Bronson Kensington looked at it with mounting frustration. Ever since he’d received the call from Brandy Cavanaugh, his cousin and head tennis coach at Deerbrook High, fury at his only child had mounted.

How dare he? How could Christopher have done this to him? Even dared consider it?

As Bronson drove around the Courtney Tennis Center—the impressive Irish outdoor facility—he bitterly reflected that he would have loved having the opportunity to attend a school with the tradition, name-recognition and academic excellence that this South Bend university boasted.

Unlike his wealthy cousin, Bronson had been forced to settle for two years at a community college, after which he’d been able to transfer to Central Illinois College. He’d learned the hard way that top jobs were acquired through connections.

For his son, his pride and joy, Bronson wished the world. He wanted Christopher’s college years to be worry free, a golden time in his life he could look back on fondly.

As Bronson searched for a racy red Toyota Celica, he rocked his lower jaw from side to side. It was sore and stiff from his nervous grinding of teeth ever since he’d gotten the phone call from Brandy earlier in the day....

“Bronson, sorry to bother you at work—” she’d begun.

“What is it, Brandy?” Bronson had asked, alarmed. Although he and his cousin were close, their busy schedules meant they seldom had time to see each other, and Brandy would not call unless it was something urgent. “Christopher! Is he hurt? Was he in an accident? Did he—?”

“Hold on, hold on, Bronson,” Brandy Cavanaugh said in a soothing tone.

“What, then? My parents?” Bronson had been feeling uneasy lately, but he’d attributed the vague, free-floating anxiety to the inevitable worry that accompanied rearing a teen.

“No, you were right the first time. It’s Christopher—”

“Did he get into a fight? If so, I’m going to tan his hide so hard he’ll think he spent a week in the tropics—”

“If you’d just let me get a word in...” Brandy gently admonished.

Bronson took a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll calm down.”

Hearing Brandy’s hesitation at the other end, Bronson felt his heart race and his palms sweat.

“You know I’ve had some of the boys work with the girls, to prepare them for the conference meets, and state.”

Visions of Christopher overpowering some fragile junior girl crowded his vision, turning it red. With his serve, his son could really hurt someone.

As if reading his mind, Brandy said, “And no, he didn’t mouth off, or nail someone on the court. I only let him hit with my top varsity player, Sabrina. And she can hold her own.”

Bronson had heard Christopher’s wild ravings about the number one girl player at the beginning of the school year, when Christopher had confided in his father his hopes of being accepted into Notre Dame. That had been before the deluge for orders at the factory, when Bronson had been forced to put in twelve-hour days and seven-day weeks at work just to keep up with the demand. He’d been trying to come home earlier the past couple of weeks, but lately his son never seemed to be home.

Impatient to get to the bottom of this, Bronson looked at his watch. A client was due any moment.

“Okay, so he’s not hurt, and he didn’t harm anyone. So what’s the big deal?”

“Did Christopher mention a girl named Hayward? Sabrina Hayward?”

“Yeah. He enthused about her when school started, but he hasn’t said anything lately.”

The silence at the other end of the line grew ominous.

Clenching his teeth, Bronson asked with deceptive mildness, “What does this Sabrina Hayward have to do with Christopher?”

“I’d noticed how friendly Christopher and Sabrina had become during practice, but I thought they were just friends. It’s quite common for competitors at their level to seek other juniors who can identify with the pressure they are under.” From Brandy’s gentle tone, Bronson could tell that his cousin was warning him to keep cool. But she’d better not talk about pressure. Pressure was working your way through school, and not knowing if there would be enough money to eat, let alone graduate. “They were supposed to hit together this morning with my assistant coach, since Christopher was being scouted at Notre Dame this afternoon and Sabrina has a tough invite coming up. Well, my assistant coach called in sick this morning. Imagine my surprise when I went over to the courts, and neither Christopher nor Sabrina was there.”

Bronson’s insides clenched into a rigid knot. “And?”

“I was worried, because they are both good students and responsible athletes.”

