Page 24

Jake finished drying off, then casually wrapped the towel around his waist, preparing to shave.

He’d heard about the fight between Flex and Clay just minutes after it happened.

Dammit, he’d hoped Ellie would have more sense that to get involved with Clay.

Three days had passed since then.

Jake hadn’t mentioned it and neither had Ellie.

But Ellie wasn’t good at hiding her emotions and the hurt was clear in her face.

Aside from the protective, almost fatherly feelings he held for her, Jake hated the dissension between the team members that had blossomed overnight.

Part of him felt Clay deserved exactly what he’d gotten.

But another, larger part kept telling him things weren’t what they seemed.

Clay Whitfield was acting out of character.

Or maybe, he thought, acting too much in character, even for Clay.

In the days following his return from Monaco, Clay had become the epitome of his own legend.

He was riding beautifully, drinking hard, laughing and carousing, acting every bit the infamous celebrity playboy—except for the women.

Clay had yet to be seen with a woman.

Even Linda Gibbons’ advances had been politely refused, much to Linda’s chagrin.

Jake had seen them talking after the competition on Saturday.

Linda had bluntly asked Clay to take her to bed.

Clay had gently refused. Linda had stormed off, calling him a bastard, among several other choice descriptions. Clay had smiled indulgently and returned to his work with Max.

Jake wanted to talk to each of the team members in private, especially Ellie, Flex, and Clay.

He needed to repair the rift between them before the team competition.

Since it wasn’t his nature to intrude on problems of a personal nature, the task would not be an easy one.

Jake was considering what approach to use when the phone rang.

Praying nothing else had gone wrong, he crossed the floor of his hotel room toward the nightstand and picked up the receiver.

“Good morning, Tovarich. ”

The raspy sound of Popov’s voice set his nerves on edge.

It was an eerie gift the man used to perfection.

“Perhaps it’s good for you,”

Jake said.

“Do I hear a touch of bitterness, Comrade? Surely, I am mistaken.”

Jake quelled the sudden urge to laugh.

Popov was destroying his life, yet he spoke as casually as if they were friends.

Jake’s hand tightened on the phone.

“I need to know what you want.

Just tell me—and leave my people alone.”

He heard Popov’s irritating chuckle.

“On Tuesday you will be in Dublin.

At two o’clock you will go to the Bit O’ Dublin Tobacconist Shop on Molesworth Street near Dawson.

There you will receive instructions—precise instructions as to what we wish you to do. You are to follow those instructions to the letter. You will receive your final directions the following week. When you have completed your assignment, your obligation to us will have been fulfilled.”

“That’s it?”

“Does it not sound easy?”

“Too easy.”

“Oh, and Tovarich, one more thing.

Should you decide to amend those instructions or divulge them in any way, your Mrs.

Delaine and her daughter will pay, along with your mother and sister.”

Jake closed his eyes against a rush of despair.

This was his fault.

He should have kept Maggie out of it, found a way to keep her and Sarah safe.

“I barely know them.”

“Do you take me for a fool? We knew of your affair with the woman.

Until your small...indiscretion...the other night, we assumed the relationship was nothing of importance.

We were wrong, it seems.

But you needn’t worry. I am certain you plan to cooperate.”

“Yes,”

Jake said softly.

“I’ll cooperate.”

“I was certain you would.

The tobacconist shop on Tuesday.”

The line went dead.

Jake hung up the phone, his mind racing, his pulse thundering.

If he hadn’t gone to meet Maggie, her life wouldn’t be in danger.

If he hadn’t slept with her.

If he hadn’t loved her.

He took a deep breath and walked into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

There was nothing for it now.

Nothing left to do but lie to Daniel—and do exactly what the Soviets asked.

Ellie moved through her Sunday morning routine by rote, as she had done all week.

She left the hotel at dawn, arriving at the stables early enough to help Gerry complete his morning routine with the horses.

Like everyone else, Gerry had heard about the fight between Clay and Flex McGrath.

He had guessed what had caused it but refrained from mentioning it.

Instead, he’d been supportive, insisting he needed a little extra help to get the horses ready for the Nations’ Cup and the Dublin competition the following week.

Ellie knew it was a ruse but appreciated Gerry’s concern.

And the extra work helped keep her mind off Clay, a subject she kept carefully buried in the deepest part of her heart.

As far as Ellie was concerned, her time with Clay was a momentary lapse now relegated to the past.

Maybe someday she’d allow herself to remember the night they had shared, the love she had felt for him, but not now.

