by Tami Hoag
“We should seal this bargain, don’t you think?” she said, plucking her nail buffer from his fingers and dropping it behind her. “Kiss and make up?”
“A handshake is all you need dealin’ horses,” he said with a nervous laugh. Her belly was pressing softly, provocatively against his hardening groin. He wanted her so badly, he could barely think straight. He had to remember they weren’t alone in the big house, had to remember he couldn’t make love to her until he had a firm handle on his control, or he was liable to ruin his grand plan.
Maggie slid her arms up around his neck, tingles running through her at the tightening of his heavy muscles. Her voice was low and smooth as she raised on tiptoe and inched her mouth toward his. “We aren’t dealin’ horses, sugar. Besides, what’s a lil’ old kiss between friends?”
The kiss was hot. There was no gradual warming. It was hot from the first. Maggie’s lips coaxed and teased. Her tongue sought and gained entry to Ry’s mouth, then retreated, luring him to sample the sweet delights of hers. He needed no more encouragement. Crushing her in his embrace, he took control of his kiss and lost control of his desire. His hand slid down her back to cup her bottom. There was a clatter of things falling on the dresser as he lifted her against him and slanted his mouth across hers.
Lack of oxygen was the only thing that saved him from taking her right there on the cluttered dresser. He tore his lips from hers to drag in a ragged breath, and a measure of sanity rushed in with it. He fought off a vague sense of panic and congratulated himself. Why should he feel as if he had been tactically outmaneuvered? He was the one with the plan, and the plan was working.
Putting an inch of space between them, he shot her a rare grin and said, “Well, that ought to seal the deal. Friends again.”
Friends indeed, Maggie thought, fighting a smile of smug satisfaction. A man couldn’t kiss like that and be indifferent. Indifference didn’t strain against the front of a man’s jeans. This scheme of hers was going to work out fine. And the beauty of it was Rylan would never figure out he’d been manipulated. Men were so dense about that sort of thing.
Mischief sparkled in her dark eyes as she caught a whiff of the perfume he’d accidentally sprayed on the front of his denim shirt. She reached for the top button. “Mercy, Rylan, you smell like an Avon Lady. Why don’t you let me take this shirt and wash it for you?”
Ry caught her hands as the third button and buttonhole parted company and his shirt opened further to reveal a vee of bronze skin thickly carpeted with curling black hair. Maybe his plan was working a little too well. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, pooh,” Maggie said, trying not to giggle. “It’s no trouble a’tall. Besides, what will the boys in the stable think if you come around smelling like Passion’s Promise?”
“Passion’s Promise?” He scowled. “Hell of a name for perfume.”
“I think it’s very appropriate.” She lifted her wrist and brushed it in a slow, sensuous caress against his beard-shadowed cheek, knowing by the way his nostrils flared that he was inhaling the seductive scent. She ran her tongue along her kiss-ripened lower lip. “Don’t you think so?”
“I think,” he said firmly, taking another step back from her, “that I’d better get home. It’s chore time, and I still have a yard full of people from New Jersey to see to.”
“Oh. Well, if you’re sure.” She allowed herself a tiny smile as she glanced down and tightened the sash of her kimono. This day wasn’t turning out so bad after all. She looked up as Ry started for the bedroom door. “Rylan?”
The look he shot her with his stormy gray-green eyes bordered on suspicious. “What?”
She gave him a genuine smile. “I’m glad we’re friends again.”
“Me too,” he said, although he had the distinct feeling they had just declared an odd kind of war. It was a ridiculous idea, he told himself, and immediately dismissed it. It was his plan, he was in control of the situation. He turned and took a step before her voice stopped him again.
“Ry?”
“What?”
“Better button your shirt, darlin’. You’ll give Miss Emma palpitations. She’s hot for your bod, you know.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the look he gave her as he took her advice. “It’s true!”
Ry’s voice rang with disapproval. “Miss Emma is a sweet little seventy-some-year-old lady—”
“—who has eyes for a big strappin’ man.” Maggie waggled her eyebrows suggestively and held back her laughter as Ry blushed with embarrassment.
