In the stable with him was the filly’s ever-attentive groom, looking sick with nerves, and Sean O’Flannagan. An outrageous, hard-partying Irishman a few years Bobby’s senior, Sean also happened to be one of the most respected horse vets on the West Coast and one of Bobby’s few real friends on the racing circuit.
“Stand back, would you?” he asked Bobby, who complied. “Let me take another look.”
Pacing up and down the pristine, air-conditioned stable, Sean inspected the horse’s injury again from every conceivable angle.
“I’m telling you, it was barbed woire,” he asserted for the third time. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
Like Bobby, Sean had a reputation for arrogance, although he tempered it with so much charm that people tended to be more forgiving than they were of his friend.
“Bullshit,” retorted the furious groom. “You can keep on sayin’ it, but it’s not gettin’ any more true. She hasn’t been out of my sight for the last three days. And even if she had, there is no wire at Manley Falls. This isn’t some goddamn ramshackle joint in County Kildare, buddy.”
While the two men glared at each other, Bobby stepped forward again and ran his hand gingerly along the length of the wound. He felt the filly start a little, but she seemed to know she was being helped and refrained from lashing out at him in her obvious pain.
“Whatever it is, it’s deep,” he said quietly. “I don’t think she should be putting any weight on it for the next three weeks at least. Sean?”
Sean grimaced. It was a tricky one.
He’d come along today only as a favor to Bobby. He was in town on a trip with his boss, Jimmy Price, one of the few owners even wealthier than Kravitz. If Jimmy found out he was moonlighting for his competitor, he’d have him fired faster than you could say breach of contract. Randy had promised to keep quiet about today’s visit, and had also paid him a small fortune for his opinion, which had gone some way toward easing Sean’s nerves. But it was still a tough call.
On the one hand, the cut was undeniably deep. But on the other, Kravitz clearly wanted the horse declared fit for the upcoming Kentucky Oaks, the fillies’ version of the Derby. He’d flown Bobby in especially to prepare her for it. If Sean ruled her out now, he was basically flushing hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of the guy’s investment down the toilet.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “If we poultice it and rest her completely this week, then bring in the physio next week, there’s a chance she could still make it.”
“Of course she can make it!” snapped the groom. “It’s a fuckin’ scratch, for God’s sake. Give me a break, you guys.”
Bobby straightened up and shrugged his shoulders. There was no way that horse should race. But at the end of the day it wasn’t his problem or his reponsibility. He felt sorry for her groom, who would almost certainly be fired, despite his protestations of innocence and due care. It must be heartbreaking after so many months of work. But there was nothing he could do about it.
“Your call,” he said to Sean, reaching for his Stetson and placing it back on top of his blond head. “But I’m not training her. I’ll let Kravitz know tonight.”
He walked out into the pristine stable yard, leaving Sean and the groom to fight it out between themselves. Leaning forward, he stretched out his sore neck till it gave a nice, satisfying crack. He was disappointed. He’d been looking forward to training this filly for weeks now. The stallions he’d been working with in Dubai for the past two weeks had been nothing to write home about—although he’d been paid top dollar for his efforts and was certainly grateful for the money.
Looking around him, he wondered how much Kravitz had spent on this place in the last decade. Twenty million? Maybe thirty? Manley Falls, named after a camping resort in Montana where Kravitz used to spend his summers as a kid, was the kind of farm that more modest owners fantasized about owning one day. It had none of the natural beauty or grace of a ranch like Highwood. The whole place was designed to be as efficiently functional as possible, with temperature-controlled stables and barns; flat, floodlit paddocks; and long stretches of immaculately maintained gallops, shaded from the punishing Florida sun by carefully planted lines of palms. With its serried rows of whitewashed, clinical-looking outbuildings, it reminded Bobby more of a factory than a horse farm. But still, it was impressive.
And whatever they were doing at Manley Falls, it was working. Kravitz had trained two Kentucky Derby winners here, as well as winners of the Dewhurst, the Aga Khan, and the National Stakes in Europe. He was an owner to be reckoned with; to be invited to work with one of his horses was a rare privilege, and Bobby knew it.
