by Linda Cajio
No doubt she had her work cut out for her.
Kenmar had picked his spy well.
Read on for an excerpt from Linda Cajio’s
Unforgettable
One
He was perfect.
Anne Kitteridge forced the army of sensual butterflies in her stomach to calm as she watched the man on the sleek polo pony. The polo game had been fast and furious for three quarters, and despite the cool spring day, his white knit shirt was plastered to his body, outlining every muscle of his shoulders and back. They led into a flat waist and narrow hips. Strong thighs bulged as he gripped the sides of the galloping bay gelding. The strength in his arms was obvious, and she had an unwanted urge to feel them around her in a tight embrace. Intent on the ball, he kept his lean six-foot frame crouched low on the animal’s shoulders. She knew the polo helmet hid thick, light brown hair, vivid green eyes, a Robert Redford jaw, and a Cary Grant smile.
He rode hard past her on a drive to the goal, and she drew in her breath when he rose out of the saddle to hit the ball. He had a perfect backside too.
If only she hadn’t seen James Farraday on a horse, she thought, sighing. He was thirty-five, single, and from one of Philadelphia’s foremost families. Playboy material. She had known him all her life, although she had seen him only occasionally since her return from California five years before. She went out of her way to keep their meetings to a minimum. But his grandmother and hers were close friends, and when she and James were children, the families had hoped they would marry someday….
Anne swallowed. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of that in years. Not since she was seventeen when she had made a fool of herself with him. Then she’d proceeded to make a mess of her life. She was all grown up now—grown up and grown sensible.
It was just the horses, she told herself. Horses were her territory, after all. She had been riding since she could walk; she’d even ridden for a time as a professional jockey. Now she bred race horses for a living. Somehow, though, she hadn’t quite connected that an ability to play polo meant an ability with horses. She knew all too well that at this moment James’s senses were filled with pounding hooves, musky sweat, and hot leather. She knew he was moving with the horse in that unique, almost telepathic affinity between man and equine. She knew his brain and body were absorbed in nature, racing toward contented exhaustion. A throbbing started deep within her and radiated outward until she felt as if she were melding with him on the animal—urging him forward, harder and faster …
As if he had sensed her thoughts, James glanced around at the spectators crowding the sidelines of the Westgate Country Club’s charity polo match. She instantly turned away before his gaze found hers, mortified that she might have somehow signaled her reaction to him.
She reminded herself she had an intense distrust of “perfection.” And for her own good, it had to stay that way. Really, she thought in disgust, she was a thirty-one-year-old single mother and businesswoman. Much too old for such a silly adolescent reaction to a man.
This was the first and last time her grandmother would talk her into attending a tailgate party/polo game, Anne decided. Usually she was more resistant to the social functions Lettice wanted her to attend, but she hadn’t been to one for a while. This one had horses, and she’d allowed Lettice to prevail. Horses … and James. She slipped her arms out of her collarless green tweed jacket. Funny, she mused, how the March day turned quite warm suddenly. Her yellow linen shirtwaist even seemed too heavy.
Across the small table from her, Lettice Kitteridge lowered her binoculars and smiled with satisfaction. “James is in top. form. Very top form.”
Lord, Anne thought with amusement. He even had her grandmother drooling. No mean feat, if one knew Lettice. But James probably had every woman there panting. He usually did.
She glanced over at the furious play farther down the field, then shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. At least she could show a natural interest in the other players.
“He’s got a wonderful horse,” she said, pleased with her casual tone. Her insides were still pulsing with heat. “His string of ponies is magnificent.”
Lettice fixed her granddaughter with what was known in the family as the “regal” eye.
“Bull,” Lettice said, rapping the table with her hand. The discarded luncheon china and crystal rattled in response. “And who sighed when he rode past? A totally feminine sigh that had nothing to do with horses, I might add.”
Anne cursed under her breath at her grandmother’s acute hearing. She glared back in defiance and lied. “How would I know?”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” Lettice said. “And it certainly wasn’t Philip.”
