He raised his hand to knock then stiffened, rooted by the blend of languages—including one he didn’t know, spoken by a child. He squeezed his eyes shut, frozen with anger. For a second he couldn’t breathe.
The kid is here. All this time, all the worry, and the kid had been right here. He wheeled and gripped the wooden railing, staring blankly at the rows of illuminated barns.
Fuck.
He forced his stiff legs back down the steps to his car. He’d have to fire Maria if he saw the kid, and he didn’t want to do that. Not until he thought about it. She’d be devastated, and no doubt it was Jessica who’d talked her into this.
Jessica, who he’d promised not to fire.
His phone rang, but he ignored it. Probably Jessica. She was smart. No doubt calling to make sure he didn’t come early, probably wanted to meet him outside Maria’s apartment.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose as the phone buzzed, again and again. Finally he couldn’t stand the noise and checked the display. ‘Long distance.’
He snapped it open. “Russell,” he said, in a voice that sounded strange.
“Received your message,” Boone said. “Glad my horse is okay. What was in the carrot?”
“Arsenic.” Mark straightened.
“Is Breeders’ Cup the last day of the meet?”
“No. Sunday, the day after the Cup is the last day.”
“Okay,” Boone said. “Then sometime over the next seven days, I want you to fire Jessica.”
Mark’s knee jerked so hard it smashed into the steering wheel. “What! What grounds?”
“You decide. Just make it real. She can’t know.”
“But she’s working so hard,” Mark said. “Doing a great job—”
“Yes, I know,” Boone said impatiently. “You’ve said that before. But I want her working for me. Been waiting a long time for this.” Muted conversation sounded in the background. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Boone added, his voice distracted. “Probably best to fire her on Tuesday. I’ll be back in New York then, and the timing would work better for me.”
Mark heard the click but continued to hold the dead phone, staggered by Boone’s ruthlessness. Her efforts, her sacrifice, all in vain. And his staff. They’d spent so much time teaching her. She’d been a sponge too, eager to learn, never complaining about the work, not even during her inevitable loneliness.
Yet Boone had planned her failure from the very first day. No wonder she had security issues; he’d probably jerked an invisible chain her entire life. It was clear her knee was fine. She hadn’t limped in weeks, other than from boot blisters, and he’d even seen her jogging around the backside in cute little shorts, healthy as any stakes horse.
Mark’s phone rang again—another long distance number, but he didn’t answer. Might be Boone again and he was too disgusted to talk.
He stared over his steering wheel, watching as a lone figure plodded down the road and into a shedrow. Night check. Jessica’s job for six weeks. And on pauper’s wages. What a prick. Boone shouldn’t have bothered putting her through the grind. Mark didn’t know how long he sat, but the watchman reappeared and plodded back down the road again.
His phone rang, and he checked the display. Maria’s number. He opened it with a weary flip.
“Hi Mark,” Jessica said. “Just let me know when you’re coming, and I’ll meet you at the bottom of Maria’s steps, okay?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and grunted.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jessica shifted in the passenger seat and peered again at Mark. His jaw was so rigid, she feared it might crack. “Maria sent along some cookies she baked. Would you like one?”
“No,” he said, not looking at her.
“I’ll have one then. They’re still warm.” She bit into a cookie, hoping it would stop her babbling. She’d thought Mark liked cookies, but now he wouldn’t even try one. Maybe his reserve was related to the meeting with Cathy—maybe they’d had a very intimate meeting and he wanted to invite her home but couldn’t because Jessica was staying there. The cookie lodged in her dry throat, and it was hard to swallow.
Or maybe there was something wrong with a horse somewhere. Not Assets or Buddy. She’d been with Mark when he stopped at the shedrow. Assets was as nippy as ever, and Buddy gleamed, all spic and span for his race tomorrow. Must be a problem with the ESPN people or maybe the deal had fallen through. Too bad—the media exposure they’d bring would have been good for Mark and his staff.
