CHAPTER ONE

 

Tess Phillips’s legs screamed each time her feet hit the pavement.  She felt each individual muscle protest as her leg stretched, then contracted again.  Forcing her mind to ignore the pain in her legs, Tess concentrated instead on her feet.  One toe had begun to rub on her sock and for a moment all feeling focused on that point.  She closed her eyes and squeezed away the pain, willing herself to ignore the forming blister.

The noise of the spectators echoed in her ears and Tess opened her eyes.  Their rhythmic clapping and shouting echoed the slap of her feet on the pavement.  She still had three miles to go until the end of the race, and she was amazed at the hundreds of people who lined the street.  They were all yelling encouragement at the runners, the individual voices blending into a continuous stream of sound that pulled her along.  The cheers spurred her on and helped her ignore the now constant pain.

One more mile to go.  Her lungs were on fire.  Every breath she took was a searing pain ripping through her chest.  She wiped the sweat off her forehead, and realized that her arm was trembling.  Her legs were shaking, too, but she forced herself to ignore them.  Up ahead she saw the last water stand.  “Got to have some Gatorade there,” she mumbled to herself.  She knew that if she didn’t get some sugar, she wouldn’t be able to finish the race.  She swerved by the table, and without breaking stride grabbed a glass of the sweet green liquid.  Drinking it greedily as she ran, she noticed the difference immediately.  Energy flowed into her muscles, strength gathered again in her legs.

The roar of the spectators thundered around her.  The pack of men she had been running with had all either surged ahead or fallen behind, and now she was running alone.  She heard the shouts and even sometimes the individual voices, but still no words broke through her haze.

Suddenly a young man stepped off the curb and yelled “Water?”  directly at her, and she nodded gratefully.  The next instant a cup of cool water splashed over her head.  The droplets cascaded down her face and dripped onto her shirt.  It was heaven.

Tess turned off Lake Shore Drive and headed for Cannon Drive.  The finish line was less than a half mile away.  As she started up the short stretch of road that led to Cannon Drive, a surge of adrenaline hit her and her rubbery muscles began pumping furiously.  She was almost there!  All the months of preparation hadn’t prepared her for the brutal reality of the race, but her pain fell away as she neared the corner of Cannon Drive.  The familiar surge of anticipation as the finish line approached made her feet move a little more quickly.

She turned the corner and finally saw the finish line a quarter of a mile away.  There were thousands of people lining both sides of the drive, and when they saw her start down the street a tremendous, deafening roar arose.  The sound rolled toward her and seemed to pick her up and carry her forward.

Tess turned to look at the crowd in awe, and when she looked back at the finish line, she saw two race officials stretching a banner across it.  For a moment she stared, uncomprehending.  Then suddenly she understood—there were no women runners ahead of her.  The tape was for her!  Her feet faltered momentarily, then picked up speed and flew across the pavement.  She was going to be the first woman to cross the finish line at this marathon!

Tess couldn’t feel her legs anymore.  She couldn’t breathe.  She could only hear the thundering, continuous noise from the crowd as it echoed around her.  She could only see the tape at the finish line as it came closer and closer.  Finally the thin strip of paper pressed against her chest and snapped, and she stumbled for a few more steps before strong arms grabbed her and held her upright.

Someone wrapped what looked like a huge piece of aluminum foil around her.  She swayed for a few moments, supported by gentle arms, sucking in huge gulps of air.

A young man handed her a glass of water, and she let a small stream of liquid dribble into her mouth.  A smiling woman passed her a towel, and Tess wiped the sweat off her face and neck.  She stood for a moment holding the towel over her face, trembling and gasping for breath.

She looked around, dazed and disoriented.  She had wrapped herself in a shell of concentration during the race, and it had just begun to crack.  Only now did she begin to notice her surroundings.  It seemed like there were thousands of people pressing in on her, surging toward her, all pushing and shoving.  Suddenly one man came forward and took her arm.

“Miss Phillips, I’m Roger Hayward, the president of the Chicago Marathon, and I want to be the first to congratulate you on your victory.”  The short, balding man licked his lips nervously and looked around, as if he were afraid of what he might see.

“Normally, Miss Phillips, we would now escort you to the podium for the awards ceremony, but we have a little problem today.”  He looked around again, and Tess opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, when he continued with a rush, “Because of the unusual circumstances of the finish today, the reporters are demanding to speak to you immediately.  I’m afraid that I won’t be able to get you to the podium until you answer their questions.”