“I’m giving her another day,” said Sean, wandering into the yard to join him.
“Waste of time,” said Bobby dismissively. “She’ll never make the Oaks and you know it. She’s in pain.”
“Not as much pain as I’ll be in if Jimmy finds out I was here today,” said Sean with a grin, pulling a finger across his throat like an imaginary knife and making melodramatic gurgling noises.
Bobby laughed. He’d known Sean for years and they’d always gotten on well, although the Irishman was far more hardheaded than he was when it came to horses. At the end of the day, Sean believed a racehorse was an investment, not a pet. His job was to get his animals up and running, not to mollycoddle them.
Bobby called him a heartless bastard. Sean called Bobby a sentimental fool. But beneath the insults, they both respected each other’s expertise and professionalism.
“Anyway, enough about work,” said Sean, changing the subject. “I take it you’re still planning to stick around for the party tonight?”
One of Palm Beach’s biggest polo patrons was throwing a huge bash that evening and all the staff from Manley Falls had been invited. Most of them had been in a frenzy of excitement about it for the past three weeks. Sean, having only just gotten into town, was not invited—but he had every intention of tagging along with Bobby anyway. The girls in Palm Beach were always spectacular, and there was no way he was going to miss out.
“Of course,” drawled Bobby. He’d been so distracted and depressed by all the problems back at Highwood since his dad’s death, it was about time he allowed himself a little fun. “If you ask me very nicely,” he added with a grin, “I may even leave a couple of girls free for you.”
“Ha!” said Sean. “As if you stand a chance against the mighty OLM.”
“OLM?” said Bobby.
“O’Flannagan Love Machine,” said Sean, with a James Bondesque lift of the eyebrow that made Bobby roar with laughter.
“Love Machine” might be pushing it, but with his jet-black, curly hair, soulful gray eyes, and knicker-droppingly gorgeous Irish accent, Sean had always had a way with the ladies to rival Bobby’s. Though only five foot eight, what he lacked in height he more than made up for in blarney, and his reputation as an animal in bed preceded him across California and beyond.
“You do realize you’re delusional?” said Bobby.
They’d crossed the yard now to where Sean had parked his hired bright-red BMW. Chucking his vet’s bag onto the passenger seat, he climbed in behind the wheel.
“We’ll see,” he said. “A hundred bucks says I score some action before you do.”
“Oh, please!” said Bobby. “You’re on. Just make sure you’re here by seven,” he yelled over the roaring revs of the engine, “or I’m leaving without you.”
By the time seven o’clock rolled around and they were on their way, Bobby’s earlier enthusiasm was already waning.
Kravitz had been less than pleased when he’d announced he couldn’t train his filly and that he would be leaving in the morning. Their difficult conversation had put a damper on his spirits, and though the lure of the girls was still strong, after a late afternoon siesta he’d woken to find himself feeling unaccountably tired and low.
Perhaps the stress he’d been under since Hank’s death was finally catching up with him? Whateve
r, the thought of having to make cocktail party small talk with a bunch of Floridian polo nuts suddenly seemed about as much fun as as eyeball acupuncture.
“Cheer up, for God’s sake,” said Sean, taking another corner on the coast road at spine-tingling speed. “It’s a party we’re going to, not a focking wake.”
“Sorry,” said Bobby. “I’m just distracted, I guess.”
“Dreaming about your quarter horses at Highwood, are you?” said Sean. “Well, you never know, you might meet a potential investor tonight.”
“I doubt it,” said Bobby. “Most polo patrons wouldn’t know a quarter horse from a Quarter Pounder.”
Sean laughed. “Well, that’s true,” he admitted. “But the women out here are loaded. Land yourself a rich wife in Palm Beach, my friend, and you can buy as many quarter horses as you like. Ship ’em back to California on a private jet!”
“It’s a thought,” said Bobby.
“And if not,” said Sean philosophically, “you can just get laid and enjoy yourself, can’t you? It’s what they call a win-win situation.”
“I dunno,” said Bobby gloomily. “I’m not really in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?” Sean looked incredulous. “Jaysus, what’s wrong with you? Oh, lord. You’re not gay or something, are you?”
