Page 7

Ellie awoke with a headache and feeling generally out of sorts.

She hadn’t slept well after her confrontation with Clay.

She was thankful she had a fairly easy schedule today, only competing in two events: the modified and the opening jumping competitions.

She’d be done by noon.

After an extra-long, extra-hot shower that revived her lagging spirits, she dressed in beige breeches, a white shirt, and a navy-blue pin-striped riding coat.

Braiding her heavy hair, she wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck and added a little make-up to hide the smudges beneath her eyes.

As she drove to the show grounds, she thought of Clay and got mad all over again.

Last night was absolutely the last time the man would make a fool of her.

She’d be pleasant to him but stay well out of his way.

Which should be easy. Now that he knew she had no intentions of sleeping with him, Clay would have little interest in her.

The morning slipped past, the events going off without a hitch.

She took a blue ribbon in the modified, riding Cookie’s Delight, took a red ribbon in the open on Rose of Killarny, her alternate horse.

By noon she was finished for the day.

It wasn’t like her to leave the grounds till the final event, but the bright sunshine felt warm, clear skies beckoned, and Ellie gave in to a sudden urge to escape.

Why shouldn’t she? She’d ridden well all week and so had the horses.

She deserved a little break.

Stopping by her motel room long enough to slip into faded jeans and a clean white blouse, she headed up State Route 124 to the Hammond Museum and Gardens, the exhibit she’d passed the night before.

She parked the Toyota and walked inside, pleased to find the gardens even lovelier than she had hoped.

Done in the manner of a 17 th century Japanese Edo Garden, there were Zen, autumn, and dry landscape gardens, a reflecting pool, and a lake among the fourteen loosely connected sections.

Ellie strolled the grounds, surprised to feel her tension draining away and peace settle over her.

She’d been walking for half an hour when she spotted a familiar tall figure lounging on a bench in the shade beneath a red maple tree.

Ellie’s heart began to pound.

What on earth would a man like Clay Whitfield be doing in a Japanese garden? He was still wearing his riding breeches, his white shirt open at the throat.

In the vee at the front, she could see curly brown chest hair and suntanned skin.

Holding a yellow pad in his lap, he stared off toward the lake, then wrote something down on the pad.

If she came up the path on his left side, she could slip around behind him without being seen and find out what he was doing.

Immersed in his task, Clay continued to concentrate on his writing.

With his broad back angled in her direction, she was able to get close enough to look over his shoulder.

Her eyes widened as she read the words on the pad.

Good Lord, the man was writing poetry!

At her quick intake of breath, Clay whirled in her direction.

Instead of being angry and berating her as she expected, his face flushed, and he glanced away.

Wordlessly, he closed the notebook and laid it on the bench beside him.

“Hi...”

Ellie fought to suppress a bubble of laughter.

“Hi,”

Clay said, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

It was the first time she’d seen him at a loss for words.

With his cheeks pink and a lock of hair falling over his forehead, he looked vulnerable in a way she had never seen him.

Any thought of teasing him faded away.

“I like poetry, too,”

she said softly.

“But I was never any good at writing it.”

Relief swept over him.

He didn’t even try to hide it.

His eyes found hers and his easy grin returned. “You do?”

“ Uh-huh.

I like Keats and Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Shelley, but Shakespeare’s sonnets are my favorite.”

“I’m a Shakespeare lover myself.

How did you find this place?”

“I passed it last night.

What about you?”

“Saw it from the back of the Burbage house.”

He moved over to make room for her on the low stone bench.

“Here, why don’t you sit down?”

She glanced away, suddenly uncertain.

“Thanks, but I ought to be going.”

He nodded.

“It really isn’t a place to share, is it?”

“Only with someone you feel close to.

Then it would be lovely.”

Clay looked up, the words drifting over him, touching a place inside.

For an instant, he wondered what it might be like to share the gardens with Ellie.

He’d been dumbstruck when he’d turned and found her looking over his shoulder—dumbstruck and embarrassed.