“Good evening, Mary Margaret,” he said in a tone that hinted at exasperation.
She waved to him as he walked out. “Good night, friend.”
Maggie listened as Ry’s boots clomped down the hall and descended the stairs. She sat on the ledge of her window and watched him walk away from the house to his blue-and-gray pickup truck.
He was rough around the edges, but he had the makings of a real fine man. Her man.
“I’ll get you to love me, Rylan Quaid,” she said with quiet determination, “or die trying.”
THREE
THAT SHE WAS going to die trying was beginning to look like a definite possibility.
Maggie stood in the wide aisle of Quaid Farm’s main barn looking up, up, up at the horse she had so cavalierly said she would ride. It was all a part of her brilliant—but seriously flawed—plan: Ry was more likely to fall in love with her if they spent a lot of time together. It followed that he would be impressed if they spent some of that time enjoying his favorite pursuits. He loved to ride; therefore, she would love to ride. But that was where the plan hit a snag.
Maggie didn’t love to ride. Horses terrified her. The few experiences she’d had with the beasts had been unpleasant. She hadn’t even liked riding the merry-go-round as a child. Once, at a fair in Norfolk, her father had taken her to the pony ring. The pony she was to ride had taken one look at her, pinned back its little ears, and bit her. These were memories that had remained conveniently buried in her sub conscious when she had suggested to Rylan that they go riding together. They all came rushing to the fore now that she was standing next to the big brown gelding Ry had selected for her.
“What’s his name?” she asked as he snugged up the girth on her saddle.
He tugged on a billet strap, dropped the saddle flap down, and gave the horse an affectionate smack on the side. “Killer.”
Maggie’s face dropped. In a voice as thin as gossamer she asked, “Why?”
Ry rolled his eyes as he started across the aisle toward his own mount. “It’s a misnomer, a joke. It’s a wonder he swats flies, he’s so gentle. If he was any quieter, he’d be dead.”
“Oh.” Hesitantly she reached a hand toward the horse’s muzzle. The gelding touched her fingertips, flared his wide nostrils, and snorted. With a little yelp, Maggie bolted backward, slamming into Rylan’s chest. His hands came up to cup her shoulders.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mary Margaret?”
“Absolutely!”
It wasn’t going to further her cause any to have Ry know she was afraid of horses. Horses were his life. He wasn’t going to want a wife who wouldn’t share that with him. She was simply going to have to overcome her fear. Literally dragging her feet, she inched toward Killer, reaching out to pat his shoulder, careful to stay an arm’s length away. “I love riding, but it’s been a little while since I’ve done it, that’s all.”
“Like in another lifetime.” Ry chuckled under his breath, shaking his head in amusement.
A little smile tugged at his firm lips. She really was too darn cute in her brand-new riding togs. The buff-colored breeches hugged her well-rounded derriere. Her tall, polished brown boots had yet to get a scuff mark on them. She was now regarding Killer with a look of determination that said she was going to ride this horse if for no other reason than that she had spent about two hundred and fifty bucks on the outfit.
She’s playing right into your hands, old boy, he told himself, re
sisting the urge to grin. Maggie had never shown the least interest in riding until he’d retracted his proposal. Now, all of a sudden, she was an avid equestrian. It was all he could do to keep from patting himself on the back.
Maggie insisted on leading her own horse down the aisle and out into the yard. Willing herself to be brave, she took hold of Killer’s reins near the bit and started toward the wide opening at the far end of the long stable. The sound of steel-shod hooves ringing on the concrete made her stomach queasy. The animal ambling along beside her stood five feet three inches tall at the shoulder. She couldn’t see over his back. Katie had once told her the average thoroughbred weighed around twelve hundred pounds. That was one thousand seventy pounds more than her own weight.
Winding their way around grooms mucking out stalls and stray dogs exploring their foster home, they exited the stable at the end that faced the outdoor arena. In the ring, Ry’s trainer, Christian Atherton, was putting Rough Cut through his paces over an array of jumps. The big bay Hanoverian moved with power and grace, cantering to his fences lazily, then sailing over them with an ease that was positively arrogant.
