to the net He's got a strong forehand and a sizzlin' two-handed backhand, and he was serious when he said he'd try and make it quick."
"We'll see about that." Eli stood up.
Millie groaned and shook her head, seeing the ball pass just beyond Eli's reach for the winner. "It's going to be worse than I thought. Rod's won four straight games."
Jerome smiled. "Don't count Elly out just yet. I think he's been feeling him out He's had three easy put-sways, but instead put the shots deep in the corners to make Rod run. I think we're about to see Elly drop the hammer on him."
"Hon, Eli is good, but he's exhausted, there's no way."
"Watch and see."
A small woman wearing a stylish light cotton dress and flowered straw hat walked down the steps from the clubhouse toward the stadium court looking for a man she thought she knew all too well. It was all there in the file. Although Agent Ashley Sutton didn't know what Eli Tanner looked like, she knew his type. He was definitely a Rambo. His record reflected a man who had volunteered and successfully completed the Army's and FBI's toughest training courses. He'd jumped out of perfectly good airplanes, eaten snakes, been shot in Vietnam, and shot twice during assignments with Bureau's special tactical units. It was clear he was a man who loved to be in harm's way but didn't know when to duck. He would be tall, heavily muscled, have a crew cut, and be square-jawed. He would be like the jocks at school or the muscle-bound idiots at the Y who spent more time looking at themselves in the mirrors than pumping iron. He'd have that confident strut of all the tactical team agents. And he would most assuredly think he was God's gift to women.
Stopping on the landing, she began her visual search of the small crowd that was intently watching the tennis match.
She'd called the number on his leave form, but got an answering machine in his brother's home. The message said the Tanners could be contacted at the country club. The receptionist at the club desk had told her she didn't know Eli Tanner but that a Mr. Jerome Tanner was a member of the club and she thought he would be watching the singles competition finals on court one.
Ashley finished searching the spectator's faces on the far side of the court and stepped down to continue her search among the chairs on her side of the court. Seeing the two together would clinch it, she thought. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Jerome Tanner had used his influence with his old cronies to have his younger brother assigned to the resident office. It was the only explanation for the sudden move.
The "good ol' boy" network had worked its voodoo magic again. Despite the rules, the secret society of the "good ol' boys" always managed to make end runs around the system.
The collective gasp of the spectators broke her train of thought and she looked toward the court. A very tall, handsome blond man was running toward an obviously well-placed ball. With surprising power, the blond hit the sphere like a bullet toward the opposite court in what looked like a clear winner. But his opponent, a short, well-built man positioned close to the net, lunged and hit the ball back to the opposite side of the court. Again the blond put on a burst of speed and managed to get his racket on the ball, but it was a weaker return.
The short man attacked with a vicious overhead slam and put the ball into the opposite corner for a winner. The sedate crowd came alive with loud applause.
Ashley smiled to herself. She liked to see hard work pay off, and it was clear the sweaty, short player, who was obviously older than his opponent, was trying very hard. His looks reminded her of Steve McQueen in his prime; he had that lithe, rangy look of a big-game cat-not a lion or leopard, but more like a cheetah. He was probably five-eight--perhaps -nine-- and like a cheetah, had a thick chest, narrow waist, and heavily muscled legs. She should have used the pause in play to search
"We'll see about that." Eli stood up.
Millie groaned and shook her head, seeing the ball pass just beyond Eli's reach for the winner. "It's going to be worse than I thought. Rod's won four straight games."
Jerome smiled. "Don't count Elly out just yet. I think he's been feeling him out He's had three easy put-sways, but instead put the shots deep in the corners to make Rod run. I think we're about to see Elly drop the hammer on him."
"Hon, Eli is good, but he's exhausted, there's no way."
"Watch and see."
A small woman wearing a stylish light cotton dress and flowered straw hat walked down the steps from the clubhouse toward the stadium court looking for a man she thought she knew all too well. It was all there in the file. Although Agent Ashley Sutton didn't know what Eli Tanner looked like, she knew his type. He was definitely a Rambo. His record reflected a man who had volunteered and successfully completed the Army's and FBI's toughest training courses. He'd jumped out of perfectly good airplanes, eaten snakes, been shot in Vietnam, and shot twice during assignments with Bureau's special tactical units. It was clear he was a man who loved to be in harm's way but didn't know when to duck. He would be tall, heavily muscled, have a crew cut, and be square-jawed. He would be like the jocks at school or the muscle-bound idiots at the Y who spent more time looking at themselves in the mirrors than pumping iron. He'd have that confident strut of all the tactical team agents. And he would most assuredly think he was God's gift to women.
Stopping on the landing, she began her visual search of the small crowd that was intently watching the tennis match.
She'd called the number on his leave form, but got an answering machine in his brother's home. The message said the Tanners could be contacted at the country club. The receptionist at the club desk had told her she didn't know Eli Tanner but that a Mr. Jerome Tanner was a member of the club and she thought he would be watching the singles competition finals on court one.
Ashley finished searching the spectator's faces on the far side of the court and stepped down to continue her search among the chairs on her side of the court. Seeing the two together would clinch it, she thought. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Jerome Tanner had used his influence with his old cronies to have his younger brother assigned to the resident office. It was the only explanation for the sudden move.
The "good ol' boy" network had worked its voodoo magic again. Despite the rules, the secret society of the "good ol' boys" always managed to make end runs around the system.
The collective gasp of the spectators broke her train of thought and she looked toward the court. A very tall, handsome blond man was running toward an obviously well-placed ball. With surprising power, the blond hit the sphere like a bullet toward the opposite court in what looked like a clear winner. But his opponent, a short, well-built man positioned close to the net, lunged and hit the ball back to the opposite side of the court. Again the blond put on a burst of speed and managed to get his racket on the ball, but it was a weaker return.
The short man attacked with a vicious overhead slam and put the ball into the opposite corner for a winner. The sedate crowd came alive with loud applause.
Ashley smiled to herself. She liked to see hard work pay off, and it was clear the sweaty, short player, who was obviously older than his opponent, was trying very hard. His looks reminded her of Steve McQueen in his prime; he had that lithe, rangy look of a big-game cat-not a lion or leopard, but more like a cheetah. He was probably five-eight--perhaps -nine-- and like a cheetah, had a thick chest, narrow waist, and heavily muscled legs. She should have used the pause in play to search
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