weaved it through traffic.

"You should have been a criminal."

His plan of escape had called for her to create a diversion at the front door of her condominium by poking her head outside just long enough for the reporters and film crews to think she might be prepared to give them a statement.

Then while they were clambering across her lawn toward the entrance, Judd and she had slipped out the back, jogged down the alley and, undetected, got into his car, which he'd left parked on the next street.

'I thought about going into grand larceny," he said expansively, "but figured that it required too much ambition and hard work."

Smiling, Stevie settled comfortably into the leather upholstery. The moment they had left her condominium, a sense of freedom had stolen over her. The break from her normal disciplined routine was in itself a luxury. Most mornings by this time, she had already put in hours of physical conditioning and practice. She remarked on her delinquency to Judd.

"When did you start playing tennis?" Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the lane was clear, he took a ramp onto the interstate highway and headed east, leaving Dallas behind.

"I was twelve."

"Late for most players who get as far as you have," he observed.

"A little, but I can hardly remember a time when I haven't intimately known the feel of a racquet in my hand." She thought back to the night she had first expressed an interest in playing the sport. "Out of the blue, I told my parents that I wanted to try out for the junior-high tennis team." She had made that startling announcement over supper. "Mother and Daddy looked at me as though I'd said I wanted to move to Mars."

"Tennis?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's a rich kid's sport," her father had said, returning to his meal. "Pass the potatoes."

"What did they have against tennis?" Judd asked.

"Nothing really. It's just that they couldn't relate to it. My mother had no interest in athletics whatsoever. Daddy only liked sports like football and basketball and, of course, those were for boys."

She had been an only child, a female only child, who knew that her gender was a vast disappointment to the gruff stranger she called Daddy.

"So how did you get their permission to play?"

"After dinner, I broached the subject with Mother while we were doing the dishes. I explained that the school had racquets and balls I could use. I wouldn't have to buy anything. She said okay."

Stevie went on to tell Judd that by the time she reached high school she had a passion for the sport. She saved baby-sitting money to finance the lessons she took at an exclusive club in north Dallas.

"We weren't members. Any member's bar bill might exceed what my dad earned in a month."