Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

Finn didn’t buy into that until three. A few minutes of watching Curran and he finally began following him.

  And Jane could hardly believe her own eyes.

  Curran hadn’t once tried approaching or touching the stallion. He’d merely used body language and the mellifluous tones of his voice to seduce Finn.

  “That’s enough for the day, wouldn’t you say?” he asked after she’d gotten Finn back into his stall once again.

  “Yes,” she said. “Truly. I’m in awe.”

  “Then I have the job?”

  Remembering that she’d told him she’d try him out with Finn and then decide, Jane nodded. “One-third of the purse when he wins the Classic.”

  Curran held out his hand to shake on it, but she backed off, unwilling to get too close. If she wasn’t careful, he might try gentling her.

  CAMOUFLAGED HIGH in the branches of a tree, he lowered the binoculars and traded them for a cell phone. The number was already on his speed dial. Two rings and the connection was made.

  “Yes?” came the impatient voice.

  “We have a situation here.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. No halter yet. He didn’t even try it. But the horse is accepting him. It’s only a matter of time. Days. Maybe less.”

  Curran McKenna was known to have some magic about him when it came to the tough rides. Something to do with some special animal empathy he’d inherited from his grandmother. At least that was the rumor whispered around the tracks. McKenna had never openly admitted to anything other than hard work making his success.

  “You know what you have to do!” came the sharp reply. “No more delays.”

  “You can’t rush this. There are too many people around during the day!” he protested, trying to stall. “And at night, the buildings are set up with alarms. I saw the system when I was in the barn yesterday.” Though he might have a way around that, he couldn’t be sure.

  He listened to crackling, typical of a cell-phone connection, long enough to make him sweat.

  Finally, his contact said, “Then you’ll need to be extra careful so that you don’t get caught. But—and I don’t say this lightly—you won’t fail me if you want to remain free and in a state of good health.”

  His mood growing darker, he broke the connection.

  Threats, he hated them nearly as much as he hated himself for getting into this mess.

  CURRAN HADN’T BROUGHT a tux. He refused to wear what to him was a symbol of a dark time in his life—two years of dancing to the tune of a woman to whom appearances had been everything. And to whom he had been, in the end, nothing.

  Now he didn’t have to dance to anyone’s tune but his own.

  So, while the pale gray silk-blend suit and charcoal-gray silk T-shirt would be considered inappropriate by most at the society party given by the Singleton-Volmer woman, he would be comfortable in his own skin.

  And when he entered the foyer of the main house, he had to give Jane credit that she didn’t so much as blink at his unconventional attire.

  “My grandmother forgot something,” she said distractedly. “She’ll be ready to leave in a moment.”

  She seemed preoccupied. An attack of nerves at appearing at a society gathering because of a minor disability? Curran wondered.

  Jane Grantham didn’t have to worry, she was a natural Kentucky Thoroughbred. Despite the flat sandals and cane, both concessions to the injury that still plagued her, she was a study in grace and elegance: upswept hairdo that neatly framed her face; simple dress that flowed along her perfect curves like molten gold; understated makeup that accentuated her broad mouth and high cheekbones.

  But her wide-set amber eyes were clouded tonight, and Curran couldn’t help but wonder what memories caused such pain. As he stared into them, he thought about holding her in his arms and sweeping her slowly around a dance floor. About feeling the beat of her heart against his. About losing himself in the light fragrance that made him want to get closer now.

  He could make love to her there, without ever taking her to bed…

  Suddenly aware of his scrutiny, she snapped, “What? If you have something to say, then out with it!”

  Making Curran think he was going to have one hell of an evening, one way or another.

  As he had done with Finn earlier, he squared himself with Jane and looked her straight in the eye. “I was thinking that you looked grand and elegant and would undoubtedly put the hostess to shame.”

  She had the grace to blush at his soft words. And like Finn, she backed off, her gaze going to something over his shoulder. She headed straight past him, only to stop at a spindly-legged table tucked into the corner of the foyer, where she sorted through the day’s mail as if she hadn’t seen it earlier when he knew she had.

