by Marinelli, Carol; Hayward, Jennifer; Stephens, Susan; Anderson, Natalie
“I am not marrying him.” She lifted her chin and stared her stepmother down. “End of story. Stop matchmaking. It’s only going to be embarrassing for both of us if you keep this up.”
“Perhaps Cecily is right,” her father interjected, sweeping his cool, gray gaze over her. “She would do better to focus on the task at hand. Dale said your times today were still subpar. Do I need to buy you another horse to make this happen?”
Her stomach twisted. No, ‘I’m sorry you had such a bad day, honey.’ No ‘You’ve got what it takes, just stick with it’ from her father. Never any of that. Only the stern, silver-haired disapproval that was her father’s de facto response. It made her feel about two feet tall.
Her lashes lowered. “I don’t have time to break in a new horse, Daddy. Besides, the committee will expect me on Bacchus.”
“Then what do we need to do?”
“I will figure it out.”
Suddenly the idea of Knox Henderson’s impending visit combined with the vast amount of pressure being heaped on her from all directions vaporized any desire for dessert.
She set her spoon down with a clatter. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a headache. I think I’ll go lie down.”
“Cecily.”
Her stepmother put a hand on her father’s arm. “Let her go. You know what she’s like when she’s in one of these moods.”
Cecily ignored her, scraping back her chair and leaving with a click of her heels on the hardwood floor. She started toward her bedroom, then changed her mind, taking a detour to the kitchen where she acquired some of Bacchus’s favorite breakfast cereal, then headed out the back door to the barn.
She thought she might owe both Bacchus and Colt Banyon an apology. She told herself that was the only reason she was venturing out into a balmy, perfect Kentucky evening when she had a stack of entrance forms waiting to be filled out. It was not, she assured herself, because of Colt Banyon’s sinful dark eyes she couldn’t forget.
Her bad timing on the course earlier today seemed to follow her as she entered the barn to find the grooms had finished up work. Not about to track Colt Banyon down at the staff quarters, she headed for Bacchus’s box.
She pulled up short when she got there, watching with astonishment as her horse, extremely picky when it came to grooms and highly nerved, blew out a breath and closed his eyes, putty under Colt’s hands as the groom massaged his head. She hadn’t seen him look this relaxed since before the accident.
Her attention shifted to the two-footed male in the box. Still clad in the close-fitting faded jeans, a gray T-shirt skimming his amazing abs, she found herself transfixed by the ripple of muscle in his powerful arms…by the lean, taut, undeniably ogle-worthy thighs underneath the worn denim.
He was a man—unlike Knox Henderson who preferred to preen like a peacock, there was a quiet substance to Colt that held her in its thrall.
He slid his hands down her horse’s head and began working his neck muscles, the kneading movement of his big hands making her horse shudder. Her stomach curled, tiny pinpricks of heat unfolding beneath her skin.
Would he handle a woman with such sensual precision? What would those hands feel like? Would they be deliberate and demanding? Slow and seductive? All of the above?
Bacchus lifted his head, his soft nicker of welcome causing the subject of her fascination to turn around. She wiped her expression clean, but perhaps not quick enough. Colt Banyon’s cool, dark stare made her freeze, utterly disconcerted.
“Why aren’t you eating with the others?” she blurted out.
A blast of arctic air directed her way. “Wasn’t hungry.”
She sank her hands into her pockets. Blew out a breath. “I owe you an apology for my behavior earlier. I was frustrated, I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”
A barely perceptible blink of those long, dark lashes. “Apology accepted.”
He turned and went back to work. Her skin burned. He’d clearly formed an opinion of her and wasn’t about to change it. Which should have been fine because she was used to people forming false impressions of her. Sometimes she even encouraged it, because it was easier than trying to maintain human relationships, something that never seemed to work out for her.
But for some reason, she wanted Colt Banyon to approve of her. Maybe because her horse had already given him the thumbs up and Bacchus’s opinion was never wrong.
Her horse nuzzled the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a handful of his favorite brightly colored fruit breakfast cereal and fed it to him.
Colt eyed her hand. “What is that?”
“Breakfast of champions. He’ll do anything for it.”
“Except jump the course the way you want him to.”
Ouch. She winced at the dig. “Are you always this—”
“Impertinent?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.”
“I think,” she corrected stiffly, “that you are direct. And that you don’t like me very much.”
He glanced at her, face impassive. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m paid to follow orders just like you said.”
She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Sure you did.”
Wow. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. She watched as he ran his hand over Bacchus’s side and dug his fingers into his trapezoids, key muscles her horse used to balance himself with. “What are you doing?”
“He seemed stiff when you rode him earlier. I thought a massage might loosen him up.”
“Did your grandmother teach you that too?”
“Yes. If he’s tight, he can’t stretch over the jumps properly.”
Well she knew that, of course. Jumping was all about form. But she’d only ever heard of equine therapists doing this kind of a massage.
“Is your grandmother a therapist?”