Bronson could tell his cousin was trying to soften the blow that was coming. But all she did was heighten the suspense...and it was killing him.

“Out with it, Brandy! Why isn’t my son in school?”

“I made some discreet inquiries, and finally found out that Christopher was certain he’d get a scholarship from Notre Dame, and he wanted Sabrina to be with him.”

Brandy paused for a moment before delivering the final blow. “They’ve decided to elope.”

* * *

Tamara Hayward finally located the object of her frantic search: a late-model, shiny black Mustang. How could Sabrina have been so inconsiderate?

After all the late-night talks they’d had, after all the times Sabrina had deplored the subservient attitude of many of the cheerleaders at her school—as well as some of the other young women—who chased the football players like groupies, neglecting their own studies and ambitions simply to be part of a group, to belong, to make sure they would have a warm body on that all-important teenage altar, the Saturday night date—how could Sabrina have pulled a stunt like this?

When Meghan Donahue had stopped by the house that morning, Tamara had been in a rush. She’d overslept, which was unusual in itself, because even though Tamara was not a morning creature, she practiced punctuality like a religion—and she had been surprised to open the door so early in the day to her daughter’s best friend.

“Hi, Meghan. Did your car break down?”

Meghan had looked at the floor in the living room as if it contained the answer to life’s riddles.

“No, Mrs. Hayward. Sabrina swore me to secrecy, and I hate to betray her like this....”

Tamara had looked down at the girl’s curly red hair and felt the first stirrings of doubt.

“What is it, Meghan? I know you only have Brina’s best interests at heart, and I’m sure she won’t mind your telling me. Is she flunking something? Did she get called into the principal’s office?”

Meghan’s hazel eyes were positively tortured as she raised her head and looked at Tamara.

“Sabrina is going to hate me for this, and I know she will never count me as her friend again, but I just have to—”

Alarmed, Tamara grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “Yes, Meghan. What is it? Is she sick? Did she get into a car accident?”

“She’s eloping with Christopher Kensington, the boy she’s been going with since school started, right after the Notre Dame recruiter checks Chris out.”

* * *

Bronson saw the parking space in front of the Eck Tennis Pavilion and went for it. The spot was right next to Christopher’s Celica—the vanity plates read ACE ME 1.

His quick instinctive maneuvering earned him a loud, enraged honk. Looking behind him, Bronson saw a blond woman raise a frustrated fist at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. He’d cut her off, and was not a damn bit sorry. He had more important things to worry about than hurting the sensibilities of a spoiled rich brat driving her daddy’s brand-new Continental. The fact that he was driving a Porsche did not dawn on him. The only thing that concerned Bronson was finding that thoughtless son of his and teaching him the facts of life—and not the kind he was sure Christopher had been learning from that little hustler he’d met just weeks ago.

* * *

The nerve of the man! Tamara hit the steering wheel with her fist...and regretted it.

Gingerly rubbing her hand, she reflected that there were obviously no gentlemen left. That jerk had seen her aim fulminating looks—and a hand signal or two—in his direction, but had ignored her as if she’d been no more than a pesky fly circling his picnic table.

Well, she had more important things to worry about. And she needed to channel her hostility toward its true source. Sabrina was now a senior, albeit a modified one. Her daughter was so bright she had been able to complete her high school credits in three and a half years—and in a matter of weeks would be a high school graduate.

As she pulled into a no-parking zone, Tamara felt deep pangs of regret. Not only was she losing her baby, but her baby was losing far more. Besides her innocence, Sabrina was forsaking her chance for a promising future, a great education and possibly superstardom.

Young love was wild, impulsive, crazy.

But did it have to be stupid?

* * *

Bronson located Christopher right away. He was down in one of the courts, warming up with a talented youngster. The young boy, a slender blond who was either precocious or small for his age, had a forehand any pro would envy. He was giving Christopher a run for his money.

As the two played points on the farthest court, hitting winners from the baseline as well as the net, Bronson realized his son’s opponent might well be beating him handily if only he had a stronger serve. That—and the slight speed advantage Christopher’s long legs gave him—were the only things keeping him from being blown off the court.

