Page 6

“Where have you been, you naughty boy?”

Virginia Burbage, the hostess, walked toward him, a full-hipped woman who looked ten years younger than her fifty something years.

“Don’t you know it isn’t nice for the guest of honor to abandon the party?”

“Have I ever led you to believe I was nice?”

Clay teased.

Virginia smiled up at him.

“I’ll tell you what.

It’ll just be our little secret.

I wouldn’t want to spoil your image.”

Clay returned the smile.

He admired Virginia Burbage.

She’d been smart enough to marry Cecil Burbage, a wealthy steel magnate, keep him happy, sexually sated, and on a very short leash.

She was also chairwoman of the Children’s Home Society, Clay’s favorite charity, and a very good friend.

“I just stepped out for a little fresh air.”

Clay kissed her unlined cheek.

“Lead me to the bar—I could use another drink.”

God could I, he thought.

Another round lost to the fiery little redhead.

Her riding breeches showed off her figure far better than the yellow sundress, but he had never seen her hair down, a rich, glorious auburn, hadn’t expected her to look so deliciously feminine.

He shook his head.

The lady was really something.

He hadn’t been turned down by a woman in years, at least not one who returned his kisses the way she did.

Ellie was a challenge—and there was nothing Clay loved more.

Skirting the ornate living room, Virginia led him to the crowded library.

A black-haired woman laughed at something her escort said and leaned over the billiard table to complete her shot, giving Clay a magnificent view of her gold-lame backside.

He smiled and kept on walking.

“What’d you do, slip off for a quickie?”

The voice belonged to Felix McGrath, “Flex”

to his friends, a member of the team.

Standing in front of the bar, Flex sipped his usual Bacardi and Coke.

“Clay just went for a little fresh air.”

Virginia winked and patted his arm, still entwined with hers.

Clay’s mind flashed to a pair of shapely legs and the feel of soft breasts against his chest.

“Not a quickie?”

Flex prodded.

“Not even close,”

Clay said with a scowl.

He accepted a scotch and soda, took a welcome drink.

“You riding Sebastian tomorrow?”

“Sure am.

He’s really in top form.”

“I’ll say.

He’s been consistently in the money for the last four months.”

Virginia took a sip of champagne.

“Before I forget, Clay, I got your check for the Society.

The board of directors loved the idea of a party for children on the fourth of July.”

Clay frowned.

“I told you I wanted my involvement kept anonymous.”

Virginia rolled her eyes.

“If I live to be a hundred, Clay Whitfield, I swear I’ll never understand you.”

Flex sipped his drink.

“What’s the matter, Clay? Afraid someone’ll discover your secret stash of illegitimate children?”

“Very funny.”

“Excuse me, darlings.”

Virginia went up her toes to look over his shoulder.

“I think I see my devastatingly handsome husband.”

She kissed Clay’s cheek.

“Thanks again, dearest.” Turning, she blended into the throng of well-dressed partygoers.

“So where did you slip off to with Ms.

Untouchable?”

Flex asked, the freckles on his nose standing out after his day in the sun.

“Or maybe she isn’t so untouchable after all.”

At five-foot-ten, spare to the point of thin, Flex was an attractive man in a G.Q.

sort of way.

He was two years younger than Clay, but they’d known each other as long as either could recall.

“Little Ms.

Fletcher and I went for a ride.”

Flex arched a burnished eyebrow, his flame-red hair cut in a long-on-the-top buzz-cut, a Californian all the way.

His favorite restaurant was Spago, he loved Bruce Springsteen, and drove a yellow Sting Ray.

“A ride, huh?”

“Not that kind of ride, though I think I would have enjoyed it.”

“That’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress,”

Flex said, parroting Clay’s earlier thoughts.

“She could be one sexy lady if she learned to relax and enjoy life a little.”

Clay grinned.

“I’ve tried to convince her of that very thing on several occasions.”

Just then Shep Singleton walked up.

“You must be talking about women.

You have the unmistakable signs of lust written across your boyishly handsome faces.”

Shep was a half out-of-the-closet gay.

Since his father was Gordon Singleton, the former U.S.