“No,” said Bobby indignantly, “I am not gay, thanks for asking. My God! Just because I occasionally have an impulse that does not originate from my pants.”
“Ah, but that’s not natural, now is it?” said Sean, apparently without irony. “Have you slept with any girls since you’ve been here? Any at all?”
“Sean. It’s been two days.”
“Exactly!” He sounded triumphant, as though Bobby had just proved his point. “So quit your whining like an old woman, would you? This is going to be fun. Remember fun?”
Dimly, thought Bobby.
When they walked into the party twenty minutes later, every female head turned to gawp at them. Both wearing formal black blazers and both deeply tanned, Bobby from two weeks in Dubai and Sean from his long season’s work in California, they cut figures every bit as fine as those of the handsome Argentine polo players who usually got top billing among the women at Palm Beach social events. They also had the advantage of being new blood—although a surprising number of girls seemed to recognize Sean.
A particularly brazen blonde, her enormous breasts squeezed into a black Gucci corset dress, accosted him the moment they walked through the door.
“You bastard.”
“Dana.” Sean didn’t miss a beat. “Lovely to see you too. Have you met my friend Bobby?”
“How come you never called?” She pouted. “Two weeks I waited, and not a peep out of you, O’Flannagan.”
She sounded angry, but Bobby couldn’t help but notice an incipient smile playing at the corners of her mouth. A few seconds later and she had her arm wrapped around Sean’s waist in a manner that could only be interpreted as flirtatious. Perhaps OLM wasn’t so wide of the mark after all?
“Oh, but I did, sweetheart, I did,” Sean protested, utterly unconvincingly. “Didn’t you get my messages? Anyway, don’t be angry. Meet Bobby. He’s a cowboy.”
“A cowboy, eh?” said the girl, turning her attention in Bobby’s direction, blatantly checking out his powerful arms and torso, like a buyer at Keeneland giving the once-over to a new horse. “Interesting,” she purred. “So what brings you to Palm Beach, cowboy? You lost?”
“No,” said Bobby without even a hint of a smile. Flirtation bored him. He couldn’t see the point. Anyway, he already knew he didn’t want to fuck this girl. He wasn’t a big breasts man, and the rest of her was nothing to write home about. “I’m working.”
“Hmmm. Friendly,” she said sarcastically. “But you.” She turned back to Sean. “You come find me later, okay? Maybe you took my number down wrong. I might give it to you again if you ask me nicely.”
Bobby watched as she brushed her hand against the bulge in his friend’s pants before winding her way back through the crowd to join her girlfriends, her backside jiggling in the tight black confines of her dress as she did so.
“Well,” said Sean, once she’d gone. “I reckon you owe me a hundred bucks. That’s a dead cert, right there.”
Bobby didn’t argue.
“Why were you so rude to her, anyway? It’s not much of a bet if you don’t even try.”
“Not my type,” he said simply, reaching out to relieve a passing waitress of a flute of champagne. “Besides, it was you she wanted.”
“Only ’cause you gave her the brush-off,” said Sean. “What did she have to do, strip you naked and pin you to a bed?”
An image of Chantal Bremeau, her long dark hair spilling down over her perfect, high brown breasts, suddenly popped into Bobby’s head. It was disturbingly arousing.
“No.” He smiled to himself, savoring the memory. “I don’t like aggressive women, as it happens. Not usually, anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” said Sean. “All the more for me, I suppose.” And with that he disappeared into the heaving throng, like a one-man, pussy-seeking missile.
Looking around, Bobby tried to get the measure of the other guests. It was an eclectic bunch: everyone from low-paid Hispanic grooms to billionaire playboy polo patrons milled around the lavish Moroccan pool and spa, trying their luck with the various scantily clad women, most of them the wives or girlfriends of the Palm Beach horse fraternity but one or two of them players in their own right. Carlo Walger, the dashing ten-handicap hero of Argentine polo, was apparently engrossed in conversation with his patron’s stunning twenty-two-year-old wife, Brandi, although judging by his eye contact her breasts seemed to be doing most of the talking. Elsewhere, Bobby noticed, a number of famous flat race jockeys had turned up to compete with the polo crowd. Rising star Connor Hargreaves was propping up the bar, looking even more deeply tanned than usual after his recent triumphant visit to Dubai, riding for Sheikh Mohammed.