* * *

Tamara looked at her daughter and her eyes grew moist.

Despite her anger, rage and disappointment, maternal pride overrode all other feelings. Sabrina was damn good—better than the boy she was playing. He had muscle, speed and a more developed all-court game on his side.

But Sabrina’s tremendous raw talent and fearless competitive spirit was making the boy run all over the court.

As her daughter hit a cross-court forehand winner, followed in quick succession by a down-the-line backhand and a searing volley, Tamara could not keep from applauding.

A man turned, a heavy frown on a handsome face dominated by incredible blue-gray eyes. Tamara stared him down. She knew it was bad etiquette to cheer, to make any kind of noise when two competitors were on the court.

But this was just a practice match. And if the stranger was one of the coaches evaluating the young man’s talent—a young man who she was in no doubt was the hated Christopher Kensington—well, then, Tamara was happy Sabrina was giving such a good account of herself.

A screaming return down the line brought forth that maternal pride once again, and Tamara found herself applauding—a bit more discreetly this time.

But the man did not take kindly to her partisanship, and he left the railing over which he’d been draped to come to her side.

“Have you ever read the Rules of the Game?”

His rude, superior tone incensed Tamara. He was the dark-haired boor from the parking lot. His arrogance extended not only to taking other people’s parking spots—next time she’d make sure not to bother extracting a bothersome eyelash until a space was safely under her wheels—but also to instructing hapless onlookers.

Well, she could teach him a thing or two about the rules of the game—and not only in tennis.

“Oh, you mean as in the rules of parking? As in the unspoken rules of etiquette? Well, I guess according to you, take your eye off a parking spot for a millisecond, and voilè...it’s gone!”

The transformation in the man’s expression would have been funny had Tamara not been so incensed. His next words did nothing to make the day any brighter.

“Oh, you’re the girl—woman—from the parking lot. You’re a lot older than I thought....”

Had Tamara not gone through an emotional wringer for the past few hours, her customary sense of humor might have come to the fore. But this cretin had picked the wrong day to antagonize and insult her.

“And charming to boot,” she told him icily as she straightened to her full five feet six inches.

A dull red tinged the man’s chiseled cheekbones.

“What I meant to say was, I thought you were a teenager, a college student—”

“Oh, and rudeness to young people is excusable?”

“No, what I meant was—” Flustered, Bronson tried to recover lost ground. “If you would do your makeup before you leave the house—”

“My makeup!” That tore it. Not only did Tamara not use makeup—to Sabrina’s eternal dismay—but she would never sit in a car admiring her face in a mirror. Luckily, good genes had provided her with the youthful, blooming quality of a woman ten years younger than her thirty-nine.

“I bet you use your big frame to crowd your way to the front of the line at sport events, or buffets, or bathroom lines. If I’m not mistaken, you also go through the express checkout with thirty items, and pop out a checkbook or credit card.”

His gaze narrowed. “Listen, if I wasn’t busy watching this match—”

“Practice match,” Tamara interrupted. “And apparently you weren’t too damn busy to come over and complain.” Tamara didn’t care if she sounded rude. This man really did rub her the wrong way, and it wasn’t only because he was as good-looking as her ex-husband. She had sworn off handsome men, and this Neanderthal would be on her blacklist...right at the top.

“You should talk,” the man shot back. His eyes kept going back to the match, and he told her, “I’d love to spar with you some more—”

“Don’t bother!”

“—but I’ve better things to do.”

As he turned to leave, Tamara asked sweetly, “Oh, you mean you finally remembered you were scouting that rather mediocre young man?”

Six feet of muscled, lean flesh whipped around on a dime.

“I’m not watching the little guy. I’m watching the six-foot-two genius.”

“You call that genius?” Tamara kept her voice low, because the two teenagers had not noticed their presence, so engrossed were they in their practice match. “He’s just passable—good one-handed backhand, adequate slice and serve, good retriever. That’s about it.”