Tess took another shuddering breath and opened her mouth to speak.  When no words came out, she took another drink of water and cleared her throat.  “Mr. Hayward, what was so unusual about the finish of this race?”  Her voice was harsh and raspy and totally alien to her ears.

Roger Hayward swallowed a few times and said quickly, “The fact that an unknown was the winner of the women’s race.  There are some world class women running today, and nobody has ever heard of you.  All these reporters carry computers with them, you know, and they can’t find any information about your previous marathon times.”  He looked at her almost accusingly, as if she were deliberately keeping this important information from him.

Tess shifted her weight to keep her quivering legs from collapsing beneath her.  “I don’t have any previous times.  This is my first marathon.”

Hayward’s eyes widened, and he just stared at her for a moment.  Then he sighed.  “All right, I’ll postpone the awards ceremony.  When these reporters hear that, they’re going to be all over you like starving dogs on a bone.”

Once the decision had been made, Hayward seemed to lose his nervousness and took control.  “I’ll stay here with you, and after a few questions I can escort you to the stand.”

He turned to the crowd of reporters that pressed closer.  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Phillips will answer a few of your questions before we proceed with the ceremony.”

Tess’s already flushed face grew even redder.  She hadn’t agreed to answer any questions.  No way could she cope with this pack of reporters when all she wanted was to sit down.  Her legs felt like wet spaghetti, and her shoes were at least three sizes too small.  Then she looked around, and the reality of the situation hit her.

She had just won the Chicago Marathon, beating a number of internationally known women runners.  Women who had competed in the Olympics, who had won other major marathons.  Women who were supposed to have won this marathon.  No wonder Mr. Hayward seemed nervous.  The sports writers had probably been hounding him unmercifully for the last fifteen minutes.  Gathering her nerve, she forced herself to look out at the reporters, and they immediately began shouting questions at her.  She heard the sound of innumerable cameras clicking.  Technicians waved microphones at her as the reporters surged even closer.  Tess fought to remain standing as her legs wobbled and shook beneath her.

“Miss Phillips!” someone shouted.  “What other marathons have you run in, and was your time today a personal best?”

“This was my first marathon,” Tess answered, her voice as shaky as her legs.  She almost pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.  Was this really happening to her?

“Are you saying you’ve never run a marathon before today?”  an incredulous voice asked.

“That’s right,” Tess answered, trying not to sound so breathless.

“Who’s your coach?”  someone else called out.

“I don’t have a coach, I train by myself,” Tess replied.

Tess had been scanning the group of reporters as she answered their questions, but her eyes kept going back to one man in particular.  He stood at the back of the group, and as far as she could tell he was the only person there who wasn’t either recording her words or taking notes.  Instead, he simply stood there, watching her.  She wasn’t sure if he was a reporter or just an interested bystander, but she couldn’t prevent her eyes from continually returning to his face.

He was a tall man.  Even standing at the back of the crowd, he was able to look directly at her.  His dark hair curled over his collar, and although she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes from a distance, she could feel their intensity.

She deliberately looked away from him as she answered another question.  Even as she concentrated on a woman standing close to her, listening to her words, she could feel the man’s eyes still fixed on her.  She couldn’t prevent herself from glancing at him again, and was surprised to see a faint smile pass over his face as their eyes met.  It wasn’t a pleasant smile, either.  It reminded her of the way the nuns in grade school used to look when Tess had been caught red-handed in some escapade.

Just then Roger Hayward spoke up.  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.  We’re going to proceed with the awards ceremony now, and then I’m sure Miss Phillips will be glad to answer any further questions.”

In a pig’s eye, Tess said to herself as Hayward led her up the stairs.  She had already answered all possible questions at least twice.  All she wanted now was to go home and soak in her bathtub for at least two days.

“Congratulations, Miss Phillips,” a woman said, and it echoed from all sides as everyone on the stand reached out to shake her hand.

“Nice job,” said a man in a white warm up suit.  Tess reached out to shake his hand, and realized that this must be the winner of the men’s race.  His jacket was covered with the insignia of numerous sports equipment and clothing manufacturers.  “Congratulations to you, too,” she answered.