Anne turned around and looked at her nine-year-old son, perched on the back end of her Jeep, parked behind them. His small body was tense and still as he watched the game. Clearly, he was enraptured.
“Are you sure it was a female sigh?” Anne asked, grinning.
Lettice glanced at the boy, then smiled reluctantly. “Yes, I’m sure, but I won’t argue the point.”
“For once,” Anne muttered.
“I doubt you’ll admit to it anyway,” Lettice added. “I do wish, though, you hadn’t been so stubborn about marrying James.”
Anne jerked at the sound of her deepest thoughts coming blithely from her grandmother’s lips. So much for a change of subject. She was determined to hold her patience with Lettice, however. The game was almost over, and she could go home to the safety of Makefield Meadows, her stud farm outside Washington’s Crossing, released finally from this torture. Still, she couldn’t allow Lettice to harbor such a dangerous notion.
“Grandmother, there was nothing to be stubborn about—”
“You two were a perfect match,” Lettice went on, oblivious. “I’ve always thought so. I have never understood why you just couldn’t give things a chance.”
“Help me, Lord,” Anne murmured. A “perfect match” was the last thing she and James would ever be. She’d had one disastrous match with a Hollywood producer who had also owned horses. After that experience she wasn’t about to go for two. Besides, James had made his feelings for her all too clear many years ago.
She shrugged again, trying to seem uninterested. “Since our families are friendly, I’m sure you all thought it would have been nice. But I’m not very … conventional, Grandmother. Or acceptable. You know that.”
“Ridiculous,” Lettice said. “You’re a Kitteridge.”
Anne smiled at her grandmother’s pronouncement. As a child she’d overheard too many catty comments about her father marrying his secretary not to know differently. Being a Kitteridge hadn’t made her mother “acceptable.” Fortunately, her parents hadn’t cared. They just went happily along continuing to publish The World, her father’s travel magazine. Unfortunately, their daughter had always felt a little like an outcast.
“Still,” Lettice continued, obviously finding an opening, “why you ever insisted on becoming a professional jockey, or marrying that bas—”
“Grandmother,” Anne warned, glancing at Philip. Although she thoroughly agreed with her grandmother’s opinion of her ex-husband, Ellis Crawford, she didn’t want it said in front of her son. Philip’s hearing aid picked up more than people thought. But she needn’t have worried. Philip was in pololand.
“Well, now you breed horses,” Lettice said, changing gears slightly. “Unfortunately, you won’t do it from a desk as others do.”
“It’s no fun that way,” Anne said, grinning. She sobered and added, “It took me a long time to accept that I’ll never fit in with this.” She waved a hand at the picnickers enjoying the Sport of Princes. “I’ll never be Ellen. She was born with the silver spoon. I wasn’t. I like who I am, and I like what I do. I’m sorry if that disappoints you, Grandmother.”
Lettice harrumphed. “You have never disappointed me, child. It’s just that you seem to be deliberately eccentric. But you are more like Ellen than you know….”
; Anne laughed. Her cousin was beautiful, always poised and elegant. She had no illusions about herself, however.
“But you’re steering me away from the meat of the matter.” Lettice raised her eyebrows. “So, my girl, you’ve never considered marrying James because you think you’re unsuitable.”
“Grandmother!” Anne exclaimed at the outrageous notion. “That’s not at all why—”
“Then if you do think you’re suitable, why haven’t you gone after him?” Lettice demanded.
“Why should I—” Anne clamped her lips shut. This conversation was losing all semblance of reality. “Grandmother, James and I have never ‘clicked,’ okay? I threw up on him at my christening. That set the tone of our ‘relationship’ ever since. Haven’t you noticed we rarely see each other as adults? I have too many reasons not to get involved with anyone. And James … Well, anything else is just wishful thinking on your part.”