“Good retriever?” The man once again approached Tamara. “That boy has excellent speed, and a great backhand volley and groundie. His serve clocks in at almost one hundred and twenty an hour on flat ones—and he still has not finished growing!”

Since Sabrina was only five-two—although she’d been projected to grow to a respectable five-seven in the next year or two—height was a sore subject with Tamara.

“Being bigger and more powerful is the only thing your ‘genius’ has over his opponent, because he loses in the raw talent and creativity department.”

“‘Raw’ is the right adjective,” the man said condescendingly. “And when a player does not possess a complete game, he can afford to be fearless...after all, what pressure is there on an inferior player to beat a superior opponent?”

“Inferior? Are you so blind you can’t spot true talent?”

“True talent? What’s the matter with you? Are you—?” Suddenly a crafty look came over the man’s face. His wide forehead smoothed out, and the two laugh lines bracketing his sensual mouth deepened. “I get it. You’re an opposing scout, and are trying to psyche me out. Don’t worry...I’m not in the game of recruiting. You can have Christopher.”

Was there no end to the conceit of this man?

“Were I in the business of recruiting, you wouldn’t stand a chance,” Tamara threw at him. “Besides, I’d do a lot better than that overgrown orangutan down there—”

“You are really something,” the man said with a smile that suddenly caused Tamara’s hormones to zing. He turned his head to glance at the kids.

Tamara breathed a sigh of relief. “They’re done.”

She looked down on the courts from the open balcony. Ordinarily she would have been on the upstairs viewing area, but this goon had kept her from assuming her normal vantage point.

Now she looked on as both Christopher and Sabrina toweled off, coming together as if drawn by a magnet, their bodies almost touching. She wasn’t sure how they could even dry off with so little space between them.

Her stomach knotted. She was sure Sabrina had given her an ulcer, something her high-powered career had not managed to accomplish.

So lost was Tamara in grim thoughts that she had missed part of what the odious man was saying. He’d grabbed her arm and propelled her forward.

Leaning over the balcony, his anger temporarily on hold, Bronson called out, “Christopher, come meet this woman coach. She’s really—”

Bronson stopped in midsentence at the horrified look on the youngsters’ faces.

Both teenagers dropped their towels, their expressions mirror images of shock.

“Dad!”

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

Two

The shock passed from children to parents.

Tamara and Bronson swung toward each other as if suspended by the same puppeteer.

“You’re—”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Sabrina and Christopher exchanged puzzled, and relieved, glances. As long as attention was diverted from them, they welcomed the respite.

Bronson was shaking his head, as if dazed. “That’s Sabrina Hayward?”

The condemnation in Bronson Kensington’s tone elevated all of Tamara’s motherly hackles.

“I told you she was good!”

“Yes, for a girl,” Bronson said, his expression stormy. It was obvious he was undecided as to whom to tear into first: his wayward son, the troublesome girl who had led him astray, or the mother of the player who had been giving his son fits on the court.

After Meghan’s revelation, Tamara had ample reason to distrust the Kensingtons. Bronson’s less-than-diplomatic words did not smooth the waters.

“Sabrina is good. Period. It’s obvious from your chauvinistic, superior attitude where Christopher got his bad judgment. I guess his irresponsible behavior toward my daughter is not entirely his fault, considering the example you set.”

“My example!” Bronson exploded. He regarded Tamara Hayward with intense dislike. He had obviously underestimated the opposition. If Sabrina was anywhere near as whip-smart and determined as her mother, Christopher did not stand a chance. Alone, that is.

But then, Christopher would never have to face anything alone, not as long as there was a breath left in Bronson’s body.

Belatedly noticing some college kids and alumni watching their heated debate with interest, Bronson said stiffly, “Do you think we could carry on this conversation somewhere more private?”

Tamara blushed, mortified. She had always considered herself a cool customer, and was seldom flustered under even the most adverse circumstances.

