Книга - Biding Her Time

Biding Her Time
Wendy Warren


Mills & Boon Silhouette
How did Audrey Griffin–a blacksmith by trade– become a wine hostess? Sure, she's all about "seizing the day," but she's a tomboy, not a booth bunny. Granted, her makeover has transformed her into a hottie–but when you're working with a straitlaced Aussie god like vintner Shane Preston, a little fashion goes a long way!Unfortunately, no-strings-attached doesn't work for Shane. Something about Audrey makes him want more from their fiery attraction–despite the fact that "commitment" leaves Audrey shakier than a horse on Rollerblades. Is she balking at love…or simply biding her time?







Dear Reader,

Like most young girls, I loved horses. I recall once attempting to convince my parents that a small stable would fit perfectly in our suburban backyard. Nixing that idea, they opened our home to a number of rescued dogs and cats, and I didn’t revisit horses until this book project came along.

The research was fascinating. I learned about horse racing, yes, but also about the bold and complex men, women and animals at the heart of the sport. Bold and complex describes the story line of THOROUGHBRED LEGACY, as a matter of fact, and getting to know the other authors was a pleasure. I hope you enjoy Biding Her Time and that it whets your appetite for the books to follow!

Wendy Warren





Biding Her Time










Wendy Warren







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


WENDY WARREN

lives with her husband and daughter in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Their house was previously owned by a woman named Cinderella, who bequeathed them a garden full of flowers they try desperately (and occasionally successfully) not to kill, and a pink General Electric oven, circa 1958, that makes the kitchen look like an I Love Lucy rerun.

A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA


Award, Wendy loves to read and write the kind of books that remind her of the old movies she grew up watching with her mom—stories about decent people looking for the love that can make an ordinary life heroic. When not writing, she likes to take long walks, hide out in bookstores with her friends and sneak tofu into her husband’s dinner. If you’d like a tofu recipe—and who wouldn’t?—visit her Web site, www.wendywarren-author.com.


With deep gratitude to the editors,

past and present, who have taught me to write

and paid me to do it.

From the early years: Wendy Corsi Staub,

Anne Canadeo and Lynda Curnyn.

Susan Litman, my current editor,

is savvy, talented, smart as a whip and sends e-mails

that knock me off my chair with laughter.

Stacy Boyd and Marsha Zinberg invited me on-board

the Thoroughbred Legacy project and have guided it

surely and with terrific grace.

I am very appreciative!




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty




Chapter One


“Put your hands in your pockets, boys, and dig deep. I’m about to lighten your loads.”

Bending over a pool table that had seen more money change hands than Chase Manhattan Bank, Audrey Griffin stretched one toned, well-muscled arm along the green felt. Loose auburn waves spilled over her shoulder as she cocked her opposite elbow back and lined up a seemingly impossible shot.

“Thirteen in the corner,” she called, then sank the ball so fast, a few of the men around the table cussed a blue streak guarandamnteed to set their mamas to praying.

Laying her cue stick atop the well-used table, Audrey brushed her hands, shrugged and let an obnoxious grin spread over her face. “Anyone for darts?”

Colby Dale told her what would have to happen to hell before he played anything with her ever again, but he tossed her a ten spot before walking away. Two of the others coughed up handfuls of dollar bills, and Jed Clooney gave her two bucks in change plus an IOU, just to be irritating.

“Aw, c’mon.” Audrey gathered her winnings, patting the cash into a neat pile. “I’ve been beating y’all since Red Bullet won the Preakness. You gotta be used to it by now.”

“You’ve been gloating about it that long, too,” Jed reminded her as he gathered up cue sticks, “and we’re not used to that yet.” But he tweaked Audrey’s nose as he passed by to show there were no hard feelings. “Nice game, junior. The old man would be proud.”

Audrey felt tears well up.

Shit.

Blinking the emotion away, she pushed her smile higher. No way would she lose it now. Not when she’d been sucking it up successfully all day.

“Beer! I’m buying.” Leading the procession to the bar, she ordered ten Michelob drafts from Herman, the proprietor of Hot to Trot, added shots for those who wanted them and raised her jigger of bourbon immediately when it came. “Live for today, for tomorrow we may die,” she toasted, trying to remember if there was more to the quote, then deciding it was fine just as it stood.

The boys must have agreed with her, because every shot glass bottomed up along with hers. The glasses returned to the bar with a clunk, warm hands reached for icy beers, and talk turned to a couple of local yearlings that had graduated from the Keeneland spring sale in April.

As the conversation heated up along the mahogany and tufted-leather bar, Audrey relinquished her stool and stepped away from the others. The guys would be content to nurse their beers and talk horses the rest of the night, but she didn’t have the focus right now to discuss business. Nor did she have the desire to chase her whiskey with beer. It felt better tonight, or at least more appropriate, to let the eighty-proof Kentucky bourbon have its way with her—burning the back of her throat, threading her veins with a thin coil of heat that made her feel uncomfortably weak. Patting the base of her throat, where the alcohol stung, she decided that bourbon and life had a lot in common: fun in the moment, but you had to be prepared for consequences.

Antsy, Audrey glanced around the room and spied the jukebox. Music. That’s what she needed tonight—and not the sticky Peyton Place theme currently playing, either. Slipping away to feed the machine, she chose her songs, then faced Hot To Trot’s scuffed square of a dance floor, her gaze flicking toward the bar.

A couple of women with whom she’d gone to high school had joined the group of men, scooting their jeans-clad, teeny tiny tushies onto bar stools already occupied by a jockey and a groom from Quest, the same stable at which she worked. Each woman had one superslender arm flung around the neck of the man whose seat she shared, probably to avoid falling off. Audrey smiled. If she tried to plant her generous bootie on a stool that was already taken, she might hip check some poor jockey into the next county.

As the first of her music selections began to play, she took a breath and determined to have a good time, even if she danced alone to every song. Since eleven that morning, nasty what-if thoughts had been pelting her brain like buckshot. Sound and movement might drown them out.

Reminding herself that dancing by one’s lonesome ranked pretty low on the list of life’s injustices, she prepared to dive in—

And then she saw him.

Golden-haired and granite-jawed, over eighteen hands high and as broad as a lumberjack, he seemed bigger than life in every way, as if he’d been carved from the side of a mountain. Earthy, hard-edged and enduring, he gave the startling impression that he had been around since the beginning of time… that he could be around forever.

Since she was a kid, Audrey had been a dedicated people watcher. One of her worst habits, aside from cutting her toenails on the bed, was to file people into categories of her own creation. The stranger at the bar fit neatly into “Blessed At Birth.” Born beautiful—and unless she missed her guess, rich—he’d probably developed his taste for designer clothing in preschool.

Despite the dim bar lighting, the man’s bloodline was plain as day. He’d been born to win. His suit covered a body clearly trimmed of excess. His hair was perfect, and she’d bet a dollar to a doughnut that his nails were manicured, which made her curl her own fingers into her palm. She was a farrier; she spent more time working on horses’ hooves than on her own cuticles.

Audrey didn’t date much, but when she did, she had rules. Thoroughbreds were strictly off-limits. All that perfection made her queasy. The men to whom she was attracted were usually local guys from the community college, where she took one class every semester. What the men she dated had in common was that they were not interested in long-term anything (which kept the goodbyes quick and pain-free, exactly how goodbyes should be) and they were average. Not awash in so much testosterone that they seemed like superheroes waiting for a damsel to rescue.

Audrey Griffin was not a girl who believed in knights-in-shining-armor or in being rescued.

Although…

She’d already spent a good dozen of her twenty-four years pulling herself up by her bootstraps. Would it be so awful if she lost herself in a man who looked as if he could vanquish a dragon without breaking a sweat? Just this once.

All day she’d felt as if she were disappearing, bit by tiny bit. The stranger’s gaze seemed to bring her back.

And if his gaze is that powerful, imagine what his touch can do.

Heat rushed through her. The man seemed to glow in the darkness of the bar, more beautiful and more mysterious than the others present. Most mysterious of all, he never looked away. Men like him rarely noticed her, and that had never bothered her before, not a bit. Yet…

She couldn’t help it; his attention made her feel special, almost… protected.

It was sophomoric; it was foolish. It was the kind of magical thinking she’d abandoned in junior high. Still, she had the feeling that nothing bad could happen if he was with her.

Oh, how she ached to believe the lie for a night.

Her song continued, filling the bar with its intoxicating rhythm.

Throat dry from the whiskey and nerves, Audrey took a step toward the stranger.

And then another.

