by Tami Hoag
“I’m not jealous,” Ry said, knowing it was a bald-faced lie.
Christian laughed as he swept a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “Next you’ll try to tell me you’re not in love with her.”
Ry looked at him sharply, his heartbeat picking up the extra stroke of panic. “I’m not in love with her. I like Maggie. I’m attracted to her. I think we could have a solid marriage.”
“You’re possessive of her and insanely jealous if another man so much as glances at her from across the room.” Christian pressed a hand to Ry’s broad shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. “My dear friend, you need a lesson in romantic math. All those things add up to love.”
He couldn’t be in love with her, Ry told himself. He had promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t fall into that trap again. He wanted to be partners with Maggie—in bed and out—but he couldn’t give her his heart. He wasn’t capable of it anymore. Besides, it didn’t make good sense for a man like him to give his heart to a woman. She would only give it back. He had good qualities: He was loyal, he would be faithful, he was a hard worker, a good provider. Those were fine qualities, but they weren’t the things that inspired women to write love sonnets.
His eyes found Carter Hill again, and he wished the poor man to the blackest corner of hell simply because he looked perfectly at ease in a tuxedo. Well, a tuxedo was the next to the last thing Ry needed. The last was to fall in love. Fortifying the walls he’d built around his heart, he told himself yet again that he would have Maggie McSwain for his bride because she was the logical choice and for no other reason. Then, with the bitter taste of a lie in his mouth, he went to escort his date to their table for dinner.
“This should prove interesting,” Christian said loud enough so only Ry could hear him. The trainer pulled out a chair for his date, a lovely brunette in a shimmering red gown, as his laughing eyes took in the group of people gathering at the large, round table.
Ry’s brows slashed into a deep V over stormy eyes. Carter Hill had positioned himself directly across from Maggie. Short of making a scene that would undoubtedly get him thrown out of the Charlottesville hotel, there was nothing he could do about it. The banquet committee had made no formal seating arrangements. Also taking places at the table were Katie and Nick, who had come to see him accept an award from the VGA in honor of Rough Cut’s brilliant career and pending retirement; Taylor Burwell, a wealthy retired businessman and investor in the Rough Cut syndicate; and Miss Emma Darlington.
Miss Emma wasted no time introducing herself to the distinguished Mr. Burwell, and seated herself beside him. Smiling, she leaned into him as she adjusted her napkin on the lap of her silver gray dress.
“Miss Emma,” Ry said. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“She told me she was coming to cruise for beefcake,” Maggie whispered, earning a disgusted look from her date.
“The Darlingtons have always supported the equestrian sports,” Miss Emma explained, cooling herself with an antique lace-and-ivory fan as she smiled coyly up at Burwell. “Our daddy, Jay Randolph Darlington, once jumped his horse through the crotch of a tree in Donner Park merely to gain the attention of a certain young lady. I was, myself, an avid equestrian for many years.”
“Were you, my dear?” Burwell asked.
Miss Emma gave a throaty chuckle. “Why, you can’t imagine the things I’ve done on horseback.”
Ry choked a little on his drink and glared at Maggie, as if it was her fault for telling him Miss Emma had a rather randy nature.
The old woman’s eyes took on a faraway gleam. “There was one time in particular—”
“It’s a shame Mrs. Claiborne wasn’t able to attend also,” Maggie said, heading off what was undoubtedly another ribald tale.
Miss Emma shook her head. “She would have spent the entire evening worrying about Junior. She and that little dog have become inseparable. They’ll both be at the show tomorrow. Will you be there, Mr. Burwell?”
Ry lost interest in the conversation when he caught Carter Hill gazing across the table at Maggie with calf eyes and his tongue all but hanging out of his mouth. He refrained from launching himself at the slender auburn-haired lawyer, managing to grind out a question instead. “On your own tonight, Hill?”
“Huh? Oh—a—yes. I’m afraid my date came down with something at the last minute.”
“Terminal boredom, no doubt,” Ry said under his breath. He started to lean his elbows on the table, then pulled himself up short, looking like a moron. Carter Hill didn’t put his elbows on the table.