The game ended just then, and the cheers of the crowd drew their attention. The score showed that James’s team had won. It figured, Anne thought. James, like her cousin, Ellen, fit in effortlessly.
“Mr. Farraday’s really good,” Philip exclaimed, finally coming out of his trance.
So even her son was enamored … and right. She smiled at Philip. “You liked the game.”
“It was great. Mom, can I go look at the horses?”
She hesitated for an instant, then nodded. The makeshift stables were about one hundred yards behind the game field. “Be back here in twenty minutes. The stable’s a temporary setup, so be careful.”
Philip snorted. “I know how to be around a stable, Mom.”
She made a face. “So you do. I’m just being a mom.”
Philip scrambled out of the Jeep and disappeared into the crowd. Anne suppressed a ripple of anxiety for her son. Near deafness in one ear was hardly cause for maternal overprotectiveness, and she knew it. But she had never quite rid herself of that twinge of worry.
“It’s good that you don’t fuss over him,” Lettice said. “But he’s a quiet boy. Sometimes too quiet, I think.”
“I know. He needs more confidence.” She was trying hard to encourage that in Philip. It was one of the reasons she had let him go just now. California had done its damage. She only hoped it wasn’t irreparable.
On the field, the players shook hands with one another, then turned their tired horses toward the stables. Anne had settled back in her lawn chair as they rode past, but Lettice stood up and waved. To Anne’s horror, she called out, “James! Stop a moment and have some victory champagne!”
“What the hell are you doing, Grandmother?” Anne whispered fiercely as James turned around. He waved back and swerved his horse in their direction.
Lettice’s look was the soul of innocence. “Being social, dear.”
“And I’m Whitney Houston,” Anne muttered. She curled her fingers around the polished wood armrests, knowing she couldn’t walk away without looking snobbish or silly. Heat flamed her face as she remembered the desire flooding through her body when she had watched him play. Lettice deserved, to be roasted over a fire, she decided. James had certainly sparked one in her.
He dismounted and caught her staring before she could turn away. His gaze seemed to bore into her. Dirt streaked his face, but the smile he gave her was almost dazzling in its intimacy. He held the reins of his horse loosely in one hand, the bay following him like an obedient puppy.
The deep throbbing she had finally suppressed surged back hotter and fiercer than before. She desperately wanted to run. Obviously, she was more of a sucker for a man on a horse than she’d thought.
Somehow, she managed to stand as he reached them. She was immediately aware of the mingled scents of man and animal, primitive and enticing. He greeted her grandmother with a kiss on the cheek. Anne immediately stuck out her hand. She doubted he would give her the same greeting, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
It was still a mistake.
His fingers reached out and curved around hers … and held. She was frozen to the spot, the buzzing in her ears deafening all other sounds. She could feel only his palm pressed hotly to hers, sending signals of ageless sensuality throughout her body. It was as if time were standing still.
James Farraday stared at the woman before him. She was small-boned and slender and more beautiful than ever. A cloud of dark, shoulder-length hair spun around her face like an ethereal halo. Her large blue-green eyes, the Kitteridge trademark, were wide and fathomless. Her slim nose had a slight bump that intrigued rather than marred. Her lips were full and bow-shaped, urging a man to trace them with his finger, his lips, his tongue. Her dress was belted at a waist most women would kill to have, and the yellow linen skimmed over her breasts, hips, and thighs, outlining a body beautifully formed from a lifetime of riding. A simple gold chain necklace and button earrings were her only jewelry.
Annie Kitteridge had bedeviled him from the moment he had seen her as a baby, and she bedeviled him now more than ever. She had always been independent and stubborn, and possessed a vitality that shone out of her. He was glad it hadn’t been dimmed by a bad marriage. The thought of that marriage made his hackles rise. He wasn’t sure who or what to hate for it. He just knew a cruel twist of fate had shown him once what could be with Anne … and then denied her to him.
