Love. Set. Match. Read online

  “Is it really fair to judge her, Bruno?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

  Bruno blinked at him, the smug smile still in place. “What do you mean? I think it’s entirely fair. We’ve got the evidence there in living color. What else would you call a woman who poses for pictures like that?”

  “I’d call her a woman who trusts her partner.” Rob kept his voice even, doing his best not to betray how he really felt.

  If Bruno caught one whiff of any past relationship between Rob and Em, the older correspondent would have a field day shredding them both to pieces on the air. The rest of the world didn’t need to know how much Rob wished he hadn’t broken up with Em all those years ago any more than they needed to sit and speculate about the pictures she’d let Kole take.

  “It’s not unusual for a woman to buy provocative lingerie and model it for her guy. It’s also normal for a guy to want to preserve that moment, especially when you both have careers that mean you spend a lot of time apart. You’re sitting there judging her for sharing an intimate moment with her boyfriend, but what about the people who thought it was acceptable to invade her privacy, release that moment, and turn it into something dirty?”

  “She’s a public figure,” Bruno sneered. “She doesn’t get to have privacy. Come on, Ashton, you more than most know that. She doesn’t get to have normal experiences, and if she wants to do something like this, she needs to be adult enough to deal with it and not let it affect her tennis game.”

  Rob leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, hands clasped to keep from punching Bruno. “She’s an athlete. Her job is to play her sport and play it to the best of her abilities. That doesn’t mean she surrendered her right to privacy. She’s a damn good tennis player. That’s all that should matter. But she’s a human, and when people are attacking you from all sides because someone decided to take a private moment public, that’s going to get in your head and lead to losses like today. It still doesn’t change the fact that she’s one of the top ten players in the world, and she deserves more respect than you’ve shown her here.”

  Bruno opened his mouth to say more, but Christiane jumped in at a signal from Joey. “Excellent points, both of you. Let’s go to a quick commercial break, and then I believe we’re ready to begin the coverage of Cruz Guerra’s match against Juan Bassimo on Court One.”

  They all sat still until the all-clear buzz sounded, then Bruno surged to his feet. “Joey, what the hell is this? Did you not brief the kid here on how our coverage of the Grace story was to go?”

  “You were there when I did it, Bruno.” Joey sighed. “Rob, what was that?”

  Rob bit back a number of sharp retorts before he finally spoke, deliberately keeping his voice as polite and even as possible. “That was me bringing sports coverage out of the 1950s. Slut-shaming one of the top female players in the world? That’s really the message you want to send?” His jaw tightened as he reined in his temper. “Think, Joey. Do you think Emerson’s team would let us near her for an interview in the next decade if you let Bruno go off on her like that? And dozens of female players would back her up if she decided to boycott us, including Dera Calvet and my sister.”

  “How do I know this isn’t about some crush you have on her? You went soft on her before, and I thought it was charming. Now I’m not so sure.” Joey grabbed his arm and tugged him off to one corner. “If you had a problem, you should have said something when I briefed you.”

  “One, you didn’t give me a chance to get a word in. Two, you didn’t tell me how far Bruno was going. Alluding to her personal problems is one thing. All but calling her a slut on international TV after she got her ass handed to her by an unranked player is another.”

  “What’s better entertainment? Talking about a relevant story involving a player who lost a match she should have won in her sleep? Or white-washing the same story so as not to offend the player?” she retorted, green eyes narrowing. “I have a responsibility to get us ratings, Rob. I thought you understood that.”

  He shoved his hands through his hair. “Jesus, Joey. Wake up. I would think you more than anyone would understand. Women are a big chunk of tennis’s fan base. Women’s tennis brings in just as much, if not more, money than men’s, and the viewers and the players are sick of Bruno’s sexism. He’s a chauvinist and a bully. For once, why can’t a network take a progressive stance on a sex scandal? Why slut-shame her? Why not ask the real questions, like who released the pictures? I can guarantee you it wasn’t Emerson. Was it Kole? We know the cheating rumors are coming from him, so it’s not a huge stretch. Or did someone hack into Kole’s phone? Who wanted a story that badly to go after Emerson? You’ll win more viewers by treating Emerson like a modern woman than you will taking a Victorian view and placing all the blame on her. Come on, let’s be unique for once instead of doing the expected story.”

