Книга - Salazar’s One-Night Heir

Salazar's One-Night Heir
Jennifer Hayward


The challenge: take revenge for a decades-old injustice…Tycoon Alejandro Salazar will take any opportunity to expose the Hargrove family’s crime against his – including accept the challenge to pose as their stable groom! His goal in sight, Alejandro cannot allow himself to be distracted by the gorgeous Hargrove heiress…Her family must pay, yet Alejandro can’t resist innocent Cecily’s fiery passion. And when their one night of bliss results in an unexpected pregnancy, Alejandro will legitimise his heir and restore his family’s honour…by binding Cecily to him with a diamond ring!







The challenge: take revenge for a decades-old injustice...

Tycoon Alejandro Salazar will take any opportunity to expose the Hargrove family’s crime against his—including accept the challenge to pose as their stable groom! His goal in sight, Alejandro cannot allow himself to be distracted by the gorgeous Hargrove heiress...

Her family must pay, yet Alejandro can’t resist innocent Cecily’s fiery passion. And when their one night of bliss results in an unexpected pregnancy, Alejandro will legitimize his heir and restore his family’s honor...by binding Cecily to him with a diamond ring!


Alejandro cradled the glass in his palm, a ghost of a smile curving his lips.

“I do care, Cecily. Hence the situation we find ourselves in. I told you that before I knew about the pregnancy. In fact everything I said to you in Kentucky was true, every emotion I expressed real. The only thing I lied about was my identity, and that I had to do.”

Her stomach curled with the need to believe him. To believe something in all this was true and real—that what they’d shared had been real. But she’d be a fool to take what he was saying at face value—even more of a fool than she’d already been.

He gestured toward the cream sofa that faced the spectacular view. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Fine.” He lowered himself onto the chaise, splaying his long legs out in front of him. “We are keeping this baby, Cecily.”

“Of course we are. I am,” she corrected. “I would never do anything else.”

“Good. And just to clarify,” he drawled, eyes on hers, “when I said we are keeping this baby I meant us. We are both going to be parents to this child, which means we need to be together.”

She frowned. “What do you mean together?”

“I mean we will marry.”

Her knees went weak. She slid down onto the sofa, a buzzing sound filling her ears. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.”


‘I’ll wager that not one of you can go two weeks without your credit cards…’

The Secret Billionaires (#u4ccb7443-309f-59c5-92f4-6fa8f3a76b85)

Challenged to go undercover—but tempted to blow it all!

Tycoons Antonio Di Marcello, Stavros Xenakis and Alejandro Salazar cannot imagine life without their decadent wealth, incredible power and untouchable status—but neither can they resist their competitive natures!

Dared to abandon all they know, these extraordinary men leave behind their billionaire lifestyles and take on ‘ordinary’ lives.

But, disguised as a mechanic, a pool boy and a groom, they’re about to meet the real challenge…

Conquering the women they’ll meet along the way!

Di Marcello’s Secret Son by Rachael Thomas May 2017

Xenakis’s Convenient Bride by Dani Collins June 2017

Salazar’s One-Night Heir by Jennifer Hayward July 2017


Salazar’s One-Night Heir

Jennifer Hayward






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


JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance since filching her sister’s novels to escape her teenage angst. Her career in journalism and PR, including years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world, has provided perfect fodder for the fast-paced, sexy stories she likes to write—always with a touch of humour. A native of Canada’s East Coast, Jennifer lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and young Viking-in-training.

Books by Jennifer Hayward

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed

The Magnate’s Manifesto

Changing Constantinou’s Game

The Billionaire’s Legacy

A Deal for the Di Sione Ring

Kingdoms & Crowns

Carrying the King’s Pride

Claiming the Royal Innocent

Marrying Her Royal Enemy

The Tenacious Tycoons

Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss

Reunited for the Billionaire’s Legacy

Society Weddings

The Italian’s Deal for I Do

The Delicious De Campos

The Divorce Party

An Exquisite Challenge

The Truth About De Campo

Visit the Author Profile page at

millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


For my husband, Johan, who helped me find my perfect ending in a book that stole my heart. You call life with a writer a ‘rollercoaster’ but I think you secretly like it!

For Melita and Maria—your help with the beautiful Portuguese language was so very much appreciated.

And for my co-writers Dani Collins and Rachael Thomas—it was a joy to work together and create such a fabulous series. I can’t wait for the world to read it!

XX


Contents

Cover (#u5a988af2-a23c-5874-bc33-a1c117743813)

Back Cover Text (#u7f58df6f-0ea0-592e-a0ea-cb2ffe0ae00a)

Introduction (#uaeb793f1-9628-5c10-8bad-0cc5ef25663d)

The Secret Billionaires (#ue2989622-d1ee-55b6-b14b-dccacd752f3d)

Title Page (#uc907acb0-97e1-544e-9d71-fd12e3421896)

About the Author (#u4d1b910c-94bd-56be-9abe-5f8c54aa5a2a)

Dedication (#u9605bd87-c7e2-50fd-bf9a-7b45ab49029e)

PROLOGUE (#ud01ffe7d-adfb-5756-84ea-9356797a1bf5)

CHAPTER ONE (#u9df22b5f-84e7-5767-ab18-32ba5343a0f3)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc69686ed-b70c-5650-b450-6bd6a91a85e8)

CHAPTER THREE (#u356bef4d-68e8-5298-8a50-05a7fd8fc97b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#u4ccb7443-309f-59c5-92f4-6fa8f3a76b85)

St. Moritz—February 2017

A 1946 MACALLAN, his three closest friends consuming that exceptional bottle of whiskey with him and a game of high-stakes poker played in a private room at one of St. Moritz’s swankiest clubs was a trifecta of such absolute perfection, Alejandro Salazar could not deny it was the ideal ending to a day spent paraskiing in the Swiss Alps.

Cutting a vertical line to the cliff’s edge, throwing yourself off a mountainside only to hope your parachute landed you in an equally traversable stretch of snow below required some coming down from—quality bonding time that only this particular male ritual could supply.

It had dwindled down to the four of them tonight after today’s challenge—Sebastien Atkinson, his good friend and mentor, founder of the extreme sports club they’d joined in college; Antonio Di Marcello, a giant in the global construction industry and Stavros Xenakis, the soon-to-be CEO of Dynami Pharmaceutical—perhaps the only quartet with the spare change to put up the ante this type of a game required.

Not even the trio of delectable Scandinavian women draped across the packed bar, looking for an opportunity to crash their party had been enticement enough to abandon such a rich moment in time. Friendships forged in fire.

Just last year they had pulled Sebastien off a Himalayan mountainside before it had collapsed in a cloud of snow that had nearly killed them all. The ending to this weekend’s challenge seemed tame in comparison.

An intense feeling of well-being settling over him, Alejandro sat back in his chair, rested his tumbler on his thigh and considered the table. There was a different air about the celebration tonight—subtle, but distinct.

Perhaps last year’s near tragedy still lay too close to the surface. Perhaps it had reminded them all that their club mantra—life is short—was truer than it had ever been. Or maybe it was because Sebastien had gone and done the sacrilegious in getting married, taking the sampling of the popular ski enclave’s wares off the table.

Stavros, as if sensing this new playing field, eyed Sebastien across the table. “How’s your wife?” he asked with a curl of his lips.

“Better company than you. Why so surly tonight?”

Stavros grimaced. “I haven’t won yet.” He lifted a shoulder. “And my grandfather is threatening to disinherit me if I don’t marry soon. I’d tell him to go to hell, but...”

“Your mother,” Alejandro said.

“Exactly.”

The Greek billionaire was between a rock and a hard place. If he didn’t play the game, extend the Xenakis line with an heir, his grandfather would follow through on his threat to disinherit Stavros before he assumed control of the pharmaceutical empire that would be his.

