Page 4

Gladstone, New Jersey

May 1988

Clayton Whitfield drove his shiny red Ferrari faster than he should have along the lane leading to the Gladstone training compound.

Verdant and rolling, the New Jersey countryside blossomed with bright spring flowers though the air remained brisk.

Tiny white snowdrops lined white-washed fences, and apricot and peach trees rained pink and white blossoms on the ground.

Clay rode with the top down.

He loved the feel of the sun and wind on his face, the stereo vibrating with a new Tchaikovsky compact disc.

Turning through the gates, he roared up in front of the two-story wood-frame building that housed the main offices and stepped on the brake.

The Ferrari skidded to a halt, stirring up dust and gravel and turning several hunt-capped heads in his direction.

Yesterday Clay had received his official notification of selection as an Olympic team member, but the letter made no mention of the other four riders, one of whom would serve as an alternate.

Clay had come to Gladstone to find out who else would be making the trip to Europe for the summer competitions, then going on to Seoul for the Olympic games.

Still wearing his riding clothes after the morning’s exercises, Clay opened the Ferrari door and swung his boots to the ground.

He rounded the car, took the steps to the porch two at a time and walked in, taking the place by storm, as he always did.

“Hey, pretty Patty.”

Leaning across the counter, he smiled at the girl behind the desk.

“Jake around?”

The leggy blonde blushed and toyed self-consciously with her spiky bangs.

“He’s out at the training ring.”

Clay winked and grinned, flashing his dimples and eliciting a smile in return.

“You’d better start eating again.

You’re getting too skinny.”

Patty’s smile widened and a slash of pink touched her cheeks.

She was always on a diet, always looked exactly the same, and always wished she were thinner.

Clay had slept with her years ago, though on which occasions he couldn’t quite recall.

She was married now, which made things easier on both of them.

“I’ll track him down.

Thanks, Patty.”

He could feel her eyes on his back as he headed out the door and knew she’d sleep with him again if he made the slightest effort.

He wouldn’t.

He knew he’d hurt her the first time, though it hadn’t been his intention.

Patty had wanted a serious relationship. Clay just wanted to have some fun.

Spotting Jake near the door to the stable, Clay strode across the compound in that direction.

Jake was busy with one of the grooms, a thin-faced youth who jumped at his every command.

Handing the boy a bridle, he gave firm instructions to saddle soap the leather more carefully this time, then turned as Clay approached.

“I thought you were in Palm Beach,”

Jake said, surprised to see him there.

“Got back the first of the week.

I just dropped by to find out the results of the selection trials.”

“You didn’t get your letter?”

“Oh, I got it, but I wanted to know who else would be riding.”

“I think we’ve got one helluva team.

Besides you, there’s Flex McGrath, Shep Singleton, and Prissy Knowles.

Ellie Fletcher is the alternate.”

Clay smiled until the last name was read.

“Fletcher.

You can’t be serious.

Fletcher’s been chosen over Peter Grayson?”

“Look, Clay, there were a lot of good riders to choose from.

It was a tough decision by a lot of hardworking people, and one I’ll stand behind all the way.”

Clay regarded him closely.

Both tall men, they stood nearly eye to eye.

Jake had come into his own in the two years since he’d been named head coach.

He’d always been confident in his abilities as a rider. Now he displayed an authority in dealing with people he hadn’t revealed before.

“Damn it, Jake, the girl’s only been competing for the last few years.

She hasn’t got the experience Pete has, or even Jack Dillon for that matter.”

“I’ve been watching Jack and Peter closely.

They’re both good riders, but they don’t show the potential Ellie does.

She’s come farther in the short time she’s been competing than most people do in a lifetime.

Besides, that horse of hers is one of the best show jumpers in the country.”

Footsteps sounded behind them as one of the grooms walked past, and Jake glanced over his shoulder to see who it was.

After he’d met Maggie Delaine, he’d lost some of the guardedness that kept him so aloof, but once their affair had ended, his wariness had returned full force.

“I won’t argue about the horse,”

Clay said.

“Jubilee’s one of the best.