The man smiled and said, “I know that this is your first time up here.  It’s a bit intimidating, isn’t it?”  He had a slight Spanish accent, and Tess recognized him as the runner who had been favored to win the men’s division, a South American who had represented his country in the last Olympics.

Tess looked around at the crowds, still not sure she wasn’t dreaming.  She’d won more than her share of races, but that was a long time ago, in what seemed like a different life.  The Chicago Marathon was in another class altogether.  She sighed.  Maybe there was more of her uncle in her than she was prepared to acknowledge.  That fierce competitiveness that had pushed her to train to her absolute limits had to come from somewhere.  In spite of everything that had happened between them, she wished he was here today.

Her feeling of unreality grew as an official presented her with a trophy and placed a circle of leaves on her head.  She looked out at the crowd, and found herself searching through the group of reporters.  With a pang of disappointment, she realized that the tall, dark-haired man was gone.  Her eyes scanned the throngs surrounding the platform, but he had disappeared.

Get a grip on yourself, Tess, she admonished herself.  Since when do you stand around mooning about some guy you see in a crowd?  Especially since he didn’t seem to be any great admirer of yours, her saner self reminded her.

She forced her wandering attention back to the events on the platform.  One of the officials finished speaking, and handed her a piece of paper.  It was a check, and when Tess looked at it she had to make a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open.  Slowly she raised her eyes to stare at the official, but he was presenting a check to the smiling man opposite her.

Tess stood in a daze and listened to the rest of the speeches.  She thought she received numerous prizes of sports equipment, food and beverages from the various sponsors of the race, but her mind was numb.  Finally, after what seemed like hours, the spectators started clapping and she realized that the ceremony was over.

Hesitating, she turned to look around, not sure what to do next, and her eyes met the dark-haired man’s again.  This time, she didn’t look away, and as they stared at each other an almost visible current crackled between them.  The man made an abrupt movement toward her, and the spell was broken.

Glancing toward the steps of the platform, she somehow expected to see the man magically appear.  What she saw instead was her roommate Donna, along with three of her other friends, all grinning and shouting at her.  By the time the four women finished hugging and congratulating her, they had moved away from the throng of people and were walking across the grass toward Donna’s car.

Tess couldn’t stop herself from looking back over her shoulder once before getting into the back seat.  Disappointed, she sank back into the worn upholstery and closed her eyes.  Over the hum of the engine and the excited comments of her friends, she could see with startling clarity those intense eyes staring at her and that mocking grin curling his lips.  Hey, he’s not your type anyway, she reminded herself.  It was just too bad, a niggling little voice said, that you won’t have the chance to find out for yourself.

 

***

 

“No way!” Nick Bartholomew glared at his editor, jumped up, and paced across the room.  Art McArney leaned back in his chair and watched Nick, raising one eyebrow.

“Come on, Arnie, use some logic: This was the Chicago Marathon.  No way could someone without a hell of a lot of marathon experience win that race.  There were at least five women running who were either former winners or heavy favorites to win.  This Phillips woman comes out of nowhere, beats the next closest woman by a full minute, then calmly tells us that she’s never run a marathon before, let alone won one.  What else can I think except that she’s got some scam going?”

“Then why don’t you want to do this story?”  The editor watched him for a moment.  “Talk to me, Bartholomew.  This is supposed to be your thing, exposing sports scams.  I’d’ve thought you’d want to stick to this broad like a cheap shirt.”  He leaned forward in his chair.  “For that matter, how do you know she’s hustling anybody?  For someone who’s trying to pull a fast one, she’s keeping a very low profile.”

Nick threw himself onto the couch along the wall.  “I’m sure it’s all part of the bigger picture.  Whet the press’s appetite, stir up interest by not giving interviews—she seems like a master at the game.”

Nick jumped up again and strode over to his editor’s desk.  “Mark my words, Arnie, by doing this feature on her, we’re playing right into her hands.  I, for one, refuse to give her the publicity she so obviously wants.  Find someone else to do this piece.”

Arnie burrowed through his desk drawer, searching.  Finally, with a satisfied grunt, he leaned back in his chair and lit a huge cigar.  He rolled the cigar around in his mouth, savoring the flavor.  Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Nick.

“So what’s the problem?  You’ll have a week with the woman.  Of all the people I’ve got, you’re the one who’s most likely to figure out what her angle is.  If you can’t nail Tess Phillips, nobody can.”