Maggie watched, feeling a mixture of awe and fear. The handsome Atherton made it look easy. Maggie knew it was not. A fall on a difficult course had nearly killed Katie Quaid five years ago when she had been in contention for a spot on the Olympic show jumping team. Even after years of intense training, a masterful equestrian faced risks. Horses could be unpredictable.
She cast a dubious glance at Killer. The horse was half dozing, flipping his lips together, a habit that made him look as if he were talking to himself. She didn’t want to imagine what he was saying—probably something about lulling a greenhorn into a false sense of security.
“Leg up?” Ry asked impatiently. He hadn’t missed the way Maggie had been watching the horse and rider in the arena. Particularly the rider, he imagined. If there was a woman on the face of the earth who was immune to the cultured British charm of Christian Atherton, Ry had yet to meet her. Chris, while a close friend, was everything Ry was not—handsome, charming, sophisticated, worldly, the consummate ladies’ man. None of that had bothered Ry before; he aspired to none of those things. Suddenly he was ready to bellow like a wounded moose because Maggie’s gaze had lingered on the man a second longer than was necessary.
Too preoccupied to notice Ry’s new mood, Maggie congratulated herself. She’d picked up a book on horsemanship the same day she had purchased her outrageously expensive riding clothes. The book had explained the rudiments of riding, step by step. “Leg up” was a term she was now thoroughly familiar with. She took the correct position beside the horse, lifting her left foot behind her so Ry could assist her in mounting.
“Your Mr. Atherton is one of the best, isn’t he?” she asked innocently.
Ry’s grumbled answer was lost in her squeal of surprise as he grabbed her ankle and nearly tossed her over the horse. She had to grab Killer around the neck to keep from landing in a water trough. As Ry mounted his horse, Maggie righted herself in the saddle and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She watched as Rough Cut started to refuse a fence, then took it in a tremendous leap that almost unseated his rider.
Working her reins into her gloved hands, Maggie swallowed hard. She already felt that her perch on the brown gelding’s back was a precarious one. This must have been how Humpty Dumpty felt, she thought, trying to will herself to have good balance. If Killer had to step over anything higher than his shadow, she was going to end up on her head. Maybe she should have bought that velvet-covered riding helmet after all.
She cast a surreptitious glance at Rylan. The breeze tossed his dark hair. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, but then he’d been riding practically since he could walk.
“This trail we’re going on…it doesn’t have any jumps on it, does it? I mean, I’m not really in the mood for that sort of thing today,” she hastened to add.
His humor returning, Ry rubbed a hand across his mouth and shook his head. “No, no jumps.” He nudged his mount with his heels and began leading the way out of the stable yard toward the wooded hills. Unable to resist, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Just a little bit of water to swim through.”
Maggie’s stomach did a back flip. She turned her wide brown eyes on the animal beneath her. Killer didn’t exactly resemble a sea horse. In fact, he looked distinctly un seaworthy. She urged him after his stablemate, almost bouncing off when he swung into a loose-limbed trot. “Uh, Rylan, sugar, can we discuss this swimming business?”
“Don’t worry, Mary Margaret,” Ry said straight-faced. “Horses are excellent swimmers—as long as their rider knows what he’s doing.”
Maggie gulped. Lord have mercy, you’re in trouble now, McSwain.
What Maggie spent half the ride imagining as a raging torrent turned out to be a pretty little stream with a bed of pebbles. Not only did the horses not have to swim through it, they barely even noticed it as they waded through.
“Very amusing, Rylan,” she remarked sardonically.
“I thought so,” he said with a chuckle.
The ride was pleasant—generally. Killer turned out to be as amiable as Ry had promised, which helped Maggie relax somewhat. But she hadn’t realized how quickly her uninitiated body would begin to protest the unfamiliar activity. She was no health nut, but she did get a certain amount of exercise in her work, running around for clients, going up and down the stairs of the homes she had to decorate. Lately she had also been on another of her sporadic workout kicks.