But what makes you think the girl will hold up under Olympic competition? You know the kind of strain she could face in Seoul.”

“Because beating the odds isn’t new to her.

Because she’s got balls—and she’s got heart.

And because I’m going to coach her myself.

What have you got against her? It couldn’t have anything to do with her beating you at Madison Square Garden?”

Clay clenched his jaw.

“I won’t deny she rode brilliantly that day.

I won’t deny I hated losing to her.

But Peter has experience. That’s worth a lot more than potential. The committee should have asked her to loan the horse to the team.”

“Look, I know you and Peter have been friends for years, but that’s beside the point.”

Clay grunted.

He’d been looking forward to the tour with Peter along, one of the few riders who could keep up Clay’s demanding, over-indulgent, after-hour’s pace.

Hell, Peter could drink until dawn then ride all day with no more to show for it than a smudge or two beneath his eyes.

“I realize Peter’s consistent while Ellie is a little sporadic,”

Jake continued.

“But you don’t win gold medals by being mediocre, or even just good.

The girl’s a worker.

She’s got a chance for greatness, and I intend to see she gets it.”

“Christ,”

Clay grumbled, “a month in Europe with that Pollyanna is more than I can stand.”

“You always were a chauvinist, Clay.

I’m surprised you aren’t complaining about Prissy, too.”

“Prissy’s one of the best.

There’s no denying that.

The Fletcher girl, well, she’s—“

“She’s what, Mr.

Whitfield?”

Clay stiffened.

He cut his eyes to Jake, whose mouth edged up in one corner.

With a silent curse, Clay turned to face the female voice touched with anger.

Ellie Fletcher glared up at him, green eyes snapping, her riding crop gripped against her thigh.

“Ellie,”

Jake said, “I believe you know Clayton Whitfield.”

“So you think Peter Grayson would have been a better choice,” she said.

“Peter has more experience.

Even Jake said that.”

“By the time we reach Seoul, I’ll have more experience.”

Clay felt the pull of a smile.

“Yes, you will, Ms.

Fletcher.”

Since she rode the West Coast circuit and he the East, he’d seen her only a few times over the years.

He hadn’t really noticed her until she won the twenty-five-thousand-dollar purse in the Mercedes Grand Prix last year at Madison Square Gardens.

He’d chalked it up to bad luck for him and good luck for her.

After that, he’d seen her in Amsterdam, and in Aachen, Germany, where he’d gotten drunk and lewdly asked her to screw.

She had a reputation as the most untouchable woman in the show world.

“I didn’t know you were in Gladstone, Ms.

Fletcher.

Now that I do, I’ll be sure to mind my manners.”

He caught Jake’s look of amusement but addressed his words to Ellie.

“Will you be competing in North Salem, Ms.

Fletcher?”

“I think it’s time for Ellie and Clay, ”

Jake said.

“We’re all on the same team, remember?”

Ellie smiled tightly.

“As to the Empire State show, yes, Clay, I’m competing.”

He almost smiled.

“Then I guess I’ll see you there.

Thanks, Jake.

Believe it or not, I appreciate the explanation. I know you didn’t owe it to me.”

Whitfield started walking, dust rising to cover the toes of his black knee-high boots.

For no reason he could explain, he stopped and turned.

“There’s a party at a friend’s after the show on Friday night.

I’ll see you both get invitations.”

Don’t bother, Ellie thought with a pang of dislike.

Clayton Whitfield.

The man wore his Florida tan as majestically as he did his riding clothes and his too-cocky attitude.

Sunlight sparkled on his thick brown hair, streaking it with gold. He was wearing light beige riding breeches, the material stretching over his muscular buttocks and thighs.

Ellie found her eyes locked on their rhythmical movement as he took the last several paces to his car.

“I’ve read he lives in Far Hills,”

she said to Jake.

“Is that nearby?”

“Just down the road a few miles.

He’s got a riding stable full of horses and house as big as a hotel, but he does most of his training right here.”

Ellie couldn’t hide her surprise.

“I take it you two don’t get along,”

Jake said.

“The man’s an arrogant jerk.”

As if in emphasis, she slapped her crop against the side of her boot, then felt instantly guilty.