Too much was at stake.

Immersing herself in her riding and care of the horses, she planned her strategy, using every means available to assure a win.

She told herself the extra effort wasn’t a desire to thwart Clay and regain some of her injured pride.

If it was, so what?

She had come to Europe to win.

She intended to do just that.

“What number did the team draw?”

Gerry asked, referring to the competition about to begin and breaking into her thoughts.

They stood in front of Jubilee’s stall, Gerry giving the stallion a second going over.

Earlier, the horse had been carefully groomed, his tack cleaned and polished to a brilliant sheen.

“Number six.

I ride last.”

One team member from each country took the course, then the sequence was repeated until all the riders had finished.

“Great, that should give you a chance to look over the course and correct for any problems.

Did Whitfield bother to show up?”

Just saying Clay’s name seemed to chill the air around them.

“He’s here,”

Ellie said, trying to keep her voice even.

“Max looked strong going over the practice fences.”

Gerry nodded but his expression said he was surprised Clay had the nerve to show up.

“I’ll bring Jube over to the arena as soon as I’m finished.

You go ahead.”

With a last stroke of the sorrel’s soft muzzle, Ellie headed for the ring.

The All-England Jumping Course, Hickstead, Sussex, in the Southern English countryside, was a permanent show-jumping arena, turf-covered, and surrounded to overflowing by cheering fans.

British television had made the event second in popularity to soccer and generated thousands of enthusiastic followers.

As Ellie neared the arena, the excitement became contagious.

She felt a growing smile of anticipation, the first she’d experienced in far too long.

Jube was working his best, and Ellie was as mentally prepared as possible, given her current circumstance.

Only the sight of Clay in his immaculate, blue-trimmed red team jacket and tight cream breeches as he stood talking to Jake, gave her a moment’s pause.

To hell with him! She thought.

I’m a winner—with or without Clay Whitfield.

She flicked her crop against the side of her boot and realized just how much she wanted to win.

This was the first time she’d officially represented the United States as a member of the Equestrian Team. It was a moment she’d dreamed of for years. Not even Clayton Whitfield could spoil it for her.

Skirting the two men, she headed to where Flex stood beside Sparky and one of the grooms.

“Time to walk the course,”

Ellie said, flashing Flex a smile.

“Come on.”

She tugged his arm, and he grinned down at her.

“That eager, are you?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

She flicked him a second quick smile, and they started through the gates.

Once she got on the course, some of her enthusiasm fled.

The fences looked huge, the biggest by far since they’d come to Europe.

Some were close together while others seemed too many strides apart. How in the world would Jube be able to handle such a difficult course?

“Who designed this?”

Flex grumbled.

“One of the 1 herpas from Mount Everest?”

They stepped off the paces between a Liverpool water jump and a big triple oxer.

Ellie groaned.

“I think my good feeling just turned to worms.”

“I know what you mean.”

All in all, there were fourteen jumps, some of them doubles and triples, making a total of seventeen fences.

A taxing course, to say the least.

Ellie was thankful the weather was cooperating.

Wispy white clouds drifted overhead while a gentle breeze rippled the red-and-gold ribbons hanging on the arena fence.

Ellie fiddled nervously with the piece of string that tied her number to the back of her red team jacket.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Clay pacing off the distance between the first and second fences.

Squaring her shoulders, she hurried to keep up with Flex.

Once more outside the arena, she spotted Prissy, who had already finished.

“Looks awful, doesn’t it?”

Prissy said.

“Worse than awful.

Poor Jube.”

“Poor Jube?”

Prissy teased.

“I think Jubilee will rise to the challenge.

That horse seems to jump a little higher every week.

He’s eating the whole thing up. Poor little Caesar will be frightened out of his wits.”

Ellie laughed.

“We’re all going to do just fine.”

Prissy glanced up and Ellie followed the line of her gaze.

Clay strode by without a glance, his mind apparently lost in thoughts of the competition.

Ellie watched his broad back, the lean hips and muscular thighs outlined by his tight cream riding breeches.

Thinking how handsome he looked, she smiled and felt a tug at her heart.

She missed him, she realized, the thought coming swift and hard and completely unwanted.

Damn it to hell, she wished they could have at least remained friends.

She watched him till he rounded the corner of the timer’s box out of sight.

“That bad, is it?”

“I’m just another casualty, Prissy.

I’ll get over it.

Right now, the most important thing I have to think about is my riding.”

Prissy opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but didn’t.