Concern tangled in her throat. “Is everything okay with Cath—” she coughed as the cookie blocked her words.
“What?”
Her throat convulsed and she choked. Tried to cough but couldn’t make a sound. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Cough it up,” he said, slowing the car.
The cookie container tumbled to the floor, and she fumbled for the window switch. If she could only get some fresh air, she’d be fine. Cold air blasted her face as Mark lowered the window, but it didn’t help.
Her panic swelled. She had to get out of the car. Eyes watering, she yanked off her seatbelt, groping for the door handle, desperate to escape. If only she could stand. She’d be able to breathe if she could stand.
“Wait!” He grabbed her wrist as the car bounced over the rutted shoulder.
She tried to break his grip, consumed with terror. He didn’t understand. The car lurched to a stop, and the pressure on her arm lifted. She stumbled out, gasping for breath. Cars whizzed by, spotty blurs of color, and she sagged against the door. Something jerked her upright, a jolt of pressure in her chest and she was finally able to suck in a breath of sweet, beautiful, painful air.
Mark turned her, gripping her shoulders, one hand still on her chest, his eyes a slash of blue. Her ribs hurt, but she forced a shaky smile. Sputtered for a moment until she realized she could breathe again.
“Thank you. Guess I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full,” she managed, her voice wispy.
“Dammit, Jess.” But he smiled and hugged her with such relief, the scare was almost worth it. “You’ll have to talk to Maria about her cooking,” he added, helping her back into the car.
She wiped her wet eyes, too shaken to hide the truth. “Actually it’s not Maria’s fault. I traded some stalls tomorrow for the ingredients and made those cookies. Just didn’t want to admit I was baking for you.”
“Feeling guilty, were you?” His sharp tone made her squirm.
“I don’t know what you mean.” She adjusted her seatbelt, avoiding his gaze. Did he mean guilty because she was jealous earlier? Or guilty because she’d taken extra carrots for Buddy? Or maybe guilty because a fan had written after she’d been so wildly creative with his mail?
“When we get home,” he said, “you’re going to answer a few questions.”
She peeked sideways, straining to see his face through the gloom. His jaw wasn’t as rigid as before, but it definitely wasn’t relaxed. “What kind of questions?” she asked.
“And let you prepare?” He snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why did you tell me? Now I’ll worry all the way home.” She flinched a second after she said ‘home,’ but he didn’t seem to notice her mistake, so it was okay.
He gave a humorless smile but said nothing.
The drive was much too short. He parked in the driveway, and she trailed him up the steps to the door. Climbing made her chest ache; she wheezed, and that was the only time he really looked at her.
“I pushed pretty hard. Ribs okay?”
“Yes, no need for the hospital,” she said. “Thanks again, by the way. That’s never happened to me before.”
He unlocked the door, dropped his briefcase on the floor and stalked into the kitchen. She pulled her boots and jacket off, then hesitated. She wasn’t at all hungry so there was no reason to join him. Especially since he was in a foul mood despite just saving her life.
No, it was probably best to duck into the Jacuzzi—he’d understand her c
hest would be tender and with any luck, he’d either be asleep or in an improved mood when she stepped out.
She eased down the hall. Saw him sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, glass in his hand, bottle of rum and phone beside him. His eyes locked with hers, and he kicked out a chair with his foot. “Sit.”
She swallowed, walked into the kitchen and sat. He didn’t offer a drink, just swirled the ice in his glass, his blue eyes glittering with resentment. “Where is the kid now?” he asked.
She squared her shoulders and stared back, determined not to look guilty. But he was much better at this, and she was the first to look away. “With Maria and Pedro.”
“Whose idea?”
Oh, God. She gulped. Mark had such strict rules. Even if he didn’t want to, he’d be obligated to fire Maria. And the job meant everything to her.
