The Glory Game (25 page)

“It can be unsettling.” But he appeared untroubled by it.

It was too dark to see anything out the window except the road ahead of them. Trisha partially turned in her seat to gaze at Raul, the faint illumination from the dash lights highlighting his features.

“Where did you learn to speak English so well? Were you educated over here?”

“No.” She saw the small lift of a corner of his mouth that hinted at a smile. “I assure you my name was not entered on Eton's registry at my birth. Although many of my countrymen have attended college in Oxford, Heidelberg, or the Sorbonne.”

“Then how did you learn to speak so fluently?”

“There are suburbs of Buenos Aires—Hurlingham, Belgrano—where once a man could live his whole life and never
hear a word of Spanish spoken. The British influence in Argentina is very strong. They owned great
estancias
on the pampas, sheep ranches in Patagonia. They built our railroads. They brought their language, their culture, their sports, like soccer and polo. They encouraged our independence from Spain. Most became Argentine in the end, instead of just making their fortunes and returning to Britain as they did in Australia and India.”

“I didn't know that. But I know very little about any of the South American countries.”

“I remember. Once there was great wealth to be had in Argentina. The phrase ‘rich as an Argentine' meant something. Now people say ‘rich as an Arab.'”

“I think a trip to Argentina is definitely in the offing,” Trisha announced with a determined lift of her chin. “Rob will attend your polo school. It's merely a matter of going through the formality of getting approval from Luz. My mother has practically given him a blank check when it comes to polo. That should interest you.”

“And you feel I should be grateful for the business you have directed my way, no?” Again that tautness of voice seemed to thicken his accent.

“I suppose I did you a favor of sorts.” She knew very well she had, in both school fees and potential horse sales.

“So you feel I'm in your debt. Should I guess what form the repayment is to take?”

She didn't like his tone. “Who says I expect any repayment?”

“My driving you to Seven Oak was not the price? Or perhaps I should say the first installment?” His attention shifted from the road long enough for him to glance at her.

“Perhaps I hoped that you had finally recognized that I'm of some value to you.”

And perhaps her action was slightly calculating, but Trisha felt it was justified. She was determined that he was going to notice her. Thus far, it was working. She had gotten him to take her home. The rest was up to her own persuasive wiles.

The headlight beams illuminated the massive stone pillars that marked the entrance to the country estate. The iron gates stood open. Raul turned the car onto the long circular drive,
slowing its speed. The lights shining from the windows of the large manor house just ahead were visible through the spreading branches of the ancient oaks. Six of the number that had given the estate its name remained standing, scattered over the wide lawn. Raul stopped the car beneath the enveloping shadows of one of them and switched off the engine. They were still some distance from the front entrance of the imposing stone mansion.

He turned sideways in the driver's seat to face her, an arm resting along the back of the seats. “I am not obligated to you in any way. Whether you speak favorably on my behalf or not, that is as you choose. I owe you nothing.”

She was irritated that her attempt had failed. “What is it going to take for you to notice me?”

“I have noticed you. You are a young, charming woman. But I am not interested in you,” he stated flatly.

“What's wrong with me? Do you like your women meek and submissive? The kind that trembles when you touch her?” She glared at him. “Or maybe it isn't women you like. Maybe I've been throwing myself at a homosexual all this time.”

“I see. Now you challenge my manhood.”

“Maybe you're so partial to the British because, like them, you can go either way.” Trisha needled the one sensitive spot she'd found.

“Take your clothes off.” His mouth thinned into a long, straight line while the dark center of his eyes seemed to bore into her.

“What?” She almost laughed the word.

“I said to take your clothes off. You told me once that you are not a virgin, so take your clothes off. How else can I prove anything to you? That is what you want, no?”

“Yes.” Still, she hesitated, her lower jaw moving to the side as she warily contemplated his impassive face. Her bluff was being called, and Trisha wasn't sure what her next step should be. She wanted him to make love to her. Not quite like this, but …

Keeping her eyes on him, she began unbuttoning her blouse. He held her gaze while she shrugged out of it. Her pulse beat a rapid tattoo in the vein along her neck as she unfastened her front-buttoned skirt and wiggled out of her half-slip. At that point, she hesitated, waiting for some reaction from him.

