Max didn't like the way Steffan was looking at Kristin. Like he was a wolf and she was raw red meat. Kristin had been drinking champagne since the four of them-he, Elena, Kristin and Steffan-had arrived at the Black Kitty Kat, a popular hangout for pros playing at Wimbledon. Steffan and Kristin were huddled together on a red leather couch in a dark corner. Hell, she was practically sitting in his lap. Max expected Steffan to make his move any minute. He wondered how Kristin would react.

Max knew his friend the tennis pro had worked his way through a lot of beautiful women-models and actresses, waitresses and schoolteachers. But he couldn't very well warn him away from Kristin without looking ridiculous.

After all, he and Kristin weren't involved romantically. His chance with her had come and gone. They were merely friends. Or had been friends. He wasn't sure they were even that now, just colleagues on a job together. But didn't partners look out for each other?

He wished he knew more about the Kristin he'd met this afternoon. Her figure hadn't changed much, but she was a woman now, not a sixteen-year-old girl. Her long, golden-blond curls were no longer in a flyaway ponytail but constrained in a tight bun at her nape. Enticing tendrils had escaped, suggesting that all he had to do was pull a few bobby pins free and the old, happy-go-lucky Kristin would escape along with her curls.

He remembered too well what she looked like under the tennis dress she'd been wearing on the court today, which left little to the imagination. She had a scar on her abdomen, where she'd had her appendix removed. Otherwise, her body was flawless. Her bosom was small, but a handful was plenty for him. And she was, by God, all legs. He would never forget having them wrapped around him.

At eighteen, sex was fun, a joyful experience he'd wanted to share with his best friend. The future never entered his mind. He'd never considered the possible consequences of taking their relationship from friends to lovers. He tried to remember now why he'd pushed her to have sex with him. Before that night, their relationship had consisted of simply hanging out and enjoying each other's company-except for that one, brief, enticing look at her naked body.

When she'd let that robe fall and he'd realized how beautiful she was, he'd wanted to make love to her then and there. The opportunity to take things further had been thwarted by her father's appearance. Later, she'd pretended like it had never happened. So despite how much he might have wanted to touch, he'd kept his hands off her.

But her beauty-and his desire-wasn't why he'd spent so much time with her. It was because K was the one person with whom he could let down his guard. She'd seen him in tears. She'd seen him raging after he'd lost a match. She'd seen him euphoric after he'd won and celebrated his victory with a night of great sex with another woman.

K never judged him. She was simply there for him. She'd been a solid sounding board for nearly three years, despite her youth.

When had he decided their relationship should include sex? He tried to remember what had happened to provoke such a decision. Had some other woman rejected him? He shook his head. He'd been shot down plenty of times before that night and never needed to find succor in K's body. Ah. That word, succor, was a clue.

Relief. From what had he needed relief?

Why hadn't he wondered sooner about this? Probably because he'd never needed to explain his behavior to the one person to whom it would have mattered. It had been enough to know he'd screwed everything up.

He'd never asked Kristin why she'd bolted after the night they'd spent together. He'd felt hurt and humiliated. He'd come up with a thousand reasons why she'd walked away. He'd finally decided she simply regretted what they'd done.

Had he pushed her into having sex before she was ready? Maybe. A little. But she'd been willing. And eager. Until he'd hurt her.

He'd been surprisingly clumsy. He'd made love often enough to know that a woman needed more time to be ready for sex than a man. But he'd wanted her so badly, he'd rushed things. He hadn't known she was a virgin. He'd been taken off guard because he'd never encountered one before. She'd cried out in pain when he'd broached her. He remembered kissing the salty tears off her cheeks.

The timing had been terrible, too, because she had to play in the Girls' Singles Championship match at Wimbledon the next morning. Afterward, she'd asked him to leave her hotel room so she could get a decent night's sleep.

He'd walked out the door, never dreaming he wouldn't see her again for ten years. He'd tried to talk with her after she'd lost the championship match, but she'd avoided him like he was the British press. She'd left the country the same afternoon.

Maybe, if he'd been able to talk to her, he would have explained what had made him want to be closer to her than mere friendship allowed. Maybe, if he'd been able to talk to her, he would have told her the secret he'd discovered about his mother that had left him bewildered and afraid.