  Her back stayed firmly turned to him, again reminding him of Finn’s maneuvers.

  Part of Curran was amused, part rueful that she should be so combative and unsure of herself. Certain that she hadn’t always been that way, even as Finn hadn’t, he wondered what had happened to her.

  Why was she so guarded that she attacked before even knowing what was on his mind?

  There was another way, he thought, remembering the flood of emotion that he’d sensed when he’d watched her the day before. But though he concentrated, he couldn’t get a read, not without touching her.

  If only he could touch her, he might be able to breach the barrier she’d set between them. But forcing any contact now would only raise the level of antagonism between them.

  Luckily, he was a patient man.

  Gentling Jane would be more of a challenge than the stallion, Curran mused.

  Not that he’d ever used the techniques on a woman before. Nor had he known he could. Until now, his empathic abilities had been reserved for animals, primarily Thoroughbreds. Jane Grantham was an exception and he had to admit the temptation to explore that factor was too strong to resist.

  “Here I am at last,” Belle said as she entered the room, wearing a bronze-colored gown that barely swept the floor behind her. “Somehow I always manage to displace at least one thing a day, and of course at the most inconvenient time.”

  “Ah, but the wait was worth it,” Curran said. He took Belle’s ringed hand and held it out so that he could admire her openly. “The Grantham women are marvels. I certainly will be the luckiest escort at the party with the two of you as my companions.”

  Jane gave him a sour look, but Curran didn’t miss the glow of color along her neckline.

  On the ride to Rolling Meadows Farm, he concentrated his attention on Belle, who gave him a quick update on the evening’s festivities. Phyllis Singleton-Volmer was one of the most noted hostesses in the Lexington area, and her parties were always social highlights of the racing season.

  “It will be outdoors, of course,” Belle said. “All those people wouldn’t fit in her house.”

  “Dining and dancing under the stars sounds very romantic, don’t you think?” he asked Jane, looking up into the rearview mirror to see her reaction.

  “Actually, it sounds exhausting. We’ve had a long day and it will be another early morning. I’ll be making my excuses as early as graciously possible.”

  “You didn’t used to be so difficult, Jane,” Belle complained.

  “That was another lifetime, Nani, and I was another person.”

  “Well, I wish you would hurry and reacquaint yourself with the lost Jane again.”

  Jane didn’t answer, merely stared out the side window into the dusk.

  A moment later, Belle instructed Curran to slow down and turn up a long gravel driveway. On a rise, the house was lit, and spread around it, large tents played host to hundreds of people. Insurance against the elements, he thought, though the evening’s weather was perfect.

  Phyllis Singleton-Volmer was holding court at the garden entrance, and Curran immediately recognized the Saudi Thoroughbred owner at her side.

  “Why, Belle, you look lovely tonight,” Phyllis
gushed. “Let me introduce you to my special friend, Mukhtar Saladin.” Her glance at him was just short of adoring. “Mukhtar owns Stonehenge. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—the favorite to win the Thoroughbred Millions Classic.”

  “That’s to be seen,” Belle said, even as she acknowledged Phyllis’s companion with a gracious smile.

  They were some couple, Curran thought, sizing them up—she an elegant brunette in her mid-to upper-fifties, very thin, very chic in a strapless red sheath; he, possibly twenty years her senior, a dark and brooding tuxedoed guardian, his face wreathed in a silver-streaked beard and mustache.

  Phyllis refocused her attention, her emerald-green eyes sizing him up. “So this is the famous Curran McKenna. I’m so thrilled to meet you at last.”

  “Thrilled?” Curran took her proffered hand. Not that she actually grasped him, merely touched her flesh to his. “I’m flattered. But of course this is actually my first trip to the Americas.”

  “But I travel quite extensively to England and Ireland. Mukhtar insists that I be there for good luck when one of his top Thoroughbreds races.”