The tip of his finger ran under the edge of her brassiere strap. “All of them.”

She slipped out of her bra and panties and added them to the little scrunched pile on the car seat beside her. She felt slightly uncomfortable with her nudity, yet excited by it at the same time. When he began to lean toward her, the blood seemed to roar in her ears. Her stomach muscles tightened as he slowly leaned closer, stretching out the moment.

Suddenly she heard the click of the door latch and felt the rush of cool air when it was pushed open. It was a full second before she realized Raul had done it.

“Get out of the car.” He remained motionless, only inches from her. Confused, she stared at him, searching for some explanation. “Get out,” he ordered roughly.

Stunned and totally bewildered, she backed out of the car, automatically covering herself with her hands. She half expected him to follow her, but the edge of the door brushed her arm as he pulled it shut. A second later, she heard the engine start up. She couldn't believe it.

She grabbed at the car door. “My clothes!” But it was locked. She pounded on the glass, running alongside as he shifted the gears and reversed onto the road. “You bastard, give me my clothes!”

The driveway's sharp gravel jabbed into the tender soles of her bare feet, and Trisha limped to a halt as the car completed its tight turn, the headlights pointing to the gate. Rage had her close to tears while the cool night air chilled her skin, raising the flesh. With a spin of the wheels, the car backed up to draw level with her. She stood hunch-shouldered and shivering, glaring at the driver.

As he rolled the window down, she spit out the stream of abusive language that she had clamped on her tongue. “You dirty rotten sonuvabitch! I'll kill you for this! You're a bastard. A mother—” Her clothes were thrown out the window, hitting her. Trisha grabbed at most of them before they fell to the ground.

She could not see Raul's expression in the darkness, but his tone showed indifference to her impotent anger. “Humiliation is a cruel teacher. Perhaps you will be less quick to take your clothes off for the next man.”

Again the tires dug into the gravel, spinning out chunks.
She picked up a shoe and hurled it at the window as the car shot forward. “Bastard!” The shoe bounced harmlessly off the cream-colored side and the car roared down the drive, red taillights mocking her. Clutching her clothes to her breast, Trisha watched it disappear, then moved gingerly over the sharp stones to retrieve her shoe, hot tears burning her eyes.

A
n envelope rested on a silver salver sitting on her vanity table. Luz noticed it when she started to set her whiskey glass down. Idly wondering how long it had been there, she picked it up. It looked like a wire of some sort. The envelope's cellophane window partially obscured the close-typed printing naming the addressee, but it appeared to read “Mrs. Thomas.”

“Madam?”

Turning, Luz glanced at the Sherbournes' maid. She was holding up three of Luz's gowns so that she could select which she wanted to wear to the party tonight. Luz took a quick sip of the drink, then motioned toward the bed with the glass. “Just lay them on the bed. I'll decide later.” The hour was getting late, but Audra wasn't here, so who would give a damn whether she was late or not?

“Very well, madam. Will there be anything else?”

“Yes, another drink,” Luz ordered, then sat down on the velvet-covered vanity bench. The silk of her dressing robe rustled softly as she crossed her legs. Curious as to the sender of the telegram, she set the drink aside and turned the envelope over to open the flap.

She scanned all the coded and abbreviated information of date, time, and place and came to the body of the message. But it was addressed to Trisha. A word caught her eye, and she kept reading.

“TRISHA,” it read.

CLAUDIA AND I WERE MARRIED TODAY STOP WE KNOW YOU WANTED TO COME TO OUR WEDDING STOP BUT WE
FELT IT WAS BEST THIS WAY STOP WE LOVE YOU STOP LOVE, DAD

Married. She lowered her hand to her lap, her fingers losing their grip on the telegram. It slipped from them and floated to the floor. No matter how many rumors she'd heard about his wedding plans, none of them had seemed real. She hadn't accepted it was going to happen. But it had. Drew had married Claudia.