After all, as Jake said, they were on the same team.

“To tell you the truth,”

she amended, “I hardly even know him.

I’ve watched him ride, of course.

He’s magnificent.

The best I’ve ever seen.”

Jake smiled.

“Clay’s a total pain in the neck, but you’re right, he’s the best in the country, one of the best in the world.

I’m sure he didn’t take losing to you kindly.

He thinks you’ve only been riding a few years. Maybe you should tell him the truth.”

“It’s none of his business.

And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him, either.”

Jake shrugged.

“Far be it from me.”

He turned toward the stable.

“Let’s get back to work.”

They’d been at it off and on since daybreak, working six different horses.

Over the past three weeks, Ellie’s respect for Jake had grown stronger than ever.

He was brilliant, disciplined, and a worker, just as she was.

Determined that she would succeed, Jake didn’t know the meaning of can’t or tired or afraid.

The routine with each horse had been the same: they started with lunging—working the animal in a circle at the end of a rope.

Then elementary schooling, Cavalletti and gymnastics, followed by jumping.

“The program improves the horse’s physique and confidence,”

Jake had told her.

“And the rider’s overall ability.”

Walking into the dark, musky, two-level stable, he untied Cookie’s Delight, a dappled gray Dutch warm blood mare, standing in front of the stall, saddled and waiting.

Slipping the bridle over the horse’s ears, he straightened her coarse gray topknot, and led her toward the outdoor practice ring.

“The more varied the horses you ride,”

Jake said to her, “the better your seat and the more confident you’ll become.”

Several riders walked past, laughing and talking, the women waving a Jake, who gave Ellie a leg up onto the mare’s back.

“Your biggest problem is still the position of your head and shoulders.

You’ve got to look forward, use those precious eyes of yours.

Your balance is perfect, leg position good, but your head goes down and you wind up a little in front of your horse.”

Ellie nodded.

Coming from a rider as good as Jake, every word was a pearl of wisdom.

He’d stuck his neck out with the committee to get her on the team.

She was determined he wouldn’t regret his decision. Ellie liked him more every day. He didn’t say much, but when he did, his words were succinct, his criticism well thought-out and always poignant. He gave little praise, which only made his few rare compliments more meaningful.

He looked handsome in his riding clothes, with his swarthy complexion and incredible blue eyes.

Compared to Clay Whitfield, Jake was leaner, more sinewy than muscular, and probably fifteen years older.

But Jake stayed in shape.

She knew he ran for an hour every morning before he started giving lessons.

He was solid as a rock, as physically fit as any man she’d ever seen.

Women fawned over him.

Jake gave them an appreciative glance or a word of flattery, but he never asked them out. One of the newer female grooms had asked her if he was gay.

Ellie just laughed.

“Not a chance.”

The groom chuckled.

“Well, there’s certainly nothing missing in the look he gives a woman—he just never seems to follow through.”

Ellie knew exactly what was wrong with Jake.

He still wasn’t over Maggie.

She wondered what had gone wrong between them, but Jake’s personal life wasn’t a subject open for discussion.

Which was fine with Ellie, since the same rule applied to her.

As the afternoon wore on and her riding continued, her mind returned to Clayton Whitfield.

Every time she thought of him, her adrenaline began to pump.

How dare he have the gall to judge her abilities! Who the hell did he think he was?

He was just as arrogant as he’d been in Aachen—and just as rakishly handsome.

She’d never forget that evening after the show.

She’d been exhausted as she’d led Jubilee back to his stall.

The afternoon had been excessively warm with only a few sparse clouds to block the sun. She’d been hot and tired and dusty. All she wanted was a bath and a good night’s sleep. Instead, as she neared her assigned stall, she heard laughter and women’s voices, the clink of glasses coming together in a bawdy toast.

Beneath the yellow-striped canopy shading his entourage from the sun, Whitfield’s Fox Hollow Farm’s stalls were overflowing with expensively dressed celebrants.

Bright green Astroturf covered the dirt, protecting the women’s high heels.