Stavros would have called his bluff, walked away with pleasure if it weren’t for his mother and sisters who would be stripped of everything they possessed if that happened, something Stavros would never allow.

Sebastien pushed a pile of chips toward the center of the table. “Do you ever get the feeling we spend too much of our lives counting our money and chasing superficial thrills at the expense of something more meaningful?”

Antonio tossed a handful of chips at Alejandro. “You called it,” his friend muttered, “four drinks and he’s already philosophizing.”

Sebastien scowled at Stavros as he added his own chips to Alejandro’s pile. The Greek billionaire shrugged. “I said three. My losing streak continues.”

“I’m serious.” Sebastien eyed the table. “At our level, it’s numbers on a page. Points on a scoreboard. What does it contribute to our lives? Money doesn’t buy happiness.”

“It buys some pretty nice substitutes,” Antonio interjected.

Sebastien’s mouth twisted. “Like your cars?” he mused, then moved his gaze to Alejandro. “Your private island? You don’t even use that boat you’re so proud of,” he said, moving on to Stavros. “We buy expensive toys and play dangerous games, but does it enrich our lives? Feed our souls?”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Alejandro drawled, pushing a pile of chips into the pot. “We go live with the Buddhists in the mountains? Learn the meaning of life? Renounce our worldly possessions to find inner clarity?”

Sebastien made a sound at the back of his throat. “You three couldn’t go two weeks without your wealth and family names to support you. Your gilded existence makes you blind to reality.”

Alejandro stiffened. He took offence to that. Sebastien might be the only self-made man among them, older than the rest by three years, but they had all achieved success in their own right.

Leading his family company had been Alejandro’s birthright, yes, but he had been the one to transform the Salazar Coffee Company from a fledgling international player into a global household name as CEO. He had more than paid his dues.

Stavros threw away three cards. “Try telling us you would go back to when you were broke, before you made your fortune. Hungry isn’t happy. That’s why you’re such a rich bastard now.”

“As it happens,” Sebastien countered with a deceptively casual shrug, “I’ve been thinking of donating half my fortune to charity to start a global search and rescue fund. Not everyone has friends who will dig him out of an avalanche with their bare hands.”

Alejandro almost choked on the sip of whiskey he’d taken. “Are you serious? That’s what? Five billion?”

“You can’t take it with you. I’ll tell you what,” Sebastien mused, gaze moving from one to the other, “you three manage to go two weeks without your credit cards and family name and I’ll do it.”

Silence fell over the table. “Starting when?” Alejandro queried. “We all have responsibilities.”

“Fair enough,” Sebastien agreed. “Clear the decks at home. But be prepared for word from me—and two weeks in the real world.”

Alejandro blinked. “You’re really going to wager half your fortune on a cakewalk of a challenge?”

“If you’ll put up your island...your favorite toys? Yes.” Sebastien lifted his whiskey glass. “I say where and when.”

“Easy,” said Stavros. “Count me in.”

They all clinked glasses, Alejandro dismissing the challenge as one of Sebastien’s philosophical, whiskey-induced rants.

Until he ended up undercover as a groom in the Hargroves’ legendary Kentucky stables exactly five months later.


CHAPTER ONE (#u4ccb7443-309f-59c5-92f4-6fa8f3a76b85)

Five months later—Esmerelda, the Hargrove Estate, Kentucky.

Day one of Alejandro’s challenge

CECILY HARGROVE TOOK the turn to the final line of jumps at such a tight angle, Bacchus’s hind end spun out before her horse regained his balance, smoothed out his stride and headed toward the first oxer.

Too slow. Way too slow. Dammit, what was wrong with him?

She dug her heels into her horse’s sides, pushing him forward to give them the momentum they needed for the jump, but Bacchus’s hesitancy at takeoff threw their timing all off—only her horse’s pure physical power allowing them to clear the fence.

Jaw set, frustration surging through her, she finished the last two jumps of the combination, then brought Bacchus to a dancing trot, then a walk, halting in front of her trainer.

Dale gave her a grim look as she pulled off her hat, the hot summer sun sticking the strands of her hair to her head. Her stomach knotted. “I don’t want to know.”

“Sixty-eight seconds. You need to figure out what’s wrong with that horse, Cecily.”

Tell her something she didn’t know. With her second mount, Derringer, showing his inexperience in competition, Bacchus was her only chance to make this year’s world championship team. Fully healed from their accident last year, her horse was physically sound, it was his mental outlook she was worried about.

If she didn’t straighten out his head—this strange hesitancy he was displaying toward jumps he never used to blink at—her dream would be sunk before it had even started.

The only thing in this world that meant anything to her.

“Do it again,” Dale instructed.

She shook her head, fury and frustration welling up inside her to spur a wet heat at the back of her eyes. “I’m done.”

“Cec—”

She kicked Bacchus into a canter and headed for the barn, fighting back the tears. She had handled all the lemons life had thrown at her and Lord knew there had been a few of them, but this, this was not something she could fail at. Not when she’d spent every waking moment since she was five working toward this day.

Pulling Bacchus to a halt in front of the groom who stood lounging against the stable door, she slid off and threw the reins at him with more force than she’d intended. He caught them with a lithe movement, pushing away from the door. Hands clenched at her sides, she spun on her heel and turned to leave.

“You don’t cool your horse down?”

The unfamiliar low, slightly accented drawl stopped her in her tracks. Spinning around, she took in its owner. The new groom she’d seen with Cliff earlier, presumably. She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t paid any attention to him. She wondered now how that had been possible.

Tall, well over six feet, he was pure, packed muscle in the T-shirt and jeans he wore. Slowly, furiously, she slid her gaze up that impressive body and found the rest of him was equally jaw dropping. His black hair was worn at a slightly rebellious length, days-old stubble lined a brutally handsome, square-cut jaw, his eyes the most sinfully dark ones she’d ever seen.

Her stomach flip flopped, a moment of sizzling hot, sexual chemistry arcing between them. She allowed herself to sink into it for a moment, to absorb the shimmer way down low, because it was something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time, if ever.

His blatant stare didn’t waver. Unnerved by the intensity of the connection, she sliced it dead. “You’re new,” she said icily, lifting her chin. “What’s your name?”

A dip of his head. “Colt Banyon, ma’am. At your service.”

She nodded. “I’m fairly sure then, Colt, that Cliff will have explained the finer points of your job to you?”

“He did.”

“Why then, do you think it’s okay to question how I handle my horse?”

He lifted a shoulder. “It seems to me you were having some trouble out there today. In my experience, spending some bonding time with your mount can help with the trust factor.”

The pressure in her head threatened to explode through her skull. No one dared talk to her like that. She couldn’t believe his audacity.

She took a step closer, discovering just how big he was when she had to tip her head back to look up at him, his dangerously beautiful eyes a rich whiskey fire lighting an inky black canvas.

“And from which school of psychobabble does that assessment come from?”

His sensual mouth curved. “My grandmother. She’s a magician with horses.”

The smile might have taken her breath away if the red haze creeping across her brain hadn’t taken complete hold of her now. “How about this, Colt?” she suggested, voice dripping with disdain. “The next time you or your grandmother achieves a top one hundred world cup ranking, you can tell me how to handle my horse. Until then, how about you keep your mouth shut and do your job?”

His beautiful eyes widened.

She winced inwardly. Had she really just said that?

Shocked at her loss of control, fighting desperately to find some, she clutched her fingers tight around her hat. “He’s recovering from torn ligaments on his rear hind leg,” she said, nodding toward Bacchus. “Keep an eye on it.”

* * *

Alejandro watched Cecily Hargrove flounce off, hat in hand, convinced the tiny blonde would be the thing that tested his control in this challenge Sebastien had issued him.