He ached now to touch more than her hand; he wanted to explore her hidden secrets. It didn’t matter that they were in a field full of people. He would give anything to know if her mouth still held that sweet fire that had haunted his dreams for so long. But he could sense new barriers erected around her, barriers he was tempted to challenge. He knew he would never allow himself the pleasure. He had good reason not to.
Still, he had been hoping she’d be here today. After the telephone call he had received this morning, he had a proposition for her. Quite a proposition.
“Your champagne, James.”
Lettice’s voice broke the spell with a painful snap. As James let go of her hand, Anne could hear a mental clock re-starting somewhere inside her. She pulled herself up and straightened her shoulders.
“It’s nice to see you again, James,” she said in a polite tone. “Congratulations on the game.”
James grinned as he took the filled champagne glass from Lettice. “I feel as if I’ve been through a war. You look beautiful, Anne. I’m glad you came.”
She smiled her reply, not trusting her voice.
“I hope it will not take me months of pleading to get you to come to another game, Anne,” Lettice said to her. “Especially as you can see how much Philip enjoys it.” She added for James’s benefit, “He’s at the stables now. Probably looking at your horses.”
“I hope he likes them.”
“He probably will,” Anne muttered.
“I wonder if it’s a faux pas to play all out against royalty to win,” Lettice speculated aloud.
“I’m sure Prince Charles wouldn’t have it any other way, Grandmother,” Anne said, grateful for the idle conversation. That fire was still licking through her, and she needed to regain her composure.
“Our friend from England is a real fighter.” James chuckled. “He enjoyed himself out there.”
“It was very gracious of him to play while he’s here on an official visit.”
Anne choked back her laughter, knowing Lettice had arranged the match to entice the royal visitor and thereby gain prestige and needed money for one of her charities. “I don’t think he “stood a chance.”
“I know he didn’t,” James said, grinning at Lettice. He turned back to Anne. “Annie, I need to talk to you—”
He was interrupted by several women suddenly flocking around him. He gave all of them a charming smile, and an odd pain knifed through Anne. She judged the other women were in their early thirties. She didn’t recognize any of them, but she’d bet her trust fund there was a Muffy, Buffy, or Babs in the group. There always was. Worse, the women were beautiful, very feminine in their flowered silk dresses and flopp
y hats. Her own dress now seemed too tailored and out of place. And the way they fluttered around James made her think of hot-house flowers desperate for a little pollenation. They probably were.
The interruption was for the best, she decided. She didn’t know which was worse. James needing to talk to her … or him calling her by her childhood nickname.
James’s horse, startled by the sudden influx of strange humans, whinnied his dismay and pulled free of his master’s loose grip. A scared horse was a potentially dangerous one, Anne knew. Sure enough, before anyone could grab his reins, the horse wreaked his own brand of havoc.
He walked over to Anne, butted his nose against her chest, and blew gustily down the front of her dress in a horsey sign of affection.
Anne pushed the horse’s head away in one deft movement, then gazed at her now ruined dress. She sighed in resignation.
James got the women. She got the horse. Dudley Do-right would have been proud of her.
“The last animal who did this to me, bub,” she said to the horse, “got curried with a brush that had five-inch steel bristles.”
The horse butted her chest again.
“Masochist,” she muttered, giving in and scratching the animal on its long black muzzle.
Under her hand, the animal’s hide was soaked in sweat. She set her jaw in anger as she felt the rest of the horse’s head and neck. While James was drinking champagne and flirting with his “flowers,” his horse had been left to sweat in exhaustion. A good horseman took care of his animal before himself. At least the horse wasn’t lathered, but it still needed to be cooled down and taken to the stables. She was ashamed that she had been so preoccupied with James, she hadn’t noticed the animal’s plight before this.
“I’m sorry, Anne,” James said, breaking away from his groupies. He patted the horse on the neck. “Monroe does that when he likes someone.”
“So I discovered.”
James grinned. “He has excellent taste. But your dress…. Get a new one and send me the bill.”