“Look, the first rider’s coming on,”

Ellie said, pointing toward the ring.

The British rider on a horse named Admiral Horatio circled the arena at a posting trot.

The tone sounded.

Nearing the eye of the timer, the rider touched the brim of his cap and started the round, his big dun horse, a Hanoverian, approaching the first fence, a vertical five feet high, sailing over it with ease.

Unfortunately, the gelding landed a little too far ahead, throwing off his stride for the next jump, a red and white oxer bordered by white chrysanthemums.

Admiral Horatio knocked down the top rail with his forelegs and the crowd groaned, Ellie and Prissy along with them.

Things went downhill from there.

At the third jump, a tricky combination difficult for both horse or rider to judge, the animal downed all three fences.

He refused the fourth jump twice, but finally made it over.

With a defeated expression, the British rider finished his round.

“Looks like this is going to be just as tough as we thought,”

Prissy said.

“Think positive, lady.

We’re here to win.”

Prissy nodded but didn’t seem convinced.

Rider after rider approached the awesome course and left it with double digit faults.

Flex was the first American rider to enter the ring.

He did better than Ellie expected, clearing the course with just two rails down and one time fault, which put them in the lead.

Now the riders knew the course was at least manageable.

Ellie and Prissy studied each jump, trying to find the best approach.

Prissy’s turn came up.

“Good luck,”

Ellie said.

Disheartened by the twelve faults she stacked up, Prissy returned a few minutes later, all of them hoping the other team members would do better and her low score could be thrown out.

Gerry brought Jube around before the next rider took the course.

Ellie wanted to make some practice jumps before she rode the course.

While she worked with Jube in a different arena, Gerry would carefully watch the competition for any tips he might discover.

Excited by the crowd, Jube was feeling high, responding to her every command.

Ellie returned to the main arena just before Clay took the course.

He entered the ring looking relaxed and confident, Max prancing beneath him.

A medieval knight in a jousting competition—or at least some Hollywood version of one.

Despite her attempts to wish him the worst, Ellie found herself rooting for him.

Only in the interest of the team, she told herself.

As she watched him clear jump after difficult jump, his movements so in tune with Max they seemed one creature instead of two, she thought he had never ridden better.

The crowd was on its feet by the time he approached the last two fences: a Liverpool water jump that had dampened its share of victims in the pond and a vertical that deluded the horses into believing it was easy when it wasn’t.

Ellie held her breath.

“Come on, Clay,”

she whispered, “you can do it.”

And he did, clearing the jumps as if they weren’t there.

Max was blowing and prancing, Clay smiling triumphantly as he headed out of the show ring.

For a brief instant, their eyes locked.

He seemed surprised by her smile.

For an instant, his gaze softened—or maybe she imagined it—then they both turned away.

Forget about Clay, she told herself.

This is your chance. Take it.

The next two riders both went clear, as often happened.

Once a rider saw that it could be done, they seemed to relax.

The next four riders weren’t so lucky, and the odds evened-out a little.

Tensely awaiting the sound of her name, Ellie checked her position in the saddle, stirrups beneath the balls of her feet, her weight evenly distributed above her hips and legs.

As Jube’s name was called over the loudspeaker, followed by her own, she nudged the big stallion forward.

She wanted this moment.

She needed it as never before in her life.

Focusing on her ride, she let her body relax, let herself feel the stride of the animal beneath her as she’d taught herself since childhood.

As she increased Jube’s speed, the noise of the crowd receded.

She was ready for this.

More than ready.

Feeling more relaxed than she ever had, Ellie took the first fence at an easy gallop, Jube’s body moving with subtle assurance.

Four long strides to the red and white oxer, which the big horse took with confidence.

She smiled.

Dog leg left, easy breezy, to the big triple combination Jube made look small.

Over the next vertical, the pace a little faster, Jube’s concentration as powerful as her own.

Next came a big wide oxer, six long strides, Jube stretching out, then collecting himself just as she commanded—over with just the merest click of a hoof.

The crowd held its breath as the bar shimmied in the cup but didn’t fall.

Dog leg right to a green and white vertical, then a brick wall jump.

Clearing the wall, she started the next series of fences, which passed beneath her as if they weren’t there.

The crowd was on its feet cheering, and Jube seemed to lap up the sound.

The big horse was taking the fences with ease, making them look like the pros they’d trained to be.

They approached the water jump, Ellie’s heart pounding but filled with pride.

No matter what happened now, they’d ridden like champions.

