Teach Me To Ride
Teach Me To Ride
by
Rachel Leigh
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Teach Me To Ride
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Rachel Leigh
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.wilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, August 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-010-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
This one goes to my loyal readers
who have been with me from the start, as well as
the new readers contacting me every day via
Twitter & Facebook—I love talking to you guys!!
Here’s hoping you enjoy Caroline and Michael’s
hot and heavy ride…
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Rachel Leigh
AND HER BOOKS
EXPLICITLY ENGLISH
“The dazzling attraction between Stephen and Laura leads to several searing scenes that Stephen uses to his full advantage. Oh, ain’t love grand!”
~4 Hearts—Vicky, Sizzling Hot Reviews
COMING BACK
“The tension for Kelly and Alex is created in such a way that I was cheering for their reunion all through the book. I applaud Leigh’s phenomenal writing style.”
~5 Cups—Dawne, CBLS Reviews
HOT SUMMER SANDS
“The dialogues and interactions among the characters were engaging and made this story even more entertaining. I would be remiss if I did not comment on the very hot, steamy, passionate sex scenes…one word…WOW!”
~5 Hearts—Kathleen, Jersey Girl Reviews
Chapter One
Sitting in her car in a paddock turned temporary parking lot, Caroline James glared through her windshield. When a horse stopped at the entrance to the adjacent field, lifted its tail and emptied it bowels, she grimaced.
“Nice. Real nice.”
What the hell am I doing here?
Her, an aspiring investigative journalist, covering a horse event full of…well, horses. And upper class morons. Look at them. Nothing but tight pant-wearing, helmeted rich folk, parading around like they owned the place.
She snatched her bag from the passenger seat and fumbled inside, checking for her notepad, tape-recorder, and cell phone. Satisfied that she had everything she needed, Caroline inhaled a long breath and tried to summon up the enthusiasm to actually open the car door. She looked to the sky.
The sun shone high above her, not a cloud in sight, mocking her with its English summer perfection. Instead of cheering her, the weather only served to darken her mood. The happy sunbeams shone and bounced from her car hood, reflecting the joys of late June temperatures. Well, bully for the sun and every other puffed-up rich idiot strutting around the Lakedale Horse Trials.
Scowling, Caroline yanked on the door handle. The sooner she started interviewing this lot, the sooner she could get home and work on a real story. If she saw her editor now, she’d punch him square in the face.
She stepped out on the grass and surveyed the scene. Cars were parked in regimental rows around her, up ahead stood a dozen or more tents as well as a rank of green and white temporary bathrooms.
Just gets better and better.
She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and scanned the crowds. The place was packed. There had to be almost a thousand people milling about, and she was pretty sure she could only see a third of the attendees.
“Can’t for the life of me see what’s so attractive about a few horses and their damn muck.” She smoothed her hand down the leg of her skinny jeans and hoped her flat leather boots held up. Donning rubber boots had felt like a fate worse than death this morning, and she was glad she’d tossed them to the back of the wardrobe where they belonged.
A woman had some feminine pride.
Even if her editor stripped her of her dignity.
Tilting her chin, Caroline marched forward. The red and white entrance tent was just ahead, and she slipped her press pass from her shoulder bag as she went through the opening. She hung it around her neck and approached one of the three smiling girls behind a long folding table. They looked puffed and preened to within an inch of their lives. Fake tans, lashes, and nails had been applied with gusto.
Caroline bit back a smile. With her ample breasts and slender waist, she could give these three a run for their money even if she had ten years on them.
She approached the blonde of the blonde, brunette, and red-head trio. No doubt, each purposely placed to suit everyone’s taste as they came through the entrance.
She held out her pass. “Hi, I’m Caroline James.
Fayre Mead Gazette
.”
The girl glanced toward Caroline’s breasts. “Nice to meet you, Caroline. Here. This is a press pack and schedule for the day’s events. Any questions, there are lots of stewards in and around the arenas.”
“Thanks.” Caroline took the pack and quickly scanned a couple of pages.
“Dressage is just coming to a close, I’m afraid, but show jumping starts in less than ten minutes in arena two.” The girl informed her sweetly.
“Thanks.” Caroline read the schedule. Dressage followed by show jumping and then cross-country. Deep joy. This might turn out to be the longest day of her life.
“Arena two is through the tent and around to your right.” The sexy promo girl interrupted Caroline’s contemplation a second time.
Caroline looked up. “And the bar is where exactly?”
The girl laughed. “As it’s eight-thirty in the morning, only coffee and soft drinks are available at the moment. The bar will open at midday in the green tent on field one.”
Caroline blew out a breath. “Then I guess caffeine will have to get me through the torture until then.”
Someone coughed with impatience behind her and the blonde turned her hundred-watt smile on the gentleman standing behind her. Caroline looked at him and grimaced. The guy was well past sixty and dressed in a tweed jacket and trousers so tight that his dick was highlighted obscenely beneath the expensive material.