She’d been raising hell around the barn all morning. He was simply the latest in a long list of casualties.

Mucking out stalls, breaking his back caring for thirty horses, twelve hours a day would be child’s play compared to dealing with that piece of work. She had a mouth on her that would strip the paint off a car and an attitude to match.

Unfortunately, he conceded, studying her fine rear end in the tight-fitting gray breeches as she stalked away, she was also extraordinarily beautiful. Traffic-stoppingly, outrageously beautiful. He would have had to have been fixed like half the horses in the barn not to have appreciated the delicate, heart-shaped face, remarkable blue eyes and honey blond hair that gave her an almost angelic look. Highly deceptive, clearly.

Blowing out a breath, he gathered up Bacchus’s reins and took the beautiful bay gelding for a walk along the cobblestoned laneway to cool him off. To cool himself off.

It had been damn near impossible to swallow the comeback that had risen to his lips when Cecily Hargrove had thrown her world cup ranking at him. His grandmother had been top three in the world. She would have ridden circles around the superior Ms. Hargrove in her day. But exposing his true identity as a Salazar and rendering this challenge null and void wasn’t something he could do. Not when Antonio and Stavros had already successfully completed theirs.

Not when his private island in the BVI was up for grabs—one of the few places on earth he found peace.

He led a cooled-down Bacchus into the barn and rubbed him down with a cloth. The therapeutic work he’d always loved gave him a chance to process the last, bizarre, twenty-four hours of his life.

It had not surprised him when Sebastien’s jet had deposited him at the Louisville airport last night where he’d been instructed to report to the Hargroves’ legendary, hundred-acre horse farm just outside of the city. Nor to find in the rustic cabin he’d been allocated in the staff quarters a couple of pairs of jeans, some T-shirts and boots, as well as a small stack of cash and an ancient mobile phone. It was exactly the same picture that had greeted Antonio and Stavros upon their arrival at their challenges.

The cryptic note that had been left on top of the pile of clothes had been similar as well.

For the next two weeks Alejandro Salazar does not exist. You are now Colt Banyon, talented drifter groom. You will report to Cliff Taylor at the stables at six a.m. tomorrow, where you will work for the next two weeks.

You will not break your cover under any circumstance. The only communication you may have with the outside world is with your fellow challenge-takers on the phone provided.

Why this particular assignment for you? I know you have been searching for the time to provide your grandmother with the proof she desires to right a wrong long-ago perpetrated. To restore the Salazar family honor. Your time as a groom will provide you with both the means and the opportunity to do so. I hope it offers you the closure you are looking for.

I wish you luck. Don’t blow this, Alejandro. I’ve gone to a great deal of effort to provide you with an airtight identity. If you, Antonio and Stavros successfully complete your assignments, I will donate half of my fortune, as promised, to setting up a global search and rescue team. It will save many more lives.

Sebastien

Alejandro’s mouth twisted as he switched to Bacchus’s other side, toweling the sweat from the gelding’s dark coat. No doubt the idea of him breaking his back shoveling horse manure for two weeks with a name torn from the pages of a Hollywood script had provided an endless source of amusement for his mentor. But if Sebastien had been here, he would have told him this chance to provide his grandmother with the justice she was seeking was exactly the kind of closure he’d been looking for.

The feud between the Salazars and Hargroves had been going on for decades—ever since Quinton Hargrove had illegally bred his mare Demeter to his grandmother, Adriana Salazar’s, prize stallion Diablo while the horse had been on loan to an American breeder. The Hargroves had gone on to build an entire show jumping legacy around Diablo’s bloodline, one Adriana had never been able to match.

Heartbroken, his grandmother had been unable to attain proof as to what the Hargroves had done, watching as her fortunes plummeted and the Hargroves’ star had risen. Sebastien, in setting up the elaborate identity he had for him had put Alejandro in the perfect position to acquire that proof. Not only did he have the skills to carry out the subterfuge from summers and holidays spent on his grandmother’s Belgian horse farm, he had her touch with a horse.

He ran the towel down Bacchus’s hind end. Somehow, he acknowledged, it seemed almost too simple, this assignment of his, given the emotionally complex challenges Antonio and Stavros had been handed.

Antonio had been sent undercover to work as a mechanic at a garage in Milan. No issue there given his skill with a wrench. Far more shocking had been the child the Greek billionaire had discovered, the product of an old love affair. Antonio was still grappling with the considerable fallout of that life-altering discovery.

Stavros had warily gone next, finding himself sent to Greece to pose as a pool boy at his old family villa, a place he had long given a wide berth. Purchased by new owners, the property still held the ghosts of Stavros’s childhood, the site of his father’s death in a boating accident in which Stavros had survived.

Which undoubtedly left Alejandro the winner in the challenge lottery. Collecting a DNA sample from Bacchus, Cecily Hargrove’s prize horse, to prove the Hargroves’ crime was as simple as saving a few mane hairs from a brush and sending them off to Stavros to analyze in one of his high-tech labs.

Which left his biggest challenge to find a way to steer clear of Ms. Cecily Hargrove’s razor-sharp mouth and perfect behind over the next two weeks.

* * *

Cecily’s bad behavior plagued her all afternoon and well into dinner in the formal dining room at Esmerelda, a ridiculous indulgence on her stepmother’s part when the stately redbrick manor’s elegant, columned entertaining space seated thirty and it was only she, her father and her stepmother dining tonight.

She spent most of the insufferably dry meal staring moodily out the window. Her mother, Zara, had raised her to have impeccable manners. She was never rude. But Colt Banyon had hit a nerve this afternoon—a guilt she’d been harboring perhaps. A part of her knew this mess with Bacchus wasn’t just his fault—that whatever had happened to them in that horrific accident in London was something that still haunted them both.

Dessert was finally served. Her stepmother, Kay, otherwise known as the Wicked Witch of the South, flicked a jasmine-scented wrist at her as a maid served a lime sorbet. “What are you wearing to the party next week?”

Something her stepmother would undoubtedly hate on sight.

“I don’t know,” she dismissed. “I’ll find something.”

Kay eyed her. “You know Knox Henderson is coming here specifically to court you. He’s number forty-two on the Forbes list, Cecily. A catch if there ever was one.”

Her lip curled. “No one uses the word ‘court’ anymore. And like I’ve told you a half a dozen times before, I have no interest in Knox.”

“Why not?”

Because he was an arrogant jerk who owned half of Texas with his massive cattle ranches and oil reserves, merely looking for a wife to decorate his salon in entertainment magazine photo spreads. Because he reminded her far too much of her ex, Davis—another male who’d been far too rich and far too appreciative of multiple members of the opposite sex—all at the same time.

“I am not marrying him.” She lifted her chin and stared her stepmother down. “End of story. Stop matchmaking. It’s only going to be embarrassing for both of us if you keep this up.”

“Perhaps Cecily is right,” her father interjected, sweeping his cool, gray gaze over her. “She would do better to focus on the task at hand. Dale said your times today were still subpar. Do I need to buy you another horse to make this happen?”

Her stomach twisted. No, ‘I’m sorry you had such a bad day, honey.’ No ‘You’ve got what it takes, just stick with it’ from her father. Never any of that. Only the stern, silver-haired disapproval that was her father’s de facto response. It made her feel about two feet tall.

Her lashes lowered. “I don’t have time to break in a new horse, Daddy. Besides, the committee will expect me on Bacchus.”

“Then what do we need to do?”

“I will figure it out.”

Suddenly the idea of Knox Henderson’s impending visit combined with the vast amount of pressure being heaped on her from all directions vaporized any desire for dessert.

She set her spoon down with a clatter. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a headache. I think I’ll go lie down.”

“Cecily.”

Her stepmother put a hand on her father’s arm. “Let her go. You know what she’s like when she’s in one of these moods.”