He continued to watch her, too, and she wished she could better read his expression, but she decided to let the ambiguity be part of the pleasure.

She wasn’t a sexy dancer, but she liked to move. Of their own volition, her hips began to sway to the beat. With nerves making her skin tingle, she gave him a smile that she hoped held the invitation to join her on the dance floor. Her mind began to whirl as she reached the place where she had only to raise her voice above the music in order for him to hear her. Should she speak now or wait until she was closer and could whisper the invitation to join her?

Moistening her lipstick-less lips, she drew them back in a smile of invitation, and—

“Kentucky Ale and a Chardonnay.” Herman’s deep baritone resonated as he placed two glasses in front of Audrey’s mystery man. “You want a bowl of peanuts for your table?”

Too quickly, too easily, her fantasy date’s attention broke away from her and swung to the bartender. “No, thanks.”

Audrey felt the first sickening moments of embarrassment. Two glasses? And one of them a Chardonnay?

He didn’t look her way again, not the tiniest glance, as he unrolled bills from a rather thick wad of money, motioned for Herman to keep the change and picked up his drinks. Audrey watched him, trying hard to feel philosophical instead of fourteen, as his smooth gait carried him to a table in the shadowed corner of the bar.

Since his back was to her now, she risked following him with her gaze. Dim lighting or not, the truth was immediately apparent. Waiting for him on the opposite side of the round wood table sat a woman whose beauty seemed otherworldly. Where Audrey was tall with a perfect build for stable work, the other woman looked like a ballerina from the waist-up. A V-neck blouse in soft pink set off her mother-of-pearl skin and delicate collarbones. Audrey wore a short-sleeved, button-down shirt that could have belonged to a man. Her bold auburn hair seemed almost cartoonish compared to the other girl’s soft, nut-brown waves. And when the lovely creature smiled, Audrey cringed inside.

She had sent a come-hither smile and wagged her hips at a man whose girlfriend made “perfection” seem like a criminal understatement. She, who had learned long ago that her highly imperfect life made running with the Thoroughbreds of the world about as likely as a draft horse competing in the Derby.

Audrey didn’t think she was unattractive. She knew that if she put a little effort into her appearance she could look like… well, a girl. But putting effort into her appearance would defeat her purpose: to weed out imposters.

Life was full of people who had no problem loving you when everything was going right. But throw ’em a curve—financial ruin, physical hardship, a little terminal illness, say—and the phonies scattered like rats to a sewer.

Her eyes began to burn. She blinked hard. Lately she was tired and not above wondering why some lives seemed to be inherently more graceful, crafted more exquisitely…hell, just plain easier… than others.

Maudlin alert. Stop thinking.

Turning, Audrey let her eyelids drift shut as she moved to the beat of Cyndi Lauper’s quirky vocals, intent on shutting out every other sound and especially intent on drowning out her thoughts as she danced alone toward the middle of the floor.

Raising her arms over her head, she sang along, pretending she believed every word of the lyrics.

“Girls just wanna have fun.”



“If your eyebrows dip any lower, you’re going to get hair in your beer.”

His tablemate’s comment jerked Shane from the odd trance into which he’d fallen. Reaching for his drink, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I must be jet-lagged.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hilary Cambria, who’d traveled with him to Kentucky from their native Australia, and who looked fresh as a daisy, gave him a pitying look. “You should be out there, dancing.” Pursing the lips Shane had always thought were one of her best features, she cocked her head to consider him. “You need to lighten up, boyo. Live a little.” She raised her glass. “Like her.”

Shane didn’t have to glance over to know whom his cousin meant. The redhead. The pool shark who bought shots for her mates and drank whiskey like one of the boys. There’d been so much laughter and melodramatic groaning around the pool table when he and Hilary had first entered the bar, he couldn’t help but notice the woman who’d been in the middle of it all.

She behaved as if she hadn’t a responsibility in the world. She dressed as if she didn’t give a damn, yet she had more men around her than a swimsuit model.

He knew without having to look again that her skin was the color of wheat, her hair a red-brown that was several shades darker than her many freckles. She was tall, strong and curvy like a milk-fed farm girl, her innocent look at odds with her bold personality.

“Live for today, for tomorrow we may die.” He’d heard her toast, and frankly it had irritated the hell out of him. He couldn’t stomach a cavalier attitude toward life, yet part of him wanted to challenge her to a game of pool and give her a real race for her money. He wanted to spend the night finding out what was truer: the sassy attitude or the fresh-off-the-farm appearance.

Another part of him knew that a woman like the redhead was simply one of life’s distractions, and he’d stopped indulging in those years earlier, when he’d realized his need to find a purpose for his life outweighed all other desires.

“I saw you watching her.” Hilary interrupted his thoughts. “She wanted to dance with you, you know. She was walking right toward you.”

Shane took a sip of his beer, buying himself a moment. He wanted to answer this well.

Returning the frosted glass to a damp cocktail napkin, he reached across the round table, laying his hand on Hilary’s. “I’m with the prettiest girl in the place. And I happen to know she’s a great conversationalist. Why would I give all that up for a dance?”

His heart sank when he saw her neat jawline tense.

“Because I’m your cousin. And because dancing… is… fun.” She spoke slowly, as if she were addressing a half-wit. “Or don’t you like fun anymore?”

Exhaling her anger, she plucked up her wineglass, her blue eyes narrowing above the rim. “You know I love you, but I can’t spend all my time babysitting so you won’t be lonely. It’s starting to put a crimp in my social life.”

Understanding her true implication, Shane responded immediately and firmly. “I’m not babysitting you.”

“Tell it to someone who hasn’t known you since you wore tighty whities.”

She took a gulp of wine, and Shane felt the awesome burden of his own ineffectualness. “What, pray tell, are tighty whities?” he asked, mostly to fill time until he figured out how to talk to her. She’d changed so much in the past year.

Surprising him, she laughed, and thankfully the sound wasn’t quite as brittle as he might have feared. “You really need to get out more. Tighty whities are men’s jocks. The plain kind. Do you know that in America, some men wear jocks that are red-white-and-blue on the Fourth of July? I wonder how they fit all the stars and stripes on there?”

She had decided to make him laugh, and she succeeded. He felt a rush of affection for the girl who had always loved everything American. He hoped this trip to the States would be a gift to her, hoped it would bring back some of her joy.

He was tempted to tease her in return, to lighten the mood still more, but when he looked at her face, he saw that she was already glancing beyond him, her expression so wistful, so rich with longing that he turned to see what was affecting her.

On the dance floor, the redhead had found a partner—a jockey, Shane guessed. Wiry, compact and several inches shorter than the girl, he looked like a dervish, spinning and kicking his seemingly boneless legs out at odd angles. Shane suspected, though, that it was not so much the jockey but the girl whom Hilary watched.

The redhead would never win a dance contest. Like her partner, she flung her arms and legs about in what appeared to be several directions at once. Given her long legs, long neck, plus the russet hair and freckles, he figured he could be forgiven, although probably not by her, for thinking she looked like an enthusiastic giraffe. Once again, his interest caught and held.

When the jockey did a crazy move, kicking one leg way in the air and then spinning around, the woman laughed and matched him move for move.

“She’s got the right idea,” he heard Hilary murmur with a catch in her voice that made his gut ache. “Dance like there’s no tomorrow.”

Her eyes swam with pain. She’d never been good at hiding her feelings, even now when, for the first time, she earnestly tried. Immediately Shane felt helpless. Then he felt the roiling frustration and anger that his helplessness aroused.

“I’m beat,” he said, watching her expression. “Mind if we head back to the motel?”

He thought he handled that relatively well, making their hasty retreat about him rather than her, but the twist of her lips said she knew exactly what he was doing, and she snapped.

“Don’t coddle me.” The rage underlying the low, frustrated growl was so unlike Hilary that even she seemed shocked.

A terrible, impotent grief choked Shane. He wanted to rail at the unfairness of a life that would harm a woman like her, but leave him standing—he, who in thirty-four privileged years had never found a purpose to his existence. Hilary had always been the one with plans, goals. Gratitude. He had been the discontent wanderer.

In a way, he wished Hilary would give him hell, vent her anger on him, say everything that was on her mind, but as swiftly as her anger spiked, it receded. Without another word, she reached for the light wrap draped over the back of her chair. Shane stood, waiting to see whether she would welcome his help or insist on maneuvering herself out of the bar.

As it turned out, she did neither. Allowing her hands to rest limply in her lap, her head bowed forward in an unconscious posture of defeat, she waited silently while he came around behind her and wheeled her back from the table. She neither looked at him nor made a sound as he steered the wheelchair between the bar’s narrowly spaced tables.