God give me strength.
Shaking her head, she turned and marched through the tent and out into the first of the three arenas. People milled around, some dressed in riding clothes and others in what looked to be designer jeans, open-necked shirts, and knee-high leather boots. The smell of money mixed with manure as Caroline strolled through the crowd, assessing the people and their environment.
She nudged her way through bodies to the front of the arena and studied the six or seven show jumpers astride their horses. She nodded slowly, her bottom lip protruding in reluctant appreciation. They looked amazing. Both riders and horses. The riders were impeccably dressed, their uniforms spotless, and the huge beasts between their legs, strong and beautiful. The horses’ manes were plaited and bowed with multi-colored ribbons, their coats brushed to an almost impossible shine as they shifted and lifted the sand beneath their hooves.
She stared at the horses and fumbled with the clasp on her bag. Reaching inside for her notepad and pen, her gaze remained fixed in fascination on the first rider and horse to enter the ring. Someone approached and stood beside her and, as much as she appreciated the smell of him—and it was most definitely a him—she couldn’t drag her gaze from the horse and rider.
They trotted forward and stood poised and ready at the starting line.
“His name’s Marshall May.”
That voice would have grabbed anyone’s attention. Caroline turned. God damn.
She gazed at his profile, attraction darting to her pussy on an arrow of instantaneous lust. He stood at around six two, his shoulders broad and straight beneath an open-necked white shirt, his skin darkly tanned. He turned. His eyes were so dark they looked as black as his hair. Caroline snapped her gaze back to the ring.
“Who? The horse or the rider?” She smiled at her own wit.
He laughed, a low rumble that curled her toes inside her boots. “The horse. The rider’s Steve Marlon.”
“Right.”
“Are you a reporter?”
She drew in a long breath. “Yep. I’m head writer at
The Gazette
. Not that you’d believe it to see me covering this little event.”
“I take it this little event is not to your liking?”
The derision in his tone set Caroline’s senses on high alert and defensiveness rose on a simmering ball of heat in her stomach. She turned to face him. He stared, one dark eyebrow raised in question.
She kept her gaze level with his. “I’ve nothing against horses, but this is not why I studied journalism or busted my ass working ten-hour days for the last three years.”
“If not for this, then what?”
“I want to be an investigative journalist. In London.”
“Right.” His tone was dismissive.
Caroline frowned. “What?”
He pushed away from the wooden fence surrounding the ring and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing. Sounds to me as though you want more from life, the same as most of us.”
He glanced toward the magnificent Marshall May before moving to walk away. Without thinking, Caroline gripped his forearm. He tensed beneath her fingers. His muscles flexed like ribbons of steel beneath her palm. She tried to focus. The tone of his voice had lit the potential for something more interesting to write about than hooves and upper-class hoo-haa.
“Are you not part of this set then?” she asked.
He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’m no more part of this set than you are.”
Who was this guy?
“So why are you dressed in riding clothes…not that I’m complaining.” Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she tilted her chin and smiled, inviting retaliation.
His smile stretched to a grin. “I’m a trainer. I push my horse to be the best and then pass them off to the rider to take the credit.”
“Something tells me you’re not happy about that.”
His smile melted. “I’m not. Anymore.” He glanced once again at the ring. “I’ll see you around.”
He turned and took a few steps when Caroline finally managed to find her tongue. “Hey.”
He halted and turned. “What?”
“What’s your name?”
His gaze travelled from the tip of her toes, lingering at her breasts, before meeting her eyes. “Michael Canton.”
“Which horse do you train?”
He slowly walked back toward her, stopping so close that she could see the simmering mistrust in his gaze. “Why do you want to know?”
She shrugged, resisting the urge to step back and let some air in to cool the heat burning like a damn inferno between them. “I might want to write a few words about a dark-eyed horse trainer, that’s all.”
“You can’t write about something you know nothing about.”
“Then tell me your story.”
His gaze wandered over her face. “I can’t
tell
you about horses. You have to feel them, touch them, experience the sensation of their muscles moving between your thighs. That’s how you learn about horses.”
Caroline swallowed as her mouth drained dry. It wasn’t a horse she wanted between her thighs, it was him. As though reading her mind, his eyes lit with knowing and a smile pulled at his lips. “Come find me if you’re interested, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Two
Michael kept walking and forced his eyes forward rather than acting on the near overwhelming urge to look back at the woman. As soon as she’d entered the arena, he had picked her out as either a reporter or a critic. He’d mentally patted himself on the back when she’d pulled her notepad and pen from an enormous bag, her gaze trained on Marshall May.
Before he could consider what he was doing, he’d sidled up beside her. At first, it seemed she didn’t know he was there. His attraction for her was immediate and more than a little unsettling. Even the dart of concentration between her eyebrows had him hooked.