He'd pursued Kristin relentlessly after she'd left London. He'd wanted his best friend-and lover-back. She'd refused his calls. She hadn't answered his emails. He'd even flown to Miami to see her. Harry had met him at the door and told him to go away and stay away. Kristin didn't want to see him.

So he'd given up. He didn't need to be kicked in the balls more than once to learn his lesson. And he'd kept his secret to himself.

Max wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he agreed to work with K on this job. That they'd be friends again, he supposed. And friends didn't let friends get seduced against their wills. In his experience, tipsy women rarely made intelligent decisions.

Don't make the mistake of sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong, a voice in his head warned. Maybe she wants to be seduced. Or maybe it's all an act, and she's pretending to be into Steffan to get whatever information she can from him.

Despite the shooting incidents-the second one coming a few days after Max had met with her-her boss had sworn Kristin was one of the best investigators he'd ever seen. Max already knew she was smart. Apparently she was also intuitive. So maybe he should leave well enough alone.

To be honest, he and Elena had been huddled as close, or closer to each other, at the mirrored bar, except they were on separate bar stools. Despite how things might look, he wasn't going to be spending the night with the female athlete. Not that she wasn't interested. He was the one who'd backed off.

Elena hadn't offered him much information about herself. Not that he'd asked her a whole lot of questions. To be honest, he'd gotten distracted watching Kristin.

Max jerked when Elena whispered in his ear, "If you want her, Max, go get her."

He pulled away and said, "It isn't like that between us."

Elena lifted a dark brow. "What is it like?"

He thrust a hand through his dark hair, shoving it off his forehead. "We're just friends."

"Friends?" Elena said, cocking her head to eye him more closely.

"Friends," Max repeated firmly. He'd been so busy keeping an eye on Kristin, he realized he'd forgotten entirely about Veronica. "I've been dating a reporter for the Times. For a couple of weeks, anyway."

Elena shot him a grin. "Isn't that about your limit?"

"Just about," Max replied in an effort to confirm his love-'em-and-leave-'em playboy image.

"If she's the flavor of the week, why isn't she here with you?" Elena said.

"She's on assignment in the United Arab Emirates."

Elena's eyes went wide. "She's a political reporter?"

Max chuckled. "Hardly. She's doing a feature on arranged marriages. She's been traveling a lot, to India, Pakistan and Africa, among other places, doing research."

"I'll choose my own spouse, thank you very much," Elena said. "If I ever decide to get married, that is. How about you? A reporter for the Times doesn't sound like your usual date. How serious are things between you? Will you invite me to the wedding?"

"Don't marry me off just yet. Veronica and I barely know one another."

"But you like her."

He took a swallow of Scotch before he said, "She's nice."

"So why can't you take your eyes off Kristin?"

He smirked to hide his uneasiness at her question. He couldn't deny he'd been watching her. Nor could he explain that they were partners in an investigation. He was beginning to feel like an idiot for suggesting that the two of them should date their way through the tennis world in search of an assassin.

"I guess I know how disposable women are to Steffan," he said at last. "I don't want K to get hurt."

Max was looking at Kristin as he spoke, so he was watching when Steffan made his move. He held his breath as the tanned athlete leaned in to kiss her.

Kristin accidentally-on purpose?-spilled her champagne on his silk shirt. She made a moue of distress and brushed at the stain with her free hand, accidentally spilling more champagne on his lap.

Steffan held his moss-green shirt out, shaking it off, then reached for a paper napkin and dabbed at his black slacks. He was obviously now more worried about the condition of his silk shirt and trousers than his seduction of Kristin.

"She looks like she can handle herself," Elena said with a laugh. She focused her dark eyes on him and said, "I'm more concerned about you."

Max frowned. "Concerned? Why is that?"

"I don't think you're over her."

The lines on Max's forehead deepened. "It's been ten years, Elena. Whatever might have been possible between us is a lost cause now."

"I wonder..." Her eyes narrowed as she perused his face. "How about if we do an experiment?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"This," she said.

Max didn't react quickly enough, and her lips were on his before he could turn away. Her kiss brought to mind the last time she'd kissed him, on her way to the Girls' Singles Championship match at Wimbledon.

"A kiss for luck," she'd begged.

He'd laughed and said, "I don't know what kind of luck you think I can bring, but sure."

In the few moments Max had been musing, she'd deepened the kiss at the bar. He put a gentle hand on her cheek and pulled away. "That was nice, Elena, but-"

She looked him right in the eye and said, "But you're in love with another woman."

