Her incredulous comeback seemed to make no sense to him whatsoever. With a snarl and a curse, he stamped from the bathroom.

"It wouldn't hurt you to shave, you know," she called after him.

"What difference does it make to you?"

So it went until, finally, around noon of the third day, the rain stopped. An hour later the sun came out. Steam rose off the puddles in the yard, making the atmosphere as humid as a South Seas island.

Stevie ventured outside first to inspect her battered flower beds. The new plants lay in the mud, but she was confident that a few hours of sunshine would revive them.

"Are they on the critical list?"

Judd ambled out onto the porch. He was wearing his standard wardrobe-shorts. The only variation from day to day was the color of them. He no longer seemed to have any self-consciousness about his scarred leg. Most of the time he went without a shirt and shoes. Clasping his hands together, he turned them inside out and raised them high over his head in an expansive stretch.

"They'll make it, I think," Stevie said, averting her eyes from the fine line of dark hair that arrowed into his waistband.

"I think I've grown bunions on my backside from sitting so long." He lowered his arms to absently rub that particular part of his splendid anatomy. "Want to play some tennis this afternoon?"

No suggestion had ever sounded so good. She desperately needed a hard, pounding match to work off her frustration. Maybe then she wouldn't feel as though her skin were shrinking around her, making everything inside her body feel tight and constricted.

"By all means," she told him. "Just say when."

"When. As soon as we get into the proper duds."

"And as soon as you shave."

He rubbed his bearded jaw. "You drive a hard bargain, lady." She stood her ground. Chuckling, he conceded. "Okay, okay, I'll shave."

"Fifteen, forty."

Bouncing the ball in preparation for her next serve, Stevie muttered, "I know the score."

"Sorry," Judd said, cupping his ear, "I didn't catch that."

Raising her voice, she repeated, "I said I know the score, thank you."

"You're welcome."

Gnashing her teeth, Stevie executed her toss and caught the descending ball at just the right angle, putting exactly the right amount of spin on it. Judd shouldn't have been able to return it.

He did. Easily. And because she hadn't expected him to, she was caught falling down on the job. She didn't make it to the corner of the court in time and missed the return by a mile.

"My game," he said cheerfully. "That makes it five to four, my serve. And we switch courts."

"I know the rules, Mackie."

She wrenched the top off the water thermos they'd brought along and tilted it to her lips. He had won the first set. She had barely taken the second in a tiebreaker. With this game, he could win the match. The possibility was untenable.

He was a smug, gloating winner who was enjoying rubbing her nose in her defeat. Oh, he was doing it sweetly, but she was suspicious of that guileless grin, which many times during the course of the match she'd wanted to slap off his recently shaven face.

She mopped her face with a towel and dried off the handle of her racquet before walking back onto the court.

"We're in no hurry," he said to her from the baseline, where he'd been practicing his toss. "If you need more rest time, feel free to take it."

Gritting her teeth, she said, "Just play.

"Okay.

He lobbed the ball like a rank amateur, so that his serve was high and had the hang time of a well-executed football punt. It bounced high.

Stevie had to back up almost to the fence and that destroyed the timing of her forehand swing.

Her return went straight into the net.

"Fifteen, love," Judd chortled.

'Stevie threw down her racquet. "What the hell was that?"

"That was a missed shot."

She saw red. "I mean your serve, Mackie."

"What?" He spread his arms wide, all innocence.

"You seemed a little tired today, off your game. I thought I'd make it easier for you."

"Don't do me any favors, alright?"

"Alright." Then beneath his breath, but loud enough for her to hear, he muttered, "Geez, and I thought McEnroe was temperamental when his game went to crap.''

Stevie tried to ignore him and her own mounting rage, knowing well that it was counterproductive and self-defeating, His serve came in low and hard on her backhand side. She returned it.

They enjoyed a rally, but Stevie ended up with the point when her well-aimed overhead bounced directly in front of his feet.

"Fifteen all," she said with a sweet smile.

"Good shot."

"Thanks."

Thinking that she would try a similar shot on the next point, she moved to the net too soon.

Judd sent a long backhand into the corner of the court and announced with satisfaction, "Thirty, fifteen."

She tied it up on his next serve. "Thirty all," she called out gaily.

Judd's smile wasn't quite as ingratiating as it had been, she noted with satisfaction. She watched his toss, saw the granite set of his jaw, saw his arm go back then arc forward. But just before he hit the ball, he said, "You forgot to wiggle."

The ball whizzed past her like a missile, bounced in the corner of the service court and landed against the fence with a solid thwack. Stevie rounded on her complacent opponent, who was inspecting the strings of his racquet.

"What was that?"

"That was an ace, something that doesn't get pulled on you very often."

She marched toward the net, a study in fury.

'`I'll tell you something else that doesn't get pulled on me. I've never played anybody who opened a conversation just as he was serving the ball. Nobody I know would resort to such a dirty, underhanded trick. Nobody but you, that is.

What did you say, anyway? Something about a wiggle?"

"I said you forgot to wiggle."

She propped her hands on her hips. "And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

"Aw, come on, Stevie. We're alone here. We can be open with each other." He leaned across the net and gave her a knowledgeable wink. "I was referring to that little wiggle you give your backside every time you win a point."

Her mouth dropped open. "I have no idea-"

"Sure you do. You do it all the time. It's to make certain that everybody watching, whether from the stadium bleachers or on television, realizes that you've just done something swell."

It took an act of will to stop grinding her teeth.

"I don't have to stand out here in this heat and listen to your insults." Reflexively she lifted her long braid off her chest and tossed it over her shoulder.

Judd aimed the handle of his racquet at her like an accusing finger. "That's another one."

"Another one what?" ' 'Another one of your cuteisms. The one with the braid is to show your degree of frustration either with yourself, your opponent or a line judge."

"Cuteisms?"

He flashed a proud grin. "I coined the word to encompass all the mannerisms you use to draw attention from your game to yourself. Since the way you look is irrelevant to the way you play, you're very clever to use such a tactic."

Stevie was too furious to speak. If she tried, she'd only succeed in sputtering incoherently. She turned her back to him and marched toward the parked car.

"Aren't we going to finish the match?"

"No!"

"You're quitting when it's match point?"

"Yes!"

"Why, because I'm about to beat you?" he taunted, falling into step behind her. "You couldn't stand being beaten by me, could you?"

"I'm having an off day. You said so yourself.

It's the heat. I haven't practiced in days."