It was over. It was really and truly over. He belonged to someone else now. Luz reached for the whiskey glass and paused to stare at her left hand. Moving in slow motion, she took off the large diamond wedding ring and laid it in the very bottom of her jewelry case on the vanity. Her hand felt bare, a part of her gone. She missed the weight of it. It was like losing something.

Quickly she reached for the glass and drank it down, nearly choking on the fiery alcohol as she swallowed. It burned, but it didn't make her feel warm inside. She was now just the former Mrs. Thomas. Another one had taken her place-younger, prettier, more intelligent.

“Your drink, madam.” The maid set a full glass of whiskey and soda in front of her.

“There's no ice in it. I want ice in it.”

The music from a small string orchestra in the Great Hall below drifted up to the second-floor corridor, accompanied by a low hum of voices. Trisha caught the soft strains as she emerged from her room. The party—or ball, as Fiona Sherbourne preferred to call it—was in progress, the first guests already arrived.

She paused on the green-and-rose runner in the hallway and made another mental check of her appearance. With her fingertips, she touched the gold filigreed combs holding the tousled mop of rust-brown curls away from the sides of her face and the filigreed loops dangling from her earlobes. She double-checked the amethyst brooch to make certain the safety latch was hooked, pinning it to a shoulder of her turquoise silk gown, then adjusted the draping folds of its low neckline so that it hung properly. The line of the gown was simple and, she hoped,
elegant. Tonight she felt in need of all the sophistication she could contrive.

Nervously smoothing the silky material over her hips, Trisha crossed the hallway to the tall door of her mother's suite and knocked lightly on the heavy wood door. Her lips felt slick from the extra coats of gloss. She waited, listening for footsteps from inside the suite. Emma Sanderson opened the door. Her tight-lipped expression relaxed slightly when she saw Trisha standing in the hallway outside.

“Is Luz ready? I thought we go could downstairs together,” Trisha said.

“No.” Behind the exasperation in her glance, there was something else, but Emma looked away before Trisha could identify it. “So far, she's changed clothes three times. Now she's trying on the first gown again.”

Trisha understood. Luz wasn't normally indecisive about such things, although lately this uncertainty had become fairly common. The divorce appeared to have shaken her confidence in a variety of ways.

“I'd better go down before Fiona sends out a search party,” Trisha said.

“You probably should. Luz will join you shortly, I'm sure.” The assertion had a slightly doubtful ring to it.

She started to suggest that she speak to Luz, but she suspected Emma could handle the situation better than she could. She invariably said the wrong thing to Luz. It had gotten worse since the divorce. She couldn't believe her father was totally at fault for the breakup; some of the blame had to belong to Luz. Or maybe it was simply that she loved her father and wanted to forgive him, while Luz didn't, and wouldn't. The bitterness just grew.

She shied away from her thoughts of the past to concentrate on the present. “How do I look?” She made a half-turn to give Emma a full view.

“Stunning.” The smile of approval was genuine. “You've grown up before my eyes this year.”

“Thanks.” She didn't feel mature. She felt vindictive, wanting her pound of flesh.

A loud thump came from an inner room of the suite, followed by Luz's angry voice. “Dammit, Emma, if there isn't
any more ice in this place, get me some champagne. I know the British serve it chilled.”

Trisha frowned. “Is she drinking already?”

Pursing her lips, Emma cast a hurried glance over her shoulder, then gave Trisha a quick, worried look. “Keep an eye on her tonight if you can.”

“I'll try.” Although she didn't know what good it would do. Her mother's drinking was becoming a problem, she realized, and she didn't know how to cope with it. For God's sake, she was the daughter. The door closed, and Trisha swallowed the half-formed protest.

When she turned, she saw Rob coming down the hallway from his room. Her brother always looked so different in formal wear, more the Lord Fauntleroy with his sandy-blond locks than a long-haired rebel. But she had always regarded Rob as being self-centered, so her impression was likely colored by her own opinion. Admittedly, she was occasionally jealous and resentful. Rob was the male offspring and everything seemed to revolve around him. It was all natural, she supposed. And there were times when even she was guilty of deferring to his wants.