  “He has exquisite taste both in horseflesh and in women,” Curran said, noticing that Saladin kept a possessive hand on Phyllis’s diamond-bejeweled arm.

  “Phyllis is the one who picked out Stonehenge.” Saladin raised her hand to his lips. “She insisted I buy him. When it comes to horseflesh, she’s the most knowledgeable woman of my acquaintance.”

  “You make a fine pair, then.”

  “I certainly think so.” Phyllis’s voice went husky. “I wouldn’t mind being a permanent part of Mukhtar’s stable.”

  They all laughed.

  Then a big blond man came up behind Saladin and whispered something in the owner’s ear. Holt Easterling was Saladin’s British trainer, one whom Curran knew well enough to dislike—a serious difference in training methods. A man with a feral streak that he normally hid well, Easterling wasn’t above using force on his horses to get them to do what he wanted.

  Curran had called him on it once, so Easterling wasn’t fond of him, either. They exchanged dark looks as the Brit pulled Saladin away from the others to confer in private.

  “Ah, Jane,” Phyllis gushed, “you remind me so very much of your mother. We went to school together, you know. How is our dear Lydia?”

  Curran swore he detected a change in inflection at the last, but her features didn’t reflect any ambivalence.

  “Mother is deliriously happy in her new marriage.”

  “Happy, away from Grantham Acres?”

  She sounded shocked, Curran thought, as if moving away from the horse farm was unthinkable.

  “The farm was never her life,” Jane said. “Daddy was. So without him around…But in a way that was better for us both, since I’ve never thought about doing anything other than working the farm.”

  “I see.” Phyllis’s gaze wandered down to the cane. “Then it’s a shame that you’ll never be able to live up to your full potential.”

  Curran felt Jane stiffen at the unexpectedly insensitive observation. But before he could come to her defense, Saladin interrupted.

  “You must excuse me, my little raven,” he said, placing possessive hands on Phyllis’s arms. “But I must attend to some pressing business.”

  “You won’t be long?”

  “Would I leave you alone and vulnerable to some predator any longer than absolutely necessary?” he murmured.

  What could be important enough for him to leave his lover’s soiree other than a problem with a horse? Curran wondered. Had something happened to Stonehenge? Had Easterling done something to the prized Thoroughbred? Surely not or Mukhtar Saladin would have his head.

  Curran glanced at Jane. Outwardly, she seemed to have recovered from Phyllis’s thoughtless remark. But he was close enough to feel her internal struggle, her need to keep up a polished veneer, when she wanted to do nothing more than wheel away from measuring eyes, even as Finn would.

  What bound the two so closely together? he wondered yet again.

  Other people had arrived, so Belle led them away from their hostess along the garden pathway to the tented festivities and a lively Latin rhythm. Jane went next and seemed to be walking more easily than she had that morning, Curran noticed as he brought up the rear.

  Scattered among the crowd before them were a handful of owners, trainers and jockeys he knew, or knew of. But oddly enough, he had no interest in seeking their company. He was content to be with Jane.

  Transference? His long-standing bond with Finn transferred to her?

  Inexplicable, Curran decided.

  They came to a stop in an open area. The bar and buffet lay straight ahead. Tables sat to one side, the dance floor and live orchestra opposite.

  “Why, there’s Mitzi Driver,” Belle suddenly said, waving toward the sea of tables. “I haven’t seen her for ages. She’s been spending most of her time in California. You two can get along without me for a few minutes, can’t you?”

  Jane started, “We can go with—”

  But Curran cut her off. “I’m sure we’ll be finding a way to entertain ourselves.”

  As Belle picked her way through the crowd, Jane echoed, “Entertain ourselves?”

  “On the dance floor.” The rhythm had changed, slower, now, a sultry tango, and was too inviting to resist.

  “That may do for you.”

  He took her hand and backed toward the sound of music. “And for you, as well, if you’re willing to cling to me.”