“I just don’t like it, Arnie.  I don’t like her and I don’t like whatever her angle is.”

Nick leaned against Arnie’s desk, not quite meeting his editor’s eyes.  That wasn’t exactly the whole reason, and he suspected Arnie knew it.  The problem was Tess Phillips had intrigued him from the moment he’d seen her stumble across the finish line at Sunday’s race.  He had watched her at the impromptu press conference right afterwards, and had been reluctantly impressed by her cool, in-control facade.  And by a lot more than that, he admitted to himself.  Each time her eyes had met his, he’d felt a little jolt.  Knowing that she must be a phony, he didn’t want any part of this assignment.  He wasn’t going to take any chances.  No female athlete was going to get close to him and then use him again.

“You know, Nick, just because the girl is attractive and an athlete doesn’t mean she’s another Vicky Chessman.”  Arnie watched him carefully.

Nick’s face darkened as he glared at his editor.  Arnie didn’t miss much.  Damn him, anyway.

“Vicky has nothing to do with this.  That’s ancient history.”

Arnie gave him a quizzical look.  “I don’t know, you seem awfully set against this Phillips woman.  You haven’t even heard her story yet.  Could the old saw about ‘once burned, twice shy’ have anything to do with that?”

“I repeat, anything that happened with Vicky Chessman is completely irrelevant.”  Nick looked away.  Arnie sometimes had an uncanny ability to read his mind.  Regardless of his personal feelings, though, Nick knew he was right on this one.

Arnie raised one eyebrow.  “Haven’t you even considered the possibility that this Phillips woman is telling the truth?”

“For about a second.  Arnie, something like that’s never been done before.  It’s like an unknown colt winning the Kentucky Derby by twenty lengths.  It’s possible, but not real likely.”

Arnie sat up in his chair decisively.  “Well, then, this has all the makings of a great story.  ‘Nick Bartholomew exposes another sports scandal.’  Probably a Pulitzer in it for you.”  He bent over his desk as if suddenly busy.  After a minute he looked up.  “You still here, Bartholomew?”  He gave Nick a steely gaze.

“Arnie,” Nick began angrily, then paused in the doorway as the editor gave him a warning look.  “Why don’t you invest in a classier cigar?  Those things smell like something that died last week,” he finished mildly.  Before Arnie had time to reply, Nick quietly closed the door.

Back in the city room, he stopped for a moment and scanned the commotion.  Telephones jangled, men and women pounded computer keyboards and the atmosphere was one of barely controlled chaos.  He stormed over to his desk and slammed into his chair.

“What’s the problem, Bartholomew?” someone called.  Nick looked up at the face of Jim Krieg.  “Arnie not being properly respectful of your genius?”  Nick scowled back at the young reporter, who laughed and said, “What’d he do, tell you to cover the high school golf action?”

Nick’s lips twitched as he leaned back and picked up his coffee cup.  “Worse.  I have to spend the next week with Ms. Tess Phillips, that woman who won the Chicago Marathon.”

Nick took a sip of his coffee and grimaced.  “One of the major benefits of working for this newspaper is that your coffee is always cold.  Makes it easy to cut back.”  He set the cup back on his desk and looked at Jim, who was staring at him.

“You aren’t really saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”  Jim asked incredulously.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re telling me that you don’t want to spend a week with Tess Phillips?  That you actually would rather interview smelly football players than that gorgeous creature?”  Jim shook his head.  “Boy, whatever’s in that coffee, I’m staying away from it.”

Nick shook his head.  “Hey, if that were all there was to it, I’d have been there yesterday.”  He tried, unsuccessfully, to push Tess’s image out of his head.  “The thing is, Jim, I’m sure that publicity is just what she wants.  It makes me furious that the paper is going to play her game, and even angrier that I have to be the one to do it.”

“But how do you know that she is playing games?  Maybe this really was her first marathon.  If it was, it’s a hell of a story.”

Nick sighed.  “Yes, Jim, it is possible.  It’s also possible that pigs will fly someday, too, but not anytime soon.”  Nick leaned back in his chair.  “Do you know how much money she won in that race Sunday?  Fifty thousand dollars.”