  She glared at him for several long moments before sighing and glancing down at her buzzing phone. “Fine. I’ll make this work and pull Bruno in as best I can. But do not pull a switch-up like this on me again. And if I find out this is some show of favoritism for Grace, your ass is grass.”

  That’s exactly what this was, but she didn’t need to know that. The odds of Em giving him another chance, especially after the shit Naumov pulled on her, were slim.

  “Favoritism? There’s no love lost between me and Emerson. She’d wring my neck if she had half the chance. I only defended her because if that were Maren, I would want someone to step up and point out how wrong coverage like ours was.”

  “That better be the truth. I don’t have time to train a new correspondent because you’ve got a hard-on for a pretty girl with a penchant for expensive lingerie.” Joey stalked off before he could respond.

  His stomach turned as he watched her storm off. Having his say, doing something to help Em, eased his temper—but only a little. Seeing her gorgeous body plastered all over tabloids and blogs made him want to burn down the world. She’d trusted Kole to let him do something so intimate. Moreover, she probably had feelings for the bastard. If he’d released those pictures for the world to see? His ass deserved to fry—or at least be put under the same microscope as Em. And if Naumov hadn’t released them, then whoever did had reserved a special place in hell for themselves.

  Em didn’t deserve any of this. He just wished there was more he could do to protect her and make it go away.

  Chapter 4

  Emerson sat at the far corner of the hotel bar, as far as she could get from the prying eyes—the accusatory eyes. She ached everywhere; her mind’s soreness echoed her body’s. Even following Amir’s talking points, the press conference had been almost as grueling as the match itself. Question after question, coming at her like body shots from a ball machine turned on too high. Why had she let pictures like that get taken? Did she expect young girls to view her as a role model? Had she released the pictures to get back at Kole? On and on and on.

  So here she was, drowning the ache with a very well-made chocolate martini. She’d be in her room, curled up in bed, but Dera had insisted they meet up for a drink. She’d also ordered Emerson to put on a dress and heels and makeup. Emerson hated all three on a good day, but her friend had a point. This had to look like any other loss. If it didn’t, there would only be more talk.

  God Almighty, she hated the talk. In the locker room before the press conference, she’d briefly heard the TWW team going after her for the pictures and the loss. She’d put her earbuds in, cranking up the Joss Stone as Bruno Watson went on another sexist tirade with Christiane jumping in to try to balance him out and Rob just sitting there, letting him go. It had been the same old story that the gaggle at the press conference had slung. She was a slut for letting someone take pictures of her in her underwear, and she was a bad player for letting the release of the pictures affect her game.

  She wanted all of it to stop. To scream at them all to think for two seconds. Deep down, Em knew that this was how the world had always worked—a couple
did something scandalous, but the woman took the brunt of it in the public eye. But anyone with half a brain could see that she hadn’t been alone when the pictures were taken, and she hadn’t been the one taking them. She accepted that she shared some of the blame for agreeing to the pictures, but she’d never asked for any of this. All she’d done was trust a man whom she thought she might be falling in love with. Stupid her. She’d let herself forget what happened to her when she let a man get that close.

  “Nice job at the press conference today.”

  That voice, that deep, rumbly fuck-hot voice. It pissed her off that after seven years of animosity and bickering, Rob Ashton’s voice still made her knees go weak and her girl parts stand at attention. It’d happened when he interviewed her too, but it’d been easier to ignore in the newsroom.