Nobody in the world knew he wrote poetry. He’d been certain she’d make fun of him, but she hadn’t.

“Keep my secret?”

he said to her with a smile.

He wondered if she could hear the tension in his voice he tried to hide.

She returned his smile.

“Cross my heart.”

She drew the sign of a pledge and Clay could see she meant it.

“How about dinner?”

For the life of him, he couldn’t believe he’d said the words.

“We could just go someplace close.”

Ellie’s smile slid away.

“Thank you, but no.

You and I are oil and water.

I appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I give you my word I’ll behave like a gentleman.”

Ellie shook her head.

“You gave me your word last night.”

Clay shrugged.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“Why don’t we just work at being friends?”

He didn’t have women friends.

Hell, he didn’t have that many people in his life he could actually call a friend and almost no one he could really count on.

“Now that you know my darkest secret, I guess I have no choice.”

Her smile returned.

Through the branches of the tree, he noticed the different colors in her hair.

Warm brown with rich red highlights.

Mahogany, he decided. The wind whipped several loose strands across her cheek, and she tucked them primly into the braided knot at the back of her head.

“I like it better loose, the way you wore it last night.”

Her cheeks grew pink, making him smile.

“I think I’d better be getting back.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

She didn’t argue as he rose and they strolled the gardens in companionable silence, Clay wishing she had accepted his invitation and grudgingly admitting he might even enjoy her company without the prospect of sex.

Then his eyes slid down her body as she walked a few steps in front of him and came to rest on her perfect little ass.

He sighed.

They reached her car and he held open the driver’s side door.

“Sure you won’t change your mind?”

She only shook her head.

He caught a whiff of orange blossoms as she slid into the seat.

“White Shoulders,”

he said.

“One of my favorites.”

She slanted the seat belt between the points of her breasts, which were full and high and intriguing.

She snapped the latch and rolled down her window.

“Your poetry,”

she said, her pretty green eyes full of sincerity and a hint of kindness.

“It was lovely.

You should be proud of it.”

Clay felt the warmth returning to his face.

It crossed his mind that he hadn’t blushed since he was a boy.

“Thank you,”

he said softly.

He watched her Toyota speed along the lane until it disappeared.

Oddly depressed, he returned to his Ferrari.

Where he carefully tucked his poetry-filled pages down deep between the seats.

Since William Fletcher had business in New York, he rented a car and drove up to North Salem to see his daughter ride in the Grand Prix on Sunday.

Ellie and Clayton Whitfield both went clear in the first round, but Clay took first place by completing the jump-off with a slightly faster time.

Will was pleased by his daughter’s near-win and the progress she’d made in the short time she’d been working with Jake Sullivan.

Every time he watched her, he marveled at how far she had come since her eye surgery and thanked God for the gift of her vision.

Will and his wife, Maryann, had both been riders.

He’d been six years old when he’d sat his first horse out on Grandpa Fletcher’s farm.

His family had very little money, so Will mucked out stalls to earn riding privileges from a nearby stable and eventually got good enough to ride the grand prix circuit for them.

Now it appeared his daughter would carry on the tradition he and Maryann had established twenty years ago.

He found Ellie in the stables and engulfed her in a warm hug.

“Keep riding like that, honey, you’ll be ready to compete in Seoul for sure.”

In Europe she’d be riding individually in dozens of equestrian events, but as an alternate would only represent the American team if one of the members couldn’t perform.

The same held true for Seoul.

But the rule was flexible, and the other riders knew it.

The coach retained the right to make any last-minute substitutions that would be in the best interest of the team.

“Wasn’t Jube wonderful?”

Ellie stroked Jubilee’s velvet nose and held up the second-place ribbon.

The horse nickered and nipped at the bright red streamers as if he understood how well he’d done.

The big sorrel stallion, a thoroughbred and quarter horse mix, stood sixteen-two hands tall, a difficult mount for Ellie’s small stature.

Still the pair had worked miracles together.

