Too damn good for eight in the morning, she admitted with reluctance.
She pulled out a long-sleeved lightweight Henley and went to her dresser for an old pair of jeans. Riley would just have to deal with practical clothes if they were going to piddle with her truck. Not to mention, her grubbies might serve to cool down what seemed to be brewing between them.
With a couple quick flicks of her wrist, she threw her hair in a ponytail and headed back to the front room for her shoes. Stuffing her feet into a pair of worn work boots, she yanked the laces tight, and rising, allowed herself to look at him.
He lounged on her couch, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and his arm draped along the back. Looking like he belonged there, she muttered to herself in consternation.
"I'm not leaving without coffee. Want some?” she asked as she turned toward the hall.
"I was just thinking it smells good."
She took that for a yes and made her way to the kitchen where she pulled out two traveling thermal mugs—one decorated with horses, the other with a pastel beach scene. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she decided she'd goad him with the more feminine mug.
"How do you take it?” she called.
"Just like you, darlin'—lightly tanned and sweet on the lips. Three sugars."
Shit!
Her hands faltered, and the spoon she'd used to stir hers clattered to the sink. How did he come up with that over such a simple question? He didn't even hesitate before he responded with the not-so-subtle innuendo.
With a deep breath, she willed her heart back to a normal beat and prepared his coffee. Setting the lids in place, she returned to the front room and thrust the pastel mug beneath his nose.
He eyed the design, glanced at hers, and chuckled as he accepted. “Cute."
She nodded. “I thought so.” With a telling grin, she picked up a leather bag and asked, “Shall we?"
"Yep.” He rose to his feet in what she could only describe as a graceful movement. How he unfurled all that muscle without looking clunky, she'd never understand.
As she locked the front door, his palm fit against the small of her back, ready to steer her around and guide her to his truck. The casual gesture was an all too powerful reminder of how delightful his fingers had felt against the very same spot last night. Warm, slightly rough, yet soft all at once.
Damn and double damn. Not how she wanted to start her morning at all.
She sidled away and hurried to the passenger's door before he had the opportunity to touch her again. With luck, the door was unlocked. She jumped in, slamming it behind her.
While she waited, she took in the Chevy's charcoal grey crew cab. Soft cloth bucket seats—thank God—divided by a large center console that offered her a place to set her mug. She opted to hold on to hers for now. The dash was sleek, laden with buttons, dials and clear plastic readout screens—much nicer than her new Dodge which she used for hauling horses. When Riley slid behind the wheel and turned the key, the dash lit up in pale blue, and the engine turned over with barely a noise.
"This is nice,” she couldn't help but observe.
"Thanks. My old one finally gave up on me last week. Sue here has just shy of four hundred miles on her."
"Sue?” She lifted an eyebrow and tried to hide her amusement.
"You know, Sue. Susan Jennings. My mom?"
"Oh. Ah, sorry.” She'd forgotten his parents’ names over time and instantly felt chagrined.
"I figured it was a fitting tribute.” He shrugged as he pulled the automatic gear shifter into reverse and eased down her drive.
His parents had been killed in a drunk driving accident seven years ago, but though she tried, she couldn't remember if they'd been the drinking party or not. Asking didn't feel appropriate either, and she fell into silence.
"Which way? I went down County Road 300 to Schoolhouse Road on my way here, but I didn't see your white Dodge."
She grinned again. Likely he'd driven right past her favorite truck and hadn't even realized it. “Bess is on 300. A half—mile shy of the Livingston place."
"And you were giving me grief about Sue? Bess sounds like an old lady's name ... or better yet, a pet cow."
Maddie laughed, his playful banter relaxing her. Especially now that she was out of his reach. The combination of the wide console and her bag sitting next to her, gave her plenty of room to avoid his frequently wandering hands.
