Getting Sassy (13 page)

“Where did you race?”

As we ate, he gave me a brief summary of his career—starting out in Mexico, moving up to California and finally winding up working for an Arab sheikh in Dubai who owned a stable of thoroughbreds. “Those horses had better accommodations than most people I know.”

It wasn’t hard for me to imagine a horse living in more luxury than Bix and me. “Did you live there?”

“During the season, January through March, I did.”

“Why’d you stop racing?” I figured I knew, but this was part of that winding path.

He jerked his head to his right and down toward the floor. “This.”

I glanced at the teal-green and tan carpeting, and he lifted his foot as though to acknowledge my assumption.

“What happened?”

“It got between the ground and fifteen-hundred pounds of horse.”

“So you didn’t get your leg broken because you refused to throw a race?” That was not on the script. The wine must have been getting to me. It wasn’t the scotch. The scotch I could trust.

He reared back his head and gave me an “are you kidding” look. “Wow. I hadn’t heard that one.”

I doubted that.

Then he said, almost to himself, “That’d make me kind of heroic, wouldn’t it?”

I nodded. “That would indicate lots of scruples.”

He chuckled dryly as he lifted his glass of wine. “Yeah, that’s me.” He took a drink and kept eyeing me.

“When did you find time to go to college?”

“After the racing.” Then he added, “I was around twenty-eight.”

“Are you still involved in it? The racing?” I asked, using my fork to nudge off a piece of trout, which was flakey and moist. Perfect.

“Sure. I go to the track.”

“Do you own a horse?” I paused, tried to appear thoughtful, and added, “I saw that painting in your office. Figured maybe it was yours.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s not the greatest work of art. But my niece painted it.” He shrugged.

The fact that he hung bad paintings done by his niece was intriguing, but I couldn’t let it sidetrack me. “Does this horse race?”

“Sure,” he said around a bite. “Just not very fast.”

“That’s too bad.”

“She’s got good blood, so she’s good breeding stock.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Sometimes talent skips a generation.”

He lifted his glass as though toasting my thought. To be agreeable, I sipped some more of my wine, which had a pleasant, slightly spicy taste. “Amen to that.”

I needed to get him back to the races, but before I could, Mick asked, “You like horse racing?”

“Yes, I do.”

His eyes narrowed. “But you don’t like casinos.”

“That’s right. If you’ll recall, I said they were discordant.”

“Oh, yeah.” He chucked. “I remember you using that word. I had to look it up.”

That I doubted.

“I don’t like the chaos. The overstimulation.”

“That’s intentional.”

“I’m sure it is. And I guess it works. Just not on me.” I shrugged. “But, personally I could care less if people want to throw money away.” Then I added, “Better them than me.”

“If you don’t like to throw money away, what’re you doing at the track?”

“I like to watch the horses.”

He looked up from his steak. “You like horses?”

“When I was a kid, my favorite book was anything by Walter Farley.”

“No kidding.”

“I read everything he wrote.” I forked a piece of trout. “I also remember cherishing an orange and black book called
Horse Fever.’”
I popped the bite in my mouth and watched Mick as I chewed.

“You ride?” he asked.

After swallowing, I said, “I used to,” and hoped the accompanying sigh sounded regretful. “When I was a kid my mother popped for lessons. For both of us. But that was awhile ago. Other stuff got in the way.”

“Like?”

Now he was trying to shift back control. I didn’t want to get too far off course before reeling him back. “Oh, making money. Eating. That kind of stuff. Horses are an expensive calling.” I set my fork down and folded my hands under my chin. “But I always take time out to watch the Triple Crown. It’s a celebration. I make myself a mint julep while watching the Derby.”

He glanced at my empty scotch glass. “I’ll bet you do.”

The path was heading into the home stretch. I busied myself with a pile of couscous as I asked, “You said you were still involved in racing. Without a racehorse, how do you do that?”

“I do some consulting. I’ve got a reputation for knowing a good horse when I see one.”

I wondered how he explained the slow mare, but that would take us off the path again. I thought I could see where it ended. “You tell other people what horses to bet on?” I tried to sound a little dubious.

“Sometimes. And sometimes I tell them which ones to buy.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You think all these rich guys who own a line of thoroughbreds know anything about them?”

“They don’t?” I cocked an eyebrow—a gesture that had taken me three months to perfect.

He shook his head as though amused by my naivety, picked up his wine glass and said, “You ever heard of Bull Severn?”

I clung to my own glass of wine and forced myself to take a sip before saying, “You mean William Severn, as in Severn Construction, Severn Realty, Severn Dynamics...”

He chuckled. “That’s the guy.”

“He’s got horses?”

“Just one. Right now. But it’s one of the best horses in the country. Favored to win the Plymouth Million next Saturday.”

I sat up. “Bull’s Blood?”

“That’s the one.”

“I didn’t realize Severn owned that horse.” I set my drink down “And he consulted you when he bought the horse?”

He nodded once.

I leaned on the table. “Get out. You did not.”

“Sure I did.”

“Wow.” I leaned back in my chair, my fingers resting on the edge of the table. “From what I’ve read, that’s an incredible animal.”

He finished chewing his last bite of steak as he watched me. After washing it down with a gulp of wine, he said, “Maybe someday I’ll introduce you to Bull. And his horse.”

Someday. Someday
was not acceptable. I was inches from the wire, but I’d risk it all if I sounded too eager. “I’d like that,” I said, introducing a slice of asparagus to my couscous.

I could feel Mick watching me closely, but I concentrated on my plate, waiting for his response, which I hoped would be an invitation.

As it turned out, it was, only not the one I’d spent the entire evening attempting to wheedle out of him.