A year ago, he had been traveling through Central America digging sewers, building an hogar, desperately seeking activities to give his life meaning.

He had meaning now. The same accident that had damaged Hilary’s spinal cord had killed her parents, leaving her with sole ownership of Cambria Estates, a vineyard and winery near Sydney, Australia. Shane had returned from Central America immediately—needed. Truly needed for perhaps the first time in his life.

He’d been learning the wine business ever since, set with the task of ensuring that Cambria was strong enough to support Hilary for the rest of her life, if need be.

Standing behind the wheelchair, looking at her beautiful bowed head, he vowed that nothing would throw him off track. He had no interest in “living for today”; not when he had finally found every reason to plan for tomorrow.




Chapter Two


Quest Stables occupied a thousand acres in Woodford County, Kentucky, south of Lexington. It housed five hundred horses, and its stunning size and international reputation often distracted visitors from the land upon which it sat. That was a shame, indeed, because Quest was so exquisite, so resplendently engraved upon the landscape, that it could have been a commercial urging tourists to drop everything and visit the Bluegrass State.

It was true that guests to the stables or to Thomas and Jenna Preston’s home often commented on the artistic perfection of the surroundings. If a property could have its colors done, Quest would be a winter—bright and clear and deep. The grass wasn’t green; it was emerald. The wildflowers were amethyst and vermilion and bridal-gown white. Copses of oak and pine and aspen softened the strong summer sun, giving the impression that heaven kissed the land with gold.

Still, the pastoral elegance perceived while brunch-ing on the large veranda could be misleading. Behind the veil of gentle living, there thrummed the inevitable activity and workload of an establishment that produced world-class champion racers.

The most recent and most renowned of the Prestons’ winners was a bay stallion named Leopold’s Legacy. Two months earlier, the handsome brute had won the Derby, followed by a dazzling victory at the Preakness that suggested more wins and high stud fees in his future. He was what every owner and trainer hungered for—a horse that could become a legend.

But Legacy’s ride to the top had been marred. A routine DNA test proved that his sire was not the champion Apollo’s Ice, as originally recorded, and the Prestons, who so recently had stood in the winner’s circle, now found themselves in the middle of a breeding scandal. The reputation and financial future of the entire organization were in danger.

Most mornings for the past month, Quest’s difficulties had been the first thing on Audrey’s mind. She awoke worrying about Brent Preston, Quest’s breeder, and about Carter Phillips, their veterinarian. More than anyone, the two men were coming under suspicion from the Jockey Association. Only Thoroughbreds produced by live cover rather than artificial insemination were accepted for the association’s registration, and both Brent and Carter had witnessed the breeding of Leopold’s Legacy’s dam, Courtin’ Cristy, with Apollo’s Ice at Angelina’s Stud Farm.

Audrey knew the Prestons well and trusted them implicitly. They had been beyond reproach as employers to both her father, who had served as their head farrier for eleven years, and her since she took his place last year. Shoeing Thoroughbreds was the only work she had ever known. Her father had been her hero and best friend, and she’d trailed him like a puppy through the stables while he worked. Treating her like one of the team instead of a youthful nuisance, the Prestons had made it easy for her to follow in her dad’s footsteps.

Feeling impotent in the face of their current troubles, she had readily agreed to help by pulling names up from Quest’s database so the Prestons could contact the owners of their stabled horses. The family wanted to personally break the news that the Jockey Association had recalled Leopold’s Legacy’s Thoroughbred status, which meant the regional racing commissions refused to let him race in North America. Several owners already had withdrawn horses stabled at Quest after the first whiff of scandal, and the Prestons were hoping to stanch further losses by reaching their clients before industry gossip did.

Printing phone lists didn’t feel very proactive, but it was better than sitting on one’s hands, and if it helped Brent and Carter even a little bit, then it was worth it.

Rolling over in bed the morning after she’d danced the night away, Audrey realized this was the first time in weeks that she’d awoken to find her thoughts consumed by her own circumstances as much as by the Prestons’.

Bending an arm above her head, she gazed at the ceiling, recently painted a crisp white, and tried to guess the time without looking at the clock. It was a workday, and she almost always rose before five on a workday, but the brightness and warmth in the room suggested she’d overslept.

Of course, the warmth could be attributed to the big body in bed next to her. A faint disgust had her shaking her head. She’d been exhausted when her head hit the pillow, but she was reasonably certain she’d climbed into bed alone.

“How did you get in here?” she asked without looking over, wrinkling her nose at the answer—a rude snort in her ear.

“Seamus,” she scolded, rolling toward a hundred-and-sixty pounds of lean muscle, wiry steel-gray hair and huge feet. Four of them. “You’re supposed to be sleeping at the big house. Thomas and Jenna bought you that beautiful bed. Don’t be an ingrate.”

The mammoth Irish wolfhound responded by swiping a sleepy tongue over Audrey’s face then yawning. Hugely.

“Morning breath, Seamus.”

Audrey sat up. Her bedroom window, which she’d left open, was once again missing its screen, pried off by the one male on the property that had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with her.

Leaving Seamus where he was—not a morning man, he’d be snoring before her feet hit the floor—Audrey hauled herself out of bed and slogged toward the living area of her small home, one of the employee cottages on the Prestons’ estate.

She’d have liked to have started her day straight off with a mug of painfully strong coffee, but she’d ignored a blinking light on her phone machine the night before. Prioritizing, she padded down her short hallway and pressed “play” on the machine that sat on the maple-topped bar dividing her kitchen and living room.

“Audrey,” the first message began, “Carter here. Melanie spotted a problem with Something to Talk About’s gait a couple of days ago. I haven’t found a cause, but I noticed he’s due for a shoeing, so can you give me a call when you get around to him? Thanks.” Beep.

Making a mental note, Audrey went to the fridge and withdrew a pound bag of ground coffee beans. She grabbed a filter and a measuring spoon so she could start her eight-cup-a-day habit as the next message played. She was so freakishly tired from yesterday, she thought she might up the ante to ten cups.

“Hi, Audrey.” Halting with the measuring spoon in the coffee bag, Audrey turned her head toward the machine. The voice alone made her feel cold all over. “It’s Dr. McFarland. I don’t have the results of your blood tests yet, obviously, but when you left my office today, I got the sense you might not follow up with the surgeon I recommended. So I’m calling because…”

Dr. McFarland paused, and Audrey found herself hoping that the internist had mistakenly hung up or been cut off. No such luck.

“Audrey, I’ve known you a long time, and I understand how difficult it would be if you were sick again, but I—”

Lunging for the phone machine, Audrey pressed “skip.”

Heart beating as if she’d already injected caffeine into a major artery, she set her jaw and breathed deeply through her nose.

No, you don’t understand.

“I’m not sick again.” Breathe in, two-three-four… I am not sick. Breathe out, two-three…

The next message had already begun, and Audrey made herself concentrate on Jenna Preston’s upbeat voice, hoping it would calm the buzzing in her brain.

“… calling to invite you to lunch tomorrow. I hope you can make it. You don’t have to call back, honey. Just come on up to the house at noon. See you tomorrow unless I bump into you before. Bye.”

When the phone machine clicked off, Audrey closed her eyes and stood very still.

A year ago, her dad had died unexpectedly of a heart attack at the age of sixty-four. Henry Griffin had been her only relative, her roommate, her rock. Since his passing, Jenna’s kindness had swelled into a motherly concern that made Audrey feel guilty, because she knew in her heart that it was time for her to leave Quest. The call from Dr. McFarland confirmed the instinct.

She and her dad had moved here from Texas when Audrey was twelve. Certainly it had occurred to her in recent years that a twenty-something ought to experience more of the world than a piece of Kentucky, but until her father’s passing, she had never seriously entertained the idea of leaving. She figured that was why she took so many dang classes—so she could be an armchair adventurer. But now that he was gone, was it enough? She had a little money; she could travel, see places she’d only read about. She was twenty-four, and she’d never been in an airplane.

Opening her eyes and abandoning the coffee, she crossed slowly to the living room, to a recliner that sat just inside the front door. Neatly positioned beside the chair, rested a pair of burgundy-green-and-navy plaid men’s slippers made soft and pliable from lots of wear.