He shook his head. “Just a horse lover with a special touch.”
“Does she live in New Mexico?”
A longer glance at her this time. “You been checking my résumé out?”
Heat stained her cheeks. “I like to know who’s working in my stables.”
“So you can see which ‘school of psychobabble’ we come from?”
“Colt—”
He started working on her horse’s back. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the stall. “We had an accident,” she said quietly. “In London last year. Something in the crowd spooked Bacchus as we approached a combination. His takeoff was all wrong—we crashed through the fence.”
She closed her eyes as the sickening thud, still so clear, so horrifically real, reverberated in her head. “I was lucky I didn’t break my neck. I broke my collarbone and arm instead. Bacchus tore tendons—badly. Physically, he’s a hundred percent but mentally he hasn’t been right since then. That’s why I was so frustrated today.”
He turned around and leaned against the wall. The corded muscles in his forearms flexed as he folded them over his chest, a flicker of something she couldn’t read sliding across his cool, even gaze. “That had to have left some emotional dents in you as well.”
She nodded. “I thought I was over it. Maybe I’m not.”
* * *
Alejandro knew he should keep up the brush off signals until Cecily Hargrove walked back out that door—the safest place for her. But there was a fragility that radiated from her tonight, dark emotional bruises in her eyes he couldn’t ignore. Perhaps they were from the accident. He thought they might be from a hell of a lot further back.
His heart tugged. Her undeniably beautiful face, bare of makeup, blue summer dress the same vibrant shade as her eyes, she looked exceedingly young and vulnerable. His grandmother had always said showjumping was a mental game. If you lost your edge,
it all fell apart. Maybe Cecily had lost hers.
“Maybe you need to take a step back,” he suggested. “Take some time for you and Bacchus to fully heal—mentally and physically. Figure out what’s missing.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have time. I have a big event in a month. If I don’t perform in the top three there I won’t make the world championship team. Bacchus is the only horse I have that’s at that level.”
“So you make it next year.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Why not?” He frowned. “What are you—mid-twenties? You have all the time in the world to make the team.”
Her mouth twisted. “Not when you’re a Hargrove, you don’t. My grandmother and mother were on the team. I am expected to make it. If I don’t, it will be a huge disappointment.”
“To who?”
“My father. My coach. The team. Everyone who’s backed me. They’ve spent a fortune in time and money to get me here.”
That he understood. He’d spent a lifetime trying to live up to his own legacy—to the destiny that had been handed to him from the first day he could walk. Sent to an elite boarding school in America from his native Brazil when he was six, then on to Harvard, the pressure had been relentless.
When he’d moved to New York to run the Salazar Coffee Company’s global operations as the company’s CEO, that pressure had escalated to a whole other level, driven by a ferociously competitive international marketplace and a father who had never been content with less than a hundred and ten percent from his sons.
He knew how that pressure could rule your life. How it could crush your soul if you let it.
He set his gaze on the woman in front of him. “You know better than anyone what you do is as much psychology as it is sport. Master the course in your head and you’re halfway there. Fail to do so and you’re dead in the water.” He shook his head. “If you push Bacchus before you’re both ready, it could end up in an even worse disaster than the one you’ve already been through.”
Long, golden-tipped lashes shaded her eyes. Chewing on her lip, she studied him for a long moment. “Was your grandmother a show jumper?”
Meu Deus. He gave himself a mental slap for revealing that much. He’d thought it an innocent enough reference at the time with Ms. High and Mighty goading him, but it had clearly been a stupid thing to do. Proof he liked to live close to the edge.
“She competed in small, regional stuff,” he backpedalled. “Nothing at your level. She gave it up to have a family. But she had a way with horses like no one I’ve ever seen.”
Her expressive eyes took on a reflective cast. “My mama was like that. Horses gravitated to her—it was like she spoke their language. They’d do anything for her in the ring.”
Zara Hargrove. Alejandro knew from his grandmother she had died in a riding accident at the height of her career. Which would have made Cecily only a teenager when she’d lost her… Tough.
He ran a palm over the stubble on his jaw, hardening his heart against those dark bruised eyes. “You will figure this out. Bacchus will come around.”
Her lips pursed. “I hope so.”
She fed Bacchus another handful of cereal. He pulled his gaze away from the vulnerable curve of her mouth. Dio. She was the enemy. It might be guilt by association, she might have been trained to be a Hargrove, but she was one nonetheless. He was nuts to be standing here trying to solve her problems.
He knelt beside Bacchus’s hind leg. “Show me where he tore the tendons.”
She squatted beside him and ran her hand down the horse’s leg. “Here.”
“Difficult spot.” He wrapped his fingers around the tendons and very gently worked the leg, massaging the sinewy flesh until it eased beneath his fingers.
“Can I try?” Cecily asked.
He nodded and dropped his hand.
She wrapped her fingers around the horse’s leg, kneading his flesh. But her touch was too tentative, too light to do any good.