Her daughter’s well-being and future, however, could not begin to compare to any financial transaction or career consideration. She’d just have to assume the same objectivity and astuteness when dealing with Bronson Kensington as she did with any business adversary. More important, it would behoove her to make Bronson an ally, rather than an enemy—or at least, a bigger enemy than he already was.

Trying for an even tone, Tamara said, “All right. Should we continue our discussion at a restaurant after these two young people get a chance to clean up?”

Though at first ready to debate her suggestion, Bronson Kensington seemed to reconsider his tactics. Both parents had a lot to gain by teaming up.

The teenagers were already presenting a united front.

Turning to his son, Bronson said authoritatively, “Christopher, we’ll wait for you outside. Be there—pronto.”

“Dad,” Christopher said, his handsome, broad face acquiring a stubborn set, “I’m eighteen. You don’t have any right to order me around.”

“I’m paying for your training, car, living expenses—as long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say.”

“That can be changed, Dad. I can always get a job during the day and study for a GED at night.”

Sensing dangerous undercurrents, Tamara quickly intervened. “Perhaps we could all discuss this like adults, without any threats or ultimatums? Have you chil—aces had lunch yet?”

Sabrina spoke for the first time. “No, we haven’t, Mother.” Tamara winced at the sudden change of Mom to Mother. “But I also don’t appreciate your having followed me here. I am seventeen, after all.”

Tamara refrained from reminding her that Christopher could be accused of contributing to the delinquency of a minor and some other ugly charges. She did not want to issue any ultimatums, because she knew how strong-minded Sabrina was. Daughter took after mother in many ways, and strength of character was one of the characteristics they shared. Tamara shuddered to think that if she or Bronson pushed too hard, Christopher and Sabrina might not agree to talk to them at all, and might very well carry out their original plan.

A deathly chill went through Tamara. She wanted her daughter to be an independent, mature young adult.

She did not want to lose her only child simply because she and Bronson were not able to control their tempers—even if their anger and sense of betrayal were completely justified.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sabrina, but you know with everything that goes on nowadays, I worry about your safety constantly.”

“You knew I was safe, Mother,” Sabrina challenged, her posture defiant, her green eyes cool. “I was with Christopher.”

At this, Bronson stirred, and his gaze locked with Tamara’s. It was obvious that, in this, they were on the same wavelength. But still, his son did not stand to lose as much as her daughter. Boys, or men, never did. Women were in higher jeopardy in every department.

Resisting the urge to tell Sabrina that Christopher, at the moment, represented her main worry, Tamara merely said, “I would like to discuss some things with you, if you don’t mind. I think you’ll agree I’m entitled, after I drove almost three hours when I found out you skipped school today and didn’t tell me where you were headed.”

Tamara held her breath, awaiting her daughter’s response. Sabrina had always had a strong sense of fair play, and Tamara hoped her appeal to her daughter’s fairness would succeed where threats would not. When Sabrina said nastily, “Obviously, someone snitched, or you wouldn’t be here,” Tamara thought she had failed.

But then Sabrina’s stance softened slightly, and she added, “Okay, Mother, we’ll meet you. But at our South Bend motel room.”

Pinning Christopher with a laser look, Bronson roared, “Your motel room?”

“You’ve always emphasized the value of a dollar, Dad,” Christopher said, the mixture of defiance and defensiveness in his posture revealing his extreme youth. “And you have to admit, one room is cheaper than two.”

Instinctively placing a hand on Bronson’s arm, which felt like corded steel under her cold fingers, Tamara jumped in verbally before Bronson could jump his son physically. “Wouldn’t it be better if we ate first?”

Noticing that Bronson’s words had further unified and alienated the kids, she suggested two of Sabrina’s favorite foods, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice. “How about getting some pizza, or maybe a steak with fries?”

“You know I don’t eat that greasy food anymore, Mother. Besides clogging the arteries, it’s bad for my quickness on court. We’ll meet you at the Knight’s Inn—or not at all.”

