Tempestuous/Restless Heart (4 page)

He offered her his arm, but Alex busied herself with her helmet and crop and walked into the ring beside him, thinking this was really unnecessary. It wasn’t as if they’d just won the World Cup. Owners—even overbearing ones like Tully Haskell—didn’t get their pictures taken with their riders for winning at schooling shows.

Relax, Alex. Just get it over with, and you can go home to Isabella.

“Where’s the trophy?” Carter Hill asked, camera in hand as he looked toward the judge’s stand where some sort of commotion was taking place among the half-dozen people gathered there.

Suddenly Christian Atherton emerged from the mob with a triumphant look on his face and a small gold cup in his hands. His steady gaze zoomed in on Alex, magnetism turned up full beam. She froze, mesmerized, amazed. It seemed inconceivable that he could elicit such a response from her with so little effort. That he could excite her, and the excitement made her afraid.

“I’ve been given the great honor of presenting you with your prize, Ms. Gianni,” he said smoothly, wedging himself neatly between her and Haskell. The truth of the matter was he had wrested the trophy away from a nine-year-old girl and then consoled her with a bribe of a dollar. Low but effective.

“That’s mine, Atherton,” Tully said with all the sulky impudence of a spoiled child. He reached for the cup with greedy hands.

Christian grinned brilliantly as Carter Hill shot a picture. “Then here you are, Mr. Haskell.”
And may you choke on it
, he silently added.

He turned his smile back toward Alex. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said, quelling the juvenile urge to thumb her nose at him. “I guess Terminator and I get along well enough.”

“Yes,” Christian said, his own teasing temper responding to the fiery lights in her amber eyes as well as to the challenging tilt of her chin. Gads but she was lovely! That inner flame he had caught glimpses of in the stables burned bright now. She was too caught up in the heady sense of victory to try to suppress it as she had before. He flicked a finger down the short slope of her nose and watched the golden sparks shoot off in her eyes. “Perhaps you can have him ready for the fall steeplechase season.”

“Plenty of time for us to win a grand prix or two before then,” Alex replied tartly, surprised to realize that she enjoyed sparring with Christian. Her blood was racing in much the same way it did when she was soaring over fences on a fast, powerful horse.

Haskell grunted and hugged his cup to his belly. “See there, hotshot. She’ll give you a run for your money.”

Christian went on staring down into Alex’s amber eyes, reading a rich mix of emotions in their sparkling depths, and he felt his blood heat in answer. His gaze slid to the pouty curve of her lower lip, and a lazy smile curled one corner of his mouth as desire curled low and tight in his groin. “I dare say she will,” he murmured silkily.

“Just one more picture, folks?” Carter Hill said, raising his camera.

Tully lifted his trophy and bared his teeth. Alex looked up at Christian, unable to look away. And Christian leaned down and kissed her just as the shutter clicked.

A languid warmth flowed through Alex, swirling first through her head then downward, washing all physical strength with it. It wasn’t much of an effort as far as kisses went. It wasn’t aggressive or even intimate. It was merely a taste, a brushing of his firm lips over hers. And still it made her weak and dizzy.

Alex told herself it was the shock. She hadn’t been kissed in a long time. She hadn’t allowed a man near enough to accomplish the task. Christian hadn’t asked permission. He’d simply seized the moment and kissed her as if he had every right to.

He didn’t have the right. His presumptuousness triggered an old flame of anger, and her own guilt at having enjoyed the kiss for an instant poured gasoline on the fire. She pulled back and slapped him, spewing out a stream of violent blistering Italian while Carter Hill snapped pictures.

Christian laughed, perversely delighted by her temper. She had wanted to melt against him—he was too experienced not to know that. Instead she had given him what he no doubt deserved. His cheek was stinging, but it was nothing compared to the lingering sensation of her lips beneath his. Wonderful. Delicious. Instantly addictive.

“My apologies, Ms. Gianni,” he said smoothly, capturing her wildly gesticulating hands with his. “I’m afraid I lost my head.”

Still speaking Italian, Alex muttered that his head wasn’t the only thing he should worry about losing if he tried to kiss her again.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Christian said, blue eyes dancing. “I’m rather attached to that particular part of my anatomy.”