“Like this.” He closed his fingers over hers to demonstrate, increasing the pressure. The warmth of her hand bled into his, a fission of electricity passing between them. Heat flared beneath his skin. Her breath grew shallow. He inhaled her delicate floral scent, so soft and seductive as it infiltrated his senses with potent effect. They may have had a rocky start, she might be the enemy, but his body wasn’t registering either of those facts, consumed with a sensual awareness of her that clawed at his skin.
She turned to look at him, eyes darkening. “Have you ever thought of doing this for a living? You’re very good at it.”
“I’ve thought about it.” He responded as Colt Banyon, professional drifter. “But I like to travel too much. Maybe someday I’ll settle down and get my own place.”
She didn’t scoff at that, as if he didn’t have a hope in hell of ever owning a place like this. Didn’t know he could buy and sell her family ten times over. Only said quietly, sincerity shining in her eyes, “I hope you do that someday. You’d be amazing at it.”
He thought then that perhaps first impressions hadn’t done Cecily Hargrove justice. That if he curved his fingers around her neck and drew her to him for a kiss so he could taste that delectable mouth, she wouldn’t protest, she’d meet him halfway. That if he did, he might be able to banish some of those dark shadows from her eyes for just a few minutes.
Why all of a sudden it was the most unbearably tempting proposition when it was the last thing in the world he should ever do was beyond him.
He pushed to his feet before madness ensued. “A few minutes of that every day will help him stretch out, trust himself a bit more. It might help.”
She rose to her feet beside him, any hint of an invitation gone from those blue eyes. If he saw a flash of regret there, she masked it just as quickly.
“Thank you, Colt,” she said quietly, brushing her palms against her dress. “He’s in excellent hands. Y’all have yourself a good night.”
* * *
Oh, my God. Cecily dragged in a deep breath as she exited the stables on weak knees, the earth feeling as if it was shifting beneath her feet. What had just happened?
You didn’t invite a complete stranger to kiss you when he’d clearly barely been tolerating your presence and didn’t even like you. And yet, her dazed brain processed, for a second there, she’d thought he’d been thinking about kissing her too before he’d replaced those barriers of his and put her back in her place as surely as she’d put him in his earlier today.
Had she imagined it?
She pressed her palms to her heated cheeks. She shouldn’t be interested in kissing anyone right now. It was the last thing she should be doing with her career hanging in the balance.
Skirting the floodlit natural water grotto her father had spent millions building for her mother, she took the path to the house. Perhaps she should go stick her head in there. It might inject some sense into her.
Hadn’t her disastrous engagement to Davis taught her a lesson? Good looking men were trouble. A disaster waiting to happen. She was better off sticking with males of the four legged variety. They never broke her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
CECILY SPENT THE next few days steadfastly ignoring sexy, elusive Colt Banyon and putting all her focus into her practice sessions. But it seemed the harder she tried, the worse her times became—as if desperation was setting in and Bacchus could sense it, feeding off her nerves in all the worst ways.
By the time Friday rolled around, her event three weeks away, she was at her wit’s end. She could continue to pound away at the fruitless efforts that were getting her nowhere or she could follow Colt’s suggestion and take a step back.
She couldn’t afford to give up on her hopes for the season, but perhaps she might be able to rewire her horse’s brain with a total change of pace. M
aybe Bacchus just needed a mental breather, an escape from the pressure cooker. Just like her.
An idea filled her head over tea in the thankfully deserted breakfast room. Except she knew her father wouldn’t allow it unless she took someone with her and since having company along for the ride defeated the purpose of obtaining some peace, it wasn’t an option.
Unless she took the less than talkative Colt with her, she mused over a sip of tea. She could pick his brain about some of his techniques along the way. While keeping her head in sane territory, of course, something that shouldn’t be hard because Colt would clearly give her the brush off again if she did something dumb like invite him to kiss her, which of course, she wouldn’t.
Her mouth curved. It was a plan. She finished her tea, collected her things and went off to execute.
* * *
Alejandro dropped the package off at the courier office in town on his mid-morning break. Containing a sample of Bacchus’s mane hairs, it was now up to Stavros’s high tech lab to confirm the Hargroves’ crime.
He texted Stavros from the truck.
Package has been sent. Obrigado amigo, I owe you one.
Forget it. I’m feeling generous. I am, after all, soon to be a married man.
Alejandro almost dropped his phone.
Sorry?
You heard me. Details to come. Got to run.
Got to run? Alejandro eyed the phone as he threw it on the seat of the truck. Antonio with an insta-family? Stavros married? What the hell was going on? It was…insano.
Stavros, he bemusedly processed as he started the truck, didn’t even sound panicked about it. He sounded almost…cheerful.
The sense of relief he’d been feeling about having netted this particular challenge magnified ten-fold as he drove back to the farm. No chance of any of those emotional attachments with him. He didn’t need to acquire a wife as Stavros did, had no undiscovered children lying around—he’d made sure of that. And Sebastien knew his feelings on marriage.