Ribbons and plaques decorated the rough wooden walls along with pictures of Clayton Whitfield soaring over dozens of jumps in competitions all over the world.

Ellie’s grip tightened on the Jubilee’s reins, and she started walking faster.

Her stalls were right next door.

She could have used a little peace.

Obviously, she wasn’t going to get it.

Her groom, Gerry Winslow, walked up beside her.

“You look beat,”

Gerry said, always solicitous.

Tall and lanky, with a thatch of brown hair, Gerry had worked for the Fletchers for the past five years.

“I’m exhausted.”

She glanced toward the man lounging nonchalantly against a stall, knee bent, one booted foot propped against the wood.

A slinky blonde in a green silk dress arched against him, her arms wrapped possessively around his waist.

He laughed at something she whispered in his ear, his voice husky.

The look he gave the blonde steamed with sexual heat.

“ He certainly doesn’t look any the worse for wear,”

Ellie said, tipping her head toward Clay.

“He always looks like that.

Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Gerry took Jubilee’s reins and led the stallion away to begin his grooming ritual.

As she draped her dusty red hunt jacket over the back of a dark green canvas director’s chair, Ellie glanced up and was surprised to see Whitfield untangle himself from the blonde and make his was over to her.

“Nice ride,”

he said, referring to the last event of the day in which she’d placed fourth.

He, of course, had won.

She caught a whiff of liquor on his breath and a hint of his cologne.

He was still dressed in his riding breeches, smelling of horses and leather. The combination was masculine and sexy, and butterflies rose in her stomach.

“I misjudged the oxer on the jump off,”

she said, determined to make conversation.

“I’d been over it once, I should have known better.”

“Are you always so hard on yourself?”

Ellie felt his eyes on her face and heat rushed into her cheeks.

“I expect a lot of myself.

I won’t settle for less.”

“I’ve already learned you’re a tough competitor.”

She wondered if that was meant as a compliment and found herself hoping it was.

His eyes moved down her body, judging the size of her breasts beneath her white cotton shirt.

“Nice,”

he said, returning his gaze to her face.

Ellie flushed even more and realized how drunk he really was.

“I think your lady friend is missing you.”

She hoped he’d go back to his friends, but she couldn’t deny the soft thudding of her heart as he moved closer instead.

“Why don’t we leave her to Flex and the boys and find someplace of our own?”

“I don’t think so, Mr.

Whitfield.”

“Clay,”

he said.

The soft way he said the word moved fine strands of auburn hair beside her ear.

Self-consciously, she tucked the loose strands under her riding cap.

“You’d really better be going. You have guests.”

“To hell with my guests.

I’m in the mood for a little diversion.

We’ll go out to dinner at the Heidelberg, dance awhile, then go screw .

How does that sound?”

Shock rolled through her.

Ellie stared at him in dismay.

As hard as she tried, no words came out of her mouth.

For an instant she’d been flattered. She’d actually believed Clay was leaving the beautiful blonde, asking her out on a date.

“How does it sound? It sounds like you’re a conceited, arrogant ass.”

She tried to brush past him, but he caught her arm and pulled her up close.

“No sense of humor, I see.”

He chuckled.

“No sense of adventure, either.

Or are you just frigid, like everyone says?”

“Let go of me.”

“If you don’t want to fuck, at least give me a kiss.”

Before she could stop him, his mouth swooped down over hers.

When she gasped and tried to jerk free, he slid his tongue inside and Ellie felt the warmth clear to her toes.

For an instant, the delicious sensations held her immobile.

Then her senses returned, and she pressed her hands against his chest until she broke free.

Embarrassed and angry, she slapped him hard across the face.

The ringing crack brought Gerry Winslow from his place around the corner but was lost in the noise and laughter of the crowd next door.

Whitfield rubbed his cheek, his brown eyes dark.

“Are you alright?”

Gerry asked.

“I’m fine.

Mr.

Whitfield was just about to leave...weren’t you, Clay?”

He bristled.

Gerry grinned.

“Holler if you need me.”

He ducked back out of sight.

“Well, at least my curiosity is satisfied,”

Clay said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re just as cold as they say.”