Cecily ignored her, scraping back her chair and leaving with a click of her heels on the hardwood floor. She started toward her bedroom, then changed her mind, taking a detour to the kitchen where she acquired some of Bacchus’s favorite breakfast cereal, then headed out the back door to the barn.

She thought she might owe both Bacchus and Colt Banyon an apology. She told herself that was the only reason she was venturing out into a balmy, perfect Kentucky evening when she had a stack of entrance forms waiting to be filled out. It was not, she assured herself, because of Colt Banyon’s sinful dark eyes she couldn’t forget.

Her bad timing on the course earlier today seemed to follow her as she entered the barn to find the grooms had finished up work. Not about to track Colt Banyon down at the staff quarters, she headed for Bacchus’s box.

She pulled up short when she got there, watching with astonishment as her horse, extremely picky when it came to grooms and highly nerved, blew out a breath and closed his eyes, putty under Colt’s hands as the groom massaged his head. She hadn’t seen him look this relaxed since before the accident.

Her attention shifted to the two-footed male in the box. Still clad in the close-fitting faded jeans, a gray T-shirt skimming his amazing abs, she found herself transfixed by the ripple of muscle in his powerful arms...by the lean, taut, undeniably ogle-worthy thighs underneath the worn denim.

He was a man—unlike Knox Henderson who preferred to preen like a peacock, there was a quiet substance to Colt that held her in its thrall.

He slid his hands down her horse’s head and began working his neck muscles, the kneading movement of his big hands making her horse shudder. Her stomach curled, tiny pinpricks of heat unfolding beneath her skin.

Would he handle a woman with such sensual precision? What would those hands feel like? Would they be deliberate and demanding? Slow and seductive? All of the above?

Bacchus lifted his head, his soft nicker of welcome causing the subject of her fascination to turn around. She wiped her expression clean, but perhaps not quick enough. Colt Banyon’s cool, dark stare made her freeze, utterly disconcerted.

“Why aren’t you eating with the others?” she blurted out.

A blast of arctic air directed her way. “Wasn’t hungry.”

She sank her hands into her pockets. Blew out a breath. “I owe you an apology for my behavior earlier. I was frustrated, I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

A barely perceptible blink of those long, dark lashes. “Apology accepted.”

He turned and went back to work. Her skin burned. He’d clearly formed an opinion of her and wasn’t about to change it. Which should have been fine because she was used to people forming false impressions of her. Sometimes she even encouraged it, because it was easier than trying to maintain human relationships, something that never seemed to work out for her.

But for some reason, she wanted Colt Banyon to approve of her. Maybe because her horse had already given him the thumbs up and Bacchus’s opinion was never wrong.

Her horse nuzzled the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a handful of his favorite brightly colored fruit breakfast cereal and fed it to him.

Colt eyed her hand. “What is that?”

“Breakfast of champions. He’ll do anything for it.”

“Except jump the course the way you want him to.”

Ouch. She winced at the dig. “Are you always this—”

“Impertinent?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it.”

“I think,” she corrected stiffly, “that you are direct. And that you don’t like me very much.”

He glanced at her, face impassive. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m paid to follow orders just like you said.”

She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Sure you did.”

Wow. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. She watched as he ran his hand over Bacchus’s side and dug his fingers into his trapezoids, key muscles her horse used to balance himself with. “What are you doing?”

“He seemed stiff when you rode him earlier. I thought a massage might loosen him up.”

“Did your grandmother teach you that too?”

“Yes. If he’s tight, he can’t stretch over the jumps properly.”

Well she knew that, of course. Jumping was all about form. But she’d only ever heard of equine therapists doing this kind of a massage.

“Is your grandmother a therapist?”

He shook his head. “Just a horse lover with a special touch.”

“Does she live in New Mexico?”

A longer glance at her this time. “You been checking my résumé out?”

Heat stained her cheeks. “I like to know who’s working in my stables.”

“So you can see which ‘school of psychobabble’ we come from?”

“Colt—”

He started working on her horse’s back. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the stall. “We had an accident,” she said quietly. “In London last year. Something in the crowd spooked Bacchus as we approached a combination. His takeoff was all wrong—we crashed through the fence.”

She closed her eyes as the sickening thud, still so clear, so horrifically real, reverberated in her head. “I was lucky I didn’t break my neck. I broke my collarbone and arm instead. Bacchus tore tendons—badly. Physically, he’s a hundred percent but mentally he hasn’t been right since then. That’s why I was so frustrated today.”

He turned around and leaned against the wall. The corded muscles in his forearms flexed as he folded them over his chest, a flicker of something she couldn’t read sliding across his cool, even gaze. “That had to have left some emotional dents in you as well.”

She nodded. “I thought I was over it. Maybe I’m not.”

* * *

Alejandro knew he should keep up the brush off signals until Cecily Hargrove walked back out that door—the safest place for her. But there was a fragility that radiated from her tonight, dark emotional bruises in her eyes he couldn’t ignore. Perhaps they were from the accident. He thought they might be from a hell of a lot further back.

His heart tugged. Her undeniably beautiful face, bare of makeup, blue summer dress the same vibrant shade as her eyes, she looked exceedingly young and vulnerable. His grandmother had always said showjumping was a mental game. If you lost your edge, it all fell apart. Maybe Cecily had lost hers.

“Maybe you need to take a step back,” he suggested. “Take some time for you and Bacchus to fully heal—mentally and physically. Figure out what’s missing.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have time. I have a big event in a month. If I don’t perform in the top three there I won’t make the world championship team. Bacchus is the only horse I have that’s at that level.”

“So you make it next year.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Why not?” He frowned. “What are you—mid-twenties? You have all the time in the world to make the team.”

Her mouth twisted. “Not when you’re a Hargrove, you don’t. My grandmother and mother were on the team. I am expected to make it. If I don’t, it will be a huge disappointment.”

“To who?”

“My father. My coach. The team. Everyone who’s backed me. They’ve spent a fortune in time and money to get me here.”

That he understood. He’d spent a lifetime trying to live up to his own legacy—to the destiny that had been handed to him from the first day he could walk. Sent to an elite boarding school in America from his native Brazil when he was six, then on to Harvard, the pressure had been relentless.

When he’d moved to New York to run the Salazar Coffee Company’s global operations as the company’s CEO, that pressure had escalated to a whole other level, driven by a ferociously competitive international marketplace and a father who had never been content with less than a hundred and ten percent from his sons.

He knew how that pressure could rule your life. How it could crush your soul if you let it.

He set his gaze on the woman in front of him. “You know better than anyone what you do is as much psychology as it is sport. Master the course in your head and you’re halfway there. Fail to do so and you’re dead in the water.” He shook his head. “If you push Bacchus before you’re both ready, it could end up in an even worse disaster than the one you’ve already been through.”

Long, golden-tipped lashes shaded her eyes. Chewing on her lip, she studied him for a long moment. “Was your grandmother a show jumper?”

Meu Deus. He gave himself a mental slap for revealing that much. He’d thought it an innocent enough reference at the time with Ms. High and Mighty goading him, but it had clearly been a stupid thing to do. Proof he liked to live close to the edge.

“She competed in small, regional stuff,” he backpedalled. “Nothing at your level. She gave it up to have a family. But she had a way with horses like no one I’ve ever seen.”

Her expressive eyes took on a reflective cast. “My mama was like that. Horses gravitated to her—it was like she spoke their language. They’d do anything for her in the ring.”

Zara Hargrove. Alejandro knew from his grandmother she had died in a riding accident at the height of her career. Which would have made Cecily only a teenager when she’d lost her... Tough.

He ran a palm over the stubble on his jaw, hardening his heart against those dark bruised eyes. “You will figure this out. Bacchus will come around.”

Her lips pursed. “I hope so.”

