by Heidi Rice
Standing in her camisole and panties, she grabbed the hose they used to wash the tack and turned it on. A whole body shiver raked her body as she doused her head with the frigid water. And cursed, loudly.
Why had Khan come five days early? Was he trying to catch her out?
A throat cleared loudly behind her.
‘Ms Calhoun, I presume?’ The deep, curt British accent had her swinging round so fast the hose flew out of her hand, sprinkling water everywhere.
Heat leapt into her cheeks and burned across her collarbone.
A tall man stood with his shoulder propped against the washroom door, his face cast into shadow by the sunshine, but she recognised him instantly from all the research.
What the ever-loving…?
She banded her arms across her chest to shield herself, but couldn’t stop the humiliating shivers—as his cold assessing gaze set her freezing skin alight.
Seriously? Could she have made a worse impression? And how had he found her here so quickly?
Dervla, I’m going to strangle you.
‘Mr… Mr Khan?’ She stuck her chin out, trying to claw back a modicum of dignity, even though she knew she had to look like a drowned rat. ‘We weren’t expecting you until Friday. And what are you doing in the stables?’
He wore blue jeans, a black crew-neck sweater that clung to his impressively muscular chest, and black leather boots polished to a high gleam. His complexion was dark, his hair even darker. She had a sudden recollection of the villainous king in a book she’d read as a child who had been cruel and cold and all powerful, but also weirdly hot for the villain in a children’s storybook. She’d loved that book once upon a time, reading it over and over again. And now she knew why.
‘What am I doing here?’ he said, the sarcastic tone cutting through her little reminiscence like a scalpel. ‘I plan to buy your stud, Ms Calhoun. Today.’
Today?
Renewed panic sprinted up her spine, but then he turned into the light to grab the towel that hung from a peg on the washroom wall. And every thought flew out of her head bar one.
He’s even hotter than the villainous king in Flinty O’Toole’s Epic Quest.
Her lungs squeezed and the heat of mortification morphed into something a great deal more disturbing.
She already knew Karim Khan was stupidly handsome. She’d studied enough photographs of him last night at gala events, in tuxedos and designer suits, his hair perfectly styled as he paraded supermodels and actresses about as if they were accessories.
But the photos had not done him justice. In the flesh, and up close, and even without the luxury of a stylist, the man was quite simply breathtaking. Her heart literally stopped beating as she devoured the sight of firm, sensual lips, a strong jaw, high sculpted cheekbones and the long blade-like nose. The slight bump in the bridge and a sickle-shaped scar above his left eye marred the perfect symmetry of his face, but only made him look more rugged and masculine and overwhelming.
The burning heat in her cheeks shot through her veins, and her nipples, which were already like bullets, tightened into torpedoes. She squeezed her folded arms harder over her chest trying to quell the throbbing ache. She was more humiliated now than she’d been when she’d found her fiancé eating the face off another woman at her engagement party. And she’d always believed that humiliation could never be topped.
Wrong.
‘Dry off,’ he said, throwing her the towel.
She caught it one-handed, struggling to inflate her lungs when the light hit his face again and she saw the impatience in his eyes—which were a beautiful golden brown. Because, of course they were.
All the better to devastate you with, Orla. Because he’s a god among men and you’re a shivering, almost naked tomboy pauper.
As she frantically wrapped the towel around her nakedness, his gaze skimmed down, coasting over every inch of exposed skin until it got to the puddle of water forming at her bare feet.
‘I’ll meet you at the house in fifteen minutes,’ he said, speaking to her as if she were a disobedient and particularly irritating ten-year-old. ‘I need this deal finalised today.’
Despite her breathing difficulties, Orla felt her hackles rising.
Who did he think he was, speaking to her like that? Just because he was gorgeous and loaded and dry and fully clothed and she… Well… She wasn’t.
But before she could come up with a suitably indignant reply, or gather enough courage—and breath—to actually enunciate it, the impossible man had strode back out of the stables and was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
‘MR KHAN, I’M sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope Dervla offered you refreshments?’
Karim swung round from his lengthy contemplation of the impossibly green hills and hedgerows that surrounded the Calhoun stud to see the girl he had encountered twenty minutes ago in the stables crossing the faded rug towards him.
She had changed into a pair of simple black trousers and a white shirt, her damp red hair shoved back behind her ears. As she came into the light cast by the vast living room’s bay windows, he realised she wore no make-up. He could still see the freckles sprinkled across her pale skin, which he had noticed earlier. She looked impossibly young and fresh-faced, even more so than she had dripping wet. He quashed the unbidden and unwanted spurt of heat at the memory of toned thighs, slender limbs and turgid nipples clearly visible through the wet fabric of her top.
He needed to find himself a new mistress if he was now responding to teenage tomboys.
‘I don’t have time for refreshments,’ he said, leading with his impatience to disguise the inconvenient reaction that he knew had nothing to do with this fresh-faced, unsophisticated girl and everything to do with his recent sex drought. ‘I have a proposal for purchasing the stud but to access it you need to agree to the sale today.’