Equestrian Team coach, he maintained a low profile when it came to his sexual preferences.

Clay and Shep had come to blows years ago, when Clay had knocked him over a coffee table for a furtive squeeze on the inside of Clay’s thigh.

Since Clay had never told anyone the real reason for the argument, the two of them had eventually become friends.

Flex took a sip of his drink.

“We were discussing our new teammate, Ellie Fletcher.

It seems the mighty Clayton has struck out.”

“I may have been at bat three times,”

Clay drawled, “but it’s only the top of the inning.”

Shep rolled his grey eyes, a close match to his platinum hair.

He’d turned silver-headed by the time he was thirty.

Now at forty-one, he was the oldest member of the team.

“I can’t wait to see the score at the bottom of the fifth,”

Shep said.

“I’d bet my last hunt cap our beloved Clay will have scored a home run.”

All three men laughed.

Flex took another sip of his drink.

“Maybe you ought to give the girl a break, Clay.

She’s a hell of a rider, and Jake says being on the team means everything to her.

She’s got all she can handle without you trying to screw her every five minutes.”

“What’s life...”

Shep said dramatically, “without a little diversion?”

Clay felt a twinge of conscience.

“Maybe you’re right.

I’ll give it some thought.”

In fact, he’d thought of little besides Ellie Fletcher since he let her out of his car.

Still, what Flex said made sense.

He wanted what was best for the team.

For himself, he wanted to win the gold.

The party was in full swing when Jake approached the group of riders in the game room.

Shep was just leaving, returning to the bar for fresh drinks while Clay and Flex continued talking about the Grand Prix on Sunday.

Overhearing part of the conversation, Jake walked up to join them.

“Think Zodiak will be ready for Paris?”

he asked Clay.

Clay’s alternate mount had been diagnosed with an ulcer, ironically, just like his master.

But neither horse nor rider would be kept from the competition by the annoying illness.

“He’ll be ready,”

Clay said.

“Personally, I’m more than ready—there’s no place I’d rather be than Paris.”

“French women are so beautiful they can make a grown man weep,”

Flex said.

Jake smiled.

“For once, will you two try to think of four-legged beauties instead of the two-legged kind?”

Flex grinned.

“Now you’re asking the impossible.”

Jake shook his head, took a sip of his whiskey, and drifted away from the men.

Though the house was crowded, he noticed little of what went on around him.

His mind was on coming events and the threats he’d been receiving.

Somewhere outside, one of the men who’d been following him watched the house. For the ten thousandth time, he wondered what they wanted.

Passing the classical guitar player strumming the chords of Malagena, he glanced around the room, noting a few late arrivals.

Knowing he had a long day tomorrow, he decided to finish his drink and slip away.

Turning toward the patio and the cooler air outside, he stumbled as someone bumped into him from behind, spilling some of his drink on the front of his black suit while some splashed on the white silk skirt of the woman walking past.

“I’m sorry,”

he said.

“I didn’t mean to...”

The words died in his throat as he stared into the gentle blue eyes he remembered every night in his dreams.

“Hello, Jake,”

Maggie said softly, making his chest clamp down.

“Hello, Maggie.”

She looked lovely.

He couldn’t stop staring, trying to absorb every detail, aching to touch her and knowing he couldn’t.

“I heard about your appointment,”

he said hoarsely, finally finding his voice.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

In her newly acquired position as Assistant Director, Maggie would be traveling to Europe with Evelyn Rothwell, the director, meeting the team in different countries, then traveling with them to the Olympics.

It was the director’s job to keep things running smoothly, arrange every aspect of the tour, and handle the problems that came up every day.

As the director’s assistant, Maggie Delaine would have more than her share of work to do.

Jake knew they’d be thrown together.

This brief encounter showed him how difficult being near her was going to be.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,”

she told him almost apologetically.

“It was a last-minute whim.

I guess I was feeling a little lonely.”

The instant he said the words he regretted them.

The flash of hurt in her eyes was unmistakable.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let her go.

He couldn’t do that, but he couldn’t deny the thrill he felt at that one small sign she still cared.