As if the slippers belonged to her, Audrey slid her feet inside. Her stress melted into the faux sheepskin lining. She’d given Henry the loafers as a joke Christmas gift one year—slippers that matched his favorite plaid chair. He’d worn them every night after work, claiming, “My big ol’ feet never looked better.” Memories rose from the shoes’ very soles… The way her dad laughed like a cartoon chipmunk: “Chee-chee-chee-chee.” The Sunday morning going-to-church scent of Aqua Velva aftershave. The soft expression in his eyes when she sometimes caught him watching her.

“God must think I’m an okay sort, Audrey Lea, because He gave me an angel to love.”

Audrey shook her head. She was no angel. Angels didn’t get so scared piss-less that they wanted to crawl under their beds and stay there.

She’d always known her future was a big question mark. She’d never had the luxury of taking it for granted, as other people her age were privileged to do.

What she did have was an appreciation for the fragility of life. She needed to carpe diem while there was still a diem to carpe.

Seamus’s toenails clicked slowly down the hallway as the big lug made his way sleepily toward the living room.

“Decided you couldn’t live without me, huh?”

Meeting him halfway, Audrey leaned over for a sloppy kiss and a wirehaired hug. The problem with saying hello to a new life was the necessity of bidding goodbye to the old one first.

“I love you, you big goof, but it’s time for you to find a girl your own age. Preferably your own species.” When she straightened, he whined. “Come on, I’ll make breakfast and show you some of the travel brochures I’ve been collecting.”

As they walked to the kitchen, Audrey considered the past year of breakfasts shared only with her four-footed friend. Then she remembered the brief moment of excitement and anticipation in the bar last night.

“To tell you the truth, Seamus, I wouldn’t mind waking up next to someone my own species, too. It wouldn’t be anything serious, so don’t get your whiskers in a knot. But I’m thinking I could combine travel with a little romance. I hear Frenchmen are a lot of fun. And they know how to let go when the time comes.”



“Shove over, you big, beautiful nag.”

Leaning her shoulder heavily into a shining gray filly named Biding Her Time, Audrey waited for the horse to shift her weight. Biding leaned the opposite way, forcing Audrey to drop the filly’s hoof and stand up—or be squashed by several hundred pounds of Thoroughbred.

“Sheesh!” Pulling her gloves off her hands, she slapped them to the ground. “You are the most stubborn damn thing.”

Showing more initiative than he ordinarily did during daylight hours, Seamus bounded off a comfortable bed of hay in one of Quest’s many stables and came to Audrey’s defense, growling at the horse.

Biding gave him the evil eye, stamped her hoof and whinnied. Untied, she wouldn’t be above trying to knock the dog down.

“Better leave her alone, Seamus, you know how cranky she gets. Besides, this is my job.”

Audrey had played or worked around horses all her life, and truthfully she liked the crafty and opinionated beasts best. Biding Her Time was one of those. After several races in which she had yet to place, a number of people were prepared to write her off. Not Audrey. She knew, or sensed anyway, that the filly was testing the waters, not merely in races, but in her life. Biding paid attention to everything in the stable, in the paddock, on the track. She investigated her surroundings as if she were waiting for the click that would inspire her to think, I’m home, I’m safe, I’m ready to win.

Pushing back the locks of hair that had fallen loose from her braid and plucking at the T-shirt that glommed ickily to her damp skin, Audrey went forehead to forehead with the filly. “I certainly hope you’re ready to get new shoes, ’cause they’re coming, whether you like it or not.”

Repositioning herself, Audrey picked up the left front hoof, quickly shoving her shoulder under the horse. Biding relented, allowing her foot to be placed between Audrey’s bent knees and the pedicure to begin. It was a game they had played for the past year. They both enjoyed it.

“Atta girl.” Audrey began filing and soon was immersed in the sound of the hoof being grated down, the “Classic Strings” CD on the player perched atop a stool a few feet away, and the huff-huff-huff of Biding’s breathing.

This was the part of the job Audrey liked best—the soothing rhythm, the juxtaposition of quiet solitude and labor that was hard enough to soak her hairline, chest and back with perspiration. She’d have to finish her morning work in time for a shower before lunch. Which was a real waste of personal grooming, if you asked her, because she had two more ponies to shoe that afternoon.

The sad truth was that she’d rather plant herself on a chair outside Biding’s stall, chow down on a turkey-and-Swiss on rye and sneak the horse a few carrots, than join the Prestons at the big house. She knew today would present an ideal opportunity to tell the Prestons they needed to hire a new farrier, and she could feel her stomach churning at the prospect.

Turning toward the backpack she usually lugged with her to the stables, Audrey withdrew a roll of the antacids she’d been wolfing down lately. Peeling back the silver paper, she tilted her head, popped two tablets into her mouth and began to chew, quickly deciding this was going to be at least a three-antacid morning.

“Audrey Griffin, don’t you dare fill up on candy before lunch. We are having a veritable feast, and I expect you to arrive hungry!”

Startled by her employer’s voice, Audrey nearly choked on the tablets.

She whipped around. “Jenna!” Immediately upon seeing the woman’s genteel, humor-filled face, she felt tension wring her intestines like a wet towel. “I didn’t hear you come up. I…I guess I was busy thinking…I have to finish shoeing Biding, and it’s getting pretty close to noon already, so maybe…”

The lame attempt she was about to make to wriggle out of lunch died on her lips when she realized that Jenna had a companion.

“Audrey, dear, I’d like you to meet Shane Preston, our nephew. He’s here from Australia. We decided to take a quick tour of the stables before lunch.”

Audrey blinked, as if that could change the scene in front of her. Raising the back of her wrist to her forehead, she wiped away a sheen of perspiration that now was due to more than physical exertion.

“Shane, this lovely girl is Audrey Griffin. You’ll get to know each other better later, of course.”

His brows spiked over the word “lovely.” Audrey saw it and was torn between wanting to run home to change her clothes and the desire to chuck a horseshoe at his head.

“Good to meet you, Audrey.” Dressed in a pristine suit on a scorching Kentucky day, the man smiled with just a quirk of his lips. His smooth Australian accent underscored the sardonic expression.

So the stranger in the bar, the one who looked as if he belonged on Mt. Rushmore or some other wonder of the world, was a Preston. It figured.

Handsome and strong like the Thoroughbreds they raised, the Prestons possessed physical gifts in extra measure. Melanie, a jockey, was a tiny thing, but she sparkled like a diamond and seemed as durable. The Preston men were all life-size Ken dolls—rock solid, absurdly handsome and short on chatter.

Aussie Ken was no exception.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Audrey ducked her sweaty head, hoping he did not recognize her as the girl who had made goo-goo eyes at him last night. And then she realized he was holding out his hand.

She stuck hers out, too, a reflex reaction that she lamented when they touched callus to callus. His palm was much tougher than she had imagined.

Unfortunately, he looked surprised, too. He’d taken her hand gently; she’d automatically used her customary grip, practically squeezing the life out of him.

She meant to let go immediately, but for the briefest of moments, the stable that was the center of her life faded away; the snuffling of horses and mucking of stalls, the scents of hay and manure; horses and humans were replaced by a blanket-like silence.

She realized she was staring, her palm locked with his. Last night’s curiosity about his eyes was satisfied: they were the intense blue of marbles and morning skies.

As her heart beat painfully in her throat, Audrey remembered her comment to Seamus—that she was going to find someone of her own species.

Recalling his beautiful companion from the night before, she told herself the truth: This man is not your species. He looks better, he smells better, and he keeps better company.

When she noted the humor in his gaze, she let go of his hand as if it had burst into flame. Setting her jaw, Audrey gave him a tough, take-no-prisoners glare.

From the age of nine until well into her teens, she’d been sick and skinny and deathly pale beneath her freckles. In her experience, people reacted to sick children by coddling or pitying or pretending not to notice them. Most of the time, she’d felt out of step with her peers, so she’d trailed her dad around the stables and got to know horses better than people. She’d also learned to act a lot tougher than she was, turning into a real snot when she sensed disapproval or condescension.

So now she embraced the dirt and the calluses and the perspiration, her styleless clothing and the lack of makeup, and sent her gaze on a lazy trip down his body and back up again. Sniffing as if he was the one who smelled bad, she drawled, “You sure are dressed pretty for a stroll through a stable. Hope you got the memo about watching where you step.”

Good teeth showed in a calculating smile. “I stand forewarned. And thank you for the compliment.” He inclined his head. “I have a great admiration, too, for people like you who put so much care into their… horses’ grooming.” He’d paused just long enough to make his inference crystal clear.

Clear to Audrey, at any rate. Jenna didn’t seem to notice. Before Audrey could think of a comeback, Jenna said, “Audrey has a natural touch with horses. She’s an excellent farrier.”

