by Tami Hoag
The stable yard was bustling with activity as afternoon chores began. Stable hands moved energetically from one building to the next, each of them followed by at least one dog. The dogs were of all sizes and breeds, and they trotted purposefully along, as if they felt their presence was necessary for the men to do a proper job.
Rylan Quaid sauntered to the doorway of the first barn as Alex climbed down out of the cab of her truck. She recognized him from photographs in the horse magazines. His was one of the most ambitious breeding programs in the country as far as jumping horses went. His younger sister Katie had once been one of the top young riders on the circuit, destined for a spot on the Olympic team, when a fall ended her career and nearly ended her life.
Alex looked up at the owner of Quaid Farm and swallowed hard. If he had looked unapproachable in his photographs, he looked downright intimidating in the flesh. He was a huge man, six feet four and built like a bull. His face looked to be carved of granite, an appropriate pinnacle for a mountain of masculinity. His features were rough-hewn and angular. He seemed physically incapable of smiling. Narrow, stormy eyes stared at her from beneath heavy dark brows.
“Alex, this cantankerous-looking person is Rylan Quaid.”
Alex jumped at the sound of Christian’s voice so near her ear. He had slid across the seat of the van and eased himself to the ground beside her.
“Ry, this is Alexandra Gianni, the trainer I was telling you about.”
“It’s a pleasure, miss,” Ry said, politely touching the bill of his battered blue baseball cap. He swung immediately in Christian’s direction, piercing his friend and trainer with a fierce look of annoyance. “Jeepers cripes, Atherton, where the hell have you been? I’ve got Bobby and Marlin up in the woods looking for your body.”
“Metallica and I took a bit of a tumble, I’m afraid,” he explained as Alex went around to the back of the van. “Alex rescued me.”
Alex led the gray gelding down the ramp of the van and into the aisle of the barn. Scowling, Ry immediately bent to inspect the animal’s legs for damage.
“He’s fine,” Christian said, hobbling into the barn with his boot in one hand and his ice bag in the other. “I didn’t fare as well. Thanks for asking.”
Ry turned his scowl at him, rising up to his full height and planting his hands at the waistband of his faded jeans. “You’re hurt? How the hell can you be hurt? You’re like a damn cat—always land on your feet.”
Christian lifted his stockinged foot. “Well, I won’t be landing on this foot for a while. I’ve twisted my ankle.”
“I think we ought to shoot him, don’t you, gov’nor?” Charlie asked, coming to take the horse. “Put him out of his mis’ry like. Right?”
Christian frowned at the girl as he felt his blood pressure shoot up. “You are perpetually insubordinate,” he said through his teeth.
Charlie squinted and laughed her carefree laugh, shaking a finger at him. “My, aren’t we stuffy today? Stuffy, stuffy.”
“I’ll give you stuffy,” Christian growled, leaning over her aggressively. “Take that horse and groom him till he shines like sterling, or you’ll have the devil to pay.”
“Go on. Go on. Cuff me one,” Charlie challenged teasingly, turning her round, rouged cheek to him for a target. “Box me a good one right here in front of all these nice witnesses. I’ll sue your bloody bum off. That nice Mr. Hill is a solicitor, you know. I’ll go straight to him.”
Ry’s face cracked into a smile at the shade of red Christian was flushing. “Go on along now, girl,” he said to Charlie. “Get to work before he takes you up on it.”
Alex watched the scene through cautious eyes, wondering if Christian was capable of that kind of violence.
“So, hotshot,” Ry said. “You need a lift to the hospital?”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Christian said, watching Alex edge back toward the door of her truck. She was ready to make her getaway, but he wasn’t anywhere near ready to see the last of her. “It’s just a sprain. I’ll be all right to ride”—he broke off and just managed to suppress a grin at his own genius—“in a week or two.”
Rylan heaved a strained sigh and rubbed a big hand across the back of his thick neck. “Jeepers cripes. We can’t afford to lay off. Diamond Life is just coming into form. Legendary is finally getting it all together. Bobby can school the young horses, but with Greg gone to Germany… well, hell.”
