"He's not my father; he's only my brother. Why do you let him talk to me like that?"

"Because I'm too old to spank you and he refuses to do it."

"He'd probably enjoy it. He likes violence."

"What makes you say that?" Douglas inquired mildly.

"You know why," she shot back, "only you pretend you don't because you lost most of our money but he's making so much of it now that we can go on living like this. Are you going to pretend you didn't know when he gets caught? Are you going to go see him on visiting days?"

17

On the tennis court, Sloan's father and sister not only looked good in their winter tans and tennis whites, they had the grace and power of two perfectly matched thoroughbreds, and Sloan couldn't help being impressed at the beginning of the first game of the set.

By the end of that game, Sloan realized something else: Her father played tennis as if the court were a battlefield, and he showed no mercy to the enemy even though it was obvious that Paul and Sloan were hopelessly outmatched. Furthermore, he showed no mercy to his partner either. Whenever Paris made what he perceived to be a mistake, no matter how minor, he lectured or criticized her.

That made Sloan so uncomfortable that she felt like cheering when there was only one game left. Instead, she stood next to Paul on their side of the net, trying to pretend she couldn't hear her father chastising Paris for the way she'd scored the last point: "You've been staying too close to the net all morning! The only reason Paul missed your last lob was because you got lucky. Losers rely on luck. Winners rely on skill. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, as composed and polite as ever, but Sloan knew she had to be thoroughly embarrassed, and Sloan wondered if he behaved like this toward her when they played elsewhere.

"This is unbelievable!" Sloan whispered to Paul. "Why doesn't she stand up to him and tell him she's doing her best."

"She isn't doing her best," Paul replied. "She's been trying to play well enough to suit him, but not so well that we'll feel completely outclassed over here."

Sloan's heart sank. She'd had the same impression, but when Paul put it into words, he made it a fact and that made it impossible for her to ignore the angry sympathy she'd been feeling for Paris.

Carter's personality underwent a complete change for the better as soon as the match was over. With all the cordial charm he'd displayed yesterday, he trotted over to the net and gave Sloan an approving smile. "You have a lot of natural talent, Sloan," he told her. "With good coaching, you could become a real contender. I'll work with you while you're here. In fact, I'll give you a lesson right now."

That announcement startled a horrified laugh from Sloan. "That's very nice of you, but I think I'll pass."

"Why?"

"Because I don't particularly enjoy playing tennis."

"That's because you don't play to the best of your ability."

"You may be right, but I'd rather not try."

"Okay. You're in good physical condition. You run. What else do you do?"

"Nothing much."

"What about that self-defense course you took? They must have taught you a little tae kwon do or jujitsu?"

"A little," Sloan said evasively.

"Great. I studied martial arts for a few years. Let's go over there and you can show me what you can do."

The man was not merely athletic, he was a compulsive competitor, Sloan realized with a shock, and he was not going to give up until he took her on in one form or another. She also knew Carter Reynolds didn't like to lose, and since she was here to ingratiate herself with him, it didn't seem like a good idea to humiliate him.

"I really don't think that's a good idea."

"I'll go easy on you," he insisted. Ignoring her protest, he laid his tennis racquet on the grass and walked a few steps away. "Come on."

Sloan threw a helpless glance at Paul, and noticed Noah Maitland walking across the lawn toward them with a large brown envelope in his hand.

Carter saw him, too, and waved. "I didn't know you were coming over this morning, Noah."

"I brought some papers over for you and Edith to sign," the other man explained.

"I'll be with you in a few minutes. Sloan took a self-defense course recently, and she's about to show me what she learned."

"Take your time," Noah said.

With great reluctance, Sloan laid her tennis racquet in the grass beside her father's. Paris looked uneasy but said nothing. Paul looked uneasy, too, but Sloan wasn't certain whether he was worried she'd get hurt or whether he was worried she'd hurt their host. Noah Maitland folded his arms on his chest and looked skeptical, which unnerved Sloan more than what she was about to do. "I really don't want to hold up your meeting," she told Noah, hoping to evoke a last-minute reprieve. "I'm sure those papers are much more important than this."

"Not to me," he said and tipped his head toward Carter. "Have at it."

Sloan thought his attitude seemed a little odd, but she had no choice except to do as he suggested. She walked over to her father, reminding herself that no matter how he behaved, it was not a good idea to toss him on his back.

"Ready?" he asked her with a brief, formal bow.

Sloan nodded and returned his bow.

He moved so suddenly that Sloan didn't react in time and he scored his point with embarrassing ease.

"You weren't alert," he said in the same infuriating tone of censure and condescension he'd used on Paris during the tennis match. Instead of giving her time to return to her position, he nailed her again, catching her off-balance. "Sloan, you're not concentrating."

Sloan decided it was a very good idea to toss him on his back. He moved in, thought he saw an opening, and lunged. Sloan pivoted and with a high, hard kick sent him sprawling onto the grass. "I think I was concentrating better that time," she sweetly replied.

A little warier now, he stood up and circled, looking for a new target. Mentally Sloan acknowledged that he was really very good, but he was also overconfident. He lunged; she countered with a block and struck back at his solar plexus, taking his breath away. "I was more alert that time," she confessed.

Sloan was no stranger to angry predators, and when she scored the next hit, she realized he had become one. He doubled over, his face red with embarrassed anger, and his movements lost all grace and style. He waited for an opening; then he pivoted and kicked but missed her. The instant he recovered, Sloan scored another hit; then she decided it was time to end this "exhibition" before she was forced to either hurt him or risk being hurt if she didn't.