She fed Bacchus another handful of cereal. He pulled his gaze away from the vulnerable curve of her mouth. Dio. She was the enemy. It might be guilt by association, she might have been trained to be a Hargrove, but she was one nonetheless. He was nuts to be standing here trying to solve her problems.

He knelt beside Bacchus’s hind leg. “Show me where he tore the tendons.”

She squatted beside him and ran her hand down the horse’s leg. “Here.”

“Difficult spot.” He wrapped his fingers around the tendons and very gently worked the leg, massaging the sinewy flesh until it eased beneath his fingers.

“Can I try?” Cecily asked.

He nodded and dropped his hand.

She wrapped her fingers around the horse’s leg, kneading his flesh. But her touch was too tentative, too light to do any good.

“Like this.” He closed his fingers over hers to demonstrate, increasing the pressure. The warmth of her hand bled into his, a fission of electricity passing between them. Heat flared beneath his skin. Her breath grew shallow. He inhaled her delicate floral scent, so soft and seductive as it infiltrated his senses with potent effect. They may have had a rocky start, she might be the enemy, but his body wasn’t registering either of those facts, consumed with a sensual awareness of her that clawed at his skin.

She turned to look at him, eyes darkening. “Have you ever thought of doing this for a living? You’re very good at it.”

“I’ve thought about it.” He responded as Colt Banyon, professional drifter. “But I like to travel too much. Maybe someday I’ll settle down and get my own place.”

She didn’t scoff at that, as if he didn’t have a hope in hell of ever owning a place like this. Didn’t know he could buy and sell her family ten times over. Only said quietly, sincerity shining in her eyes, “I hope you do that someday. You’d be amazing at it.”

He thought then that perhaps first impressions hadn’t done Cecily Hargrove justice. That if he curved his fingers around her neck and drew her to him for a kiss so he could taste that delectable mouth, she wouldn’t protest, she’d meet him halfway. That if he did, he might be able to banish some of those dark shadows from her eyes for just a few minutes.

Why all of a sudden it was the most unbearably tempting proposition when it was the last thing in the world he should ever do was beyond him.

He pushed to his feet before madness ensued. “A few minutes of that every day will help him stretch out, trust himself a bit more. It might help.”

She rose to her feet beside him, any hint of an invitation gone from those blue eyes. If he saw a flash of regret there, she masked it just as quickly.

“Thank you, Colt,” she said quietly, brushing her palms against her dress. “He’s in excellent hands. Y’all have yourself a good night.”

* * *

Oh, my God. Cecily dragged in a deep breath as she exited the stables on weak knees, the earth feeling as if it was shifting beneath her feet. What had just happened?

You didn’t invite a complete stranger to kiss you when he’d clearly barely been tolerating your presence and didn’t even like you. And yet, her dazed brain processed, for a second there, she’d thought he’d been thinking about kissing her too before he’d replaced those barriers of his and put her back in her place as surely as she’d put him in his earlier today.

Had she imagined it?

She pressed her palms to her heated cheeks. She shouldn’t be interested in kissing anyone right now. It was the last thing she should be doing with her career hanging in the balance.

Skirting the floodlit natural water grotto her father had spent millions building for her mother, she took the path to the house. Perhaps she should go stick her head in there. It might inject some sense into her.

Hadn’t her disastrous engagement to Davis taught her a lesson? Good looking men were trouble. A disaster waiting to happen. She was better off sticking with males of the four legged variety. They never broke her heart.


CHAPTER TWO (#u4ccb7443-309f-59c5-92f4-6fa8f3a76b85)

CECILY SPENT THE next few days steadfastly ignoring sexy, elusive Colt Banyon and putting all her focus into her practice sessions. But it seemed the harder she tried, the worse her times became—as if desperation was setting in and Bacchus could sense it, feeding off her nerves in all the worst ways.

By the time Friday rolled around, her event three weeks away, she was at her wit’s end. She could continue to pound away at the fruitless efforts that were getting her nowhere or she could follow Colt’s suggestion and take a step back.

She couldn’t afford to give up on her hopes for the season, but perhaps she might be able to rewire her horse’s brain with a total change of pace. Maybe Bacchus just needed a mental breather, an escape from the pressure cooker. Just like her.

An idea filled her head over tea in the thankfully deserted breakfast room. Except she knew her father wouldn’t allow it unless she took someone with her and since having company along for the ride defeated the purpose of obtaining some peace, it wasn’t an option.

Unless she took the less than talkative Colt with her, she mused over a sip of tea. She could pick his brain about some of his techniques along the way. While keeping her head in sane territory, of course, something that shouldn’t be hard because Colt would clearly give her the brush off again if she did something dumb like invite him to kiss her, which of course, she wouldn’t.

Her mouth curved. It was a plan. She finished her tea, collected her things and went off to execute.

* * *

Alejandro dropped the package off at the courier office in town on his mid-morning break. Containing a sample of Bacchus’s mane hairs, it was now up to Stavros’s high tech lab to confirm the Hargroves’ crime.

He texted Stavros from the truck.

Package has been sent. Obrigado amigo, I owe you one.

Forget it. I’m feeling generous. I am, after all, soon to be a married man.

Alejandro almost dropped his phone.

Sorry?

You heard me. Details to come. Got to run.

Got to run? Alejandro eyed the phone as he threw it on the seat of the truck. Antonio with an insta-family? Stavros married? What the hell was going on? It was...insano.

Stavros, he bemusedly processed as he started the truck, didn’t even sound panicked about it. He sounded almost...cheerful.

The sense of relief he’d been feeling about having netted this particular challenge magnified ten-fold as he drove back to the farm. No chance of any of those emotional attachments with him. He didn’t need to acquire a wife as Stavros did, had no undiscovered children lying around—he’d made sure of that. And Sebastien knew his feelings on marriage.

When the day came for him to make a match to deliver the Salazar heir, it would be at least a few years down the road with a woman he’d handpicked as a sensible selection. He would research her just as he would an expensive car, making sure she ticked all the right boxes for the rational, practical match he had planned. Because he knew from personal history, impulse purchases, matches made out of passion never lasted. His parents were a perfect example of that.

He reached the stables five minutes after his break officially ended. Putting his mind blowing conversation with Stavros out of his head, he went directly to the tack room to collect the gear he needed to exercise one of the three horses he had to take out that afternoon.

Checking the gear over, he let the easy rhythm of the stables slide over him. The clip clop of hooves on concrete, the whinny of horses talking to each other over their stalls, the clink of metal on metal as an animal was shod filled him with a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in months.

If he wasn’t consumed with the thought of the hundreds of emails piling up in his inbox back in New York, the two massive deals his brother Joaquim, director of Salazar’s European operations, was stickhandling for him, it would almost be idyllic.

“Hey Hollywood.” Tommy, one of his fellow grooms, stuck his head in the tack room. “Boss’s daughter wants to see you.”

Uh-oh. He’d done such a good job of avoiding Cecily after that moment they’d shared in the stable. Was pretty sure she’d been avoiding him too. So why seek him out now?

He joined a group of grooms congregated in front of the tiny kitchen, Cecily holding court in their midst. Dressed in jeans and a sleeveless shirt that hugged her lithe curves, her hair caught up in a ponytail, she was a tiny, delectable package a man might want to eat for breakfast. Just not him, of course.

She turned to him once she’d finished her conversation with the others. “I want to go for a hack up to the lake. I’d like you to come with me.”

Oh, no. He recognized a bad idea when he heard one. “I still have three horses to exercise,” he demurred smoothly. “Perhaps you can take someone else.”

A female groom gaped at him. Tommy’s brows rose. Cecily lifted her chin, training those vibrant blue eyes on him. “I would like you to come.”

An order. Back to being mistress of all she surveyed, clearly.