“I was thinking perhaps we could get Alex to ride for us until I’m fit.” Christian turned to her with one of his dazzling smiles. She was looking at him as if he had just pulled the dirtiest of tricks. “She’s excellent. I wouldn’t have any qualms about having her.”
Alex blushed furiously at the double meaning that was obvious in his mischievous gaze as he grinned down at her.
“What do you say, Ms. Gianni?” Ry asked, oblivious to the undercurrents surging between the two trainers. “Chris tells me you’re top-notch. We’ve got a show string needs riding every day if we’re gonna have them ready for Devon.”
The Quaid Farm show string. A sharp pang of longing went through Alex’s chest. He was talking about horses that made most of hers look like an inferior species. But she didn’t want to work for someone else, she reminded herself. The last thing she wanted was to have to answer to Christian, who had set his sights on her like a hawk swooping down on a field mouse. Besides, she had horses of her own to ride. She was working twelve-hour days that left her little energy for anything extra.
“I’m afraid I already have a full schedule, Mr. Quaid,” she said with a mix of relief and regret.
“If you had a good groom working for you, you’d have sufficient time to ride at least my grand prix horses as well as your own,” Christian said.
Alex stuck her chin out and gave him a steady stare. “But I don’t have a groom.”
“You ought to have,” he insisted, that unfamiliar feeling of responsibility rearing its ugly head again. He didn’t want Alex working like a dog. She was too small and fragile. “You will have if I loan you Charlie,” he said, smiling as he thought of killing two birds with one stroke of genius.
“I couldn’t let you do that.”
“It’s not as big a favor as you think,” he said dryly. “She’s going to drive me mad. I’d be more than happy to send her to you and pay her room and board as well as her salary.”
“I don’t need your charity,” Alex said stiffly, her obsessive sense of self-reliance asserting itself. She depended on no one. She had leaned on others for support before, and they had stepped away when she’d needed them most, letting her fall on her face. She had been forced to learn to stand on her own two feet. If she let Christian have his way, she doubted she’d be left standing at all.
Ry snorted. “Hell, girl, that ain’t charity, it’s business. We need a rider. If we have to trade you a groom on the deal, so be it—as long as Charlie agrees.”
“But—”
Cutting to what he felt was the heart of the matter, Ry named a figure for a week’s work that made Alex’s head swim. She’d forgotten what a good stable could afford to pay. Temptation battered her resistance. The chance to ride world-class horses and get paid handsomely for it. Could she really afford to turn the offer down? Did she really want to?
“Well, that’s settled then,” Christian said cheerfully, his smile brilliant enough to light the darkening day. He wrapped an arm companionably around Alex’s slim shoulders, not missing the way she stiffened at his touch. She shot him a warning glance but didn’t try to pull away. His voice dropped automatically to a seductive purr. “Alex, let’s you and I go discuss the particulars—say, over a nice glass of wine?”
Ry rolled his eyes and muttered, “I should have guessed.” Clearing his throat he offered a big callused hand to Alex and said, “Thanks for helping us out, Ms. Gianni. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” Alex said, surprised at how gentle his grasp was when he was certainly capable of cracking coconuts with it.
She noticed then that his hard-looking gray green eyes had softened subtly and his smile was warm. There was no doubt a very nice man under the gruff exterior, she realized.
A skinny tow-headed groom interrupted them, clearing his throat nervously as he came out of the office. “Mr. Quaid, sir? Mrs. Quaid just called and says you’re needed up at the house.”
Ry instantly turned gray. He bolted out of the barn and across the yard through the thickening mist.
Alex lifted a questioning brow as Christian chuckled.
“His wife is expecting their second child,” he explained. “He worries about her incessantly, even though it isn’t necessary. Maggie is as healthy as a horse.”