She discovered, however, that riding a horse exercised muscles nothing else did. Her ankles burned with pain from trying to maintain the correct position of heels down. Her arms and shoulders ached from trying to steer Killer away from the bushes he wanted to snack on. Her thighs began to quiver from gripping the saddle. Her new boots made her feet ache. Not even proper breeches could keep her bottom from getting saddle-sore.
Still, she enjoyed the ride when she wasn’t biting back a groan of discomfort. The scenery was breathtaking. Wandering over the hills that were decked out in fall’s blaze of color, she couldn’t help thinking there wasn’t a place on earth more beautiful than Virginia in autumn. If she could master sitting on a horse without fear of imminent death, she could picture spending many hours riding over these hills with Ry.
Damnation, he was handsome in black boots and skintight gray breeches that did nothing to disguise his muscular thighs or the impressive evidence of his gender. The black polo shirt he wore strained itself across his shoulders and chest. In another century he would have made a magnificent knight—powerful, back erect, hands light on the reins. Maggie would have gotten dizzy looking at him if she hadn’t already been dizzy from sitting on top of a four-legged skyscraper.
“That was your stallion your trainer was riding, wasn’t it?” she asked, trying to get her mind off the flex and play of the muscles in his thighs.
“Yep, that was him. Rough Cut.”
“Katie tells me you’re going to retire him.”
Ry’s narrowed eyes watched her carefully. “His last competition is in two weeks—the Albemarle Cup Grand Prix. He gets a few months off, then starts standing at stud in February.”
“Oh.” Maybe this wasn’t the greatest topic after all, Maggie thought. She wanted to show an interest in his business, but she really didn’t think talking about studs and servicing and the like was going to do much to get her mind off Rylan’s body.
Side by side their horses trudged up a short, steep hill, following an old logging trail that made a wide, clean path through the woods.
“If you retire your best horse, will Mr. Atherton stay on?”
Ry turned sharply in his saddle, his expression intense enough to bore through solid steel. “Why the hell would you care?”
Maggie was so startled, she nearly jumped off her horse. “I was just asking!”
“If you’re so all-fire keen on Atherton, why don’t you go riding with him? I’m sure he’d be
more than happy to give you private lessons,” he said with a sneer.
“I’m not—I don’t want—” she stammered, completely taken aback by Ry’s behavior. “What in the world’s gotten into you? Did you get bit by one of those mountain ticks or something? You’re raving like a lunatic. All I did was ask a simple question!”
“Gosh almighty.” He swore long and fluently under his breath as much at his own behavior as anything. What was the matter with him all of a sudden?
“Well, is he?” Maggie asked.
“Is he what?” he snapped.
“Staying on as your trainer.”
“Yes.”
She rolled her eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.”
“Hmph,” he said with a snort. “Sure it is.”
Maggie stared at him speculatively, a slow smile curving her mouth. “Why, Rylan Quaid, I do believe you’re jealous.”
His scowl intensified. “Am not.”
She grinned to herself. Point to McSwain. She was so happy, she nearly forgot she was on a horse and almost launched herself into Ry’s arms. If he cared enough to get jealous, then she had something more to build on besides lust.
She batted her lashes at him coyly and conjured up her most seductive voice. “You don’t have anything to worry about, sugar; he’s not half the man you are.”
Ry blushed burgundy. “Crimeny, Mary Margaret.”
It was bad enough he kept catching glimpses of her breasts swaying seductively beneath her blouse. He sure didn’t need her making suggestive remarks. He was ready to tackle her off her horse and have his way with her right there in the woods.
That would be the end of his plan. Maggie wanted someone charming and sophisticated, not a bull elk in rut. If he acted on his rampaging lust, he’d only be proving he was indeed too crude for an admiral’s daughter.
When they emerged from the woods, Maggie was surprised to find they had looped around the farm and were now at the entrance gate. Horses in the fenced pastures raised their heads from grazing to look at them. A scruffy little brown-spotted dog sat by the gate post as if he had been waiting for them. Ry took one look at the animal and started scowling.