by Heidi Rice
She stared at the phone she’d been given by his personal assistant a week ago, a phone that was supposed to alert her to any events she might need to attend with Karim. The phone that hadn’t rung or buzzed once since he’d insisted she stay in London—and then given her nothing to do.
She picked it up and scrolled through the numbers stored in the contacts. There were only two. One listed Khan—which had to be Karim. And the other with the name of the personal assistant. She didn’t quite have the guts to ring Karim and ask him outright. But would it be so wrong to find out from the personal assistant where he was today?
She called the number. The assistant picked up on the second ring.
‘Ms Calhoun, what can I do for you?’ he asked politely.
‘Hi, I was just wondering where Mr Khan is today?’ she asked before she lost her nerve.
‘Would you like me to give him a message?’ the PA asked, rather evasively, she thought. Had he been instructed not to tell her Karim’s whereabouts?
Damn.
‘No that’s fine, I have his number here, but I didn’t want to disturb him if he’s busy,’ she said. ‘Is he? Busy?’ she added, then felt like a fool. Of course Karim was busy, he was always busy, the man ran a multibillion-dollar business empire, single-handedly from what she could gather given the amount of time he spent out of the house or locked in his study.
She was just debating whether to hang up, when the PA replied.
‘We’re going to be at Hammonds Sale this afternoon in Kensington Palace Gardens, which kicks off at three, so I would suggest contacting Mr Khan before it starts as he will be bidding on the lots.’
She thanked the man and then hung up.
Her heartbeat accelerated into her throat, the familiar tangle of nerves jumping and jiggling in the pit of her belly joined by the definite spike of irritation.
Karim had gone to Hammonds Sale without her? If he was planning to buy any stock there, why hadn’t he taken her with him? She was the one who knew the horses Calhouns would need to buy, better than anyone.
She glanced at her watch.
A quarter to two. Instinct and the definite bubble of excitement drowned out the jangle of nerves and the prickle of irritation. She picked up the house phone and ordered one of the cars to be brought round to take her to the event.
She’d never had the chance to go to Hammonds Sale but she had always wanted to. They held it every year in the grounds of Kensington Palace. Everyone who was anyone in racing would be there and, while most of the big sales happened in private, occasionally there were some good horses up for auction. She’d forgotten it was today, probably because she’d forgotten what day it was entirely. But she had studied the catalogue herself months ago when it had been issued, as she did every year, imagining what it would be like if she had money to invest. She could give Karim her advice about the best prospects, and maybe… Maybe she’d get up the courage to ask him about Quinns. But more importantly, it was way past time she stopped sitting on her backside and waiting for Karim to give her something to do.
She rushed out of the study and up the stairs to her suite, to hunt through her wardrobe of new clothes and find something fancy enough to wear for the super-posh event.
As she stepped into the car half an hour later, her fingers trembled round the clutch purse she’d found in the wardrobe. Then the jumps and jiggles settled low in her abdomen and began to throb at the prospect of seeing Karim again.
She ignored them. Her excitement wasn’t about Karim, and her ludicrous over reaction to him, it was about this chance to prove to him that while she might be hopeless as a fake fiancée she could be a real asset when it came to buying bloodstock for Calhouns.
‘You drive a hard bargain, Khan. But one I think we will both benefit from immensely. Your knowledge of bloodstock is much better than I anticipated. More champagne?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ Karim declined the offer of a top-up from Piers Devereaux—a racing legend who had established himself as the premier stud owner in England—and dismissed the condescending tone.
He had expected as much from doyens of the racing establishment such as Devereaux—which was precisely why he had spent several years doing his homework and waiting for the perfect purchase before making an assault on the higher echelons of the sport. The prestigious racehorse sale organised by Hammonds each year was a gala event. The auction itself was more of a social occasion than a business opportunity, because the real business was done as the movers and shakers chatted privately over vintage champagne and cordon bleu canapés. Karim had prepared carefully for this event, knowing he wanted to match Calhouns’ top stallion Aderyn with one of Devereaux’s mares. But as he listened to Devereaux, a question that had been tormenting him consistently for a week tormented him again. Given all his careful planning over the last few years to enter this arena, why the hell had he been so damn impulsive when choosing a fake fiancée? And why hadn’t he brought Orla with him to this event? When she knew so much about Calhouns stock?
‘I have heard your father has an amazing stock of thoroughbreds, but I never knew you were so interested in the Sport of Kings,’ Piers continued. ‘So what’s the story on Quinns?’ the older man asked bluntly. ‘Did you destroy them as penance for young Pat’s diabolical treatment of your new fiancée—and his former fiancée—as everyone believes?’
Karim clenched his teeth and held onto his temper, with an effort. Devereaux was the first person to have the audacity to actually ask the question. But he wasn’t the first to think it. Hammonds was buzzing with the latest gossip—he’d noted the questioning glances as soon as he’d arrived. But he’d be damned if he’d explain or deny his actions to these people. Taking over the Quinn farm had been a sound business move, once he’d discovered they were ripe for a takeover.
But even as he told himself that, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.