He inclined his head. “Let me gather up a few things.”

“Don’t worry about food and water. I have that figured out.”

He saddled up Jiango, a big, black stallion he’d had to exercise anyway. Tommy elbowed him as he walked the horse toward the yard. “Making an impression, Hollywood? A hundred bucks says you can’t get past the ice cold exterior.”

“Not looking to.” He nipped that one in the bud. Rumors were the quickest way to blow his cover, particularly when they involved him and the boss’s daughter.

Cecily eyed him as he brought Jiango to a halt in the yard. “I asked you along because I decided to take your advice and spend some downtime with Bacchus. I would have preferred to go by myself but my father won’t let me ride up there alone. You will be the least talkative of the grooms.”

So he was supposed to provide silent companionship to her highness? That he supposed he could do.

“Fair enough.” He attempted to keep his eyes off her curvaceous rear as she turned, stuck her foot in the stirrup and climbed on Bacchus.

Usually, he went for tall, leggy women who matched him in physical attributes, but in Cecily’s case, his mind immediately degenerated into all sorts of creative possibilities.

Bad Alejandro. He gave himself a mental slap and mounted Jiango. “How long a ride is it?”

“About an hour. It’s gorgeous, you’ll love it.”

He did. Jiango, a powerful, Belgian-bred stallion, one of the Hargroves’ up-and-coming young horses, more than kept up with Bacchus as they rode through pastures so green they looked frankly unreal, bounded by mile upon mile of picturesque white fence.

Aristocratic flowering trees with vibrant magenta and white blooms lined the track they rode on, providing shade to the long legged, elegant horses who dozed beneath a sky of the deepest blue.

The sun moved high in the sky as midday closed in. They left the pastures behind and entered a shady, light-dappled forest. Cecily turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Want to show me what you’ve got, Hollywood?”

“If the prize is you not calling me that,” he responded dryly, “I’m in.”

“Done.” A wider smile, a dazzling one that lit her face. “A race then, to the end of the road. First person over the creek wins.” Her mouth pursed. “I will warn you—there are obstacles. You need to keep a sharp eye.”

He’d gone cliff diving in Acapulco, bungee jumping in Thailand. He and the boys had even taken on sumo wrestlers in Japan. This would be a piece of cake.

“You’re on,” he said laconically. “You want a head start?”

Fire lit her gaze. She dug her heels into Bacchus and was flying down the road at breakneck speed before he’d even registered she’d moved. Kicking Jiango into a gallop, he gave him his head. Crouched low over the stallion’s withers, he did his best to avoid the branches and obstacles that appeared out of nowhere, the odd one snagging him good.

Cecily held the lead. She was an insanely good rider, glued to the seat, but his horse had a longer stride than Bacchus’s, helping him to make up ground. He was almost even with her when they neared what appeared to be the end of the road, the track growing steeper, plunging downhill to the creek. It took every bit of his experience to keep Jiango steady as they flew down the incline and headed for the water, the two horses even now.

He crouched forward in the saddle. Jiango jumped the water in a smooth, powerful movement. A gasp rang out behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bacchus dig his feet in at the last moment, coming to a screeching halt on the rocks, nearly catapulting his rider over his head.

Somehow Cecily stayed in the saddle, regaining control as her horse skittered away from the water. He turned Jiango around and jumped back across the creek, bringing him to a halt beside Bacchus. Cheeks flushed, frustration glittering in her eyes, all the joy had gone out of Cecily’s face.

“Guess that makes you the winner.”

He frowned at the false bravado in her voice. “He normally jumps the creek?”

She nodded. “He loves it.”

“Did your accident involve a water jump?”

“Yes, but he’s jumped them since. His behavior isn’t making any sense.”

“Fear often doesn’t make sense.” He bunched his reins in one hand and sat back in the saddle. “A horse I worked with once had a bad crash on a really unusual fence that spooked him. He recovered, but the same thing happened to him that’s happening to Bacchus. He wasn’t just refusing on jumps that were new to him, he was refusing on jumps he had always been comfortable with—as if he didn’t trust his rider anymore. Because, in his eyes, he’d led him astray.”

“You think Bacchus believes I let him down?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

She chewed on her lip. “What did you do to make the horse right?”

“I gained his trust back.”

“How?”

He lifted a brow. “You sure you want to learn from the ‘school of psychobabble’?”

She gave him a reproachful look. “Yes.”

He dismounted and walked over to Bacchus. “Get off,” he instructed. “Take off your scarf.”

“My scarf?”

“Yes—off.”

She dismounted. Slid her fingers through the knot of her scarf and untied it, pulling it from her neck. Colt tied it around Bacchus’s head, covering his eyes. The horse pawed the ground nervously, but stayed put.

“Take your shoes off and walk him across the stream.”

She pulled off her riding boots and socks. Colt did the same. Boots in hand, he went first with Jiango. The water wasn’t deep, but it moved fast. Jiango hesitated at the edge, but a firm tug on the reins had him moving forward.

Cecily and Bacchus followed. The moment Bacchus’s hooves hit the running water, her horse jammed on the breaks and came to a grinding halt. Mouth set, Cecily walked back to him, stroked his neck and talked to him. By the time Alejandro and Jiango had reached the other side of the stream, Bacchus was cautiously making his way across.

“Take the blindfold off,” he instructed when the pair walked up onto the bank.

Cecily removed the blindfold. Bacchus eyed the stream, sniffed the water, ears flickering as he registered he was on the other side.

“He knows he can trust you to get him to safety,” Alejandro explained. “Now take him back across without the blindfold.”

Horse and rider picked their way across the stream, then back again, Bacchus’s confidence building with every step.

Cecily stopped Bacchus at his side. “What now?”

“We’ll give him some time to think about it. See if he’ll jump it on the way back.”

She nodded. “It’s just so strange. This is his favorite place.”

“He’s got something stuck in his head. Also,” he added, eyes on hers, “he’s absorbing your tension. I’ve been feeling it all week watching you ride. You’ve got to loosen up—change the dynamic between you two. Rebuild the trust.”

She pushed her hair out of her face. “My coach doesn’t believe in any of this. You’re supposed to make the horse do what you want them to do.”

“And that’s working for you?”

Her eyes flashed. Lifting her chin, she nodded toward a path in the woods. “Lake’s this way.”

* * *

Cecily attempted to recapture her good mood as they walked the horses to her favorite picnic spot on the bank of the lake, but she was too agitated to manage it. For Bacchus to refuse a jump on his favorite ride was sucking what little hope she had left out of her that she would be ready to compete against the top riders in the world in just three weeks. It didn’t seem possible.

She knew Colt was right, knew she needed to change the dynamic between her and Bacchus—she just didn’t know how.

The sun at its midday peak, hot as the devil as her Grandmama Harper used to say, they tethered the horses in a shady spot under a tree. A mile wide, the lake was a stunning dark navy blue, bounded by forests of the deepest green. Quiet—eerily quiet except for the odd call of a bird or the splash of some water creature, it made her suddenly, inordinately aware of how very alone she and Colt were.

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.

She retrieved the picnic lunch she’d had a farm hand drop off earlier while Colt spread the blanket out on a flat stretch of grass. He sprawled on top of it, taking the containers she handed him, a visual feast for the eye in his threadbare jeans and navy T-shirt.

Her thoughts immediately ventured into X-rated territory. She attempted to wrestle them back as she sorted out the lunch, but it proved almost impossible. He was a gorgeous male in the prime of his life, all coiled muscle and tensile strength, the effect he had on her core deep.

Heart ticking faster, every inch of her skin utterly and irrefutably aware of him, she sat down on the blanket and served up the lunch of fried chicken and potato salad the cook had provided.