Tamara looked at Bronson, and would have laughed if she had not felt so much like crying. Apparently not a man used to remaining quiet, he looked as if he were about to suffer from apoplexy. His strong features were red and strained, and his blue-gray eyes shot off silver sparks. But there was deep pain behind them, which he was trying very hard to keep from his son.

Tamara felt a huge lump in her throat, and had to blink back a burning moisture from her own eyes. She and Bronson had more in common than she’d thought at first. They would really have to get on the same page if they were to divert disaster.

“Is that okay with you, Mr. Kensington?” she asked softly.

Bronson looked at her with a distant expression, as if he’d forgotten where he was. Shaking his head, he told her, “Please call me Bronson. And no, it’s not okay with me—”

Seeing Tamara’s warning look, he smiled wearily at her, and added, “But I guess it’ll have to do.”

The children grinned at each other, acting as if they had won a major victory.

Tamara’s throat closed again. How young and naive they were. They could win as many battles as they wanted, as long as she and Bronson won the war.

Putting his arm protectively around Sabrina’s shoulder, Christopher told her gently, “Come on, Bree. I’ll walk you to the locker room.” Over his shoulder, he tossed at his father, “We’ll see you two outside when Bree is done.”

Not only did Bronson’s large fists clench, but his whole body seemed to tense. Tamara feared again that father would attack son, and teach him a thing or two about manners.

Thankfully, Bronson was able to maintain control. She noticed the painfully visible way he forced his body to relax.

As the kids headed toward the locker rooms, Bronson muttered, “How touching.”

Tamara swallowed, unable to speak. Turning to her and correctly interpreting her look of fear, Bronson gave a mirthless laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to kill my son. Yet.”

Tamara nodded. “Good. My daughter would never forgive you.” Carefully keeping her expression and tone neutral, she asked, “Do you think we could speak for a moment? Outside?”

“Going to beat me up? Go ahead. Take your best shot. You’re right—I am at fault, if my son can act like such an ass.”

“Let’s refrain from violence and assigning blame just yet, shall we?” Tamara suggested, warming to Bronson Kensington despite herself. Although she wanted to be on his good side and seek his support for the matter at hand, she did not want to like him too much. All they had in common was the children—whom they were obviously both crazy about—and they needed a temporary alliance in order to separate them. Anything beyond putting aside their common distrust and uniting for the matter at hand was out of the question.

Although she resisted generalizing, in her own experience—which had culminated in her marriage to Robert—good-looking men were too attached to their own refletions. What made Bronson even more dangerous was that he seemed quite different from her ex-husband. And that was a problem: he was already causing curls of awareness in the pit of her stomach. How could she deal properly with this crisis if she behaved in the same adolescent manner as Brina?

Putting on the car coat she had taken off when she’d entered the tennis lobby, Tamara took a quick look at the framed pictures of the Notre Dame tennis teams, men’s and women’s.

“How can they think of throwing all this away?” Tamara murmured, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Maybe because they’ve both been so spoiled they don’t know what life is really like,” Bronson answered softly, his eyes taking in the smiling faces of the women’s tennis team as they posed around the NCAA Championship sign.

About to protest, Tamara desisted. Maybe there was some truth in what he’d said. It would certainly be food for thought, when she had a free minute to dwell on it.

Right now they had to make sure they would be able to leave this campus with their respective children in tow.

And for that they would have to utilize all of their combined wiles and experience.

As they turned away from the pictures, Bronson touched Tamara’s shoulder gently with his hand, and she found she liked its strength and assurance. Fighting against the pleasing sense of companionship his contact aroused, Tamara once again reminded herself of why she’d rushed over to Notre Dame.

And she reminded herself that Bronson was Christopher’s father. Right now, he represented the enemy camp. If he happened to have more substance than Robert, well, she’d have to deal with it. He was fighting for his kid; she was fighting for hers.

His next words addressed her own sudden craving for some space and oxygen.

“Let’s go outside, shall we? I really need some fresh air.”

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Mixed-Up Matrimony

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Mixed-Up MatrimonyDiana Mars

Contents

One

Two

Mixed-Up Matrimony
Diana Mars