Destroying Patrick Quinn’s standing in the community had been more than business. And he’d been trying to justify the impulse to himself ever since.
‘The Quinn land borders on Calhouns, and I intend to expand the operation considerably,’ he answered calmly, deciding not to deny he was the new owner. ‘Figure out my motives for yourself.’
Maybe his motives had more to do with Orla—and the sight of her being manhandled by that bastard—than they should. But he refused to regret the impulse. No woman deserved to be touched without her consent.
Devereaux chuckled, as Karim knew he would, because loyalty came a distant second to power and success in this community. ‘Touché, Khan. Now I’ve met you, it’s clear the rumours circulating about your hot-headedness are unfounded.’
Karim ignored the familiar prickle of unease at the comment. A week ago, Devereaux would have been correct. He’d never been a hothead, and certainly not over a woman, until he’d met Orla Calhoun. And he’d never had a problem controlling his impulses or his temper, but now he couldn’t seem to keep a handle on either of them. And he didn’t like it.
‘I’m looking forward to working with you and competing against you,’ Devereaux added. ‘With Calhoun stock and your own considerable expertise you could well become a force to be reckoned with in a few years. Such a shame Michael passed when he did. The man knew horses like no other, even if he had trouble passing a betting shop.’
Karim bristled at the latent sexism of the man’s assumptions. His in-depth conversations with Orla earlier in the week had proved to him conclusively she hadn’t lied about her influence at Calhouns in the last few years. Although the racing community were blissfully unaware of her talents, it wasn’t her father who had managed to steer Calhouns to so many successes despite the crippling debt the man’s addiction had landed her with.
Thoughts of Orla though awakened the familiar pulse of yearning. Infuriatingly.
He’d been avoiding her for three days now. Ever since their impro
mptu breakfast meetings had given him a burning desire that had nothing whatsoever to do with mining her extensive knowledge of Calhouns’ strengths and weaknesses.
How could he still want her so much? Even more now than he had the night of the ball? Why was the hunger only getting worse? And why couldn’t he control it?
Almost as if he’d conjured her up by magic, his fiancée appeared at the tented opening to the event. He blinked several times. Was he hallucinating now? This was intolerable—weren’t the dreams of her every damn night since she’d arrived in his home enough?
But as his gaze locked on her slender, willowy figure and high breasts, displayed to perfection in a floaty, fluid sundress the same rich, striking green as her eyes, it became clear she was not an apparition.
The moment of relief though—that he wasn’t going totally insane—was followed by the brutal shaft of heat. He tensed, furious with the unbidden and uncontrolled reaction.
What was she doing here? He certainly had not requested her presence, for precisely this reason. Because she distracted him. A lot.
But even knowing he ought to fight the disturbing effect she had on him, he found himself tuning out Devereaux’s small talk as he watched her pick her way across the grass in her heels. She kept her head down, and her hands gripped the auction brochure she had been handed when she entered. She declined the offer of a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, pausing to look around.
He resisted the urge to go to her immediately, attempting to swallow down the ball of lust… Not very successfully.
Calm down, dammit. She’ll spot you in a minute and then you can demand to know what she is doing here.
Looking too eager was not his style, and having a domestic dispute in full view of everyone would hardly keep up the pretence that he was in love with this woman.
But as he battled the desire to storm through the crowd—and reignite the rumours about his being a hothead where this woman was concerned—a young man in a designer suit waylaid her. Orla paused, clearly disconcerted by the attention, especially when her admirer began to flirt with her in that way the English aristocracy had of being loud and annoying and thinking it was charming.
The possessive rage that had blindsided him at the ball a week ago surged.
And he had the answer to a question he hadn’t even acknowledged… Avoiding her hadn’t worked, if anything it had only made the hunger, and the inexplicable emotions that went with it—jealousy, envy, need—all the more volatile.
He made his excuses to Devereaux, dumped his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and headed towards his fiancée, ready to extricate her from the attentions of that obnoxious toff who had his eyes glued to her cleavage.
‘So you’re Irish? I should have guessed from the charming accent. And the red hair.’ The young man grinned flirtatiously as his gaze finally lifted from Orla’s breasts to her face. ‘Are you dating one of the Irish breeders, then?’ he said, putting enough emphasis on the word breeders to be less than charming.
She tried not to be insulted. While racing had always been a male-dominated sport, women were making their mark as both breeders and trainers, so this idiot’s assumption that she was some airhead who knew nothing about the sport had just given away his ignorance.
‘No, I’m Orla Calhoun, of the Calhoun stud…’
‘Orla, you’re here.’ Her explanation of who she was dried up as Karim appeared from nowhere. Dressed in a grey linen suit, he looked dominant and powerful and stupidly gorgeous. So what else was new?
Heat suffused her cheeks, and sank deep into her sex, as he clasped her elbow in strong fingers. ‘This is a surprise,’ he said, the edge in his voice unmistakeable.
He didn’t sound too pleased to see her, but before she could reply he pressed his lips to her cheek in a fleeting but somehow possessive kiss.
Fire ignited in her belly and spread up her collarbone.
