Stroke of Luck by Trixie Stilletto Page A

trying to keep a nine thousand dollar lens from ruination while doing it. As if he could read her mind, he reached for the camera, lens and all.
    “Give me that. The rate you’re going, we’re both going to be senior citizens before you get to shore.” Now his voice sounded condescending and insulting.
    She would have protested his tone and his help, but he took the camera and held it high as if it weighed nothing. She wouldn’t have admitted it, but her arm had been about to wilt holding the ten-pound lens in addition to her camera to keep them above water. Funny how she hadn’t noticed the lens’s weight when she’d been shooting. Annalisa had thought water was supposed to be buoyant.
    Rather than further put her foot in her mouth, Annalisa concentrated on swimming with the loaded pack on her back. She was breathless by the time they reached the shore. They’d been close to the edge of the river when she’d fallen, so she took the time while swimming to figure out what had happened. She knew she had been well back within the safe range on the ledge. There’d been other photographers up there too, but she’d gotten there first and had chosen the best spot. She tried to replay the whole incident in her head, but all she could remember was what she’d seen through the camera’s viewfinder.
    “Thank you for rescuing my camera,” she said when her feet were planted on solid ground once more, and he handed it to her. “I have other bodies, but the lens is special.”
    “How did you get so close to the edge?” Buchanan asked.
    She paused in the act of wringing some of the water from her white cotton T-shirt and answered by lifting the plastic-encased press credential she wore around her neck. “Press,” she said. “I was well behind the danger line but that was before all the other shooters got up there. I guess I moved a little too far to the front anticipating the shot. I’m Annalisa Webb, with World News Organization. I’d love to hook you up with one of our writers, at your convenience, for a one-on-one about how you feel your training is going and your hopes for the games.”
    Annalisa knew it was going to take a lot to get other members of the sports media to take her seriously and now, when word of her fall got around, it would be nearly impossible. She didn’t even want to think about the furious call that would be coming from her Uncle Vinnie. She put that out of her mind. If she could score a private interview with the most elusive and secretive member of the US rowing team, maybe it would put the kibosh on the backlash before it got started.
    He seemed enthralled by the way she was twisting her shirt, but he snapped back to attention at her suggestion.
    “I don’t do interviews. Ever.” Each word was perfectly spaced with a second’s beat between them. Her uncle had tried the tactic with her before, but it hadn’t had the same chilling effect Buchanan’s words did. Still, she wouldn’t reach her goal if she gave up so easily.
    “How about we get together at the Tennessee Cafe for coffee, say three today?” she tried.
    “No. And stay away from the water. If I catch you near it again, I’ll have your access severely limited by the officials.”
    With that pronouncement, he stalked away. It was only then that she realized the dunking had made her shirt nearly transparent. He, and the spectators who had been watching the whole affair, had gotten an eyeful. She sighed silently and gathered up her gear. She wasn’t out, she was just down. There was always tonight.
    She started to walk away and was met by Jason Hull. He was a photographer for the British Press Association, the WNO’s main rival. Annalisa had known Jason for years and suspected he’d always been attracted to her. Since they very rarely shot the same things, she’d been able to ignore it rather than having to tell him to buzz off. This weekend they were both shooting this event and he’d been following her around the whole