Showdown

  “I think she’s gorgeous,” said Summer truthfully.

  “Yes, well, you would,” said Milly. Despite herself she found her eyes wandering to the article below. It recounted Rachel’s recent successes on the track in classically Tatleresque, sycophantic style. But even if you stripped away the bullshit, it was clear she was doing well. Since Milly left she’d had a win at Bath and two places at York. And it looked as though her photogenic relationship with man-about-town Jasper had helped her profile in the British media even more. According to the article, she’d gotten two sponsorship deals in the pipeline, one for Hacketts and another for a new lingerie label. What next? Sports Personality of the bloody Year?

  Suddenly Milly’s own win at the Santa Ynez races felt like very small fry indeed.

  Just as she felt the last vestiges of her good mood evaporating, Bobby stuck his head around the door, looking stressed and distracted.

  “Has anybody seen my suitcase?” he demanded. “The green one with the leather straps?”

  All three girls looked up from the magazine.

  “It’s in the attic at the big house,” said Tara.

  “Are you sure?” He ran his hand through his hair. “I looked already but I couldn’t see it.”

  “It’s definitely there,” she said calmly. “I’ll go and check if you’d like.”

  “Why do you need it?” asked Milly. She wished she didn’t care about his plans, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “LA,” he said, “for ten days. I’m going to meet some potential new clients with Todd.”

  “Ten days?” Milly inadvertently dropped the magazine on the floor. “But that means you’ll be gone next weekend. What about the Ballard race? You said you’d be there.”

  Bobby sighed. He felt bad about letting her down, but it couldn’t be helped. Clients weren’t going to fall out of the sky, and Cranborn had a whole roster of people for him to see.

  The last month had been tough for him too. He knew it hurt Milly when he kept his distance—but he didn’t know what else to do. Working with her every day, and sharing a house at night, was utterly torturous. He felt like a recovering alcoholic forced to take a job at a distillery. His only hope of dealing with it was to somehow mentally disconnect.

  Unfortunately, it was a lot easier to feign indifference than to actually feel it. He was hugely proud of the way Milly had come along as a rider, taking to short, quarter horse sprints like a duck to water, just as he’d been certain she would. But he hadn’t bargained how stressful it would be, protecting her from the other side of the quarter horse racing world: Her fellow jockeys were almost exclusively men and a minimum of five years older than her. Most of them were cowboys or laborers by day, tough guys from the wrong side of the tracks who liked to play every bit as hard as they worked.

  To say that Milly was an exciting novelty to them would be putting it mildly. After every race, swarms of men would come up to her, inviting her to after-race parties that Bobby knew from his own experience were only one small step above frat house orgies. Most race days he felt more like her minder than her trainer, beating admirers off with a stick and dragging her home before things got out of hand.

  And the more he played the parent, the more she played the sullen teenager. A few weeks ago, desperate to get out of Highwood for a few hours, he’d accepted an invitation to the birthday party of another local jockey, Danny Marron, at a neighboring quarter horse stables.

  “Why can’t I come?” Milly had whined over and over as he was preparing to leave. “I know Danny.”

  “You’ve met him once,” said Bobby. “You don’t know him. Besides, you weren’t invited.”

  This wasn’t actually true. But Danny was a notorious party boy, and there was no way in hell Bobby was letting Milly loose at one of his parties. It’d be like throwing a baby rabbit into a room full of snakes.

  “I’m not a child, you know,” she yelled at him, losing her temper. “You’ve got no right to stop me having fun.”

  “While you live with me,” said Bobby firmly, pulling on his boots, “I have every right. You’re not coming, and that’s final.”

  Overnight, it seemed, he’d gone from friend to father and from mentor to jailer. It was a role reversal he hated every bit as much as Milly did.

  “Dylan’ll take you to Ballard,” he said now, watching the clouds of disappointment form over her face. “You can still race. But I have to go, sweetheart. It’s business.”

  Secretly, he hoped the LA trip might involve a bit of pleasure too. Sean O’Flannagan was still in town, working for that creep Jimmy Price, and he’d promised to take him into West Hollywood for some action.

  “It’s a serious health risk, you know, celibacy,” he insisted, when Bobby told him about his saintly restraint with Milly. “I knew a bloke once, back in Ireland. Hadn’t had it for so long he dropped dead. Testosterone poisoning.”

  Bobby laughed. But talking to Sean made him realize just how stressed out he was. A little light female refreshment might be just what the doctor ordered.

  “Remind me again,” said Bobby, as Sean took another corner at stomach-churning speed. “How the fuck did you talk me into this?”

  It was Thursday night, and they were heading out to spend the weekend at Jimmy Price’s estate in Palos Verdes.

  “Well,” said Sean, tightly gripping the steering wheel of his beloved blue Porsche, “you said you needed to network with quarter horse people. So I said, in that case, you ought to talk to Jimmy. And you said—”

  “I’d rather saw my own balls off with a rusty camping knife.”