Alex blushed furiously at the sudden realization that he had understood every word she’d said. Irrational anger burned through her because he hadn’t had the grace to tell her he spoke Italian.

“Just don’t let it happen again, Mr. Atherton,” she said. Tilting her nose up to a haughty angle, she whirled and stormed out of the ring.

“Oh, I can’t promise that, Ms. Gianni,” Christian murmured, watching her go, admiring the sway of her slim hips. “I can’t promise that at all.”

Alex stormed around her stall area, flinging things into her gear bag, cursing the day God created man. He should have skipped the first effort, made woman, and called it a day. She was sure everything that was wrong with the world—certainly everything that was wrong with
her
world—could be directly attributed to men. They weren’t good for anything except opening jars and reaching things on high shelves … and kissing.

She swore long and colorfully as that thought intruded on her tantrum. Her lips were still buzzing from contact with Christian’s mouth. She dropped the gloves she was holding and pressed her fingers to her lips, swaying slightly as a strong current of residual desire wafted through her. She could still taste him, warm and fresh and too, too tempting.

The sigh that slid from her lungs was heavy with despair. She couldn’t afford to be attracted to Christian Atherton. Nor could she afford to have him make a public spectacle of her, she thought, her anger stirring again, rising to the top of the emotional whirlpool.

Damn him for kissing her that way! Who did he think he was? Royalty?

Actually, he was, if memory served. Alex frowned. There was another reason she couldn’t go getting tangled up with him. She would be a fool to think her future might include the wealthy son of an earl, and she was not a fool. She’d stopped being a fool the day Michael DeGrazia had walked out on her. She had a life to rebuild and a daughter to raise. She seriously doubted Christian Atherton would be interested in any of that. Men of his ilk were concerned with little beyond their own immediate needs and desires. That was just another fact of life she had learned to accept.

Putting the whole subject from her mind, Alex let herself into Terminator’s stall to remove his cooler. She double-checked the gelding’s cross-ties and left the stall, never turning her back on the horse. He glared at her and tossed his head threateningly.

She didn’t like the washy chestnut any better than she liked his owner, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She had come to Virginia with no reputation. She couldn’t expect to attract a better class of owners until she had made a name for herself among the affluent hunter-jumper crowd.

That would come with time. She had no doubts about her abilities to compete with the likes of Christian Atherton or Robert Braddock or even the legendary Rodney Jenkins. All she needed was time and a chance to prove herself. That she would have to prove herself on horses like Terminator was not the most pleasant prospect, but that was the way it was.

Latching the bottom door of the box she allowed herself a brief, envious glance at her surroundings. The stables at Green Hills Farm spoke of old money and good taste. The oak stalls were light and roomy. The aisle was wide with a polished cobbled floor. There wasn’t a cobweb in sight, and the air smelled of sweet hay and pine shavings and horses that had been groomed to perfection.

The stalls she was renting for the day were in the original barn, but Alex knew the Hills had recently expanded their facilities, building an additional barn with a large indoor arena. After years in the legal profession Hayden Hill had retired and decided to make show horses his full-time hobby. He’d spared no expense, up to and including luring Robert Braddock away from SpruceTree to train for him.

Money. While it may well have been the root of all evil, it was also at the bottom of every successful operation.

Alex had sunk every nickel Michael had given her into setting up her own business on the little farm she’d rented outside of Briarwood. The place was run-down, to put it nicely. None of the buildings had seen a coat of paint in twenty years, and the fences were in a sorry state. Even in its best days it hadn’t been able to compete with the likes of Green Hills or Quaid Farm, which was located a hill or two beyond her place.

A shiver of awareness went through her at the thought that Christian Atherton was living just a few fields away from her. A very short distance, but light-years away in terms of status. He would probably turn up his aristocratic nose at the sight of her little ramshackle farm.

“I admit it’s not much, but it’s a start,” she murmured, hugging herself. A fresh start in a place where she had no past. A clean slate.

“We did all right today, didn’t we, sweetheart?”

Alex jumped but composed herself so quickly, she was certain Tully hadn’t noticed. She tugged at the hem of the baggy black sweatshirt she had put on over her white blouse, trying to push aside the feeling that Haskell’s eyes lingered longer than was necessary on the skintight pale gray breeches that encased her thighs.

