Winner Takes All

by Anna Harrington

  She opened her mouth to argue, then slowly closed it. Her uncharacteristic silence was proof that he was right.

  “I won’t risk my reputation by pretending to train him only for something to go wrong during the race. I want his training done properly or not at all.” He grudgingly admitted, “It’s also your best chance at winning.” He turned back to the hearth and stared down into the coals. “I’ll work with you, but you’ll do as I say when it comes to training Midnight. We have less than a fortnight until the race, and my orders have to be followed. Completely. Understand?”

  She turned halfway around on the chair to look at him, yet she hesitated to agree. He could almost hear her thoughts whirling inside that sharp little mind of hers as she weighed her options.

  “Yes.” She gave a relieved but grudging sigh. “I agree to your terms.”

  Unable to look at her, he took a long sip of coffee before speaking quietly into the fire, as much to convince himself as her, “Your father only wants the best for you, you know that.”

  “I know.”

  “Lord Charles is a good match for you in every way.” He prayed she couldn’t hear the jealousy that roughened his voice. “The respectable son of a peer from a powerful family, wealthy enough to maintain a good and stable lifestyle…by all accounts a man who will give you a wonderful life.”

  “A life I don’t want. That’s why I need to win.”

  “So do I,” he murmured, softly enough that she couldn’t hear.

  He sucked in a deep, hard breath. Fate had forced him to make an impossible choice—her future or his?

  He straightened, his arm dropping to his side. “I’ll train Midnight to the best of my ability, I promise you that.” He turned and fixed her beneath his gaze, wanting no misunderstanding on this point. “But I’m also going to do everything I can to have my own colt cross the line first. I won’t let my jockey hold him back to give yours an advantage, no matter what agreement you’ve made with your father.”

  “I would respect you less if you did.” No doubt lingered in her voice about that. “We’re agreed, then? May the best horse win.”

  With a decisive nod, Shaw tossed her father’s letter into the fire and sealed their agreement.

  Chapter Four

  Frankie shamelessly watched Shaw over the rim of her mug in the late afternoon sunlight that fell through his kitchen window, just as she’d done every afternoon for the past week since he’d agreed to help her. She held the mug against her mouth to hide any traces of her happy smile as the coffee’s warmth seeped through the ceramic and tingled at her lips and fingertips.

  Or maybe it was Shaw who made her tingle.

  She wouldn’t have doubted it. Even just sitting with him at the kitchen table in his old stone farmhouse prickled an odd excitement across her skin like the wafting of a warm summer breeze.

  So far, they’d worked well together in training Midnight. They were of one mind when it came to putting the colt through his paces and increasing both his stamina and his willingness to follow his new exercise boy’s commands. Midnight had tested the lad at first, behaving more like a petulant child than a blue-blooded racehorse, but now the two moved fluidly together. Frankie nearly burst with pride whenever she watched them speed around the track. Shaw saw it, too, and she reveled in the respect he paid to her as a horse breeder.

  More—she couldn’t believe how much being around him again and working the horses together felt like old times. Or how much she still ached for him.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t tried to kiss her again.

  That lack of attempt twisted knots of confusion inside her. Had the kiss at her uncle’s door been nothing more than a premature kiss goodbye, with Shaw thinking that she’d scratch Midnight from the race and so he’d never have to see her again? Had it been only a bitter reminder of their past mistakes, ones he had no intention of repeating in the present? Or worse…had that kiss confirmed in his mind that he’d been right to leave her all those years ago and not give his departure a second thought?

  A frown furrowed her brow. Had he not given her a second thought?

  “You should go home,” he mumbled and reached up to rub his nape. “It’s almost time for supper. The sun’s going to set soon, and your uncle will be waiting on you.”