Aussie Ken’s brows rose. Either he was surprised or doubtful, or he didn’t know what a farrier was. She chose the last interpretation just for the fun of it.

“That means I shoe the nice ponies.” She offered the explanation kindly, as if she were talking to a toddler.

She managed to curl the edges of his smile. “I’m familiar with the term.”

A calculating light gleamed behind the blue eyes, and Audrey felt her anticipation spike as she wondered whether he’d give her a decent run for her money.

“It’s an interesting occupation for a—” Once more he paused, this time furrowing his brow as if he couldn’t quite find the right word. “—woman.”

Dang!

Round One to Aussie Ken.

“I think we’ll let you get on with your work now, Audrey.” Becoming aware of the crackle between her nephew and her employee, but not at all sure what to make of it, Jenna verbally stepped between them. “You two can get to know each other better at lunch. Twelve o’clock sharp.”

Taking Shane’s arm and giving Audrey a bemused look over her shoulder, Jenna guided her nephew on through the stable.

Short of a natural disaster, it looked as if she was having lunch with the Prestons and their nephew. Audrey expected her stomach to clench, but felt it growl instead. Bantering with him must have burned up a few calories.

Absently patting Biding’s neck, Audrey chewed her lip. Over the years, she had carved out a place for herself among the largely male population of Quest by learning to compete. At pool, at darts, with words—she gave as good as she got. Often better.

She felt a fluttering in her blood that made her feel more alive than she had all year. What harm could come from trading a few quips? Putting the pretty boy in his place? Shane Preston was a challenge, and her life up to this point had pretty much addicted her to a dare.

A grin stretched across her lips. Picking up her tools, Audrey gave the gray filly a pat on her rump. “Okay, Biding, let’s get this shoe on the road. It seems I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”




Chapter Three


Audrey was showered and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans when she lifted the brass doorknocker that reminded her of a ring through a bull’s nose. She’d plaited her hair in a French braid this time—simple enough as it hung down her back, but a nod to the fact that she was dining somewhere more upscale than the inside of a stall.

Audrey smiled as the Prestons’ housekeeper answered the door and directed her to the patio that lay beyond the elegant white French doors off the dining room.

She had brought Seamus with her, and he followed her as far as the dining room, which was set with a stunning array of white-on-white china, and crystal that gleamed in the sun-kissed room. A polished cherrywood coffee trolley was already set with two glossy silver pots plus a four-tier dessert tree presenting an assortment of miniature cakes and truffles. Everything in the Prestons’ home bespoke of a lifestyle made luxurious by financial success.

What would happen to a family used to the finer things in life, if their current troubles proved powerful enough to crumple what they’d built?

There were people, certainly, who would be glad to watch a successful racing family lose at something. Even within the organization, there were always one or two dissenters intent on resenting the very people who signed their paychecks, but Audrey would never be one of them. She admired the Prestons. They worked hard, and at least one of them—Robbie, the youngest son—played hard, but you’d never see them throwing around their money or their power; they simply weren’t that way.

On top of that, they’d been good to her. Shortly after she and her dad had moved in—a single father and a skinny, morose-looking preteen who had recently lost her mother and most of her trust in the world—then eighteen-year-old Melanie Preston had arrived with a basket of food and books for Audrey that would have made any welcoming committee feel miserly by comparison. Quickly following his sister’s visit, sixteen-year-old Robbie had stopped by to see if any necessary repairs had been noted around the cottage.

When Audrey was sick and stayed home from school for weeks on end, the impromptu visits and special care packages continued and no one had ever made her feel like an extra appendage around the place, even when she surely had been one.

Standing now at the entrance to the dining room, with Seamus sniffing longingly in the direction of the coffee trolley, Audrey hoped that the ambiguity surrounding the breeding of Leopold’s Legacy would soon be resolved, preferably before she left the Prestons.

She ruffled the fur around Seamus’s neck. “Go find your bed, boy, and have a little nap.”

Sadly aware that the dining room was off-limits, the wolfhound turned and trudged off toward the family room where his bed awaited him.

Audrey moved toward the French doors, their glass panes veiled by sheer white curtain panels that allowed in a dreamy, filtered light.

Turning one brass door handle, she let herself out to a wide brick patio dotted with umbrellas that provided big circles of welcoming shade.

Despite a discomfiting hitch of nervousness, Audrey thought she’d managed to walk onto the patio as if she fit in fine with her surroundings.

Jenna and Shane stood by the patio balustrade, listening to Brent Preston, eldest son and head trainer at the stables, while the three of them looked out onto one of the paddocks. Brent’s sister, Melanie, and their father, Thomas, were having an animated discussion next to the hors d’oeuvres. Melanie had a glass of iced tea in one hand and a mini ham-and-cheese biscuit in the other. She waved the biscuit when she saw Audrey.

“Come here. I’m telling Dad about Something to Talk About. Audrey, isn’t he a beaut? Have you noticed his expression right before he gallops? He’s the most naturally ambitious horse I’ve ever seen. And he tunes in so well to people. He’s a total flirt. I bet he’ll win just to show off for me.”

Thomas watched his daughter with a heartwarming blend of affection and consternation. Horses had been in his blood before they’d ever become his livelihood. He’d lived and breathed racing long before his children had been a glimmer in his eye. He was an old-time track man, however, and the idea that a racehorse of any worth would win or lose depending on his affection for a jockey was pushing the boundaries of his belief system. There were still plenty of people, Audrey knew, who did not subscribe to the notion that horses possessed anything approaching emotional intelligence.

She, on the other hand, liked the idea. Working with horses day in and day out gave her a clear impression of which animals had compassion, empathy and a sense of camaraderie, and which wouldn’t let you on their backs if you were stranded in a desert without any shoes of your own.

Audrey thought Melanie could be one of the great jockeys someday and smiled as the petite firecracker turned to her now, an anxious frown working between her brows. “You don’t think Something’s toes are too short, do you, Audrey? His stride seems a little shorter than usual, and I know you don’t like long toes, but I’m just wondering… No offense.”

“You’re not offending me.”

As far as Audrey could tell, every shoer did some things his or her own way. Leaving a horse’s toes a bit long to lengthen its stride was the tradition at many racetracks, but Audrey’s father hadn’t believed in it, and neither did she.

Melanie had taken a particular shine to Something to Talk About, so was naturally a bit more… focused… on all the details of his care and training.

Gently, but with authority, Audrey reminded the other woman, “Studies have never shown that long toes lengthen the stride. Just the opposite. Thanks to videos, it’s a proven fact that they don’t.” It was also a fact that plenty of track farriers and even more owners still held on to the mistaken belief, so she added, “Even if it were true, some horses just can’t handle a long toe, and I’d never risk the leg to lengthen the stride.”

It was a bold thing to state in front of a racing stable’s owner—that you wouldn’t sacrifice safety to help create a winner—and Thomas wasn’t the only one who gave her his full attention.

Both Brent and Shane turned to consider her, Brent mirroring his father’s approval, Shane shooting her a keen stare lined by curiosity.

She concentrated her response on Melanie. “I watched Something to Talk About in the paddock this morning, and I think it may be worth an X-ray to see if he’s a bit flat-footed. That could change the way I file him.”

Melanie was pacified enough to offer Audrey one of the petite ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Hungry, Audrey felt her mouth water as her fingertips closed on the flaky golden biscuit, but it turned gummy on her tongue when Shane excused himself from Jenna and Brent and headed her way.

She felt both relieved and acutely disappointed when he stopped beside Thomas and struck up a conversation about the frustration of participating in claiming stakes, in which horses could be purchased prior to the race and therefore forfeited by the owner regardless of the race’s outcome.

Audrey wanted to listen. Rather annoyingly, she caught herself wanting to listen to every word Shane Preston said. Contrary to her earlier assumption, the gorgeous brunette was nowhere in sight. When Jenna announced that it was time to proceed to the dining room, no one mentioned waiting for Shane’s girlfriend.

“This is my exit cue,” Brent said, giving his mother a peck on the cheek and apologizing to his cousin for missing lunch. “The girls only have a half day at summer camp today, so we’re going on a picnic.”

“Bring the girls by later,” Jenna offered. “I’ll take ’em swimming.”

Brent agreed and headed out to his own life, which, no matter the complexities of Quest business, centered on the needs of his twin daughters.