  All of it came flooding back to her. The heat of young desire. The heady intoxication of first love. The crushing weight of heartbreak when she’d overheard his father telling him she was a gold-digger, a social climber who was using him as a meal ticket because she’d never make it as a professional tennis player. Rob hadn’t defended her then, and she’d known what was coming when he took a week to return her phone call after London. Still, her heart had crumbled when he said they’d be better off as friends, better off focusing on their own careers. He hadn’t been willing to fight for her, damn him, and he joined the list of men who picked their jobs over her, right up there with her father. Eventually, as she saw him moving on within a few weeks, that heartbreak had morphed into anger soon enough, and the anger still lingered.

  She stared at her drink, hoping he was a figment of her very tired brain, but he wasn’t. He was there, live and potent as hell, in expensive jeans and a light-blue oxford shirt that brought out the blue flecks in his eyes and emphasized the muscles that he obviously hadn’t let go to fat since his retirement. Jesus, he even smelled the same. That mix of eucalyptus and cotton and man that intoxicated her with the smallest whiff.

  He slid onto a stool beside her and asked the bartender to bring him a local microbrew.

  “You really think I want to talk to you of all people on today of all days?”

  Rob shrugged, his gunmetal eyes trailing over her in a lazy assessment. She didn’t look at him, but the tendrils of heat his gaze sent across her skin both excited and annoyed her. He was the enemy, damn it. She shouldn’t feel anything for him after today.

  “Kinda surprised to see you here. I thought you might be on a plane home or up in your hotel room,” he said, his eyes never leaving her. “I admire your moxie, though. Showing up at the hotel bar—the same hotel your ex is staying at—in a siren red cocktail dress that teases but doesn’t give anything away? That’s ballsy.”

  Apparently, both of her exes were staying here.

  She rolled her eyes, taking a drink of her martini to cool her blood and gain a hold on her self-control. “Wow. That means so much coming from the guy who works for the network that basically called me a whore today. I’ll tell you what’s ballsy—you coming over to talk to me. I’ve had it up to here with reporters today. So go jump in the ocean or something.”

  It felt good to finally take a jab at somebody. She’d much rather it be at Kole, but she’d settle for Rob. Right now, she didn’t care what he might say about her on the air. All she cared about was making him go away before she completely lost it.

  “Ah. There’s the Em I know.” He took a long swig from the beer the bartender placed in front of him. “I’m not here as a reporter. I’m here as a—”

  “If you say friend, I swear I might kick you. Or rip your testicles out through your nose. Both sound appealing right now.” Her fists curled into tight balls against the sleek bar top.

  He did not get to call himself her friend. He’d given her up seven years ago. If he hadn’t, she might not be in this mess in the first place. After everything he’d put her through, he didn’t get to sit next to that chauvinist bastard Bruno and then come up to her and say he was her friend.

  He flinched, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught his frown and—was that pain in his eyes? No. It couldn’t be. He had proved time and again he didn’t give a damn about what she said to him.

  “Okay. Obviously, not a good day to talk to you. All I wanted to say was you’re handling yourself better than anyone expected, especially in that press conference. Keep your chin up, Em. I’ll see you around.”

  Em.

  One little syllable could send her back seven years faster than the time machine on that Doctor Who show Owen loved. “Em” was the girl she’d been during that short, wonderful time with Rob, the girl who laughed more, who let her guy steal kisses as they snuck through the streets of London. Em was the girl whose heart was trampled because she’d given it to Rob without a second thought. Maybe she should go ahead and rip his testicles through his nose. It might make her feel better.

  “Wow. Who do you want to turn into mincemeat with your racket?” Dera asked, sliding onto the stool Rob had vacated a few minutes before.

  Emerson glanced at her friend. True to form, Dera had dressed to kill in a bright-yellow sheath that hugged her lithe body and left one shoulder bare.

  “That arrogant ass,” Emerson said through clinched teeth.

  “What are you talking about?” Dera sipped the lemon-drop martini that materialized in front of her and gave the female bartender a flirtatious smile. Most people didn’t know, but Dera was bi. She didn’t hide her “fluid” sexuality as she called it; she just didn’t advertise it.