It was the first time he had touched her since the ball. His dark gaze seared her skin, the intensity so vivid and compelling it felt as if they were alone—cocooned by the live-wire chemistry that flared between them so easily.
The jiggle of nerves she had tried to explain away during the drive to West London became turbocharged. Why did she feel as if she had just been branded? How did he do that? Make her feel as if she belonged to him? When she knew she didn’t?
‘Um, Karim, hi,’ she managed, clearing her throat while desperately trying to get her bearings again—and remind herself that she was here to prove to him she could be useful. ‘I heard you were at the auction and thought you could use my help with the bidding,’ she managed, desperately trying not to get derailed again by his disapproval. He should have invited her, why hadn’t he?
The young man beside her cleared his throat obviously waiting for an introduction.
‘Karim, this… This is, um…’ She turned to the young man, but even though he had introduced himself to her less than five seconds ago, his name totally escaped her.
‘Miles, Miles Johnson at your service,’ he said and offered his hand to Karim, managing to collect himself quicker than she had.
Karim merely glanced at the offered hand, which was hastily withdrawn. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, Your Highness,’ the boy continued—for he suddenly seemed like a boy rather than a man as his confidence visibly disintegrated under Karim’s focussed disdain. ‘E-everyone’s t-talking about y-your acquisition of Quinns,’ he stammered. ‘What a bold move that was. And how you’re set to be the most exciting thing to happen to racing in years…’
Orla shivered. So Karim had bought out the Quinns. And he hadn’t bothered to tell her. All the questions she’d had before about the purchase came hurtling back, along with that weird feeling of vindication.
‘Are they really?’ Karim remarked, but he already sounded bored.
His thumb stroked her inner elbow, the light touch controlling enough to send her heartbeat catapulting into her sex.
‘Yes, sir, they—’ Miles began again. But this time Karim cut him off.
‘Miles, do you think you could leave us alone? I’d like to speak to my fiancée in private.’
‘Your fiancée?’ The boy’s face went bright red, but it was the flash of panic in his eyes that spoke volumes. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said and left so fast Orla felt sure the rumours Dervla had repeated about Karim’s motivations for destroying the Quinns, while they couldn’t be true, had certainly travelled far and wide in the racing world.
‘That’s quite a trick,’ she murmured, aware of the flicker of panic in her own body—but for very different reasons—as Karim pulled her round to face him.
‘What trick?’ he asked as he drew her closer, so close she could smell his cologne, and the subtle scent of his soap, which had haunted her dreams for days.
‘The ability to make annoying people disappear. I wish I had that knack,’ she said.
The slow smile that curled his lips was so sensual and so arrogant her breathing became distressingly ragged. ‘I’ll teach you it,’ he said. ‘But first you need to answer a question for me.’
‘Yes,’ she said, fairly sure they weren’t talking about Miles What’s-His-Name anymore.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
The question was delivered calmly but with enough of an edge for Orla to know he was holding onto his temper for the benefit of their audience. But while the nerves in her belly were now doing back flips she refused to apologise. He’d left her alone for a whole week, with nothing to do. After refusing to let her return to Kildare. She needed a role in London, or she’d go mad.
‘I knew my knowledge of the lots could be useful. I’ve studied the catalogue and I know what Calhouns needs to purchase…’ The frantic explanation trailed into silence as he continued to stare at her. One dark brow rose up his forehead, mak
ing his scepticism clear. And suddenly she found herself blurting out, ‘Why did you buy out the Quinns? And destroy Patrick’s reputation? Was it…?’ She sucked in a breath, determined to continue despite the way both his brows lowered ominously—this was not a conversation he wanted to have. But she needed to know. ‘Was it because of what happened at the ball?’
‘You think I spent fifteen million euros to buy a stud farm neighbouring Calhouns to defend your honour?’ he asked.
The mocking tone and the glitter of cynicism in his eyes were unmistakeable. But she could still detect that edge. And before she could stop herself she asked the question that had been burning in her gut since her conversation with Dervla. ‘Well, did you?’
The minute she’d said it, she felt like a fool. Of course he hadn’t—why would he really care about that, if he didn’t care about her?
The rueful smile remained fixed on his lips, but his eyes narrowed.
‘No,’ he said.
Her chest deflated, and hot colour flared in her cheeks, making her feel hideously exposed. But then he stroked the side of her face with his thumb, the callused skin sending darts of sensation everywhere. His touch was light but so intimate her breath caught when he added, ‘Or not entirely.’
She gulped down the lump forming in her throat. And began to feel light-headed. Was it the intensity in his gaze? That misguided yearning to be sheltered and cherished by this man—that had overwhelmed her when he had rescued her from Patrick that night? Or was it the visceral desire tugging at her sex and making every one of her pulse points pound? Because she was fairly sure the excitement racing through her veins right now wasn’t to do with her desire to find a way to be useful when it came to buying bloodstock for Calhouns anymore.
The stunned awareness in Orla’s eyes turned the bright emerald to a compelling jade and sent a renewed shaft of longing through Karim’s system… And he was finally forced to confront the lie he’d been telling himself for a week, that somehow by avoiding her he would be able to control the effect she had on him.