He smiled grimly as Jim whistled.  “Yeah, a hell of a lot of money.  Do you know how much more she stands to make from endorsements?  The whole set up is just too damned perfect.”  Nick slammed the chair back to the floor angrily.  “She’s the advertiser’s dream come true.  Drop dead gorgeous, great body, and she just won a major U.S. road race.  Never even ran a marathon before, either.  The poor suckers will be standing in line with bushel baskets full of money just to get her name on their products.  Yeah, a perfect set up, as far as Ms. Phillips is concerned.”

“And you think that your columns will just give her the publicity she wants,” Jim said slowly

Nick smiled.  “Oh, they’ll give her publicity, all right.  Whether it’s the kind she wants or not is another story.”

Jim laughed again as he walked away.  “I can’t wait to read these columns, Nick.  Just watch your step with the lovely Ms. Phillips.  We wouldn’t want you to lose your famous, um, objectivity.”

Nick grinned at Jim’s retreating back.  It was true, he never had been noted for his objective viewpoint.  One of the things that drew readers to his column was his outspoken taking of sides.  And he was certainly not going to let this unfortunate …attraction to Tess Phillips blind him to what she was trying to do.

Once again, Tess’s image appeared before his eyes.  Damn the woman, anyway.  For the last two days, he had been obsessed with her.  It was that last look over her shoulder as she was getting into the car that had done it.  It was almost as if she were looking for him.  Then with a flash of long, smooth leg she was gone.  Ever since, every time he caught a glimpse of a woman with a long blond braid, his heartbeat quickened.

Nick sat up decisively.  Well, he was going to get to the truth about Tess Phillips in record time.  Then he could forget all about her.  He hoped.

 

***

 

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Tess looked at her friend and sometimes roommate Donna Parker incredulously.  “There’s no way I’m going to let some reporter follow me around for a week.”

Tess plopped the bag of groceries on the table and slipped her purse onto a chair.  “What exactly did he say, anyway?  I’m sure he didn’t just tell you he was going to be here this afternoon.  No one, not even a reporter, could be that rude.”

Donna shook her head.  “That’s what he said, all right.  He would be here this afternoon to start talking to you for the story.”

“Well, I hope you set him straight,” Tess shot back.

Donna sat down in a kitchen chair.  “As a matter of fact, I did mention to Mr. Bartholomew that he might want to talk to you before making any final arrangements.  He seemed to think it wouldn’t be necessary.”

Tess’s stomach began to flutter.  “All right, Donna, what’s going on?”

“Well, Tess, it seems that when you entered the Marathon, you signed an entry form.  That entry form said that, if you won, the Chicago Post had the rights to your story.  Specifically, the Post can assign a reporter to you for up to a week.”

“I don’t want to be dissected in the Chicago Post or any other newspaper,” Tess exclaimed hotly.  “He can just take his tape recorder and notepad and stuff them!”

Donna laughed.  “Hey, don’t take it so hard.  The guy’s a gorgeous hunk, you know.”

“What guy?”

“Nick Bartholomew, the man who called.”

“I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Paul Newman.  No one’s going to take me apart for public consumption.”  Tess paused and gave Donna a calculating look.  “And just how do you know what he looks like, anyway?”

“Oh,” Donna waved her hand airily, “I saw him one afternoon on one of those sports writers’ talk shows.  You know, the ones where there are five or six men chewing on cigars, all talking at once about some hot sports topic.”

“Donna,” Tess asked with real interest, “when did you start watching sports talk shows?”

“It was just a show that Paul was watching once, and I got interested.”

“You don’t even know the difference between a football and a baseball.  Since when are you interested in a sportswriters’ show?”  Tess had almost forgotten about the original reason for their discussion, she was so intrigued.  Donna’s fiance, Paul, was mildly interested in sports, but she just couldn’t picture the two of them watching a sports talk show.

Donna grinned conspiratorially.  “Paul was pretty surprised, too.  He was watching this program when I walked in, and one of the guys on the panel caught my eye.  He was so smooth, and so good looking, that I had to find out who it was.  And guess what?”

“It was Nick Bartholomew,” Tess finished disgustedly.  “Donna, just because you have the hots for this guy doesn’t mean I have to put up with him for a week.”

“Tess!  I’m an engaged woman, and the only person I have the hots for is Paul.  That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what I see.”  Donna gave Tess a measuring look.  “And maybe think my friend would appreciate it, too.”