  Yet even as he said that, he didn’t lift his attention from the sheets of paper scattered across the table between them. Each page held a detailed record of everything they knew about the horses entered in the Derby. Bloodlines, trainers, jockeys, observations about the way they’d been exercised during the past week, how they’d reacted to changes in weather and distractions at the track…It was the entire race, laid out on paper. They’d spent their previous afternoons pouring over each one, looking for any weaknesses in their competition.

  Now, the afternoon was ending, the sun rapidly sinking toward the horizon, and they’d reached the end of information they’d been able to gather about the other horses. There was no more reason to keep studying the pages, no reason to keep looking for advantages in the race.

  And no reason why she wanted to leave.

  “Uncle Jonas won’t hold dinner for me,” she assured him. “He’ll gladly feed my portion of the roast to his hounds.” She eased back in her chair and took a long perusal around the kitchen. “Besides, I like it here.”

  She did, too. Immensely.

  She’d been here every day, from right after their morning training sessions until sunset, when she drove herself back to Uncle Jonas’s on the little gig he’d let her borrow. Only part of the time spent here had gone to discussing Midnight. The rest of it had been spent in other wonderful ways…touring the farm to see where Shaw trained his horses and those he was paid to train for others, watching him work with several of the horses, talking quietly for hours about what they’d each been doing since he’d left Willow Wood. She’d even attempted to cook dinner for him once, only to surrender the idea when she’d nearly caught herself on fire.

  She was comfortable here. The place felt like home.

  No, he felt like home.

  She waved a hand toward the hearth. “I could stay and cook us dinner. We could—”

  “Haul in buckets and buckets of water to put out the new fire?” He didn’t look up, but she could see the smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

  She sniffed indignantly. “I barely singed my skirt the last time, I’ll have you know.”

  His low chuckle warmed the kitchen. The teasing was infectious, and she laughed along at herself.

  Being with him again was so easy, so relaxed. During the past week, they’d certainly been together enough for her to realize that. Except for at night, they’d been together nearly every moment, sharing instructions for the jockeys, debating the merits and weaknesses of the rest of the field, talking about horses and racing…talking about everything except the attraction that had once been between them. Heated. Aching. Undeniable.

  Her smile faded. She swallowed hard and dared to ask, “Did you miss me?”

  He froze, his hand in mid-reach for another one of the sheets. He paused only for a beat before moving on, but long enough for her to know that she’d rattled him. Because he didn’t look up at her. That was the Jackson Shaw she knew. If he didn’t acknowledge a problem, it didn’t exist. That was why he’d insisted on writing down all the information on the rest of the field so that he’d be forced to acknowledge the competition and deal with it. That was also why he’d left her at Uncle Jonas’s door that first day, why he’d never once attempted to contact her during the years they were apart…She was a problem he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, his eyes glued to the paper. “Portland’s filly has a good bloodline back through the Goldophin—”

  “Of course it matters.” She leaned forward on the chair, setting her unwanted coffee aside. “I missed you, Jack. A great deal.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” Giving up on the sheets, he tossed the page aside with an
aggravated flick of his wrist. “What we had was youthful infatuation, that’s all.”

  “It was more than that.” She reached across the table to place her hand over his. “In your heart, you know that.”

  “What I know is that a viscount’s daughter had no future with a stable master.” His eyes flared with self-recrimination, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “That’s the way the world is, and that’s how it will be long after we’re gone. A few kisses could never change that.”

  “It was more than a few kisses.” She punctuated that reminder by entwining her fingers with his. “We could have that again if Midnight wins the race and—”

  He yanked his hand away as if her touch burned him and shoved himself to his feet. “It was a wonderful time, I’ll admit. We were good friends.”

  She nearly laughed. “We were more than friends.”

  “We were friends,” he repeated forcefully. “Don’t make it into more than it was.”

  If that was supposed to have been a warning, it didn’t work. “Liar.”

  She knew exactly what had been between them, and it wasn’t youthful infatuation or simple friendship. Neither were the feelings for him that stirred inside her now.