“How sweet,” Alex murmured. A sense of loss assailed her as she watched Ry bound up the steps of his porch and charge into the house. Michael had never worried about her or fussed over her during her pregnancy. He had avoided her, watching her from a distance with hurt and guilt and accusation in his dark eyes. And finally he had divorced her, not able to wait it out, giving in to the pressure before he’d even had the chance to see or hold the daughter who ironically looked just like him.
Christian studied her expression, the need to hold and console her stealing upon him again. He didn’t curse it quite as strongly as he might have. It seemed only civilized to feel protective toward a woman with such a terrible, haunted look in her eyes. He couldn’t begin to imagine what could have happened to put such a look there. All he could think of was doing his best to erase it.
“Let’s go have that drink,” he said softly.
Why she went with him, Alex couldn’t have said. The idea of going into the lion’s den to share his hospitality ordinarily would have set off a cacophony of warning bells. Not this time. She told herself it was because Christian was injured. She could outrun him if necessary. Deeper down she suspected it had something to do with the quiet comfort he’d offered in his cultured British voice and warm blue eyes.
Curiosity played a part as well. What rider wouldn’t have wanted to see how Christian Atherton lived?
His cottage sat on a well-tended lawn away from the main house and on the opposite side of the drive, a short walk from the stables, though they took Alex’s van because of Christian’s lack of mobility. As soon as they were in the front door he dropped onto a deep green overstuffed sofa and eased his aching leg up onto the matching footstool.
The room was impeccably decorated in a masculine English country style with shades of dark red, beige, and hunter green throughout. The floor was old polished pine with a thick beige area rug covering most of the space. Fox-hunting scenes decorated the walls. The furniture looked antique. The overall effect was of expensive tastes and a comfortable lifestyle.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be much of a host,” Christian admitted ruefully.
His ankle was throbbing something fierce, hurting worse than he had thought it would. Damn, he thought darkly, he had Alex in his lair but no strength to take advantage of the situation. Bloody rotten luck. Of course, the silver lining was the thought of having her at the farm every day for a week. He brightened at the prospect.
“There’s a bottle of white zinfandel in the fridge, if you don’t mind playing hostess.”
“I shouldn’t have any. I have to drive home. With these roads and the rain…”
“And that truck,” Christian muttered under his breath. Fighting off the respectable urge to lecture her on safety, he cleared his throat and nodded. “Quite right. Be a love, though, and bring me a glass, would you? It tastes a far sight better than aspirin.”
“Sure.”
The way to the kitchen was obvious. Alex went through the archway between the living room and dining room, passed an elegant mahogany dining set that looked older than the United States, and went into the kitchen beyond. The wine in the refrigerator was expensive, the glasses in the cherrywood cupboard crystal.
She treated herself to a sip of the blush-colored wine, moaning in appreciation at the crisp, fresh taste. Good wine was something she couldn’t afford to indulge in these days.
As she returned to the living room she glanced down a hall that led presumably to the bedroom. Something basically feminine in her fluttered with curiosity about what she might find in there. Scolding herself for caring, she hurried on.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked, handing him his drink. “I really should be going. I have chores to do yet tonight.”
“Sit for a minute,” he said, nodding to the empty end of the couch, amazed when she obeyed. He took a drink, closed his eyes, and sighed reverently, then set the glass aside on an antique pine end table. “I haven’t thanked you for offering to help.”
“I didn’t offer,” Alex said sardonically. “You railroaded me.”
Christian gave an imperious shrug. “A minor detail. I really do appreciate it, Alex. Besides, it seemed only sporting since you’re the one who got me thrown in the first place.”
He chuckled as her eyes flashed, and she sucked in a breath in prelude to what was undoubtedly a scathing opinion of his version of the accident. She didn’t let the words out, though her face went red with the effort to hold them back.
He was fast discovering all the right buttons to push, Christian thought, feeling a bit smug. Very soon Alex was going to have to give up all pretense of hiding her emotions from him. He liked that idea very much.
“I’d better go,” she said stiffly.