Maggie sent a charming smile to her ex-beau. “I’m amazed you didn’t have girls lined up to take her place, Carter.”
Ry almost gagged.
“Well, I did have someone else in mind.” Carter said, his gaze locked on her, “but she was already spoken for. Some other time perhaps.”
Ry turned red and tensed in his chair, ready to pounce. Only Christian’s hand on his arm kept him from bolting out of his seat.
The Englishman sent a smile across the table and smoothly changed the subject. “Can we expect to see you at the farm next month for the open house, Mr. Burwell?”
Maggie thought the dinner went rather well. Her nights of studying and Katie’s tutoring paid off. She followed most of the conversation that went on around her. There was still plenty of hunter-jumper jargon to learn, but she didn’t embarrass herself or Ry. She thought she succeeded in showing him she could fit into his world socially. That and driving him into a sexual frenzy had been her two goals for the evening. She was still working on the second one.
Most of the talk revolved around the topic of Ry’s stallion. The horse was a product of the Quaid Farm breeding program and was Ry’s pride and joy. Maggie had learned that Rough Cut was the top money-winning horse in the history of grand prix jumping and would add another fifteen thousand dollars to his career earnings the next day if he jumped well in the Albemarle Cup Grand Prix.
“Do you think he’ll do it, Christian?” Katie asked.
“If all goes according to plan.”
Atherton’s date gave him a saucy look. “Debutante and I may have something to say about that.”
Christian’s eyes glittered at the challenge. “Marissa is riding our top competition, Idlewylde Farm’s Debutante,” he explained. He winked at her. “Come now, love, you wouldn’t spoil Rough Cut’s grand finale, would you?”
Marissa smiled. “In a minute, and I wouldn’t bat at eyelash. Rough Cut’s worth a fortune whether he wins the Albemarle Cup or not.”
“True,” Ry said, salting his potatoes, “but fifteen grand would go a long way in paying for that new breeding shed we’re putting up.”
“I’ve heard the rumors on that syndication figure. My heart bleeds for you, Ry,” Marissa said with no sympathy.
Christian shook his head as he sliced into his prime rib. “She’s totally without mercy. I should know.”
Everyone laughed at his comically pained expression.
“You should see all the improvements Ry is making at the farm in anticipation of Rough Cut’s coming home to stand at stud, Mr. Burwell,” Maggie said. She could feel Ry’s gaze boring into the back of her head, and she smiled to herself. She winked at Katie, who had explained to her the expensive expansion of facilities that was going on at Quaid Farm. “In addition to the new breeding shed, there will be veterinary facilities on the grounds, and a new barn and paddocks for visiting mares. Isn’t that right, sugar?” she asked, turning back to Ry.
“That’s right,” he said, thrown off balance by her wealth of knowledge. She had gone to some trouble to learn all that. Why?
Maggie patted his thigh under the table and every question he had flew right out of his head. The way she was sitting gave him an unobstructed view of her cleavage. He wondered vaguely if it wasn’t against the law for a woman to wear a dress that numbed a man’s brain so.
Maggie turned back to the conversation, leaving her ha
nd on Ry’s rock-hard thigh, her fingers absently massaging. Instead of making him relax, it had the exact opposite effect. The muscles tightened and tightened until she expected him to shoot out of the chair like a rocket.
“The expansion will be well worth the expense if Rough Cut proves to be as good in the breeding pen as he is in the show ring,” Burwell said.
“I’m sure you’ll be glad you invested, Mr. Burwell. We’re certain Rough Cut will live up to his potential as a sire,” Maggie added.
Katie had also filled her in on what it meant to syndicate a stallion. She was extremely grateful, as the syndication of Rough Cut had been big news and hot gossip. Rumors ran the syndication price to seven figures.
Maggie thought she would bust from pride when the chairman of the Virginia Grand Prix Association called Ry to the front of the room to present him with a plaque and congratulate him for raising and campaigning a horse that had become a living legend in the sport. Ry had made it to the top of a very competitive business. She knew how hard he worked, how much he loved and sweated over his horses. To hear other people in the business sing his praises made her want to throw her arms around him and declare to everyone in the room that he was hers.