Colt demolished it with a cold beer. Her appetite seemingly not in attendance, whether because of her misery or her intense awareness of the man beside her, she pushed her plate away and nursed the wine cooler she’d brought for herself, eyes on the water.

Colt rolled up a towel from the basket and propped it behind his head, stretching out with feline grace in the baking sun. She noted the careful distance he kept between them, the wary glint in his eyes whenever he looked at her. And suddenly, felt like a fool.

“I’m sorry I strong-armed you into coming up here with me.”

He paused, beer bottle halfway to his lips. “I’m enjoying it. You were right—it’s amazing up here. I was surprised, though, you didn’t want to bring a friend.”

“I don’t have any.” She gave a self-conscious shrug. “At least no real ones. My best friend, Melly, decided we weren’t friends anymore after I won the junior championship. I’m on the road so much, there’s really been no opportunity to make any new friends other than the people I compete with and those relationships only go so deep.”

“That must get lonely.”

“I’m better off with companionship of the four legged variety. Horses are endlessly loyal and they don’t talk back to me.”

His mouth quirked. “They also can’t provide anything in the way of strength and solidarity.”

She tipped her head to the side, curious. “Is that what your friends mean to you?”

“A big part of it, yes. We go back to college, my best friends and I. We’ve been through some pretty amazing times together—both good and bad. There’s a bond there that’s unbreakable even with the distance between us. One of us needs something—the rest of us jump.”

A pang went through her. She wished she had that. Someone who knew you so well you could just be yourself rather than what everyone else thought you should be. But she’d never been good at fostering those types of relationships.

“That would be nice,” she said quietly, “to have friends like that.”

He studied her for a long moment. “So Melly turned out to be a dud. Find someone else who deserves your friendship. You can’t spend every waking minute riding a horse.”

“According to my coach that’s exactly what I should be doing.”

“No,” he disagreed. “You shouldn’t. Success in life comes from opening yourself up to new horizons. Balance.” He lifted a brow. “What about boyfriends? You must have them.”

“Too busy.”

“Surely men pursue you?”

She took a sip of her drink. Cradled the bottle between her hands. “My parents want me to marry Knox Henderson. He owns half of Texas. They keep throwing us together, but I have no interest.”

“Why?” An amused glitter filled his gaze. “Is he unattractive? Too old? Too boring?”

“He’s young, attractive and rich. And he knows it.”

“What’s not to like about that? A woman needs a strong, successful man.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Did you even give him a chance?”

“Define ‘give him a chance’.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“Yes. No spark.” She gave him a considering glance, having overheard Tommy’s earlier remark. “I know the bet the boys in the barn have going.”

“What bet?”

She waved a hand at him. “You don’t have to play dumb. They think I’m a cold fish. And maybe I am.”

He rubbed a palm over his jaw. Eyed her. “Was this Knox even a good kisser?”

“I’m sure many women would say yes. Not me. He’s coming to the barn party on Friday night. You’ll get to meet him then.”

“About that,” he murmured. “It’s very nice of you to invite the staff but I have nothing to wear. I actually am Cinderella.”

“You get paid today. Buy something in town.” Somehow the comparison of Colt and Knox in the same room was far too intriguing to resist.

“It was my mama’s idea to include the staff,” she told him. “She always loved the family atmosphere it created. Kay, my stepmother, wanted to cut the tradition out when she came here. A needless expense, she said.” Her mouth twisted as she brushed a stray hair out of her face. “I vetoed it. It set the tone for our tempestuous relationship.”

“It’s a very nice tradition.” Colt took a sip of his beer. “You must miss your mother. You lost her very young.”

Her smile faded. “Every day.” She looked down at the bottle in her hand. “She died up here. That’s why Daddy doesn’t like me coming alone.”

He sat up on his elbows. “I assumed she died while she was competing.”

She shook her head. “She and Daddy had an argument. I know, because the whole house heard it. It was a bad one—worse than usual. Daddy flew off to New York on business, Mama left the house in a state and came up here without telling anyone. When I finished my lessons with my tutor I went looking for her. I knew she’d be up here because it was her favorite place.

“I found her hat on the ground. I knew something was wrong. We searched for hours but we couldn’t find her. We were on our way back to the house when we found Zeus, her horse. Mama had gotten thrown from him and he was dragging her by the stirrup.” She pressed her lips together, a throb pulsing her insides. “He was taking her home.”

“I’m sorry,” Colt said quietly. “That must have been awful.”

The worst day of her life. Her heart squeezed. What she wouldn’t do to have her wise, kind mother here now to help her sort out the mess she was in.

She studied the play of the sunlight on the water, a dancing, rippling pattern that continually changed form. “I don’t think my father’s ever forgiven himself for it. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for it. I mean I know rationally, it wasn’t his fault, but I miss her so much.”

“Did you ever find out what they were arguing about?”

She shook her head. “Daddy won’t talk about it. One of the maids told me she heard them arguing about Zeus, but that doesn’t make any sense. Daddy never interfered in Mama’s horse stuff.”

He took a swig of his beer. “Isn’t the rumor Zeus was sired by Diablo?”

She laughed. “Oh, that’s not true. Everyone likes to make up these crazy stories about him. Demeter, Zeus’ mama, was bred with a French stallion named Nightshade—an equally impressive match. Nightshade was a three-time European champion, that’s where Bacchus gets his jumping ability from.”

He inclined his head. “Funny how rumors get started.”

She watched a loon sail elegantly across the glass-like surface of the water, its haunting cry echoing the dull throb inside of her. Being here it always hurt ten times worse, her emotions already far too close to the surface.

“She wasn’t just my mother,” she said quietly, heat gathering at the back of her eyes. “She was my best friend. My coach, my confidante, my hero. She taught me to ride before I could walk, took me to all the shows with her. We were inseparable. I wanted to be her when I grew up.”

A silence fell between them. “And you want to win for her,” Colt said finally.

She nodded, the tears stinging the backs of her eyes threatening to spill over. “I want to do what she didn’t have time to do.”

* * *

Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle that was Cecily Hargrove were falling into place. Alejandro studied her over the rim of his beer bottle, heart squeezing despite his attempts to remain unmoved. How could he?

He’d watched her kill herself over the past week, wondering what ghosts drove her. Now he knew. But beating herself and Bacchus into the ground over and over again until there was nothing left of either of them wasn’t going to fix the problem—wasn’t going to fix them.

He’d seen glimpses of the real Cecily on the way up here today. Her spirit. Her joy. What she must have been like as a competitor when her demons weren’t chasing her. Watching her now was like watching light turn into dark.

Setting his beer bottle down, he turned to face her. “You know what I think,” he said softly, studying those beautiful, haunted eyes. “I think you don’t know who you are anymore. Who you’re riding for. I think you’re riding for everyone but yourself.”

She frowned. “The accident—”

“Was just the tip of the iceberg.” He tapped his head. “When this gets messed up—when what you want, what everyone else wants, when too much damn pressure starts to build—no one can perform.”

Her eyes widened. “Bacchus is a problem.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “he is. But you are the bigger problem. Until you figure you out, until you decide who you’re doing this for, you have no hope of making that team. You might as well pack it up and throw in the towel right now.”

Her gaze dropped away from his. She was silent for so long he realized he had gone too far. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” she said, lifting her head, eyes glazed with unshed tears. “You’re right. I have no idea who I am anymore. I’ve spent my whole life doing what everyone else expects of me. Giving up a normal life—leaving school, traveling eight months of the year every year so I can make this team...” She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “What if I don’t? It’s all I know—it’s my entire identity.”

His throat tightened. “Then you find something else to be. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, Cecily. You clearly have the talent. Now you need to find the reason.”

A tear slid down her cheek. Then another. A curse left his lips. He pulled her into his arms, his chin coming down on top of her silky hair, her petite body curved against his. “You need to take control,” he murmured. “Decide what you want. This has to be you, Cecily, no one else.”