  Taking a long gulp of her own drink, Emerson glanced over her shoulder to where Rob sat by himself, tapping away at the screen of his phone. “Did you not hear the post-match analysis TWW did? Bruno and Christiane all but call me a slut and a whore and blamed me for the pictures, just like everyone else. Then Rob thinks he can come up to me and compliment me on how I handled the press conference.”

  A hand on her arm, Dera turned Emerson to face her. “Wait. Did you listen to the whole panel?”

  “Listen to ten minutes of some of the most well-known reporters in the industry slut-shaming me? Uh—no. I put my earbuds in once Christiane joined in.”

  Anger clawed at her gut, making her question her choice of drink. Maybe a few shots of straight tequila would have been better. She was less than twenty-four hours into this disaster. How much worse was it going to get? Amir was working with her sponsors, but she only imagined what some of them might say in statements if he didn’t succeed in persuading them to stick with her.

  Sighing, Dera banged her head against the bar. “Merde. Emmy, Rob defended you.”

  The words echoed in her head, but she couldn’t make sense of them. Rob Ashton never missed an opportunity to criticize her. When he’d still been on tour, he’d sometimes get up early just to heckle her about her second serve on the practice courts, knowing that she was an early riser. Defending her hadn’t been on the table since the day he ended things with her over the phone.

  “Defended me?” She shook her head. “Why would he defend me?”

  “I have theories on that, but you won’t like them. But he did defend you. He called Bruno on being a pig and pointed out that the people to blame for all of this are the people who released the photos. That you didn’t do anything wrong. From what I heard, his producer was pissed at first, but he pointed out that pinning a scarlet letter on you wasn’t going to win them points with any of the female players.”

  Rob defended her.

  On international TV.

  What the hell?

  “Am I in the Twilight Zone or something? Rob has never stood up for me before. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t join Bruno on the ‘Emerson is a slut’ bandwagon.”

  “Oh m’God. You’re blind. Rob, for all his Ashton arrogance, wouldn’t do that. He likes you, Emmy. He hides it behind the bickering and the sniping, but it’s there. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?” Dera gave a very French shrug. “And more than that, he respects you as a te
nnis player. Go look up the panel on YouTube if you don’t believe me.”

  Emmy’s headache ramped up a few notches. None of this made sense. In the course of eighteen hours, her entire world had been turned upside down, and Rob Ashton defending her was the cherry on top. And she’d been…a total bitch to him. Shit. She didn’t want to feel bad about one more thing tonight. She flagged down the bartender. “Two tequila shots.”

  “Are you leaving tomorrow?” Dera asked. “No one would blame you.”

  Emerson slammed back her first shot, relishing the burn, hoping it’d get rid of the dregs of confusion. “We’re checking out of the hotel tomorrow, but Zoe and I are staying with her family until our flight out. It’s better that way. Amir says the press are sniffing around my townhouse in Miami, and my grandmother is staying with my aunt and uncle until this blows over.”

  “How is your gran? Did you talk to her?”

  Emerson nodded, glancing over her shoulder. Rob joined her brother and Cruz. Shit. What were they doing? This was too much. She couldn’t think.

  “She’s doing better than I expected, but I’m worried. It’d be much easier if Papa Vic were still here. Still, she’s not letting on that the pictures have upset her. She’s on my side and avoiding the pictures if at all possible. Dad’s had a worse reaction than she has, the bastard.”

  She’d been dodging her father’s phone calls since after her match, but she’d listened to the four messages he’d left.

  “Ignore him like he’s ignored you for most of your life. He deserves a taste of his own medicine.” Dera gave Emerson’s shoulders a squeeze.

  Slamming back the second tequila shot, Emerson accepted the fact that no amount of alcohol was going to numb today. No amount of alcohol was going to make sense of today. And no amount of alcohol was going to quiet the whirl of questions plaguing her, and it was all his fault. Excusing herself from her friend, she hurried up to her hotel room, dodging a few reporters and some well-meaning friends along the way.