Trying to ignore the pain in his ankle, he rose and escorted her to the door, hobbling and wincing all the way.
Alex pulled the door open and groaned aloud at the sight of the strong, steady rain that had begun to fall and the expanse of yard she had to run across to get to her truck.
“Don’t suppose you’d rather stay till it lets up?” he said dryly. “I can think of any number of ways for us to pass the time.”
Alex gave him a look. “I’ll bet.”
She was amazed that she didn’t feel an urgent need to escape him. The need to escape her own awakening desires was another matter altogether, but Christian… He was smiling at her—one of his lopsided, I’m-your-best-friend smiles—his fathomless blue eyes twinkling with good humor. How many other men would have been petulant over her constant rebuffs? She could name one in particular, one other wealthy, handsome, privileged son….
The thought drifted away as Christian leaned forward and kissed her. He didn’t try to hold her. He hung on to the open door with one hand and braced the other against the jamb. He touched her only with his mouth, and she responded without thought, tilting her head back. He tasted warm and as intoxicating as the wine that lingered on his lips.
Lifting his head, he murmured, “Drive carefully, darling. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Stunned by her own reaction, Alex said nothing. She just turned and ran from the house to the sanctuary of her decrepit yellow truck. Once inside the cab she sat clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, listening to the rain pound down on the roof. And she wondered what the hell she’d just gotten herself into.
five
THIS HAD TO BE WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO RIDE Pegasus, Alex thought dreamily as she and Diamond Life soared over an array of red-and-white bars. The young Hanoverian stallion launched himself effortlessly over the fence and practically floated back to earth. Alex’s spirit stayed somewhere in the stratosphere. This was what riding jumpers was all about. To glide and sail on the back of a powerful, willing animal.
It was only her first ride on the blood bay that was Quaid Farm’s heir to the throne of their great jumper Rough Cut, the horse that had set a bookful of records and then been retired to stand at stud, and already she was thoroughly in love with him. He was talented, obedient, enthusiastic—in short, Diamond Life was everything most of her mounts were not. He shared a sire with Rough Cut and showed every intention of taking his sibling’s place in the arena.
Sadly, Rough Cut would never be in a position to challenge the young bay. U
pon his retirement he had been stricken with a devastating illness that had left him chronically lame and sterile. Time and extensive, often experimental, treatment had solved the second problem. He seemed perfectly happy in his role as daddy, seemingly not missing the exquisite grace and speed that had won him fame the world over. He was kept comfortable with painkillers and spent his time out of the breeding shed dozing contentedly in a large paddock that faced the Blue Ridge mountains.
Diamond Life was the up-and-coming star of Quaid Farm and the grand prix circuit, and Alex was more than enjoying the experience of schooling him. She took him around the spacious indoor arena, over a series of jumps known as a gymnastic, designed to improve a horse’s rhythm and form, then cantered him diagonally across the ring, popping him over a small vertical and then a spread fence. Each one was perfection and joy.
Christian watched from the gate that led into the barn, his admiration plain on his face. He may have been a flatterer by nature, but he never gave false praise to a rider. Flirting was one thing, riding was serious business. One had to earn respect in the show ring, and Alex had his. It was ridiculous how proud that made him feel. Shaking his head a little, he decided he was behaving like an infatuated schoolboy.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Maggie Quaid asked.
Christian glanced down at her and smiled warmly. Maggie had stolen his heart four years ago when she’d asked him to help her overcome her fear of horses so she could spend more time with Ry. Sassy and flirtatious, Maggie had a heart of pure gold. She doted on her friends and adored her irascible husband. Rylan worshiped the ground she walked on.
“How are you feeling today, Maggie?”
She patted her well-rounded belly and made a face. “Like a minivan.”
“Oh, you’re beautiful and glowing, and well you know it.”
She tilted her head so her red bob fell at a flattering angle along her jawline and batted her lashes at him. “Why, Mr. Atherton,” she said, her voice pure magnolias and honey, “how you do go on.”