Her gaze darted to the left and clung to a fridge magnet. She was leaving in a week. It seemed a small lie to protect a loyal friend. But it wasn’t small. Especially when Mark was sitting there, staring at her, acting like the truth was so important.
The kitchen clock ticked in the sticky silence. She tore her gaze from the magnet and back to Mark. “My idea,” she whispered but her heart pounded with such intensity she could no longer hear the clock.
“May I see your knee?”
She scanned his face for a flicker of a smile, but he didn’t seem to be joking. She rose and unzipped her jeans, pulled her leg out and extended her knee.
He kneeled, watching her face while he manipulated her knee. “Any pain?”
“No. It feels great.” She leaned forward, eager at the chance. “I know you don’t want me as a groom, but I could walk hots. I never get tired anymore...I can walk all day.”
He ignored her. Continued poking and prodding. A wrinkle of concentration appeared between his eyes. “Not a bit of swelling now, but you had some when you came.” He spoke so thoughtfully he appeared to be talking to himself.
“Yes. Every two weeks, one of Gramps’ doctors would inject a needle and drain the fluid.”
“How did that work?”
“Hurt for a few days, but after a week it always felt better.” His hair was rumpled, as though he’d been running his hands through his hair, and she resisted the urge to straighten it. If this was a job interview, she didn’t want to screw up. “I haven’t limped for weeks, well, except for a few blisters. But I’m good now. And I wouldn’t braid or do anything you don’t like,” she added eagerly. “Really, I’d be no trouble.”
He smiled then, but it was almost sad. Not reassuring at all. “You need to take charge of your own life, not have me or your grandfather telling you what to do.”
“But I love working with the horses. And I like it when you tell me what to do.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’m getting much better at listening,” she said, trying not to plead. “I just need a bit more time to get it right.”
“Tell me about the boy.”
“His name is Abdul. He’s from Pakistan and rode camels, and he doesn’t know anything about that man. That’s why we—that’s why I—didn’t think it was so important to tell you. Maria wants to keep him.”
“The kid isn’t a stray pup,” Mark said, and she clamped her mouth shut at his curt tone. He pressed some numbers and she heard him order a security guard be posted outside Maria’s apartment. It’s a good thing he was likely to win the Juvenile, she thought bleakly. He was spending a fortune on security.
His next call was in Spanish, very brief, and she could only pick up a few words but heard Maria’s name.
He closed his phone with obvious regret, and she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. “Please, don’t fire her, Mark. She loves children so much. You just have to see them together. Abdul is like her little nephews, and she’d be a wonderful mother.”
He ignored her and pressed more numbers on his phone. “Dino, do we know anyone from Pakistan? A woman, not a man. Someone good with kids.”
He glanced at Jessica and switched to Spanish, and she winced. He didn’t trust her. The knowledge hurt almost as much as the fact that he was going to fire Maria.
She rose and walked numbly down the hall, past the main bathroom with the Jacuzzi and into the little shower in the spare bathroom. She stood under the pulsing water, chewing her fingernails and worrying about Maria. It might be possible to find a job without a reference from Mark, especially with a less prominent barn, but the chance for Maria to earn big bonuses was gone. She’d never be able to afford a lawyer, and Abdul might be sent back to the desert with nothing to eat and no one to love him.
She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the water spray her hot face. She wished Mark wasn’t so rigid, so focused that he couldn’t bend some rules. Probably the only reason he hadn’t fired her yet was because her grandfather owned Assets—Mark would never jeopardize his chance to win a Breeders’ Cup.
She stepped from the shower and pulled on a change of clothes. It was going to be an uncomfortable evening. No way would she sleep with a man who’d just fired her best friend. Indignation made her feel more in control, and she stalked down the hall, pausing outside his exercise room.
Thump, thump.
She peered in. Mark pounded a leather bag, his muscles bunching. His bare chest gleamed, and sweat dampened his hair. Gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his ragged grunts made her think of sex.