* * * *
Riley bit his tongue to keep from gaping as Maddie directed him to the oldest, clunkiest piece of crap he'd seen in a long time. No wonder he hadn't noticed her truck on the side of the road. Bess, as she called the beater, looked more like a permanent roadside fixture than any functional truck.
Turning around in the narrow gravel road, he pulled his truck nose to nose with hers and stared at the polished longhorns mounted on her black hood. Absolutely not what he expected from the refined, wealthy, racing queen.
"Maddie?” He feared saying anything else.
"Meet Bess. If you look real hard you might see the red pickup I had in high school beneath that shiny black paint.” She threw him a wink as she slid out her door, toting her bag in one hand.
Her driver's door opened with a squeak, and he recognized the heavy thunk of the hood-latch releasing. Squatting slightly, she heaved on the heavy steel covering, and with a push from her knees, raised the awkward thing up to reveal a surprisingly clean engine. He pulled his own hood release and stepped outside to open the newer Chevy's as well.
He rounded the side of his truck to collect his jumper cables. But as he came around the front once more, attached them to his battery and moved to fasten them on hers, she waved him away. “Won't work. Battery is brand new."
"Want me to back up to it then and tow you into town?"
She shook her head, studying the engine with her hands on her hips.
Lifting an eyebrow, he leaned back against his grill and folded his arms across his chest. Experience told him to never rush a woman, no matter the situation. When she climbed up on the bumper and leaned inside, presenting him with an exquisite view of her bottom, he felt his pulse answer. Lord. A view like that ought to be illegal.
"Maddie, what are you doing?"
"Hand me that wrench in my bag, will you?” She waved her hand behind her, wagging her fingers in expectant response.
Wrench? This might be amusing. He rummaged through her satchel, produced the desired tool and passed it to her.
She gave a little grunt as she turned something he couldn't see, then muttered an oath.
"Socket wrench, please?"
Again, he rummaged and handed her what she wanted. It occurred to him then, she wasn't just piddling. The woman actually knew what she was doing. And as he leaned back again, watching her, he realized there was something disturbingly arousing about witnessing a woman work on a truck.
He couldn't decide whether it was the fact she had her ass in front of his face, or whether it was the implied independence, he found more attractive. Either way, the longer she banged, clattered, and muttered to herself, the more he felt his blood gather in his groin. In a matter of an hour, she had him so worked up just from observing, he started to question his sanity. Something had misfired in his brain. For God's sake he was standing on the side of a dusty road, watching her work, when he could be helping her out.
"Damn it,” he muttered beneath his breath.
"Did you say something? I can't hear you."
"Nothing,” he called louder as he pushed away from his grill and went to her side. “What was it doing when you pulled over?"
"Died. The alternator's been trying to quit on me. If I could just get this bolt off—” She whacked the bolt in reference with the flat end of the wrench. “I could change it out no problem."
"Let me try.” He reached across and took the wrench from her hand.
With a look that could only be described as shock, she let go and leaned back, giving him room. He fit the end ar
ound the bolt, giving it a firm twist. It budged, but just barely. Repositioning the socket wrench, he tried again. This time, the bolt gave. Only, when it did, the wrench slipped loose, and he scraped his knuckles over one she'd already loosened. He jerked his hand back, dropped the wrench, and cursed.
When he looked at her, she bit down on her lower lip to cover her smirk. But before he could come up with a retort, she vanished around the side of the truck and returned with a fistful of Kleenex.
"Let me see,” she instructed, holding her hand out for his.
He offered her his fingers with a frown. “If you'd call a repair man, that wouldn't have happened."
"If you hadn't been trying to be all manly by forcing that bolt, I'd have gotten it eventually, and you wouldn't be hurt,” she countered as she dabbed the back of his bleeding knuckles.
Surprising him even further, she produced a Band-Aid from her pocket and secured it over the back of his ring finger. Then, she dipped her head and kissed his knuckles like a mother would a wounded child. “All better,” she pronounced.