Over the water jump—the crowd still on its feet.

Over the last vertical.

They made it! They’d gone clear and within the time allotted! Ellie felt the sting of tears and a swell of pride in her heart.

Jake was applauding above his head, grinning from ear to ear.

Flex and Prissy stood beside him looking radiant.

She glanced to the announcer’s stand where Shep sat with his back propped up with pillows giving her a thumbs-up.

Gerry rushed up to meet her.

Jumping down triumphantly, she handed him Jube’s reins, and gave him a hug.

“We did it!”

“You were wonderful.

That’s by far the best ride you’ve ever given the old boy.”

She couldn’t stop grinning.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“I’m proud of you, lady.”

“Thank you, Gerry.”

“Me, too,”

Prissy added, walking up beside her.

“Don’t get too cocky, young lady,”

Jake said.

“I expect to see more of the same in the second round.”

But his eyes glowed with pride.

Only two other riders went clear, the contest far from over.

Ellie found herself searching for Clay, hoping he’d say something to her, but he didn’t.

She wondered why sleeping with him had changed his attitude towards her so completely.

Linda Gibbons had slept with him, and God knew how many other women. He didn’t seem to hold them in contempt.

Maybe it was something she’d done.

Not telling him she was a virgin then demanding he take her to bed.

Something .

All she knew was that whatever it was, she’d undo it if she could.

At the end of the first round, the others had done well enough they’d been able to throw out Prissy’s low score, leaving them in fourth position.

In the second round, both Prissy and Flex put in good rides, Flex with eight faults, Prissy with four.

When Clay’s turn came up, he seemed a little less sure of himself this time, Max a little tired.

The first round had been grueling, this one no less so.

Clay rode beautifully, but Max caught a hoof on the last big vertical and the rail went down.

Four faults in the time allotted.

A good score and one that moved them up to third position.

The next two riders each had two rails down. A French team member finished with sixteen faults and an Italian with twelve. At last, it was Ellie’s turn.

Willing herself to ride clear, she entered the arena, took her time getting into position.

The first jump, the vertical, Jube took with ease, but Ellie could sense his fatigue.

As with Max, the first round had taken more out of him than she’d suspected.

The second jump, the oxer, they cleared, but Jube landed out of stride, and she put him wrong at the combination.

He righted himself and went over all three fences.

Silently, she thanked him for saving them and continued over the next set of fences, working their way toward the water jump.

They cleared the jump, but Ellie feared they might have touched the fault line.

She wouldn’t know until they finished the round.

Over the next set of fences, Jube tapped a hoof on the rail, which wobbled in the cup but remained in place.

The crowd was cheering as she cleared the last big vertical and finished the course.

She rode up to Jake still uncertain how she had done until the announcer called her score.

No faults within the time allotted.

The crowd roared to its feet, applauding until her ears rang.

The last rider, a Frenchman, chalked up twelve faults.

When the scores were tallied, the U.S.

team had moved from third position to first—and most of the credit went to her.

It was the proudest moment of her life.

The team made a victory lap then rode to the judge’s stand to receive their trophy.

Clay sat beside her on Max, Flex and Prissy on her right.

The British had finished second by the narrow margin of only four faults.

The French team placed third.

As Jake accepted the trophy, the band played the National Anthem and a tight lump swelled in Ellie’s throat.

She forced herself not to look at Clay but weakened and took one quick glance.

He sat tall and proud, but she couldn’t read his expression.

When the song ended, they made another lap and left the ring. Clay rode up beside her as she dismounted.

“You said you’d beat me,”

he said evenly.

“And you did.”

“I didn’t beat you.

We’re on the same team.”

“If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have won.

You rode brilliantly.”

“Thank you.”

It was all she could manage.

With the sun at his back and Max prancing beneath him, Clay looked ten feet tall.

His face was in shadow, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

She could tell by his words and the tone of his voice, his expression would reveal nothing.

“Congratulations,”

he said, then turned to go.

“Clay?”

she called after him.

A light touch of the rein and Max stopped and turned.

Clay looked down at her but wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“For whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.

I hope that we might still be friends.”

“My God,”

he whispered, looking thunderstruck.

“You’ve done nothing. Nothing.”

He whirled Max and dug his heels a little too hard into the horse’s flanks.

Max leaped forward at the unusually active command.

Clay slowed him and they moved away.

Ellie closed her eyes.

Why did it hurt so much to love someone? Why couldn’t he have loved her in return?