At the moment, she noted, he didn’t look as though that would please him. He had returned to his seat and was wearing one of his infamous scowls as he watched Carter Hill reluctantly leave the table in search of a dancing partner.
“You weren’t hiding behind any doors when they passed out charm, were you?” Ry’s tone was anything but complimentary.
Maggie watched Christian and Marissa, and Katie and Nick step out onto the highly polished dance floor before she deigned to comment. She turned to Ry with a lazy smile as she chose a dark red grape from the plate of fruit at the center of the table. “I’m not quite sure how you mean that, sugar.”
His scowl darkened from black to bottomless. “I mean, you’ve got all the men here panting after you like a pack of half-starved coon hounds. Carter Hill didn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner.”
“Didn’t he?” she asked innocently, hiding her smile as she brought the grape to her lips and began slowly peeling it with her teeth. Bless your jealous heart, Rylan Quaid. “And why should you care, friend?”
Sweat filmed Ry’s forehead. His train of thought momentarily derailed as he watched her small white teeth neatly strip the skin from the grape. “Hell…I-I don’t. It’s just that he’s no man for you. You’d tear him to shreds inside of a week.” The grape disappeared into her mouth. Her ripe red lips closed around it. He swallowed hard. “You need a man you can’t intimidate.”
“Is that a fact?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes as she lifted a fat, beautiful strawberry from the silver platter. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, she dunked the tip of it in her champagne glass, lifted it to her mouth, and licked the golden liquid off, her tongue lazily stroking the berry. Rylan went pale, then a blush began creeping up his thick neck from beneath the snow white collar of his shirt.
“Y-yeah, that’s right,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling as if there wasn’t enough air in the room to fill a thimble, let alone his lungs. As she nipped the end off the strawberry, he felt every drop of blood in his body gravitate to one vital area. “You need a man with some backbone,” he said hoarsely.
Maggie shifted on her chair. She’d never seduced a man. It was exciting. Watching him lose the struggle to maintain that damned steely control of his, knowing she was responsible, was turning her on. The tight bodice of her gown scraped against her hypersensitive nipples. Ry’s hands would soothe that ache later.
Forcing her brain back to the conversation, she said, “A man like you?” She dipped the strawberry in the champagne once again and returned it to her lips. “I don’t know about that, sugar. You were probably right; we’re better off being friends. This way we can enjoy each other’s company and still be—” she licked the strawberry again, “—open—” she took a bite, “—to other relationships.”
The last of the berry disappeared, leaving only bright dots of red juice where she’d held it. Daintily she drew her tongue across the tip of her forefinger, then the pad of her thumb, her gaze locked on Ry’s.
As she lowered her hand toward the platter again, aiming for a slice of peach, Ry’s arm shot across the table with all the speed and power of a striking snake. His big hand manacled her wrist.
“Leave the fruit alone, Mary Margaret!”
Maggie drew her hand back, her eyes round with phony innocence. “Why Rylan, is something wrong?”
Nothing that couldn’t be cured by pulling her naked onto his lap, he thought.
Damn. He had to cool out before they headed home, or his plan for the rest of the evening—not to mention the rest of his life—was going to be radically altered.
Without looking at Maggie, he excused himself and left the noise and heat of the ballroom behind. In the men’s room, he bent over a marble sink and splashed cold water on his face, then stood staring into the mirror, water dripping off his nose and chin.
What the hell was the matter with him? He refused to let Christian’s earlier statement answer that question. Lust was what was the matter with him. A few deep breaths, a little willpower, and he’d be fine. He drove a hand through his neatly combed hair, trying to compose himself. He’d be fine, he told himself, pulling his comb out of his pocket. He was feeling better already.
His new sense of calm vaporized the minute he returned to the ballroom. There was Maggie, on the dance floor with Carter Hill. A fine red mist clouded Ry’s vision. Other relationships, she’d said! The hell if he was going to let a puny suit rack like Carter Hill get in the way of his marrying Maggie! The man didn’t even own a decent horse!