"I'm not so sure,” he argued.
At her quizzical expression, he reached across, fastened two fingers in her belt loop and dragged her closer. “I think I need some more of those.” He studied her mouth.
Her slow smile nearly unraveled him, and she leaned in closer, resting her hand against his chest.
"More kisses?” she asked in a husky whisper.
Giving her a grin, he nodded.
"Hmm.” She lifted her gaze to his mouth, and rose on tiptoe until she was a breath away from touching him. And then she was gone, snaking out from under his arm, backing away with a giggle. “Nope."
He rolled his eyes. “Tease."
"Maybe.” With a coy wink she dropped to the ground on her back, and inched her way beneath the truck. “Got a truck to fix, a trainer to see, and things to do today. Don't have time for fooling around, Riley,” she called from beneath the black beast.
The woman was going to be the death of him. Plain and simple. He tugged at his pants, shifting to make room, and mumbled.
"Here.” She tossed the wrench back out. It clattered to a stop at his feet. “Besides,” she continued as she crawled out from under her truck, “That rather spoils the sport of our wager."
He narrowed his gaze, thoroughly unenthused, and frowned down at her bright smile. So that's how she wanted it, then. He'd have to see about changing her mind.
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CHAPTER FIVE
Maddie wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve and puffed a stray hair out of her face. “That ought to do it—give her a try,” she called to Riley. With a push, she jumped down to the ground and mumbled, “Please work."
She'd worked on Bess for almost two hours, all the while too aware of Riley's nearness. He never missed an opportunity to touch her, or make some comment that sent her mind spiraling back to thoughts of how nice his hardened body would feel, naked, against hers. Distracted by his nearness, she'd sent him into the cab while she finished tightening the new alternator.
The truck cranked, and as he depressed the gas pedal, it turned over with a low rumble. She closed her eyes and did a brief celebratory tap dance in place. Then, before he could observe, swallowed her enthusiasm and reached up to shove the hood shut. It clanged into place in harmony with the slamming of the driver's door.
"Pretty impressive, Maddie.” Riley rounded the front fender and leaned against the bumper, devouring her with his smoldering brown eyes.
Where his gaze raked over her, her skin tingled. He had to quit doing that. It turned her stomach upside down faster than a roller coaster could.
"Where'd you learn about cars?"
"On the backside of the track. Dad used to have a jockey who didn't mind a scrawny girl hanging around. Nate.” Nate had taught her about a lot more than engines too, but that stayed between she and Sybil only.
"Hey, I remember him, I think.” Riley's expression turned thoughtful. “He broke his neck at Saratoga, didn't he?"
She flinched inwardly as the memory of Nate's tragic fall leapt into her mind. After all this time, she still remembered it like yesterday—and the pain that came with it was still every bit as sharp. Nodding, she grabbed at her bag and shouldered past him, opening her door. “I need to get back to the stables. We've got a race next week if you recall."
His devilish grin said he hadn't forgotten. “Yeah, I need to get some training miles on Ghost too."
When he took a step toward her, her heart fluttered. But she backed closer to the cab, ignoring the effect he had on her. Riley Jennings was not going to kiss her again. With one foot in her truck, she bid him goodbye. “I'll see you at Pimlico, Riley. Thanks for the help."
His mouth twitched with humor. Dismissing her with an amused shake of his head, he returned to his vehicle as well.
Damn, if he didn't have the sexiest ass she'd ever seen. Although loose, his jeans hugged it perfectly. It was simply not fair that the man she wanted the least to do with, the one she was determined she wouldn't ever again allow the liberties he had taken last night, was such a perfect piece of ... art. And as much as she hated to admit it, Sybil was right. His body was made for orgasms. They'd just have to be someone else's.