Tess had to laugh.  At least Donna was upfront about her motives.  And that was the trouble with people who were in love.  They couldn’t stand to see anyone who wasn’t in the same condition.  “Donna, I do appreciate your concern.  The last thing I want right now, though, is to get involved with anyone, and especially with some reporter who’s supposed to strip me naked for a newspaper column.”  She stood up and began to put the groceries away.  “Really, tell me what he said.  When is he supposed to call me back?”

“You think I’m joking, don’t you?”  Donna’s smile faded.  “Honestly, Tess, Nick Bartholomew is coming over here this afternoon, and I got the distinct impression that he’s planning to be here for a while.”

Tess whirled angrily on Donna.  “Who does he think he is, anyway?  I may have signed that entry form, and believe me I’m going to check it, but that doesn’t mean that Mr. Nick Bartholomew can just waltz in here any time he feels like it.”

“I did tell him that you wouldn’t be too pleased, but he didn’t seem to believe me.  He just laughed and said to tell you to have your story ready.”  Donna sounded unhappy.  “Actually, Tess, he may be a handsome hunk, but he sounded pretty unpleasant on the phone.”

Tess stared at Donna for a moment, thinking.  “Let me get my copy of the entry form,” she said slowly.  “I want to see what I signed.”  She hurried to the desk in her office, returning a minute later with a paper in her hand.

“It says here,” Tess scanned the page, “that in the event I win either the men’s or women’s division of the race the Chicago Post has sole and exclusive rights to my story.  I can’t talk to any other newspaper, magazine, or any other publication for at least a month after the race.”  She looked up at Donna.  “Well, that’s easy.  They can print my story.  I ran the marathon, I won the marathon.  I’m certainly not going to let anybody else interview me, so that should fulfill my obligation nicely.”

“Are you sure that form doesn’t say anything else?”  Donna asked dubiously.

Tess looked at the paper again, and felt her stomach twist.  “There is the little matter of the prize money.  If I refuse the interview, the money is forfeited.”  Tess raised stricken eyes to Donna.  “There’s no way that the recycling center can survive without that money, Donna.  We’ve already spent most of it.”

Donna nodded unhappily.  “I know, Tess.  I work there, too, remember?”

Tess threw herself down into a chair and looked around her living room.  “I can’t bear the thought of some stranger coming in here and poking through my life.  It would feel like such a violation.”  She stared around the room without really seeing it.  Besides that, she thought, there was the matter of her business.  She and a partner operated a small recycling center in their suburb.  For the past few months it had been steadily losing money.  If this reporter was going to be shadowing her for any length of time, her business would be part of the story.

Tess sighed and leaned back on the couch.  It would be the perfect angle for a story, she knew.  “Marathon winner desperately needs prize money to keep company afloat.  Check arrives just in time.”  What reporter, she thought with a sneer, could resist.

Once the suburbs around here knew that the Greener Earth Recycling Center was having problems, they wouldn’t be likely to sign contracts for new routes.  Who was going to do business with a company sliding into bankruptcy?  They would run, not walk, to Tess’s competition, the giant Recovery Services, Inc.  And without new routes, the Greener Earth wouldn’t have the volume they needed to make a profit.  It was a perfect Catch 22.  If she accepted the prize money, she had to let this reporter do the story, and there was a good chance that it would accelerate the crash of the recycling center.  If she gave back the fifty thousand dollars, the center would fold for sure.

“I guess I have no choice but to talk to this guy,” Tess said wearily.  “But there is no way he’s going to write anything about my personal life or the center.  He can write all he wants about how I train, what clothes I wear, or what shoes I prefer.  But that’s it.”

“Tess, that might be easier said than done,” Donna said softly.

Tess jumped up and set her chin.  “We’ll see, Donna.  We’ll just see.”

She turned around and marched into her bedroom and slammed the door.  A few minutes later she emerged, dressed in sweatpants and running shoes.

“Um, where are you going, Tess?  Nick Bartholomew should be here any time.”

“I’m going for a run, Donna.  A nice, long run,” Tess answered sweetly.  “If Mr. Bartholomew arrives while I’m gone, just ask him to wait.”

Tess let the screen door bang behind her as she started running.  It might be a small victory in the preliminary skirmish, but she was determined to savor it.