  She stood and slowly circled the table to him. Careful not to put too much weight on her recovering ankle, she slid between him and the table, where she rested back on its edge and unwittingly arched herself toward him. She didn’t mind the mistake, especially when his eyes flared with desire.

  Anticipation blossomed in her belly as she brought her mouth close to his. His warm breath tickled achingly across her lips.

  “Then don’t kiss me,” she challenged, arching up even more seductively to tease her lips against his in featherlight temptation. “Just stand there and prove me wrong. Prove how much you don’t want me.”

  A groan of capitulation tore from the back of his throat, and his mouth darted down to seize hers. With none of the teasing from the last time he’d embraced her, this kiss was hot and urgent and filled with the taste of how much he wanted her. A surge of excitement thrilled her, and she melted into him with her own answering moan of desire.

  He gathered her into his arms and pressed her against him. As he continued to take heated, open-mouth kisses, his hands slid down her back, then up the sides of her body to cup her breasts in his palms. Liquid fire pooled inside her when he began to massage her. Despite the layers of clothing, Frankie felt as if there was nothing between them at all. Only his warm and strong hands worshipping her body, driving her mad with want and need.

  “I was right,” she panted as she pushed herself against him, bringing his hands harder against her. “You wanted me then…You still want me now.”

  He nipped her earlobe in punishment for her audacity. The pleasure-pain of the bite shot through her and landed with a jarring throb between her legs.

  “Of course I want you, minx,” he admitted in a raspy murmur as he kissed at her neck. He wiggled his fingers beneath her corset and chemise to tease her hard nipple with his fingertips. “I’m a man, aren’t I?” He tugged her clothes down to free a single breast for his hungry eyes, and the ravenous look that darkened his face took her breath away. “What man wouldn’t?”

  “Most every other man I’ve ever met.” She shivered when he traced a fingertip playfully around her nipple. “Once they find out that I’m not some passive society miss but a woman with a mind of her own, opinions of her own.” When he strummed his thumb over the hard point, she bit back a whimper. “Challenging, willful, independent—”

  “To a fault.” But the irritated grumble he’d tried for was lost beneath the desire thickening his voice.

  He lowered his head to place a delicate kiss to her nipple. The tenderness nearly undid her. She clenched at his shoulders and fought down the urge to simply lie back across the table and wantonly let him have her right there in the kitchen. As if reading her mind and still fighting the attraction that flamed between them, he slipped his arm around her and pressed his hand against the small of her back to keep her upright.

  She struggled now to maintain her breath as he continued to tease at her nipple with his fingers and lips. The caresses stirred the aching heat that licked at her belly and at the backs of her knees, the two sensations slowly moving together to meet between her legs.

  “You never cared about that, though, did you?” She played her fingers through the silky hair at his nape, and his breath turned shallow with arousal as it fanned warmly over her breast. “You wanted me despite that.”

  He confessed in a rough rasp, “I wanted you because of that.”

  His mouth claimed her breast. She gasped as his lips latched around her nipple and sucked hard, so hard that each pull drew her deep into his mouth, the force of it hollowing out his cheeks. This wasn’t like the tender kisses of before. This was sheer plunder. With each deep suck that seemed to pull all the way down to the demanding ache between her legs, his wicked tongue circled her nipple in a tantalizing lick.

  Yearning overwhelmed her, and she cried out.

  As if calming a skittish colt, his hands brushed down her body in long, soothing strokes to gentle her even as his mouth continued to ravish her breast. He suckled, licked, nipped, kissed…worshipped. She shivered with a heated pleasure that stood her hair on end and dotted goosebumps across her skin.

  “I want—” she forced out to cajole him into giving her more of himself. All of himself, just as she’d always wanted. “Jack, I want—please…”

  When her desire-fogged brain couldn’t find the words, she let out a groan of frustration and reached down for her hem, to pull up her skirt and invite him to give her all kinds of wonderful—

  “Miss Darlington!” A breathless female shout rose from the yard, hoarse not with emotion or use but exertion. It came again, even more frantic than before. “Miss! Where are you?”