Ushering the remaining Prestons plus Audrey to the dining room, Jenna directed Shane to the chair on Audrey’s left. Looking at the lovely table and linens and the raw silk cushions adorning each straight-backed chair, Audrey wished that she’d been less committed to individualism when she’d dressed for lunch and more concerned with being appropriate. Even Melanie, who typically dressed as if she were ready for a workout, had donned a casual summer dress.

Before she could dwell on it, Shane surprised her by pulling out her chair. Mumbling her thank-you, Audrey reached for the chair to scoot herself in, nearly cannoning into the table before she realized that Shane was smoothly sliding the chair in for her.

Her plan to continue their verbal swordplay at lunch seemed overly ambitious now. One whiff of Shane’s light cologne tangled her thoughts.

Geez, Audrey, he’s just a guy.

“How old are Brent’s daughters?” Shane asked as he took his own seat.

“Eight.” Thomas boomed the answer like a proud grandfather, earning a look of affection from his wife. “My favorite age.”

“Hey, you told me thirty-one was your favorite age.” Melanie needled, her eyes laughing at her father. “Dad pretends I’m still his favorite,” she said to Shane and Audrey, “but you can’t compete with grandchildren.”

Thomas and Jenna both demurred, but abashedly. “The twins have needed more attention since their mother’s passing,” Jenna admitted with a sigh. “I think sometimes we’re guilty of spoiling them.”

“We were all sorry to hear about Brent’s wife. I know my mother wished she could help. Being so far away, it was hard to know what to do.”

Shane’s deep, accented voice fell on the room like cotton, soft but substantial, changing the mood. Audrey saw Jenna and Melanie glance immediately to Thomas and sensed that Shane had just apologized for something more than not knowing what to do when Brent’s wife died.

Audrey had heard through the Quest grapevine that Thomas and his brother David had been estranged for years. One brother made his mark on horse racing in the United States; the other had staked his claim thousands of miles away in Australia, operating a horseracing stable there. Recently the frayed edges of the family had been knitted together when Thomas and Jenna attended some huge shindig in Australia. Knowing Jenna, Audrey figured Shane had been heartily invited to Quest.

“Nothing to do,” Thomas answered his nephew gruffly. “Even if things had been different between me and your father, there wasn’t anything anyone could do to make losing our daughter-in-law easier on Brent or the girls.”

Shane inclined his head respectfully. Audrey thought his careful inspection of Thomas was quite telling. He addressed his uncle deferentially, watching him closely, and yet she knew with a certainty that surprised her that Shane Preston did not defer to many people. Perhaps he was here on a peacemaking mission for his branch of the family?

Drawing circles in the moisture on her water goblet, she waited uncomfortably as the silence extended. Jenna seemed unusually quiet and contemplative; Thomas’s lower lip jutted out as he broke the Parker House roll on his bread plate; Melanie was clearly thinking about something that had nothing to do with anyone at the table; and Shane…

She angled her head to take a look at him. Still concentrating on Thomas, he felt Audrey’s gaze and turned slowly. Raising one thick brow the color of honey, he managed to look both challenging and amused without moving a single other part of his face.

Somehow she didn’t feel embarrassed for being caught staring. She knew he was off-limits, but that didn’t stop the heat that twined through her veins. Curiously, she took stock of her feelings.

Excited? Check.

Feeling daring? Check.

Physically aroused? That would be a double check.

At twenty-four, she had slept with two men, which placed her far behind her peers in terms of practical experience, to say nothing of the fact that she had never been in love. She’d had a terrifyingly large crush once on Robbie Preston, the youngest and most breathtakingly reckless of Thomas and Jenna’s four offspring, but that had gone the way of other youthful fantasies.

Shane resembled the two men who had been her lovers…not in the slightest, actually. They’d been studious, sweet, tame. So had the sex, though she had only her own imagination and a couple of books for comparison. But it had seemed tame. Memorable mostly for its newness.

As the meal was served, Shane turned his head to answer some question that Jenna raised, and Audrey studied his profile.

Recalling his presence in the bar, how he had stood out from the others, she doubted any woman would ever call him tame. If last night had turned out differently—if he hadn’t been with another woman, but instead had shown a serious interest in her—would she have ditched caution and made a dive for excitement?

She stared at his hands—large and strong with clean nails—as he reached for a water goblet and she had a sudden image of those big, experienced, untamed hands on her breasts.

Beneath the confines of a rather sturdy cotton bra, her nipples tightened.

For Pete’s sake.

Transferring her gaze to the salt and pepper shakers, she tried to distract her body. But the question persisted: had the opportunity presented itself, would she have seized the moment? One incredibly sexy, lusty moment the likes of which she’d never before experienced and might never again?

Would you, Audrey?

I don’t know.

Would you?

I—don’t—know.

Would you?

“Would you?”

“Yes! Yes!” In the silence that met her exclamation, Audrey glanced around the table. Uh-oh.

Fairly certain that last “Would you?” had emanated from somewhere other than her own thoughts, she looked up to see Eva Franklin, the Prestons’ brilliant cook, standing beside her. In a much smaller voice, Audrey said, “Could you repeat the question?”

“Would you like mango hollandaise, Miss Audrey?” Poor Eva looked uncertain, poised to ladle a thick peach-colored sauce atop the plate of salmon Audrey hadn’t even noticed being set in front of her. The deep spoon of sauce hovered precariously between gravy boat and plate.

Smiling brilliantly at the kind, middle-aged woman, Audrey tried to cover her tracks by nodding enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! I would!”

Eva smiled back and covered the fish in a thick film of mango hollandaise. Melanie regarded Audrey quizzically from across the table, while beside her, Shane smirked.

As Eva moved on around the table, Shane inquired in a wiseass undertone, “Are you a fan of all tropical fruits, Miss Griffin, or is the mango a particular favorite?”

His smile mocked her. She had the incredibly disturbing sensation that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

Picking up her fork, she took a poke at her salmon. “I try not to discriminate against produce.”

“Commendable. I’m a staunch supporter of the kiwi myself. Try to attend all the rallies, go door-to-door for the cause when necessary.”

Such a wiseass.

“That sounds time-consuming. What do you do for a living? No! Don’t tell me. I’ll guess.”

Giving him a good long look, as if he wasn’t already an indelible imprint on her brain, she ventured, “You’re an… undertaker.”

Jenna gasped. Thomas and Melanie laughed, and the man in question spit up a little bit of ice water.

The look he gave her—surprised, amused, a little irritated—sent a buzz of excitement running through her body and pooling low, low in her belly.

“What tipped you off?” he said, dabbing his lips with the napkin—the perfect gentleman, though his voice was low and laced with challenge.

In that moment, he reminded her of a tiger pretending to be full while a gazelle strolled by. No matter how relaxed he looked, he could pounce when least expected.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t convince herself to change her course.

Reaching for the roll on her bread plate, Audrey broke a piece off, popped it into her mouth and spoke around it. “The dark suits, I suppose. And the fact that you have a stick up your—”

Pausing while she faked a need to concentrate on her chewing, she swallowed and completed her sentence.

“—back.” Then she widened her eyes and tried to look innocent. “You have really good posture.”




Chapter Four


So she wanted to wrangle.

Shane came close to giving in to the temptation to cross swords with the idiosyncratic woman beside him.

Carefully avoiding eye contact with the others around the table, he slid his fork into his salmon and considered his various strong reactions to Audrey Griffin.

Even now that she was cleaned up, she looked no more formal than she had in the bar. Jeans that were designed to be serviceable rather than sexy appeared to be her uniform, a damned disappointment given the obvious shapeliness of the body beneath them. Her freckled skin was toasted to an appealing tan by the sun, and her hair, still damp from a shower, was the color of wet bricks. The lack of makeup and the plain rubber band holding her long braid made him think of a hardworking pioneer woman.

The disparity between her appearance and her personality did not escape him. A first glance at Audrey Griffin suggested someone guileless and straightforward, perhaps philosophical, definitely sweet. Then she opened her mouth and all he could think was trouble.

He was thirty-four, thank God, not twenty. Several years ago, he may have gotten to know her better for her audacity alone. Now he had a business and a life to build. A reckless young woman out for a good time was not on his radar.

“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Griffin,” he said with boring neutrality. “I look forward to telling my parents that their insistence on cotillion classes did not go to waste.”

“Did you really take cotillion?” Melanie eyed him with suspicion. “Mom tried to coerce us, but Brent and Robbie threatened to run away from home. I went twice and both times the instructor ended the class with a horrible migraine. She’d never had one before, so it was agreed all around that I could quit.” She shifted her gaze. “Audrey, did your dad ever send you to cotillion or did you escape that nightmare?”