He wondered if she meant Veronica. Or Kristin. He wasn't yet in love with Veronica. And he'd long since gotten over Kristin. He changed the subject by asking, "How's your father?"

Elena's father, Anton, had been her coach until she turned eighteen, at which point she'd fired him. It turned out he was almost as crazy as he was clever. He'd gone on to coach other top-ranked women players, so he was usually around when his daughter played.

"I ignore him when I'm on the court," she said. "When I'm off the court, he's not a part of my world."

"And your mother?"

"She still lives in Minsk. I see her when I can, which isn't often, considering the demands of the tour. I've become an American citizen, so visiting is more complicated."

Minsk was in Belarus, which became an independent republic in 1991 on the breakup of the Soviet Union. Belarus had ended up with 70 percent of the nuclear fallout from the 1986 Chernobyl power plant disaster across the border in Ukraine. A lot of farmland was still contaminated with radiation, although unscrupulous entrepreneurs were said to be using it anyway.

Max came up with a mental map of the place. Nestled between Latvia, Lithuania, Russia and Ukraine, the country was about the size of Kansas. The government was authoritarian. Max knew there had been some problems with the sale of weapons and weapons technology from Belarus to states known to engage in terrorism. He wasn't surprised that Elena had become an American citizen.

But her father hadn't. Anton might harbor some animosity toward the U.S., which had supported his daughter's declaration of her independence over his authority as a parent. Maybe something toxic had been brewing inside him for the past eight years. Max made a mental note to cross paths with Mr. Tarakova over the next couple of weeks.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Kristin standing behind him. He swiveled the bar stool around to face her. "Having fun?"

Her eyes looked troubled. Her voice was slightly slurred when she spoke. "I'm done in. I'm still not over my jet lag."

"I've got my car. I'll give you a ride back to your hotel."

"I can take the Underground," she said.

Max glanced at his watch and said, "It's pretty late for that."

"Oh. Well, if you don't mind."

Steffan was still brushing off his shirt as he approached them. "I can give her a ride back to her hotel, Max."

Max said, "I'll do it." He realized how curt he sounded and said, "It's no problem," in a friendlier voice.

"I'll take a ride, Steffan," Elena said.

Max realized that, once again, he'd been oblivious to Elena from the moment he laid eyes on Kristin. "I can give you a ride, too, Elena."

"The three of us might be a bit crowded in your Porsche, Max," Elena said with a laugh.

Max slapped his forehead. "I forgot which car I was driving."

She rose, retrieved her cashmere sweater from the back of her bar stool and slipped it over her bare shoulders. "You take care of Kristin, Max."

Steffan shot Max an aggrieved look behind Kristin's back, but Max refused to feel sorry for his friend. He'd had his chance. For whatever reason, Kristin had deflected Steffan's overture. He could try again another day. Or not.

Elena put her arm through Steffan's and led him toward the exit. "Come on, old boy. Time for bed."

Steffan turned back to wink at Max. Perhaps his friend was going to get lucky tonight, after all, Max thought.

Max turned to Kristin and asked, "Where's your jacket?"

"I forgot how cool the spring weather is here in London. I didn't bring one."

Max took off his navy blue sports coat and draped it around her shoulders. She pulled it close, apparently savoring the warmth that remained from his body, but at the same time shrugging off his arm, which had settled around her shoulder.

Max felt...sad. And...irritated. And damn it all...aroused. He bowed and gestured her toward the door. "Let's go, Princess."

13.

"Did you find out anything from Steffan that might help us?" Max asked as revved his silver Porsche 911.

"He knows every woman on the tour," Kristin replied. She angled herself toward him in the bucket seat and said, "He's bedded most of them. I'd say he's been too busy having sex to plot an assassination."

Max noticed there was no slur in her voice, and when he met her gaze, her eyes were clear. Apparently she'd been pretending to be more tipsy than she was. "You got him to tell you that?"

"I couldn't stop him from telling me," she said with a rueful smile. "I think he wanted to convince me I'd be in for a delightful evening of carnal pleasure if I took him back to my hotel room."

"You weren't interested?" Max asked blandly.

"I thought I was coming here to..." She stopped herself, then continued, "Play a tennis match. You've changed that. I may not be an FBI agent for much longer, but so long as I am one, I intend to do a good job."