He leaned toward me. “When we’re done here, do you want to come back to my place? We can talk about it.”

He watched me, apparently waiting for a response. My thoughts spewed in so many directions, I didn’t know what to say. After several heavy moments, I shook my head and sighed. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“How come?”

“You know that marriage I mentioned earlier?”

“Yeah.” He drew the word out, and I could tell by the way he cocked his jaw that he couldn’t wait to see where I was going with this.

If only I knew.

“Well,” I said, “ever since then I’ve made it a point to never go home with a guy on a first date.” I drank some water, coaxing an ice cube onto my tongue.

“I’m not going to ask you to marry me.”

I stuffed the cube in my cheek. “You say that now.”

Silence hung between us like a noose. But then he laughed, and I joined in, relief flowing to my fingertips as I thought that now we’d each chuckle this off and go to our respective homes.

Unfortunately, Mick proved more resolute than I’d anticipated.

“I’m not scared,” he said. “Are you?”

“No,” I replied in all honesty, because “scared” wasn’t the word I’d use. He didn’t scare me. Unfortunately, he didn’t exactly attract me either. I did find him kind of interesting and would have said yes to a second date. Maybe even a third. But my goal had been to gain
entre
to Bull Severn without compromising my tarnished virtue, at least not until I was ready to do so.

On the other hand, it wasn’t like I was saving it. That train had left the station, so to speak, long before I’d met my ex. And when I played the progression through in my head—sleeping with a man in order to meet another man from whom I intended to steal a large amount of money in order to enable my mother to continue to live in an assisted living home because I had neither the space nor the inclination to move her into my home—well, in a way, being bedded by Mick Hughes would be the least of my indiscretions.

Where does a girl take her moral compass for adjusting?

All of this rumination hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, during which time Mick continued to watch me. At the end of it all, I knew what was at stake here. In spite of, or perhaps because of the fact that I was brimming with self-loathing and desperation, I was able to look him straight on when I said, “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I expected Mick Hughes to live in a condo. Maybe one of the new ones on the west side of the river. I figured he lived the life of a libertine and couldn’t be troubled with mowing lawns or cleaning gutters. So I was surprised when, at the end of our brief journey, he turned onto an older, tree-lined street and then pulled into a driveway leading to a garage set behind a narrow, Victorian-style home.

It was dark and I couldn’t be sure how well the outside was maintained, but I could see the gingerbread detailing and the darker shade in the trim.

We stepped onto a lighted porch spanning the width of the house where a couple of green wicker chairs flanked a wicker table with a glass top. He unlocked the door, reached in and flicked on a switch that illuminated a foyer opening onto the living room.

With a wave, he gestured for me to go first.

“Does your ferret live in a cage?” I asked as I set foot into his house.

“Most of the time,” he said without elaborating.

He directed me through the living room, toward the kitchen, and I got a brief look at his rather sparse, brown furnishings in the front room.

The kitchen and family rooms were another story, and I assumed that this was where he did most of his living. A huge fireplace anchored one end of the slate-floored room, and pots and pans hung from a rack above a center island with a sink and a breakfast bar.

I had a moment of envy then. I’ve never allowed myself to think much about owning a home. I could probably buy a small place, but something inside me insists on being mobile. Also, I take some pride in being able to fit the items in my life into a one-bedroom apartment. Maybe I was afraid I would expand my possessions to equal the size of my home, and that made me uncomfortable. That was why I’d gotten rid of most of my old clothing as soon as it became too big for me. Still, there was a warmth to this place that wasn’t present in my three rooms.

I found the powder room off to the right and excused myself. More to gather my wits than to relieve myself, although I was more successful in the latter. I spent much of the time hoping I wouldn’t come out to find him spread out naked in front of his fireplace.

In the end I decided that since he had pursued me with some diligence, he wasn’t going to sever our budding relationship because I didn’t sleep with him on our first date. And, if he did, he was too easily discouraged, and I would simply have to find another way to meet Bull Severn. Now, if only I’d thought of all that before I’d accepted Mick’s invitation.

When I came back out into the kitchen, he offered me a drink and, although I wasn’t thirsty, I asked for water. Declining might indicate I was ready for the upstairs tour.

He had poured himself a brandy and taken a seat at the breakfast bar.

I sipped water that was nice and cold, set the glass on the granitetopped island and said, “I shouldn’t have come back here.”

He regarded me for a couple of moments, swirling his brandy in the bowl of the balloon snifter and then said, “But you did.”

“Yes,” I conceded. Then, “I had a nice time. I’m not sure I expected to, but I did. And I’d hate to ruin anything by moving too fast.”

He didn’t respond, just kept swirling and watching me.

Typically, I would have continued babbling. To keep from doing so, I drank more water.

Mick finally set his glass down and said, “That mean you don’t want dessert?”

I smiled, trying to let him know I appreciated the effort.

“I’m serious,” he said, patting a carton of vanilla ice cream I hadn’t noticed sitting on the counter.

“Oh,” I said. “Dessert. Sure.”

He got up and removed a plastic bag full of pastries from the fridge. It wasn’t until he pulled a few of the small, golden orbs out of the bag that it began to fall into place. And when he dropped blocks of dark chocolate into a saucepan filled with cream that had been heating on the stove, I nearly gasped.

Oh, sweet Jesus, I thought. He was making profiteroles.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the island. If the prison kitchen was out of sticky toffee pudding, this was my “last-meal” dessert.

While the chocolate melted into the cream, he cut four pastries in half, situating four halves on each of two plates.

“The worst thing about being a jockey,” he said, “was not being able to eat anything but salads dressed in lemon juice.”