  Though she didn’t fight him, she protested. “I cling to no man any longer.”

  “So I’ve noticed. I shall be hanging on to you, then.”

  Before she could protest, he took the cane from her hand and set it to one side, curled an arm around her waist and swept her onto the dance floor.

  Chapter Four

  Strong emotions washed through Curran. Hers.

  Jane was panicking—despite herself, when he swung her into his arms, she grabbed on to his hand and fisted the back of his jacket.

  But gradually, she relaxed against him as he moved her smoothly, expertly, without so much as a wrong step. She lost herself in the exotic music as it swept them to another place and time.

  One with no constraints. No barriers. No disabilities. Just two people savoring the now.

  Curran felt her soft, full breasts press into his chest. And her hips undulating to the music brushed his seductively. He breathed in her scent. Wildflowers.

  His imagination took him from the dance floor to a Connemara meadow carpeted with wildflowers, where they would compose a horizontal tango of their very own.

  He could imagine her sensual expression as she opened her arms to welcome him into her perfect, nude body. He could feel the cadence of her heartbeat change as they were joined, two unto one. He could hear the sounds issuing from deep in her throat as he completed her again and again.

  Somehow, he knew making love to her was destined. Then Jane took a wrong step. Curran caught her, held her tighter against him. So tight that he could feel the increasingly rapid beat of her heart.

  “Don’t fret now, Sheena. You’re safe in my arms,” he murmured in her ear.

  “Sheena?” she gasped, blinking hard, obviously working her way back out of the spell.

  “The Irish familiar for Jane.”

  She pulled her hand from his and pushed against his chest. “I gave you no call to be familiar with me!”

  “Ah, but you have, sweet Sheena. Your lips say one thing, but your eyes another.”

  He looked deep into their amber depths and without warning was whirled into the fearsome darkness of her mind.

  Fear…hatred…horror…

  A silhouette against the moon-silvered night…a man, his arms raised in threat…a scream, not human…

  Agony flashed through his left knee, and his left leg almost gave way. He held on, tried to ride out the pain, but the overwhelming sensation stole away his breath. His head spun and he tried to
refocus even as liquid black splashed across the silver backdrop of his inner vision.

  Blood?

  His heart palpitated.

  He found his breath.

  And suddenly he was back in the present and the amber eyes were shut against him.

  He knew, she thought. Somehow, he knew.

  What was Curran doing to her?

  What power did he have, for even with her eyes shut, she felt him, larger than life, as if he were a presence deep inside her…

  Blinking her eyes open again, she stared at his serious visage hard, but the thing that had happened between them—unless she had imagined it—was gone. Confusion made her careless, and the next she knew, she stepped wrong and her knee gave way and she plowed straight into his broad chest. The threat of falling panicked her and made her grasp onto his jacket front.

  Before she could guess what he was about, Curran quickly rolled her to one side and bowed her back across his arm as if all along he’d meant to dip her. Then before she could wonder what came next, she was righted and moving to the music as if nothing had ever happened.

  And maybe it hadn’t.

  Maybe she had imagined it.

  Maybe she was so man-starved, so sex-starved, that she’d created an impossible bond with the first attractive male who had gotten close enough.

  “Good save,” she murmured, horrified as always by the idea of humiliating herself in public, grateful that Curran had turned her clumsiness into something that had appeared planned and graceful. “Thank you, Curran.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Pleasure was all she felt now that the darkness had receded. He was holding her too close. Too tightly. His movements on the dance floor were thankfully uncomplicated, and yet far too intimate for her peace of mind.

  His chest brushing against her breasts raised the tender flesh of her nipples. His hand on her hip made other, more secret places long for his touch. His thigh inserting itself between hers as he took her through a series of easy turns made warmth flow from her center.

  Did he know? Could he read her? Did he feel a responding attraction?

  Her head was mired in an unexpected haze of sexual excitement, yet at the same time she realized that she was dancing.