“Your mom sends her love.”

“I talked to her a few minutes this morning.”

Being an extremely close family, Ellie made regular phone calls home, and either her dad or mom usually called her every few days.

Will knew she’d been trying to become more independent, but he and Maryann had worried about Ellie all her life.

That hadn’t changed.

Her groom, Gerry Winslow, took Jubilee’s reins.

“Hello, Mr.

Fletcher.”

“Hi, Gerry.

How do you like the East Coast?”

Gerry grinned.

“It ain’t sunny California, but it’s all right, I guess.”

“Gerry likes Gladstone just fine, Dad.

The female grooms flirt with him all day.

I think he’s going out with one of them, but he won’t admit it.”

Gerry blushed, made a soft clucking sound, and led Jube away.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to go out with someone once in a while,”

Gerry called good-naturedly over his shoulder.

Ellie just smiled.

Gerry was head groom.

When she was younger, partially blind and more dependent on him, he’d had a crush on her.

Now...well, he seemed happy to have her friendship, and she was more than grateful for his.

She’d never been much for dating, not even after her surgery.

Teddy Wilson, a college basketball star, had captured her attention for a while.

She’d almost gone to bed with Teddy, had waited because she’d wanted it to be right.

Her father and mother loved each other so much. It was hard for her to settle for anything less.

Someday, she told herself.

After the Olympics, she’d take some time off, maybe try dating again.

In her mind’s eye, Clayton Whitfield’s tall, powerful image flashed through her head.

Ellie clenched her teeth at the unwelcome flutter in her stomach.

Her father tipped her chin up and looked into her eyes beneath the bill cap.

“Gerry’s right, you know.

Met anyone new and exciting?”

Ellie managed not to look away.

“Nobody new.”

Unfortunately, she had never met a man who excited her more than Clay.

Along with his good looks, there was his dedication to the horses.

She admired his expertise and uncanny ability to communicate his skills to the animals he rode.

And there was something deeper, something she read in his eyes. Some part of him even he couldn’t seem to reach.

Speak of the devil and he’ll appear.

As if she had conjured him, Clay came roaring toward the stables in his red Ferrari, the top down, stereo blasting, stirring up clouds of dust, getting the finger from one of the grooms.

A handsome, gray-haired man sat in the passenger seat.

The two looked so much alike Ellie knew it had to be Clay’s father.

Two beautiful blondes sat in the backseat behind them, their breasts practically spilling out of their low-cut tops.

They laughed as they passed a bottle of champagne back and forth between them.

“Celebrating already?”

her father said to Clay with a brittle smile.

The car purred for a moment, then Clay turned off the engine and the dust began to settle.

“Winner’s privilege.”

Though he spoke to her dad, his eyes were fixed on her.

They traveled down her body so intimately, she was instantly reminded of the Clayton Whitfield she’d known in Aachen.

Clay climbed out of the car and his father did the same. “Stay,”

Clay said to the girls, purposely treating them like lap dogs.

Ellie’s temper swelled.

“I’d like you to meet my father,”

Clay said.

It was obvious he’d been drinking, though he didn’t really seem that drunk.

“Ellie, meet Avery.”

“Hello, Mr.

Whitfield,” she said.

“Hi, honey.

Nice to meet you.”

His eyes ran over her body just as Clay’s had, but he made no comment.

Her dad said nothing, but his jaw clenched, and he folded his arms across his chest.

He’d been a rider once, had known Clay and Avery for years.

Ellie knew they were not his favorite people.

“Why don’t I buy you two a drink?”

Clay returned to the convertible and lifted the lid off a small ice chest on the passenger-side floorboards beneath the blonde’s feet.

He hoisted an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon.

“No, thank you,”

her father said tightly.

Ellie just shook her head.

Clay popped the cork, took a long draw, passed the bottle to his father, who repeated the performance, then Clay rounded the car to the driver’s side to climb back in.

The blonde on his side of the car giggled and hugged his neck.