She cried against his chest. He held her, stroking his hand over her hair. How could he do anything else when she had no one, literally no one, to confide in?

He murmured comforting words against her silky cheek. Discovered her hair smelled like lemons and sunshine—that she was far more intoxicating than he’d ever imagined she would be, curled so tightly in his arms.

She finally pulled back, tears slowing. “Thank you,” she said. “No one is ever honest with me. Everyone tells me what I want to hear rather than what I need to hear. Except my parents. They just give me orders.”

He tucked a chunk of her hair behind her ear. Ran his thumbs across her cheeks to brush the tears away. “Then maybe you need to change that too. You’re old enough to own your own decisions—your own successes and failures.”

She nodded, eyes on his. Her lashes lowered, sweeping across her cheeks as the temperature between them changed and suddenly everything was focused on the fact that she was in his lap, her arms wrapped around him and really he should be disentangling himself right now.

“Colt?”

Distracted, he brought his gaze back up to hers. The reminder he wasn’t who he’d said he was, that this couldn’t happen, should have been enough to have him ending it right now, but the hesitant look in her blue eyes commanded him instead.

“That night in the barn—was I imagining that you wanted to kiss me?”

Por amor a Deus. How was he supposed to answer that? Lie and he would hurt her, something he wasn’t willing to do. But telling her the truth wasn’t an option either.

“I don’t think I should answer that question.”

“Why?”

“Because I work for you. Because it isn’t appropriate.”

“This is already past appropriate,” she murmured, eyes on his mouth. “And you’ve already answered my question by not answering.”

“Then we should consider the subject closed.” He reached up to disentangle her arms from around his neck. She kept them where they were.

“I think I should test my theory out.”

“What theory?”

“That you will be a better kisser than Knox.”

Oh, no. He shook his head. “I think we should leave the answer to the theoretical realm.”

“I don’t.” She curved her fingers around the back of his neck and drew his mouth down to hers. He should have stopped it right there, should have exercised the sanity he should have had, but he wasn’t going to reject her—not in her ultra-vulnerable state. And, if the truth be known, he wanted to kiss her. Badly. Had since that night in the barn.

Lush and full, not quite practiced, the brush of her lips against his sent a sizzle over every inch of his skin. This was such a bad idea.

He relaxed beneath her touch, allowed her to play. He’d give it a minute, make it good and get out of Dodge.

“You have an amazing mouth,” Cecily breathed against his lips. “But you aren’t kissing me back.”

“Self-preservation,” he murmured before he splayed his fingers around her delicate jaw, angled her mouth the way he wanted it and took control.

Her sweet, heady taste exploded across his senses. As good as he’d imagined it to be—maybe better. Fingers stroking over the silky skin of her cheek, he explored the voluptuous line of her mouth with his own, acquainting himself with every plump, perfect centimeter.

When skin against skin didn’t seem to be enough, he brought his teeth and tongue into play, nipping, stroking, lathing. A gasp escaped her lips. He took advantage of the opportunity and closed his mouth over hers, taking the kiss deeper, mating his tongue with hers. Twining her fingers into the hair at his nape, she followed his lead, sliding her tongue against his, turning the kiss into an intimate, seductive exploration that fried his brain.

Santo Deus, but she was responsive, the taste of them together perfection. He fought the desire to explore the rest of her curvy, hot body with his mouth and tongue. To discover how sweet she really was.

In his world, kisses like this led to hot, explosive sex. In this world, however, it absolutely, positively could not happen.

His rational brain kicked in. He broke the kiss, sank his fingers into her waist and lifted her off him and placed her back on the blanket.

Cheeks flushed, eyes on his, Cecily pushed a hand through her hair. “That was—”

“Proof you aren’t a cold fish,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Now we forget it happened.”

She eyed him. “Colt—”

He shook his head. “You know my MO. Here today, gone tomorrow. You don’t want to get involved with me, Cecily. Trust me.”


CHAPTER THREE (#u4ccb7443-309f-59c5-92f4-6fa8f3a76b85)

FORGET IT HAPPENED? Cecily couldn’t do anything but think about that kiss with Colt in the days leading up to the Hargroves’ annual summer party. It infiltrated her thoughts, her dreams, her practice sessions, rendering her concentration less than ideal.

To know that kind of passion existed, the explosive kind she’d felt with Colt, had turned her world upside down. Not even with Davis, as crazy as she’d been about him, had she experienced that kind of chemistry. And yet rationality told her Colt was right—the best thing for them to do was ignore it. She had to focus on making this team and Colt would move on again soon.

She put her focus, instead, on her new approach to fixing her and Bacchus’s relationship. On fixing her. She was twenty-five years old. It was time for her to take charge of her life and career. If she didn’t start directing things, figuring out who she was and what she wanted, everyone else was going to do it for her. And that was unacceptable.

With Dale’s coaching getting her and Bacchus nowhere fast, she began working with Colt in the afternoons, exploring some of the techniques he’d used on his case similar to Bacchus’s. Given her horse had, in fact, jumped the creek on the way home from the lake, she thought there might be something there.

They were making baby steps—tiny amounts of progress. Now if only she could make herself immune to the man giving the instructions.

Kay caught her as she walked into the house to get ready for the party, insisting she come greet the Hendersons who would stay the weekend. Toeing off her muddy boots in the entrance way, she walked into the salon. Knox was as flirtatious as ever—she as uninterested as ever. Exercising the briefest of social niceties, she excused herself to go to her room.

Her father intercepted her before she could, pulling her into his study. “Dale tells me you’re still working with Colt Banyon,” he said, shutting the door. “Why?’

She lifted her chin. “Because I want to. Because I think it’s going to help Bacchus.”

Clayton Hargrove leaned back against his desk, tall, cool, southern elegance in gray trousers and a white shirt. “What you’re doing is wasting your time. That stuff is nonsense he’s teaching you.”

“I’m going to decide what’s right and wrong for me from now on.”

“Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am twenty-five years old, Daddy. I’m not a child. I need to start managing my own life and career.”

Her father scowled. “Colt Banyon is a drifter. He wanders from stable to stable. You don’t know anything about him or his credentials.”

“I know I trust him. And he comes with impeccable credentials. Cliff wouldn’t hire anyone with anything less.”

“I could fire him.”

A surge of fury rose up inside her. “You fire him and I’ll withdraw from the Geneva event.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

“Dammit, Cecily,” her father bellowed. “See some sense here.”

“I am seeing some. Finally.” She bit the inside of her mouth, deciding to go for broke now that she was knee deep. “What were you and Mama arguing about the day she died?”

Her father frowned. “What does that have to do with this?”

“Nothing. I just want to know.”

A stony expression consumed his face. “Nothing that concerns you. It was a private matter between your mother and I.”

“After which she broke the cardinal rule and went riding by herself?” Her lips set in a tight line. “She knew better than that, Daddy. Isabella said she looked knocked sideways after you left. What happened between you two?”

He shook his head. “It’s ancient history. Let it go.”

“I’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.” She fixed her gaze on his. “You pretend you don’t miss her, but you do. You pretend it never happened, but it did.” She pushed a stray hair out of her face with a trembling hand. “I’ll never stop wondering what happened that day. What made her do something so stupid. And I’ll never stop missing her. Because, apparently, I’m the only one in this family who has a heart.”

Spinning on her heel, she stalked to the door.

“Cecily.”

She wrenched the door open, walked through it and slammed it shut. Kay and the Hendersons gave her a bemused look as she stalked through the salon and headed for her room. She ignored them all.

* * *

“You ready to go?”

Colt opened the door to his cabin to find Tommy, decked out in a checked shirt and jeans, lounging against the doorframe, a pink Kentucky sunset staining the sky behind him.





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