The plan was a good one and foolproof and fairly straightforward. It hadn’t taken him too long to figure out a better solution than dropping out of this deal—or the even more ludicrous solution Dane had outlined in Belgravia this morning—once he’d put his mind to it. He’d piloted the Puma himself to get here quickly and put the plan into action. Dane’s prior warning was all he had needed to get ahead of his father.
He had also wanted to look over the property before he made his offer. But as soon as he’d walked into the stable yard he’d known. He wanted the Calhoun stud, whatever it took, because this was exactly what he had been looking for.
‘I… I understand, Mr Khan, but I’m afraid I can’t give you the agreement you seek.’ Her eyes flickered with regret, even pain, but then she firmed her chin. ‘The liquidators are handling the sale as this business is going under.’
He nodded. ‘But you haven’t yet, and you and your sister have inherited the business and the property, is this not correct?’
He’d already had his legal team double check the details while he was flying across the Irish Sea, so it was a rhetorical question, but she surprised him with the bluntness of her answer.
‘Yes, we did, but we also inherited the debts. The property has already been remortgaged and we can’t meet the interest payments any more.’
She and her sister would be left with less than nothing from the sale, by his calculation, because their father had frittered away the family business and more thanks to a gambling habit the family had kept secret for years.
‘I understand you might want to get an even cheaper price by rushing the sale, but, believe me, you’re already getting a bargain,’ she said, the snap of pride in her voice suddenly making her seem older than her dewy skin and wide emerald eyes suggested.
‘I’m not here to get a bargain, I’m here to offer you a chance to get out of this without debts still to pay.’
‘How so?’ she asked, the scepticism in her face making him realise that, however young she was, she was no
t naïve.
‘I will pay off all your debts today, by bank transfer, a sum which is in excess of what the business is worth, by approximately five million euro,’ he said. ‘Thus leaving you free to sell the property to me, immediately afterwards, for the sum of one euro, and the liquidators will still get their cut.’
It was a fair deal, a smart deal, for her as well as for him. She and her sister would be free and clear of her father’s debts to start a new life. They would still be homeless but, as the daughter of one of racing’s first families, she would no doubt have opportunities if she was willing to work hard, and much to his surprise—because he would have expected her to be an idle, entitled debutante instead of the girl he had found mucking out a stable—she seemed willing to do that much at least.
But more importantly, the property would not be put up for auction, so his father would have no opportunity to bid against him.
He saw her shock at his proposal.
‘So, do we have a deal?’ he said, confident of her answer. She had to know it was her only chance to get out from under the mountain of debt her father had left her with.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he snapped, surprised by the swell of something in his gut at her stubborn expression.
Why should he be impressed by her stupidity?
‘I…’ Heat blossomed in her cheeks. ‘I… I said no. We don’t have a deal. I have a request.’
He frowned. Was she actually serious?
‘I don’t think you understand, Ms Calhoun. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a time-limited offer. And by far the best offer you are going to get. If I walk out that door today and I am not the new owner of Calhouns, the business will be sold at auction on Saturday as already arranged by the liquidators for a great deal less money than I am offering to spend on acquiring it today.’
‘I understand that, but you need the deal signed today. Which gives me some leverage—won’t you at least hear my request?’
She was trying to appear calm, but the riot of colour that had flared across her collarbone, and was giving him more unfortunate recollections of the sight of her barely clothed and soaking wet, suggested she was far from composed. His impatience downgraded a notch. The woman was an enigma in many ways… Who would have expected to find her mucking out her own stable, sweaty from work she could get an employee to do? Or cleaning herself down with a hose? But then again, from the state of her home—the faded carpets, worn furniture and peeling paintwork—he was getting the definite impression the Calhoun stud had been struggling financially for a lot longer than anyone had realised. How many staff did they even have? He’d only met an old man called Gerry who seemed to be manning the phones and an elderly housekeeper named Maeve so far.
‘I’m listening,’ he said, surprising himself with the decision to at least hear her out.
‘I… I want a job.’
‘What job?’ he demanded, but strangely, the moment he said it, Dane’s foolish suggestion from earlier that day echoed across his consciousness.
All you’ve gotta do is find yourself a woman who is greedy or desperate enough to be bought.
‘Any job that will keep me at Calhouns. I’ve been managing the stud for the last five years. I know racing and horses, including everything there is to know about the ones we have left here.’ She paused and he saw sadness and possibly even shame cross her face. ‘My… My father stopped working with the horses after my mother died… So the successes we’ve had on the track in the last five years have been down to the team I’ve put together here. I’d really like the opportunity to keep working with them…’
She carried on talking, rushing through a list of her credentials and successes, which might or might not be true, but he was only listening with half an ear now as he turned over the possibility forming in his head.
He’d dismissed Dane’s suggestion he take a wife in name only out of hand four hours ago. It was extreme and unnecessary and frankly ludicrous. But the benefits of keeping his father off his back—perhaps with an arrangement slightly less extreme—and having a Calhoun on his arm when entering the world of racing began to appeal to him as he watched her breasts rise and fall under the utilitarian shirt. Her eyes had widened with expectation as she continued to plead for a role at the stud.