As Bess rumbled up Maddie's long, winding drive toward the green and white stables, Maddie watched the yearlings in the field. Tall and leggy, they leapt and jumped in play, their sleek bodies surging through the lush green grass like they raced on winged hooves. The five youngsters were all sired by Desperate Echo, her champion stallion, and they all bore his trademark knee-high front stockings. On any other day, she'd have stopped and gone to the fence to pet them. But today, after her parting conversation with Riley, the young horses only reminded her that Nate's last ride had been on their daddy's back.
With a melancholy sigh, she turned the wheel at a fork in the drive and veered away from the training facility, down a more overgrown path. At the top of a hill, she eased to a stop in front of a pair of ornate iron gates. Above the gothic barricade, an engraved piece of slate read, McCleery. She watched it swing on rusty chains, noting they needed to be replaced.
She slid out of the cab and pushed on the gates, their eerie squeak strangely comforting. Someone had been here recently, she observed as she took in the neatly mowed walkways and manicured hedges. Probably Emmanuel. Originally slaves owned by Maddie's great-great-grandfather, Emmanuel's ancestors were buried up here too. Though in his seventies now, Emmanuel often frequented the private cemetery, and he spent hours looking after it. She loved the old man for that.
Her feet took her where she wanted to go without conscious instruction. Down an eastward path, around the weeping willow that sheltered the ashes of generations of McCleery champions, and to a polished black headstone etched with the image of a racehorse in full stride. It read, Nathan A. Harcourt.
Nate always claimed he had no family. Maddie always suspected, as did her father, he was lying, but after his death no one ever came to claim his body. Driven by a true respect for the gutsy jockey, and partially by guilt, her father buried him up here with the family. Maddie wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Not then, at least. Not when she'd built her world around dreams of him. She wouldn't have it otherwise now, either. Nate was as much a part of her as this property, her parents, the horses. He deserved a resting place where no one would forget him.
Kneeling in front of his tombstone, she traced her fingers slowly over his name. Poor Nate. Too young to die. He'd been too arrogant, too ambitious. He never should have ridden that race, but he'd done so well with their horses, his easy charm convinced her father into letting him. The same charm he used on her. The same easy going, “C'mon Maddie, don't be afraid to take a risk,” attitude that convinced her into planning a future as his wife. He'd made her believe dreams were meant to be reached for. And Nathan died doing what he loved most.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away angrily. That
was years ago. She had no business crying over Nathan Harcourt now. But damn, sometimes, she just wished he was near, here to erase her worries with his easy laugh, here to give her courage with his refusal to admit failure. Of all the people she knew, he would know best how to get Infidelity to win, how she could get her hands on Ghost. Hell, he'd probably even do it for her and surprise her one afternoon when he unloaded the grey colt, telling her she owed Jennings less than her present offer. Nate had a way of doing things like that.
Nate kept her here. Refused to allow her to give up on horses. Nate also reminded her what happened when the heart got involved with a man who lived for racing. The heart always lost, somehow. No matter how secure a wager seemed, there was always a heavy risk involved. As long as one didn't care about the outcome—and not caring about money was easy—no one got hurt. When the outcome mattered most, devastating losses occurred.
Pushing away from the soft grass, she strode quickly back to her truck and shut the cemetery gates behind her. Turning around, she headed for the barn, her jaw set in firm resolution. Between her trainer, Archie, and herself, they had to find a way to win the Preakness. It was the only way to beat the odds.
* * * *
Whistling, Riley made his way out the wide, double doors of his long stable and to the dirt training track outside. He climbed on the fence, watching Ben swing up onto Ghost's back. Other full time jocks didn't waste their afternoons with training. They waited only for race day and rode for a multitude of owners. But in an effort to keep his horses in consistent hands, Riley offered Ben a salary and benefits for him and his family, to keep him employed full time on the farm, as well as on the track. Ben was too good to let go and risk the competition involved with the luck of horses. For Ben, the security of benefits like health insurance, life insurance, and never worrying about where a meal might come from, the arrangement was ideal. Particularly when he considered his three children.
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