  “Words to that effect, yes,” admitted Sean. “But I, being the true friend that I am, told you to pull your head out of your arse and stop being such a stupid, stubborn bastard.”

  “And I was so drunk, I listened to you,” said Bobby ruefully.

  The last three days in LA had been a blast. Hanging out with Sean was as wild and crazy as ever. And business had also been booming. For a self-professed novice in the quarter horse world, Todd Cranborn was incredibly well connected. He’d already introduced Bobby to a slew of owners, many of whom seemed open to the idea of moving their horses up to Highwood, if the price was right. And though Todd wasn’t someone Bobby would ever choose as a friend—he was too slick, too urban, and, though Bobby’d never admit as much to Wyatt, there was something innately shifty about him—as a partner he was all that he’d hoped for and more.

  The only thing that still niggled him was how involved Todd seemed to want to be in the business. When they’d signed their deal, Bobby assumed he’d be more of a silent partner, the here’s-your-check, don’t-bother-me-till-we-turn-a-profit type. But he’d turned out to be the exact opposite, displaying an intense interest not just in the new stables but in all the financial and practical affairs of the ranch.

  When Bobby mentioned the possibility of meeting Jimmy Price, Todd leaped on the idea with surprising enthusiasm.

  “I can’t believe you’re even thinking about it,” he said. “Of course we should go. Jimmy is to quarter horses what the Sultan of Brunei is to Thoroughbreds. You know that.”

  Bobby’s protestations that he was also a nasty, wife-abandoning cocksucker who thought the planets revolved around him fell on deaf ears.

  If Sean could get them invited, they were going. Period.

  And so it was that, after an hour and a half of having his insides flipped over like pancakes while Sean tried to beat the land speed record, they finally drove through the electric gates of the Price estate.

  The gates themselves were made of solid metal, and almost as thick as they were tall. It felt more like entering a bank vault than a home.

  “What is this, Fort Knox?” asked Bobby.

  Sean gave him a knowing look. “And then some. I’ve worked here almost two years and I still don’t know the master code for the stable blocks. Jimmy’s fanatical about privacy and security.”

  As they drew up t
o the front of the house, Bobby could see why. He’d visited a lot of beautiful homes, traveling around the world on his various training jobs. But Price’s estate was something else.

  The first thing he noticed was a thirty-foot fountain erupting like a cool, silver Vesuvius in the center of the vast, Tuscan-style forecourt. On either side of it, formal gardens stretched off into the distance as far as the eye could see. The house itself was built partly into the hill and loomed above them, at the top of a long, winding stone staircase. It was built of some sort of faded yellow stone that Bobby didn’t recognize but which gave it the air of an old European château, and its aura of antiquity was further enhanced by the ivy and wisteria that wound their way around the eight-foot windows, dripping tendrils of foliage down the façade like streaky green mascara.

  Certainly, it was nothing at all like the vulgar, LA McMansions he’d spent the week visiting with Todd. Jimmy Price might be an asshole, but he either had taste or the sense to hire an architect who did.

  “What d’you reckon?” asked Sean, leaning over into the backseat and pulling out Bobby’s suitcase for him. “D’you think your moneybags partner’ll be impressed?”

  “You can ask him yourself in a minute,” said Bobby. A dark blue Ferrari Marinello with the giveaway license plate TC1 was already parked out front. “Looks like he’s here already.”

  Bobby followed Sean as he bounded up the stone steps two at a time, and handed his hat to the liveried maid who let them in. He’d barely had a chance to take in the arabesque opulence of the deep blue, domed ceiling, when a brace of screeching two-year-olds came careening into the hallway, pedaling furiously on their tricycles across the slippery marble floor.

  “Fuuuuuck!” Sean let out a yelp of pain as one of them ran straight over his foot. The child seemed blissfully unconcerned about the agony he’d just caused, glancing back only briefly before screeching off in the direction of the formal living room.

  “Chase! Chance!” A harassed, very overweight girl came lumbering after them, patently out of breath and red faced from the chase. “Have you seen the kids?”

  “Yeah,” said Sean, pointing to the doorway through which the budding Schumachers had just disappeared. “One of them just maimed me for life, as it happens.” He held up his foot for inspection. “Ran me over like a skunk, so he did, the little shit.”

  “Well, at least it was only you he ran over,” said the girl, her face lighting up as she went to kiss him on the cheek. “Normally he does it to proper guests.”

  “Oh, thanks a million!” said Sean, grinning. “This is my friend Bobby, by the way. He’s a proper guest. Bobby, meet Amy, the nicest thing about this place.”

  The girl took one look at Bobby and instantly blushed, like a clear glass filling up with tomato juice. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen anyone looking more awkward but decided it must have been a long time ago.

  “Are you their nanny?” he asked, returning her shy smile with a beamer of his own. “Looks like you have your work cut out.”

  “Actually, no,” she panted. She still hadn’t gotten her breath back. “I’m their sister. For my sins.”