“You look beautiful,”

he said and never meant it more.

In the last eight months he’d forgotten how pretty her eyes were, the way the light reflected on her honey-gold hair.

“Thank you.

You’re looking as fit as ever.”

Now that she’d recovered from the shock of seeing him, a biting tone crept into her voice.

“How’s Sarah?”

Maggie’s chin came up.

“Sarah’s fine.

She misses you.

For the first few weeks she kept asking me if you were mad at us. Now she understands that you had more important things to do. Excuse me, I’d like to say hello to Virginia.”

She tried to brush past him, but Jake caught her arm.

“Maggie, I....”

He swallowed.

“It’s good to see you.

Tell Sarah I think of her often.”

Maggie nodded brusquely and walked away.

He watched her hips sway gently in the elegant silk dress and remembered the silken feel of the body beneath.

Downing his whiskey in one long gulp, he set the glass down on a crystal coaster and headed for the door.

On the way back, he’d buy a bottle of Johnny Walker to take back to his motel room.

Three or four stiff shots and maybe he could get some sleep.

Maggie walked across the patio, rounding the side of the house just in time to see Jake climb into his shiny black Mercedes.

She hadn’t wanted to see him and thankfully had missed him in L.A.

But when she’d accepted the job as Assistant Director, she’d known their paths would cross sooner or later and more often than she would like.

It had been the single negative factor in accepting the job.

But she’d talked it over with Sarah and she and her daughter had agreed that taking the job was the right thing to do.

It was what Les would have wanted.

Four years ago, the Olympic committee had asked Les Delaine to be the Manager of the 1984 Olympic Equestrian Teams.

It was an honor he’d coveted for years.

That night they’d gone out to dinner at the yacht club to celebrate.

Maggie had hoped they’d take Sarah along.

Excited, she had already bathed and combed her hair.

“Some other time,”

Les had said.

“I’ve got too much on my mind to worry about a kid.”

Tall and slim, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, Les was an attractive man.

He kept in shape playing handball and still did a little riding on the weekends.

“Besides,”

he added with a smile, “this way I’ll have more time for my favorite girl.”

In a rare display of affection, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

That evening, he drank more heavily than usual, and Maggie didn’t blame him.

For years, Les had worked hard for the U.S.

Equestrian Team, had coveted the position of team manager, and finally achieved it.

“You’d better let me drive,”

she told him as they left the club and reached Les’ Jaguar in the parking lot.

“Don’t be silly.

I’m perfectly fine.”

“Please, Les.

Just this once?”

“All right, all right.”

Grumbling something about paranoid females and the rigors of being married, he handed her to keys.

Maggie was so relieved she didn’t care.

By the time they were headed east on the expressway, he was slumped against the headrest, snoring softly.

That was the last thing she remembered when she woke up in the Tampa Bay hospital three hours later.

The police said she had swerved to avoid a car and ended up in the path of an oncoming truck.

Maggie had survived with only a concussion and a few minor bruises, but the Jaguar had been totaled and Les had been killed.

For years afterward, Maggie had blamed herself.

She’d done penance in the only way she knew how, involving herself in the horseshow world Les had loved, reading every journal available, learning as much as she possibly could.

Through Les, she had connections, knew the right people to get the job.

She was here now more for her dead husband than for herself.

Maggie glanced toward the driveway in front of the house.

She could barely make out Jake’s tall figure behind the wheel of his Mercedes, but she didn’t need to see him to remember their time together.

Les had been dead three years the night she had attended the Olympic fund-raising dinner at the Helmsley Palace in New York.

Slightly bored, she had spotted Jake across the crowded room.

All evening, she had found herself watching him off and on.

Those eyes, she remembered thinking.

She even remembered the way his evening clothes fit so perfectly across his broad shoulders, the way he carried himself.

Afterward, she’d felt guilty.

In all the years she’d been married, she’d never once looked at Les the way she’d looked at Jake.

Now, as he drove off down the tree-covered lane, Maggie wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling chilled.

For the first time, she wondered if she’d done the right thing in accepting her new job.

For the hundredth time she wondered if she’d ever stop loving Jake.