it mirrored her own feelings for him. She smiled at him confidently. “I love you, too,” she whispered. Desire began to stir in private places and made her feel vampish with her new-found power. She looked at him seriously. “But I don’t want to cause you any pain. Maybe it would be best if we didn’t make love for a while.” She moved her leg seductively against his inner thigh, stretching next to him. “We really should get back to sleep, now.” The hand that had rested on his chest slid tauntingly lower. “Hmmm,” she said, “I’m really tired. Aren’t you?”
“You tease!” he roared. He pulled her closer, and she felt him shaking with silent laughter. “I’m doomed. My life will never be the same.” His eyes flashed in the moonlight. “Ah, wench,” he whispered in his low bedroom voice, “perhaps I can arouse your sleepy body.” His hand traveled, featherlight, tickling her soft, exposed skin. “Like this. Do you like this?” he whispered hoarsely. He kissed her parted lips, while his hand swept in caressing waves across her stomach, dipping lower and lower.
Chris closed her eyes and allowed herself to stretch again, luxuriously, and felt almost as if she might purr. “You’re so clever,” she told him happily. She turned her head, and the glowing numbers on her digital alarm clock caught her eye. “Oh no! It’s time to get up.”
Ken groaned in the darkness. “We didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. I’m so tired, I don’t think I can move.”
Ken sighed and pushed himself out of the warm bed. “Get into the shower and see if that’ll revive you. I’ll get coffee started.”
Chris stumbled to the shower and let the water pummel her somnolent body. She lathered her hair and decided she was feeling better. After ten or twelve cups of coffee she might be able to open her eyes.
Ken rapped on the glass door. “You’ve been in there for fifteen minutes. Are you awake?”
“No.”
He opened the door to the shower and shut the water off. “Time’s up, Prunella. You have to go to work.” He wrapped her hair in a towel and proceeded to dry her briskly. She blinked fully awake when she realized he was taking an inordinate amount of time rubbing the rough terrycloth across certain strategic areas. “You rat,” she exclaimed, grabbing the towel from him, “I’ll never get to work that way.”
“Sorry. Guess I got carried away.”
“You don’t look one bit sorry.”
He chuckled. “I’m sorry I can’t finish what I started.” He draped a burgundy robe around her shoulders and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. “Your egg will be ready in five minutes.”
Chris stroked over to the wooden barrier and wiped the ice from her skate blade. She wore a thick red wool crewneck under a navy warm-up suit with white piping, a red down vest, ragg wool mittens, and a white-and-gray Icelandic muffler.
Bitsy looked at the cumbersome outfit. “You look like Nanook of the North.”
“My metabolism is running a little slow this morning.”
Bitsy smiled wickedly. “Tough night?”
“Wonderful night.”
“The truck driver?”
“Mmmmmm.”
Bitsy’s eyes opened wide. “Wow,” she whispered.
Chris stared at her friend. “Wow?”
Bitsy nudged her and motioned with her eyes. “Is that him?”
Chris looked toward the lounge. Ken stood just inside the double doors. He looked movie-star handsome and lumberjack rugged. His black hair tumbled in profusion over his ears and blended with the slightly sinister beard. He wore a hip-length shearling jacket and form-fitting jeans. He saw Chris look his way, and he smiled lazily.
Bitsy groaned. “If he looked at me like that I’d faint dead away…right here on the ice.”
Chris loosened the scarf. “He has the same effect on me. Gee, I suddenly feel warmer.” She exchanged wicked smiles with Bitsy and skated over to the gate.
Ken tugged at the scarf. “You look like Nanook of the North.”
“That’s what Bitsy said.”
He looked around the rink. “Which one is Bitsy?”
“The pretty lady in black and red. The one that’s gawking at you.”
Ken grinned and waved.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see where you work. A friend of mine stopped by this morning with some more of my clothes, and I hitched a ride over with him.”
Chris looked at his feet clad in tan-and-navy ducks. “You’re wearing shoes.”
“These things are soft inside. They don’t bother my toe.” Ken turned his attention to the skaters. “Are you coaching? Am I keeping you from something?”
“No. The girl that was scheduled for this time slot called in sick today.”
Ken gestured at the rink. “Tell me about this. What’s happening?”
“This is a freestyle session. It lasts for forty-five minutes. The skaters practice jumps and spins and programs that they’ll use in competition.” Chris pointed to a small booth with an elaborate console. “The kids can plug their competition music into the sound system.” She selected a CD and punched it into the machine. “Patti,” Chris shouted over the guardrail, “you’re up.” A pretty blonde in a black unitard nodded acknowledgment and moved to center ice. “This is my top student,” Chris confided. “She’s Junior Ladies, and she’s qualified to go to Easterns.”
“Easterns?”
Chris made a sweeping movement with her hands. “These are all competitive skaters. They belong to an organization called the United States Figure Skating Association. As their skills improve they move up the ladder in a series of tests. There are eight tests for freestyle. When you pass a test you qualify to compete at a certain level at USFSA-sanctioned competitions. The freestyle levels are Juvenile, Intermediate, Novice, Junior, and Senior.”
Chris moved to the gate while she continued talking. “The country is divided up into sections. We belong to the South Atlantic section, which extends from Pennsylvania to Florida. In October, a South Atlantic qualifying competition is held, and the winners of that competition are invited to skate in the Eastern Championships. The winners of Easterns go on to skate in Nationals. The top nationally ranked skaters then go on to skate on our World team in international competitions-and every four years that World team goes to the Olympics.”
Music blared from the loudspeakers and Chris’ attention turned to her skater. The girl skipped across the ice in a footwork pattern. She turned and gained momentum in backwards crossovers. “She’s going to do a double Lutz,” Chris told Ken. Patti whipped past them, tapped her toe pick into the ice, and spun into the jump.
“That’s beautiful,” Ken gasped. “How does she do that?”
“This is her toughest combination of jumps coming up.” Chris watched her skater closely. “Double toe. Double loop.” Patti sailed into the air and rotated two-and-a-half times. “Double axel!” Chris beamed. “A perfectly executed double axel.” The music suddenly changed tempo and Patti shifted into more balletic maneuvers, gracefully gliding past them and smiling.
“Did you teach her to jump like that? It’s like magic.”
“Haven’t you ever watched skating on television?”
“It’s different on television. It’s so remote.” Ken’s attention was riveted to the skater. “Skating always seemed like entertainment to me, but this is actually a sport. This kid is an athlete.”
“You’re impressed!”
“Darn right I’m impressed. I don’t know what I expected to see here, but it wasn’t this.”
Chris grinned. “Thought you’d find a bunch of little girls in pink tights sipping hot chocolate?”
“Something like that.”
“Skating is not for delicate types. It takes a lot of guts and a lot of perseverance.”
“You said she was a Junior. Don’t you have any Senior skaters?”
“None that compete. Unfortunately, I can barely get a skater to Junior level. This is a privately owned rink and in order to pay the electric bill it’s necessary to make money on public skating sessions and hockey. There just aren’t enough hours for the figure skaters. Patti trains three hours a day, five days a week. She skates against girls that train six hours a day, seven days a week. If Patti does well this year and gets a national title, she’ll most likely