Avery Whitfield grinned as if to say, “That’s my boy!”

and got back in the car.

Ignoring his seat belt, Clay turned the key and the powerful engine roared to life.

“See you in Paris!”

he called out as he shifted the Ferrari into gear and roared away, throwing up another cloud of dust.

“What was that all about?”

Jake walked up as the convertible rounded the corner out of sight.

Her father’s gaze swung in Jake’s direction.

“Just Clay’s usual obnoxious show of victory for his father.”

“What do you mean?”

Ellie asked.

“I hate to say it,”

her dad replied, “but Avery Whitfield is probably the biggest horse’s ass who ever lived.

He was the world’s worst parent.

He drove poor Elizabeth, Clay’s mother, to an early grave with his whoring and drinking.

Now he’s doing his best to ruin Clay.”

“Clay never really had a family,”

Jake added.

“His mother died when he was five years old.

Clay was raised by a string of nannies, moved from one estate to another while his father traveled the world, cavorting with glamorous women.

I think Clay’s love for riding was all that kept him sane.”

“I think Clay is basically a decent sort,”

her dad said, surprising her.

“But he wants Avery’s approval and he’ll do anything to get it.

He’s thirty-one years old, and half the time he acts like a schoolboy—but then Avery is in his fifties, and he acts just the same.”

“I think they’re both jerks,”

Ellie said.

The words snagged Jake’s attention.

He hadn’t missed Ellie’s expression when she’d watched Clay with the blonde.

Sonofabitch! On top of everything else, the last thing Jake needed was for na?ve Ellie to get involved with Clay.

She kicked a clod with the toe of her riding boot and watched it sail off in the distance.

Her father was watching her with an odd expression and Jake wondered if Will’s thoughts mirrored his own.

“I’m starving,”

Ellie said, trying for a smile that looked a little too bright.

“Come on, Dad.

I bet Jake’s hungry, too.

Be a sport and buy us some dinner.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,”

Jake said.

“I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”

“Next time.”

Will turned to his daughter.

“Come on, honey.

I know a place that has the best steak in North Salem.”

Jake waved at them as they walked away.

In the arena, workmen were tearing down fences, loading the potted shrubs onto a trailer, getting ready for the next show, which would be starting in another town on Tuesday.

The tough regimen never let up.

The riders traveled on Sunday night and Monday.

The show began on Tuesday and ran through the weekend.

Then the contestants packed up their horses and equipment and headed off for another grueling week.

Jake spotted Flex McGrath, who was loading up his gear, and stopped to give him a few last-minute instructions about the flight to Paris scheduled for Thursday.

He spoke to Shep Singleton about Sebastian’s performance, then headed for the parking lot.

Firing up his Mercedes, Jake drove off down the road, grateful for a few minutes to himself.

Little by little, the ride through the countryside toward his rental house in Peapack began to relax him.

He loved the rolling green hills, the hundreds of small lakes and ponds that reminded him of his home in the Charleston.

Pleasant Oaks.

He had loved the farm from the moment he’d laid eyes on it twenty years ago.

He’d been riding for Thurston Brock, the man who had given him his first job in 1960 after he’d arrived in the States.

By then, he had graduated from language school, where he’d studied English and gotten rid of his accent, then gone to Charleston to work as a trainer and rider for Brock at his equestrian center.

He’d never forgotten the feeling of driving through the impressive, white-washed gates of Pleasant Oaks that first day.

Bright pink azaleas draped majestically over the fences along the lane leading up to the mansion, a big white plantation style house, high-ceilinged and elegant, with balconies around both floors.

He’d arrived wearing denims and boots.

Brock had come out to greet him in an expensive suit and tie, and Jake had been embarrassed.

He’d vowed one day he’d make enough money to dress as he pleased and feel comfortable in any man’s presence.

By the time he was twenty-five, he spoke like a native and was competing on the American circuit.

Brock provided the horses.

Jake provided the wins.