Audrey hesitated. Lines of tension formed around her lips before she visibly forced herself to smile. “I escaped.”

She ducked her head, and Shane was certain that she blushed. Curiosity mingled with sympathy, because it was pretty damned obvious that the audacious young woman had never taken a course on manners or conventional grace.

Then Shane realized what Melanie had revealed: Audrey had had a father, but no mother. It might be the mention of that fact or something else, but Audrey was suddenly acutely uncomfortable.

While Melanie and her parents debated the merits of cotillion, he reached spontaneously for Audrey’s hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. To his surprise, she jumped as if he’d stuck her with his fork. Her blush deepened, flushing not only her cheeks, but also her chest and even a few splotchy areas onher arms. Fidgeting, she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, unnecessary as it was already scraped back into a braid, but the movement drew his attention to the scar on her neck.

Standing out white against her reddened skin, the scar ran from behind her ear to below the collar of her shirt.

“We’re pouring one of your wines, Shane.” Thomas commanded his attention, raising a bottle of Chardon-nay that had been uncorked in the kitchen. “We’re not as sophisticated about this as I’m sure you are. I’m a Kentucky bourbon man. So if there’s something special you want us to—”

“I’d be happy to act as your sommelier, if you’ll allow me.” Shane rose, awaiting permission to take the bottle from his uncle.

“Sommelier, huh?” Thomas huffed, half impressed and half gently mocking. “Around here we call that bartending.” He held out the bottle. “Have at it.”

Adrenaline pulsed through Shane as he rounded the table and accepted the wine.

This was why he was in the U.S. This bottle in his hands was his future. Hilary’s future.

Respectfully, he poured an inch of Chardonnay into Thomas’s wineglass and another inch into Jenna’s. He didn’t believe in gender bias when it came to choosing a good wine. And he knew his aunt was more likely to be of service to him and to Hilary on this business trip.

He watched her expression, especially, as she swirled the glass briefly and took her first sip.

Her brow furrowed just a bit, perhaps due to the fear she might not like his product. But then she relaxed and smiled. “Delicious. I’m not a connoisseur, but I’d order it in a restaurant. It has the most interesting combination of fruit and…I’m not sure…herbs?” She tasted again. “I’ll remember it.”

I’ll remember it.

Those three words were like music to Shane. He endeavored to appear relaxed and connected, despite the excitement coursing through him.

For years he’d bounced from job to job, trying to excavate some meaning out of each one. When he dug and came up empty-handed, he moved on, his hunt for purpose and passion nearly desperate. Throughout his twenties, he had responded to each dashed hope by distracting himself for a time—with women, with a broken-down boat he’d sailed from Perth to Maui, with a trek through Central America carrying nothing but a backpack and a map.

In his adolescence, he’d watched his parents and even his younger brother slot into exactly what made life worth living for them. He’d taken for granted that he would find his own reason for being, but that sense of rightness had eluded him.

There had been times when he’d wondered whether his search had been so much harder because he had craved meaning. He remembered feeling a restless hunger even when he was a kid—wanting every walk he took to leave a footprint.

He’d still been searching last year when Hilary’s accident brought him home to Australia. He hadn’t expected to find his groove running the winery that had belonged to her parents, but that’s what was happening.

Lochlain, the family’s stable, adjoined Cambria Estates Vineyard. As a boy, he’d spent almost as much time among the grapevines as he had at Lochlain. He’d worked at Cambria on school vacations when his father had granted permission not to work at the stable, but he’d never considered a career as a vintner.

He’d arrived in Hunter Valley last year, committed only to doing what he could for his cousin. He hadn’t cared that he was growing grapes. He’d have grown damned zinnias if it would have helped. But one morning, months after he’d arrived, he’d awoken thinking about grapes, smelling them, curious about every aspect of the winery. Not long after, he’d realized that—for the first time in his life—he wasn’t thinking about where to go next. Feet on the earth, hands on the vines, mind wrapped around the art and science of being a vintner, he’d found something with a history and a future. He could plant more than grapes; he could plant the seeds of his life, and they would grow into a legacy.

He planned to attend a series of wine shows in New York, Boston and Montreal, introducing his product to the international market. By the time he and Hilary returned to Australia, Cambria Estates would be the wine that people were talking about.

There was only one problem he could foresee: although he’d learned much about wine, he didn’t know a damned thing about wine shows.

By the time he’d filled each glass and resumed his seat at the table, his elevated mood had dropped a bit.

Beside him, Audrey was picking apart her salmon, lost in thoughts of her own and seeming to have forgotten her earlier desire to spar. Across the table, his cousin Melanie was happily engaged in a discourse with her father and anyone else who cared to join in. The topic, of course: horses and racing. Thomas listened avidly to his daughter while simultaneously scowling at his fish, as though he would trade his best dirt runner for a decent burger.

Shane wasn’t sure what he’d expected to achieve today; he knew only that he felt as if he were in a starting gate, about to race for his life and now facing an agonizingly long wait for the bell.

He stuck the tines of his fork into a piece of grilled asparagus, picked up his knife and told himself to be a good guest, that everything would happen in due time. He didn’t have long to wait.

“I don’t think your question about Shane’s occupation was ever properly answered, was it, Audrey?”

With a hint of good humor, Jenna pulled Audrey out of her reverie. The confounding redhead looked up and shook her head. “He’s not an undertaker?” she muttered.

Jenna arched a brow that made Audrey obediently apply herself to her meal as her employer continued. “This delicious wine we’re drinking is a sample of Shane’s work. He’s here to introduce his vineyard to the United States.”

Not exactly “his” vineyard—Cambria was owned by Hilary and her grandparents—but he supposed that was close enough under the circumstances. They had offered to make him a full partner.

“Shane will be attending several wine exhibits,” Jenna told the table at large. “What you don’t know is that he asked me to help him find an assistant to work in his booth. Wine exhibits require a minimum of two people per booth.” She pulsed with energy as she smiled at her audience. “I’ve been doing my research. One person to serve and one to answer questions and keep track of the guest book. A sole proprietor at the booth also detracts from the cache of the winery. I know it’s terribly superficial, but appearances really do count. It would have been difficult for Shane to interview and hire the perfect person all the way from Australia, which is why—” she raised her glass, the wine glowing from the lights of the crystal chandelier above their heads and the sunlight filtering through the curtained doors “—I’ve arranged everything. I think it’s best to have one assistant at all times, in New York, Boston and Montreal. The same assistant for the sake of continuity, and won’t it be pleasant to have a traveling companion? I love to travel with someone.”

Shane swallowed his asparagus. “You found a booth bunny?”

He was about to thank his aunt profusely when Melanie asked across the table—

“What’s a booth bunny?”

He smiled, a bit sheepishly. He’d heard the term several times since his first forays into the wine business and took for granted it was used in America. Though it was likely an affront to feminists everywhere, the people who greeted and handed out wine to potential customers at these affairs were typically young women with sparkling personalities, knockout figures and very short dresses. He opened his mouth to explain, but heard a snort and someone else’s voice answering in his stead.

“Booth bunnies are an attempt to sell a product by titillating the consumer instead of employing genuine marketing savvy or, heaven forbid, allowing the product to speak for itself.” Audrey sliced the tip off an asparagus spear. “I took a marketing class called ‘Sex Sells’ at the J.C. It happens in all kinds of industries, of course, but it does seem particularly obnoxious when the product’s value lies in a consumer’s ability to discern subtleties. Nothing subtle about a booth bunny. Short skirt, big hair and a brain the size of a cork.”

Emitting a snort of laughter, she popped the asparagus into her mouth and chewed. It took a moment before she realized she might have offended someone.

“Uhm, nothing personal against the girl you hired, Jenna. I just mean it’s a screwy way to approach business.” Another pause and she mumbled a sort-of apology to Shane. “Not that I mean you’re screwy.”

Of course not.

Shane harpooned a piece of salmon and stuck it in his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to point out that the stick up Audrey’s back was a helluva lot stiffer than the one she’d accused him of having.

He bristled without knowing precisely why her criticism bothered him so much. God knew he’d been under stress lately. He could use encouraging words, not potshots, while he worked his ass off building a business that would be the most important thing he had ever done in his life.

“Who’d you find, Mom?” Melanie asked, interested in the booth-bunny concept and either oblivious to the tension between her cousin and her friend or simply untroubled by it. “And how did you know where to look? What did you do, advertise?”

Shane noticed Jenna splitting her concerned glance between him and Audrey. “Why would I do that,” she murmured, taking another sip of wine, “when I had a perfectly good candidate right under my nose?”