“Yes, very well, Mr. Haskell,” she said, all business. “I was especially pleased with the mare. I have no doubts about her going on to A shows.”

“She sure as hell outclassed this bunch, didn’t she, sugar?” Haskell patted Alex’s shoulder and laughed a laugh that managed to sound more smug than good-natured. Of course, that was Tully Haskell all over. He was a man who had, by hook or by crook, pulled himself up from poverty to prosperity and never failed to remind people of the fact. He seemed to believe it made him superior in some way. Survival-of-the-fittest mentality, Alex supposed.

She shrugged off his touch as casually as she could and watched him lean negligently against the bottom door of the mare’s stall. Had he been a horse, Alex would have rejected him as a prospect on the basis of his eyes alone. They were small and cold, hinting at a temperament to match. He wore the blue ribbon his mare had won pinned to his shirt for all the world to see, as if her accomplishments somehow reflected favorably on him.

“Well, this is just a schooling show,” Alex reminded him. “Still, I think she’ll hold her own in fancier company. She’s a very nice mare.”

That was an understatement. A Touch of Dutch was world-class. Alex couldn’t stop thanking God for sending her this one wonderful horse to work with. If she could have just one like Duchess, she would ride a dozen Terminators and deal with a dozen Tully Haskells and not complain. The sorrel mare was sweet tempered, beautiful, talented, and worth a small fortune. What a man like Tully Haskell was doing with her, Alex couldn’t imagine. It was like trying to picture the man with Princess Di on his arm. Completely incongruous.

“Yeah,” Tully drawled, extracting a long cigar from the breast pocket of his shirt and rolling it between his fingers in defiance of the many No Smoking signs posted around the barn, “she’s a mighty fine mare. And her rider’s not too damn shabby, either.” Haskell shot her a wink and clamped the cigar between his teeth.

Alex swallowed down the instantaneous rush of revulsion and told herself her employer meant nothing by the remark—he was merely complimenting her on her riding.

The hell he was, she fumed, anger bubbling up inside her. He was flirting with her the way he always flirted with her. She never responded in kind, but that hadn’t deterred him yet.

“Thank you, Mr. Haskell,” she said coolly, staring down at the toes of her boots. How long was it going to take this cretin to get the message?

“Tully,” he scolded in a too-familiar voice. “You just call me Tully, sweetheart, and we’ll get on like peas in a pod.”

The idea of being a pea in a pod with Tully Haskell was hardly an appealing one. Although he made no move to come closer to her, Alex couldn’t quite quell the urge to bolt away from him. Where the hell was Heather—either one of them—she wondered crossly as she unlatched Terminator’s door and slipped into the stall, preferring the company of the horse to that of his owner.

Keeping a watchful eye on the chestnut she picked up a brush and applied it briskly to his coat.

“Here’s that soda you asked for, Mr. Haskell.”

“Thanks, Heather, honey, ’preciate it.”

The brush stilled on Terminator’s back as Alex looked out of the stall, her straight, dark brows drawing together in suspicion. Haskell accepted the can of soda, looking neither contrite nor annoyed. Heather C. set about her work cleaning tack without giving the man another glance.

You’ve got to stop being so paranoid, Alex told herself. It was ridiculous to think Haskell had sent the girl on an errand for the sole purpose of getting her alone. Besides, there was virtually no chance of being alone in the barn, what with competitors going in and out continually. She was just wasting energy being nervous, and in view of the amount of work she had to do, energy was the last thing she could afford to waste.

Terminator took advantage of his trainer’s lapse in attention, taking a swipe at her arm. Alex jumped out of her trance and scolded herself for being so careless. If the cross ties had been any looser, people could have started calling her Lefty. Where would she and Isabella have been then?

“He’s got a lot of fire,” Tully observed, perversely pleased by the gelding’s nasty attitude.

Alex bit back her opinion as she let herself out of the stall and began packing her equipment in her tack trunk. Terminator would have better served the world as a bag of kibble and a bottle of glue, but owners didn’t like to hear that kind of thing from trainers.