He started toward them, visions of grievous bodily harm dancing in his head, until Miss Emma stepped in front of him.
“Why, Mr. Quaid, I’ve just been dying to dance with you all evening.”
Ry ground his teeth as he lost sight of Maggie and Hill on the other side of the dance floor. He glanced down at the old woman as she took his hands and positioned them—one scandalously low on her hip. He pulled it up. “I’m not much for dancing, ma’am.”
“Then it’s high time you learned,” she said, and started moving to the music.
He had no choice but to follow her and try to keep from mashing her dainty toes with his size thirteen feet.
“I’m so glad you’re seeing more of our Mary Margaret. She’s a lovely girl, so spirited. Much as I was at her age. Lord, the stories I could tell!” She gave him a naughty, knowing smile and let the subject drop as Maggie and Carter danced past. “I see you’re letting her dance with that young Hill gentleman. How…free-thinking of you.” She said it in that truly Southern way that used nothing more than slight emphasis to indicate disapproval. “I used to go out with his father. You wouldn’t have thought there was much fire in him either, but I can tell you…. Well, it makes me blush to think of the things we used to do. He was particularly fond of a feather boa I used to own….”
Maggie moved woodenly, standing as far away from Carter Hill as she could. She felt like a creep using Carter this way, and she blamed the feeling on Ry. Why did he have to be such a stubborn son of a gun? What was it about her that made him keep such a tight rein on his passions? She knew he found her desirable, so what was the problem and how could she cure it short of tying him up and attacking him? Hmm…tying him up. There was an idea that held immense potential for satisfaction….
“…but I’m going to be tied up,” Carter’s voice cut into her fantasy.
Maggie stared up at him, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “You do?”
“Do what?”
“Like to be tied up. Who would have guessed?”
He looked at her as if he thought she’d lost her mind entirely, too much the gentleman to ask her to explain. “I said, I was planning to attend the show tomorrow, but I’m going to be tied up. I’m working on a rather fasc
inating antitrust suit….”
Her mind tuned out instantly. No, she wasn’t going to feel bad about using Carter. She’d sat through too many dinners listening to his endless, boring explanations of his cases. He owed her.
Suddenly Ry’s figure loomed up menacingly behind Hill. His big hand clamped down on the lawyer’s shoulder, effectively halting their dance. He scowled into the man’s aristocratically handsome face and said, “I’m cutting in.”
Maggie was thrilled. Her temporary partner was not. Carter gave Ry a look of outrage, showing more gumption than anyone would have given him credit for. “Now see here, Quaid—”
Ry nearly lifted him off the floor with one hand. “Now you see here, Carter,” he said in a dangerously silky voice, a malicious smile lifting his lips. “I won’t have you pawing my date, dreaming up kinky things to do to her with a feather boa. You can let me cut in, or you can get your head soaked in the punch bowl.”
Hill wisely took the first option. He backed off the dance floor, straightening his jacket and staring at Ry as if he were certain he had escaped a brush with a madman.
“I suppose that was rude,” Ry said as he pulled a grinning Maggie into his arms.
She linked her hands behind his neck, loving the feel of his broad, hard shoulders. “Unpardonably. Why’d you do it?”
“You’re my date.” His voice dripped with possessive jealousy.
Maggie’s stomach did a cartwheel. “But I didn’t think you’d mind me dancing with another man since you and I are just friends.”
“Well, I damn well mind if you dance with Carter Hill, and don’t ask me why.”
She decided to heed his warning, choosing instead to torment him by snuggling closer in his arms. “I swear, Rylan, sometimes I can’t figure you out. What was that business about a feather boa?”
“Just something Miss Emma said. You wouldn’t believe the story she told me.” He blushed in remembrance.
“Was it kinky?”
His face darkened a shade.
Maggie chuckled. “Then I believe it.”
He scowled at her as he shuffled his feet in the smallest concession to social dance. If she got any closer, they were going to create the biggest scandal in the history of the Virginia Grand Prix Association. He inched back away from her.