He’d saved his money and rarely gone out, so the dollars began to stack up. On a whim, he invested in a machine that turned culled carrots into dried pellets, feed for horses. The company grew, went public, and Jake had made a small fortune. Years later, when the property had come on the market, Jake had bought it.

He glanced up, saw his Peapack rented colonial ahead.

Pulling into the garage, he stepped out of the car and started for the back door.

The telephone rang as he walked into the kitchen.

Hurrying across the room, he grabbed the receiver and pressed it against his ear.

“Sullivan.”

“Ah, so you are home at last, Tovarich. ”

The once familiar voice calling him comrade sent an icy chill down his spine.

“I just got in.

But you must know that.”

“How was North Salem?”

Nikolai Popov’s voice came through in heavily accented Russian.

When the man had phoned eight months ago, Jake had tried to speak the language, but twenty-eight years was a long time.

Popov was forced to speak English, which only made him angry.

“The show was fine,”

Jake said.

What the hell do you want? But he knew the Russian would come to the point in his own good time.

The KGB man had always enjoyed toying with his prey, keeping them guessing.

Apparently, that hadn’t changed.

“Your mother and sister are fine, also,”

Popov said.

Jake’s pulse shot up.

“Have you seen them?”

“I see them quite often.

I am sure they miss you.”

Jake’s insides tightened.

When he made no reply, the Russian’s voice turned hard.

“We must meet before you leave the country.”

Jake’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “When?”

“There is a diner near the junction of 287 and Washington Valley Road.

Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Be there at ten o’clock Tuesday morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

Popov chuckled, the sound grating.

“I have no doubt you will.

Do nothing you will be sorry for, Tovarich. ”

Jake’s answer lodged in his throat.

“I told you before, I’ll do whatever you say.”

Popov grunted.

“Just like your father.

Always a sensible man.

Too bad you and he were both fools. I will see you at ten.”

Only a slight click marked the Russian’s departure.

Jake set the phone back in its cradle and let out a long slow breath.

Pushing open the swinging kitchen door into the dining room, he made his way wearily down the hall to the bar in the den where he poured himself a double shot of Napoleon brandy.

His hand shook as he set the crystal decanter back on the mirrored shelf.

With an exhausted sigh, he sank down on the leather sofa in front of the rock fireplace, his pulse beginning to slow.

The showdown he’d been expecting for the last eight months was finally at hand.

Until the day he’d heard Popov’s voice on a gusty, chilly day last October, Jake had all but forgotten his past.

He was an American in every way. He thought like an American, he spoke like an American, he looked like an American.

In the last five years, he’d even begun to dream like an American, the words spoken in English, not Russian, or the Hungarian he’d been raised with.

In America, just as his father had said, opportunity had beckoned, and he’d been able to make a life for himself.

Popov, a man dedicated to the Marxist philosophy, would never understand.

Jake swirled the brandy in his glass.

Thank God he’d been honest with the selection committee when they’d asked him to accept the job as head coach.

He’d told them his real name was Janus Straka, told them how he’d escaped to this country from the Soviet Union, and how much he had come to love it.

“I don’t see why that should make any difference,”

one of the committee members had said.

“Baryshnikov and dozens of other Soviet exiles have made great contributions to America.

Besides, you’re not Russian, you’re Hungarian.

Bertalan de Nemethy was Hungarian, for God’s sake.”

De Nemethy was considered the father of American show jumping.

He had coached the U.S.

Equestrian Team for twenty-five years, had brought it to the greatness it still maintained today.

“We’d be honored if you would accept the position, Jake,”

the head of the committee had said.

It had been the proudest moment of his life.

Jake downed the last of the brandy and set the crystal snifter on the coffee table.

I owe this country, he thought.

He owed its people a debt so great it could never be repaid.

But he owed his mother and sister, too.

They were family, and though he hadn’t seen them in twenty-eight years, he loved them.

He couldn’t let them come to harm.

There was no easy answer.

But then there never had been.

Not for Janus Straka or for Jake Sullivan.