He would need a lot more than simply her say-so to give her a position in management here, but he had another position that she could well be perfectly suited for. His reaction to her in the stables had been an anathema. She was the exact opposite of the sort of woman he would normally wish to have in his bed. Plain and unsophisticated, and far too slender… Although…
‘How old are you?’ he interrupted her frantic stream of information about herself.
‘Umm, twenty-two.’
Relief coursed through him. So not a teenager. Thank God.
She might look fresh faced but from the awareness he had seen flash into her eyes when he had first discovered her in the stables, and the way her body had visibly responded to him, he suspected she was far from innocent. Even better.
‘I’ll consider giving you a job on my team here,’ he said, deciding he could offer her that much, once he no longer had need of her. ‘And throw in an extra million euro to keep your sister and yourself solvent after the sale goes through,’ he added on the spur of the moment. It was only money after all and he wanted her compliant for what he had in mind. ‘But I have a different position in mind for now.’
‘That… That would be incredible,’ she said, the blush turning her face to a becoming shade of pink. ‘Whatever the position is I’m sure I can do it. I’m very adaptable. I realise you don’t know me,’ she said, getting ahead of herself again as he continued to study her. ‘I’m happy to work a probation period, as long as I can keep working with our horses,’ she added, a little frantically, the leap of desperate hope sparkling in her deep green eyes.
Desperate was good, eager to please even more so, it made her all but perfect for the role he had in mind. Except…
He let his gaze drift over her slender frame again, the boyish clothes, the lack of make-up and the wild hair now beginning to curl around her ears, and still felt the inexplicable ripple of arousal that had surprised him in the stables, annoyingly.
But perhaps it was easily explained. She was pretty enough and her gauche, guileless demeanour made her quite different from the women he usually dated. Her novelty value would soon wear off, though, making this inexplicable reaction easy to control going forward. Not only that, but he planned to make finding a new mistress a top priority as soon as he returned to London. Once he had another woman in his bed, his attraction for this only passably pretty, artless tomboy would surely cease altogether.
‘What job did you have in mind for me, Mr Khan?’ she said, having finally wound down long enough to ask.
‘I want you to become my fiancée, Ms Calhoun.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘W-WHAT DID YOU SAY?’ Orla croaked, the shock blasting up her torso with a humiliating surge of heat.
Had he just proposed to her? No, he couldn’t have. She must be having some kind of weird auditory hallucination to go with her even weirder physical reaction to his sharp, dispassionate gaze—which she’d imagined a moment ago was assessing her as if she were one of the stud’s prize brood mares.
‘I said, I want you to become my fiancée.’ The words left his lips and reached her eardrums, bringing with them another surge of inappropriate heat. But they still didn’t make any sense whatsoever.
Perhaps she had lapsed into a coma? Or was this some bizarre pseudo-erotic dream? Maybe she hadn’t woken up at all this morning, hadn’t spent an hour on the gallops exercising Aderyn and another five hours mucking out the stalls? Perhaps she was still in her bed upstairs, having fallen asleep scrolling through images of this man on the Internet…
‘I… I…’
she stuttered, wishing she could pinch herself to wake up. ‘You want to marry me? But you don’t even know me! We’ve never even dated.’
Or kissed, she thought irrationally, because that was all she could seem to focus on, along with his firm, sensual lips and that incredible face, which even with the inscrutable frown made him overwhelmingly gorgeous.
His eyebrows rose and then his mouth quirked in a wry smile. The once-over he gave her made every one of her pulse points pound, not to mention making the hot sweet spot between her thighs go molten—which had been overheating ever since she’d stood in front of him in the stables, soaking wet with torpedo nipples.
‘I don’t wish to marry you,’ he said. ‘Or date you,’ he added as if she’d suggested something mildly amusing. She felt the bubble of anticipation she hadn’t even realised was under her breastbone deflate and the renewed wash of humiliation roll over her. ‘It would be an engagement in name only,’ he continued. ‘For which we would sign a binding contract. I would require you to be on my arm, and to act the dutiful, loving, soon-to-be wife, at any and all social and business events I frequent, to maintain the impression of a real relationship. We would have to establish that for the press—and for the racing fraternity, where I will use your connections to establish myself in the racing world…’
Connections? What connections?
She didn’t have any connections in the racing world, because she’d always worked furiously behind the scenes, maintaining the fiction that the great Michael Calhoun was still the holder of the Calhoun legacy, long after he’d lost himself in his grief and his addiction. She had worked closely with the jockeys and the trainers and other stud managers, but she didn’t know any of the big movers and shakers in the racing fraternity personally. Only the Quinns, the owners of the neighbouring stud, and after the devastating end of her engagement to Patrick they’d shunned her.
She’d been happy to remain anonymous, out of the way. Doing the work she loved with the horses. The socialite aspects of the racing world were something she had no interest in whatsoever and no aptitude for. Patrick had made that very clear to her.