She licked her lips and tried not to drool. If he were a horse, she’d buy him in spite of his occasional surliness and strict rules. She must have made some sort of sound, or maybe she really did groan. He looked at the door and swiped his forehead with his upper arm. She thought she knew his body well, had seen and felt him without clothes, but she’d never stood back and watched all those muscles work before.
“I didn’t fire Maria,” he said, his eyes dark with emotion.
“Oh, g-good. That is so good.” Relieved, she turned and hurried to the bed. The thumping noise continued so she laid back on the pillow and studied the room. The noise stopped, replaced with a whirring. He must be on the exercise bike now.
She laid back on the pillow and studied the room. She’d never had much leisure time here. It was pretty bare, just a big bed, a clock and a night table full of condoms. Clothes shoved into an open closet and a collection of cowboy hats placed upside down on a shelf.
The whirring noise stopped, and she fluffed up the pillow, waiting for him to finish. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t understand why her throat was so dry. It was much simpler when he just picked her up and carried her to bed. Waiting was nerve-wracking.
The punching started again.
She sighed and turned out the light. If she didn’t agonize about Mark and Abdul and what she was going to do in seven days, she might be able to relax enough to nap before Mark came in. And tomorrow wouldn’t be all bad. Tomorrow Buddy would be her horse. Only a race away.
She felt a swell of guilt that she had to use Mark’s money. But she’d pay him back. She kept a detailed ledger of every cent she’d borrowed, right down to the scarf from Keeneland.
And she’d make Mark and the entire barn proud of Buddy. He might not win, but he was going to look magnificent. She’d braid in two shades of purple. She even had a purple jacket on loan from Dick’s apartment.
“Take anything you want, dear,” Dick had said. “You know the rules. Just return it washed.” He truly was a dear friend. And he loved his new scarf.
She woke up groggy and disoriented. Buddy’s braids had fallen out. Clearly, she couldn’t braid right, and Mark said she had to get up. The shadow by the bed moved. It really was Mark, and she realized it wasn’t all a dream.
“Time to get up,” he repeated before vanishing from the room.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Checked his side of the bed. Even in the dark, she could see it was immaculate. Untouched. She scrambled onto the cold floor and quickly made the bed, her chest painfully tight. Probably sore because of the Heiml
ich maneuver. She absolutely was not going to feel rejected because Mark had anger issues.
The shower in the small bathroom was running, so she slipped down the hall and checked the spare bedroom. No mystery now. The bed was unmade, and the pillow still carried the imprint of his head.
She returned to the main bathroom and stumbled into the shower. The water didn’t wash away her humiliation though, and the tightness in her throat made her cough. She had blithely crawled into his bed, and he was too cowardly to say he no longer wanted her there. Talk about embarrassing. A sob leaked from her throat.
She showered and towel dried, splashed cold water on her face and yanked on her change of clothes. He probably wouldn’t wait if she wasn’t in the passenger seat exactly on time. She jammed her toothbrush and spare clothes in a plastic bag—no way was she coming back here. Cathy could have him.
She set her face in a tight smile and walked down the hall, determined to hide her pain.
He was in the kitchen making noise with a blender. Poured a frothy white drink in a glass and passed it to her, his eyes inscrutable.
She stretched, pretending utter insouciance. “I slept so well. What a comfortable bed you have. Thank you.” She accepted the glass, took a big sip and gagged. It was thick, gooey and disgusting, and she rushed to spit in the sink. “What was that?” she finally gasped.
“Egg and milk,” he said.
She bent over the sink again, still gagging, forgetting about trying to look happy and carefree.
“Protein powder too,” he said.
“If that’s what you have to drink to get muscles,” she reached for a tissue and wiped her mouth, “I’d rather be skinny.”
“You’re not skinny, honey. Come on.”
She stared at his retreating back. The affection in his voice shocked her, and relief smoothed the jagged edges of her pain. “Do I have time to brush my teeth again?” she managed.
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