A large forkful of finely poached salmon had just gone into Shane’s mouth when Thomas barked, “Who?”

Jenna smiled at Audrey over the rim of her glass, and every head turned toward the tomboyish redhead.

No! Shane thought, his gag reflex kicking in already. He’d explained the importance of these shows to his aunt. He was spending nearly the entirety of his personal savings on this trip. Audrey’s derogatory comments aside, he could not imagine anyone—honestly, not a single woman of his acquaintance—less suited to a job for which she had to be unstintingly polite, charming and feminine than Audrey Griffin. Jenna couldn’t mean—

“I think Audrey will make an outstanding booth assistant, don’t you?” Jenna met each person’s eyes briefly, smiling brilliantly and arching a brow as if daring anyone to disagree.

In that moment, Shane couldn’t possibly have disagreed. He was too busy choking.

“Salmon bone,” he managed to gasp, thumping his chest as Jenna, looking alarmed, rose from her chair. Across the table, Thomas rose also and took a step in Shane’s direction. He tried to wave the help away. “I’m fine now.”

They weren’t listening.

Coughing into his napkin, he waved them off again, then realized that Melanie, too, had stood, her eyes round with panic. He followed her gaze.

It was Audrey who needed help.

Swearing, Shane leaped from his chair, shoving his aunt and uncle aside with an unfortunate lack of courtesy to get to her.

Grasping Audrey’s shoulders, he turned her so that he could look fully into her face, now splotched a deep red.

“Are you choking?” he shouted into her face, making the international choking sign and waiting for her to mimic him before he commenced the Heimlich maneuver.

Instead of placing her hands at her neckline, she looked at him in panic and immediately reached for his neck, squeezing hard and nodding furiously.

“Let… go…” he commanded, prizing her hands off and turning her so he could wrap his arms around her with his fist under her sternum. He administered two swift upward pushes.

Nothing happened. Whatever had lodged in her airway had yet to budge.

Shane could feel Audrey’s heart thundering like a dozen hooves and knew his was keeping pace.

“Come on, baby, give it up,” he whispered in her ear right before he gave her diaphragm a shove that pulled her right off her feet.

Out flew a piece of grilled asparagus.

Impressed and enormously relieved, Shane released a breath and nodded. “Nicely done.”




Chapter Five


Audrey coughed maniacally as she tried to catch her breath.

Shane’s stone-solid arms were still wrapped around her. His murmured words tickled her ear.

Jenna was holding out a glass of water and looking worried. Thomas had his hand up, ready to thump her on the back should the need arise again, and Melanie had come around the table, an acutely sympathetic expression on her attractive face and a napkin in her hand. They all stood so close, Shane wouldn’t have been able to back away if he wanted to.

Gently but firmly removing Shane’s hands, still splayed across her stomach, Audrey accepted the napkin from Melanie, the water from Jenna and smiled to let Thomas know she was fine.

Then she eased away from Shane. He had saved her life. Too bad he, too, had almost choked upon hearing Jenna’s plan. Kinda implied she was not a cute, charming girl, which put a big fat chink in her undying gratitude.

Involuntarily, Audrey’s right hand covered her left. Somehow the Heimlich maneuver had made less of an impact than his squeezing her hand several moments ago. That had been earth-shattering.

Even now, she felt a swell of emotion that had nothing to do with the fact that she’d almost choked. That firm-yet-gentle, reassuring squeeze he’d applied to her hand was her undoing. She knew he’d meant it impersonally, but tears had risen to her eyes nonetheless. For a moment, just as she had last night, she’d felt… seen. Seen by Shane the way she hadn’t felt seen by anyone in a long while.

And once again, she became aware of a place inside her that seemed comprised solely of painful raw need. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could escape from the table and from her own feelings.

Humiliating, sentimental—

“Crap! You almost killed my best farrier, honey pie.” Thomas lightened the awkward moment-after-near-death with a robust but humorous rebuke sent Jenna’s way. “I nearly choked, too! Audrey can’t go gallivanting around the world handing out wine samples. I need her here.” He shot Audrey a paternal smile.

“She won’t be gallivanting around the world.” With a last glance at Audrey, Jenna returned to her seat and picked up the napkin she’d tossed next to her plate. “She’ll travel to New York, Boston and Montreal. And she won’t merely be ‘handing out wine samples,’ Thomas. She’ll meet and converse with people from many walks of life.” Reaching for her wine, she spoke into the glass. “People whose interests extend beyond horses and racing.”

Before he or Melanie could protest that people interested in horses and racing were the most interesting people in the world, Jenna insisted, “It would be good for her to get out and see something besides the inside of a stable.”

Thomas’s brows swooped down at the blasphemy.

“For pity’s sake, Tom, sit back down and eat your lunch. Quest is my life, too. But Audrey has grown up here. She needs to expand her horizons.”

Whether they recognized the determination in Jenna’s tone or whether they actually agreed with her, Thomas and Melanie obediently resumed their seats. It seemed Audrey’s brush with the ever after and Shane’s lifesaving efforts were going to be overlooked by the Prestons for the moment in favor of hashing out Audrey’s future. Without her input.

She and Shane were the only ones left standing. Awkwardly. As Thomas pointed out that he always worked Audrey’s schedule around the classes she took at the local college, Jenna countered that classes did not substitute for life experience. Audrey realized that wishing she could disappear did not make it so. Doing the right thing, she turned toward Shane.

“Thank you. That was… very nice of you.”

He took his time replying. “Don’t mention it.”

She thought she ought to say something more about how grateful she was, but he was holding out her chair, his gaze steady and calmer now. Longing to bolt from the room, she forced herself to sit instead.

Jenna had as good as stated, “Audrey Griffin is a twenty-four-year-old woman who has spent her best years in a stable.” And the reason that truth ached so much was that she did want more—when she allowed herself to long for something. When she didn’t deny the daydreams that sometimes came to her.

“Thank you so much, Shane, for helping Audrey.” Jenna, usually the soul of grace, finally remembered her manners and remembered Audrey, too. “You are all right now, aren’t you, honey?”

Audrey replaced her napkin on her lap, but knew she wouldn’t eat another bite. “I’m fine. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Nonsense. Don’t you apologize.” Jenna reached for her fork with a hand that shook slightly. “With everything that’s gone on around here lately, I think I’m a little testy.”

Melanie and her father exchanged a smile.

“I saw that.” Sighing heavily, Jenna collected herself. “As you can see, Shane, Audrey is special to us. So thank you again.” Her gaze, warm and wise and steely strong regardless of what was happening at Quest, settled on Audrey. “I’ve never heard you complain, but with all you’ve been through, isn’t it time for you to do something for yourself? Something a little different?”

Audrey’s cheeks prickled with heat, and she deeply wished Jenna had not referred, however vaguely, to “all she had been through.” She had never asked for special treatment—not when she’d been ill, not when her mother had decided a sick kid was too much to handle and had taken a powder. And not when her father died; she’d returned to work two days later. Keeping busy had grounded her.

Eager to squelch once and for all time Jenna’s strange proposal that she should accompany Shane to the wine shows, Audrey decided the time had come to discuss her plans. “I am going to do something new.”

Her heart pounded. Though she never mistook the Prestons for family, they were the closest thing to relatives that she had left. The thought that she might disappoint them made her more nervous than it should have.

“I do want to travel.” She nodded at Jenna and smiled sheepishly. “You could say I have a library of AAA travel guides. I was going to talk to you about it this week, in fact, but I suppose…I mean, since you’ve brought it up…I guess now’s as good a time…” Her voice dwindled. Raising it above her trepidation, she ventured, “I’d like to start traveling by August. It’s only the beginning of July, so I thought that would give you enough time to hire… hire someone new.”

Well, she’d done it again: everyone at the table stopped eating. Forks remained suspended halfway to mouths; jaws went still and then slack. Even Shane, who likely had not expected this much drama with his noon meal, paused with his butter knife hovering over his roll.

Thomas recovered first, enough to practically bellow, “What the devil are you talking about? Travel if you want to, but you don’t need to quit your job to do it!”

Resting a forearm on the linen-covered table, Jenna stared earnestly at Audrey. “Do you have other job prospects, sweetheart?”

“Other job—” Thomas began, and Jenna must have clipped him in the shin under the table, because he let out a huff and muffled himself into a frowning silence.

“No, no!” Audrey hurriedly assured them. Lord, she would never want them to think she was merely after a new gig in the same field. Especially not now. But if her doctor’s suspicions proved correct, she would be little use to the Prestons anyway.





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