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She should have agreed to have dinner with him. Then maybe he wouldn’t have asked her to play tennis.
“That shot wasn’t too impressive,” Kirk called over his shoulder, jogging over to the next court to retrieve the ball she’d hit.
“Sore winners aren’t too impressive, either, Chandler,” she called back. She was tempted to walk off the court and refuse to give him this last serve to finish off his game, set and match victory.
Except that would make her a sore loser.
And she was having fun.
Kirk was back, wicked grin and all. Beneath the bright lights of the tennis court, he reared back to administer another one of the lethal serves that had been killing her all evening. His leg muscles stood out in stark relief beneath the white tennis shorts, his shoulders and forearms those of a natural athlete. His slim midsection, as he lifted the racket and tossed up the ball, was more distraction than she could easily deflect.
The sharp sound of his racket connecting with the ball had barely reached her ears before the ball itself was there. She thought about standing there and letting it whiz on past.
But Valerie was Valerie. She never just stood around, gave up or otherwise turned away from a respectable and honestly delivered challenge. Even if the outcome was already certain.
With an effort of which she could be proud, she leaped for the ball, made a satisfying comeback. And didn’t even see his return hit.
Only because it was dark, of course.
“You’re buying.”
His grin victorious, Kirk met her at the net.
“Buying what?”
This was the third time in two weeks that they’d met for tennis. The third time he’d beaten her soundly.
“Dinner.” And the third time he’d tried to get her to go out with him afterward.
“It’s eight-thirty. I had Mexican take-out with the boys three hours ago.”
With the net between them, they walked over to the bench on the side of the court. Valerie was sweating in her short-sleeved knit top and black exercise slacks—but not as much as he was.
“We’re just in time for dessert, then.”
The boys were at a friend’s for a birthday party. They’d taken sleeping bags.
“I have responsibilities, Chandler. I have to get home.” He always stayed at the courts after she left, to hit volleys against the side wall. Each time, as she’d driven away, he’d been there, smacking the wall so hard he left marks.
As Kirk dropped the balls into their canister and snapped on the lid, his grin faded. “I’d like to talk to you,” he said. “Remember I told you I was concerned about the new center on the team?”
Abraham Billings.
“Yeah?”
“I saw him last weekend.”
“And?”
“Come have coffee and we can talk about it.”
Leah had left the latest report on the Billings case on her desk yesterday afternoon—a report from the doctor who’d provided the mandatory counseling she’d ordered. Abraham had given no indication of problems at home.
His probation officer, Diane Moore, said Abraham was one of the best-behaved kids she’d ever had.
And his caseworker, Linda James, suspected there was something bad going on in the boy’s trailer-park home. Carla Billings had explanations for the men’s pants hanging on her closed bedroom door one afternoon, and an excuse for her own supposed absence from the home at the time. In spite of the fact that the caseworker had heard her in the bedroom. She also had explanations for the presence of different men on two other unplanned visits from the state. And for her ability to support her son without any proof of being gainfully employed.
The caseworker was a woman Valerie knew and respected. One who’d told her in confidence that she believed Carla Billings was turning tricks—a crime in the state of Arizona. And worse, doing it in her home while her son was there.