Next to him was Barty Llewellyn, a trainer from one of the big Kentucky farms whose horses Bobby had worked with for a month last summer. Barty was one of the few trainers self-assured enough in his own talent to have actually welcomed Bobby’s help, and the two of them had always gotten on well.
“Hey, look who it isn’t!” he said, catching sight of Bobby as he battled toward him through the crowd. “Bobby Cameron, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you, kiddo? And what brings you to this den of iniquity?”
Barty was in his early sixties, a tall, wiry, urbane guy with closely cropped gray hair and a natty line in beautifully tailored linen suits. He’d never married and it was generally assumed that he was gay, although no one could ever recall him being romantically involved with anybody, male or female. Like so many at the top of his profession, Barty’s whole life was his horses. He used to tell Bobby they were like his children. Having watched him in action in the training ring, Bobby had no trouble believing it.
“I’m good,” he said. “I came out a couple of days ago for a job.”
“Oh?” said Barty.
“One of Kravitz’s fillies,” said Bobby, lowering his voice, “but between you and me, the horse isn’t up to it. I’m flying back home tomorrow. No point sticking around.”
“So it’s true then?” A hugely fat man with a hideous bouffant helmet of red hair combed forward over his forehead like Donald Trump, and an unlit cigar clamped Al Capone style between his teeth, interrupted them. “I’d heard a rumor that horse was lame. But it’s nice to have it confirmed.”
“Hello, Jimmy,” said Barty. “Bobby, may I introduce Mr. Jimmy Price. Jimmy, this is Bobby Cameron, a friend of mine.”
Reluctantly, Bobby extended his hand. He knew who Price was, of course, though they’d never met. Quite apart from the fact he was Sean’s boss, the man was a legend in California racing circles. A newspaper mogul with a well-documented ruthless streak—he had left his first wife all but penniless after a bitter divorce, eventually driving the
poor woman to suicide—he also had the Midas touch when it came to buying horses. Unusually for an owner, he didn’t restrict himself to Thoroughbreds and had dabbled successfully in polo and quarter horse racing as well. Jockeys tended to fawn over him, hoping to be sponsored by the man who had launched so many racing careers, Connor Hargreaves’s among them. With his vast wealth, stellar horses, and unrivaled clout in the press, Jimmy Price’s patronage was enough to boost his chosen mentees’ profiles into the media stratosphere.
Nevertheless, Bobby wasn’t a fan. He himself might be a womanizer, but he would never deliberately set out to hurt anyone, the way Jimmy had his ex-wife. The guy evidently believed that if you had enough money, you could buy your way out of the rules that applied to other, lesser mortals—decency and loyalty among them. Somewhere along the road to success, Price had had a complete compassion bypass. And Bobby had no time for that.
“Do you always eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, Mr. Price?” he asked frostily.
If Jimmy was fazed by his bluntness he didn’t show it. Instead, he responded in kind. “Sure.” He shrugged. “If they’re interesting enough. If you don’t want people to listen to you, kid, my advice is to keep your mouth shut. Especially when it involves your boss’s horses. If you’d been working for me, I’d’ve fired your ass for loose lips like that.”
Bobby’s upper lip gave an involuntary curl of distaste as he watched Jimmy pick up a vol au vent with his fat, sausagelike fingers and dispatch it to its doom in the dark wet recesses of his mouth. Even the way he chewed was objectionable. How could Sean stand working for him?
“Kravitz is not my boss,” he said haughtily. “I work for myself. And, believe me, it’ll be a cold day in hell, Mr. Price, before I’ll ever work for you.”
Barty laughed nervously. He’d always liked the Cameron kid, but at times he could be his own worst enemy. Jimmy Price was not the sort of man you wanted to make an enemy of, particularly if you lived in California and had ambitions in the racing world.