Turning, he strode back to his friends, taking his place beside the blonde as if he’d never left.

Within seconds he was laughing and talking, the incident already forgotten.

But Ellie didn’t forget.

She’s spent half the night tossing and turning, remembering that kiss.

Maybe Clayton Whitfield thought she was cold, but Ellie knew better.

It had been all she could do to tear herself away.

That was in the past, she reminded herself.

But now she and Clay would be working together.

They would be traveling across Europe on the same team.

Clay was conceited, jaded, and selfish, a philanderer of the very worst sort. The kind of man she despised. But, God, she was attracted to him. Heaven forbid he ever found out.

Clayton Whitfield took the Far Hills Road turnoff even faster than he usually did.

The Ferrari merely hummed a little lower as it shifted down and rounded the corner with all the grace that made the car worth the hundred-and-fifty-thousand he’d paid for it.

Clay loved that car.

Probably more than just about anything he could think of—except of course his father, and his stallion, Maximum Effort.

He smiled to himself.

Max was special, all right.

Clay had never known an animal who thought exactly the way he did.

When they competed, it was if Max read his mind, or he read Max’s.

Either way, they worked in unison.

They were a team. Clay felt closer to Max than he did most human beings.

Slowing the car to a powerful purr, he turned into the long, hedge-lined driveway that led past the guest house to the main house and stables beyond.

Clay had spent most of his life in Far Hills, though his family owned homes in Palm Beach and Beverly Hills, a farm in Greenwich, Connecticut, and a brownstone in Manhattan.

The Far Hills house was as much a home as Clay had ever known.

Occasionally, his father was in residence, but for the last few weeks Avery had been soaking up the California sun.

Clay smiled as he thought of the spicy little California girl, Ellie Fletcher, he had tangled with that afternoon.

He’d been surprised to see her.

He could have strangled Sullivan for not warning him she was in earshot, but then, that was Jake.

He liked to stand back and let other people’s antics amuse him.

The Fletcher girl had looked just as pretty as she had at the selection trials in Los Angeles.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her there, but he felt he owed her an apology for the way he’d acted in Aachen.

And he wanted to take a closer look at her, see if she was as appetizing as he remembered.

Today had confirmed his assessment, but he’d made an equally bad impression.

Not that he cared, he assured himself.

He wouldn’t mind taking her to bed, but he doubted the effort would be worth it.

Then again....

All that guff he’d given her about being cold had been just that.

He hadn’t missed the little growl of pleasure he’d heard in her throat when he’d kissed her in Aachen, or the way she’d swayed against him.

It would take more than a kiss to find out for sure. Maybe he’d expend the energy, maybe not.

Hell, he’d never even seen her with her hair down, or wearing a dress for that matter.

He hoped she’d come to the party Friday night.

Maybe he’d get lucky.

“Hey, Clay!”

Denise Leander leaned against the fence near the stables.

Wearing faded skin-tight jeans, her hair swept up in a long black ponytail, she looked younger than her twenty-four years.

Clay inwardly groaned.

He’d forgotten his promise to give her riding lessons, the lure he’d used to get her into bed three days ago.

She’d been an enthusiastic lover, but her responses seemed rote, and Clay wondered how many times she’d gone through the same motions with somebody else.

“Hello, Denise,”

he called to her as he turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

“Bobby has the horses all saddled and ready.

I told him you promised to take me riding, and he said you’d be back pretty soon.”

Her plump red lips turned pouty.

“That was an hour ago.

You didn’t forget me, did you?”

He leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth.

“Don’t be silly.

Come on.

Let’s get going.”

Let’s get this over with, was what he meant.

Damn, why did bedmates have to be so costly? If women weren’t after his wealth and social position, they were after his time.

It was the latter he valued the most.

Taking her arm, he smiled down at her.

Denise flashed a bright smile in return, the scent of her perfume drifting up.

Obsession, a little too heavy for his taste, but not unpleasant.

He checked the time on his Patek Phillippe, a gift from his father.

Twelve-thirty.

He could give her a lesson on the horse, one in the bedroom, and be back schooling Max by mid-afternoon.

What the hell, he had plenty of time.