  Shaw stilled, his body stiff against hers. Then he quickly pulled up her bodice and underclothes with one hand and shoved down her skirt with the other. In an instant he’d moved to the other side of the room, putting the distance of the kitchen between them as he turned toward the fire.

  “You’d better go see who’s looking for you.” His voice was husky with arousal.

  Confusion poured through her as her hand darted up to check her hair and neckline. “But I—I don’t—”

  The look he shot her over his shoulder was quelling. And revealing. He was in no condition to greet guests.

  “Of course.” Her cheeks burned as if they were on fire, and she shook as she slipped down from the table and left the house. She firmly closed the door behind herself to give Shaw time to recover, then took several deep breaths of her own.

  Mrs. Whitaker, Uncle Jonas’s housekeeper, rushed across the yard toward her, huffing and puffing hard to claim every breath. Her hat perched lopsided on her head, and she’d missed a button on her coat so that the right side of the collar stood up two inches taller than the left. Her round face glowed bright red.

  “Mrs. Whitaker, whatever is the matter?” Worried, Frankie took the woman’s arm to lead her to a rough-hewn bench beside the old stone farmhouse.

  But the old housekeeper waved her away, then fanned her hand in front of her face to give herself air as she struggled to force out the words. “I ran…all…the way…here.”

  Good Lord! Uncle Jonas’s estate was at least two miles away. “Why?” Her worry changed into panic. “Did something happen to my uncle?”

  The woman shook her head emphatically as she gulped in enough air to partially recapture her breath. “He’s fine.” She paused to huff and puff down a few more breaths in an attempt to speak more easily, only to choke out, “But he sent me ahead—said I needed to be here. Immediately.”

  “Why?” She glanced up as Shaw appeared in the doorway. He was once more presentable except for the confused frown that darkened his face. A look she was certain matched her own.

  This time when Frankie attempted to help the woman sit, Mrs
. Whitaker grabbed at her arm insistently. “I’m to say I’ve been here the whole day with you and never once let you out of my sight.” Her eyes darted between Frankie and Shaw. A world of meaning lived in that glance. Then she looked over her shoulder, down the lane toward the road, where the distant rumble of a rig was just beginning to be heard. Giving up on further explanation, she waved her hands wildly in panic. “He’s coming here!”

  “Who? Uncle Jonas?”

  “The viscount.” The old housekeeper sank her fingers into Frankie’s arm in warning. “Your father.”

  Shaw stepped into the yard just in time to see Jonas’s little dog cart turn into the drive, then bump and roll its way toward the farmhouse and outbuildings. A pack of hounds bounced around it, certain they were going hunting, but the grim expression on Jonas’s face showed that he wasn’t at all up for sport today. So did the very slow way he handled the horse, slowing it even more by pulling back the reins long before the cart reached the yard.

  Judging from the impatient look on her father’s face as he sat perched on the seat next to Jonas, the viscount wasn’t at all pleased at their arrival.

  Neither was Frankie. The flush that Shaw’s kisses had put into her cheeks paled as the cart rolled up the drive.

  When the horse finally stopped in front of the farmhouse, the man riding in the rear impatiently jumped to the ground without waiting for Jonas to set the brake. Shaw didn’t recognize him, but he held that same arrogant, aristocratic bearing of every Mayfair dandy he’d ever seen. The man scowled at the hounds that swarmed around his legs and kicked at one who got too close but missed. With aggravation, he tugged at the sleeves of his fine cashmere jacket to bring them back into place from the ride, then slapped at his boots to knock the dust off them. The dogs thought he wanted to play and bounded at him, marking paw prints all over his biscuit-colored trousers despite his angry shouts at them to go away. The more he yelled and waved at the dogs, the more certain they were that he was simply playing and jumped at him with increased eagerness.