  Before she could explain any further, a truly stunning blonde emerged from the living room. She was wearing a floor-length, flesh-colored, slashed-to-the-crotch dress that had long since crossed the line from sexy to obscene. She teamed the outfit with a scowl at Amy that could have frozen blood.

  “The kids are running wild in there,” she barked. “Go and see to them before your father has a coronary.”

  “They don’t listen to me,” said Amy, exasperated. “I’ve been trying to get them up to bed for the last hour.”

  “Well, try harder,” snapped the goddess. “If you weren’t so goddamn fat they wouldn’t be able to run rings around you like they do. Oh!” Belatedly she registered Sean and Bobby’s presence. In an instant her features softened and the scowl was replaced by a broad, if fake, smile. “I didn’t see you boys there. Hi.”

  Her accent was Southern and strong, giving the two-letter word a good three or four syllables: haaaaiiiii.

  “Ah’m Candy Price,” she drawled, gazing lasciviously at Bobby. “Jimmy’s wife.”

  She reminded him of a cat, with narrow, slanting green eyes and cheekbones so pronounced they were like little shelves on either side of her face. A taller, younger, sluttier Michelle Pfeiffer.

  “And you are?”

  “Put him down, Candy, for God’s sake,” said Sean, kissing her on both cheeks. He obviously had a very relaxed relationship with his employer’s family. “This is Bobby Cameron, a friend of mine.”

  “Ah!” she giggled coquettishly. “The cowboy. Ah’ve just been hearin’ all about you.”

  “Really?” said Bobby.

  “Uh-huh. From your business partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bobby.”

  “Likewise,” he said, somewhat unconvincingly. It had been only a five-second exchange with Amy, but it was enough for him to have decided categorically whose side he was on. The second Mrs. Price was clearly a card-carrying bitch.

  “I didn’t know Jimmy’d married again,” Bobby hissed in Sean’s ear a few moments later, as the pair of them followed Candy’s swaying backside into the living room.

  “Five years ago,” Sean whispered back. “But he’s so private, a lot of people don’t know. Even now that they’ve got kids.”

  “That’s a little odd too,” said Bobby. “She doesn’t exactly seem the maternal type.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “She’s a horror,” he said. “Gorgeous but a real wasp eater. And she makes poor Amy’s life hell.”

  Walking into the Prices’ reception room was like walking into the big barn at Highwood. Or a cathedral. Or some other, ludicrously outsized space. If it hadn’t been for all the priceless antiques and overstuffed Ralph Lauren couches crammed into it, Bobby was pretty sure there would have been an echo.

  The first thing he noticed, however, was Jimmy. He was leaning against a grand piano in the far corner, puffing away on his cigar and apparently chatting to Todd like the two of them were old friends.

  “There you are!” He advanced upon Sean and Bobby, beaming jovially, his trademark cigar clamped between his teeth, just as it had been in Florida the last time Bobby met him. “My long lost vet. And if he hasn’t brought the Lone Ranger along with him.” He slapped Bobby hard across the back. “How ya doing, kiddo? I’ve just been talking to your partner here about your new business. Or should I say your ‘pardner’? Uh? Howdy, pardner!”

  Pleased as ever by his own joke, he laughed till the tears streamed down his face. Clearly, there was something about cowboys that Jimmy found hilarious.

  Bobby smiled through gritted teeth, digging his nails into his palms so hard he almost drew blood. Biting back what he really felt like saying to this squat little toad of a man with his wealth and his power and his fat fucking cigar, he settled for “Hello, Mr. Price.”

  “I thought you said you had work in LA,” he whispered to Todd, once their host had turned his attention to his beautiful wife for a few moments. “I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

  “My calendar freed up,” said Todd, with a what-of-it? shrug. “Thought I may as well get a jump on the traffic.”

  In reality, needless to say, he had his own reasons for wanting to ingratiate himself with Price, and they had nothing to do with quarter horses. He was still looking for investors in a sweet little deal to build four new apartment blocks in downtown LA. Jimmy was known to dabble in property if the deal was right, and he had a bank balance bigger than Croesus’s. Weekend invitations to Palos Verdes were rarer than gold dust and potentially a good deal more valuable, if you knew how to exploit them—which Todd certainly did.

  “Have you met my baby boys?” Jimmy had one toddler under each arm and waved them both at Bobby and Todd with all the grinning pride of a fisherman showing off a prize catch. On closer inspection, Bobby could see the boys looked incredibly like him: with
their chubby arms and bright shocks of tufty ginger hair, all they needed was the cigar to look like bona fide Mini-Me’s.

  “This is Chase.” Jimmy pointed to the howling child on the left, distinguishable from his brother only by a fine dribble of snot snaking its way down from his nose to his mouth. “And this is Chancellor.” He indicated the snot-free baby. “We call him Chance, don’t we, buddy?”

  Pinching his son’s cheek with paternal affection, he was instantly shot down with a heartfelt death stare from the boy.

  Bobby found himself warming toward Chance.

  “They have a lot of energy,” said Jimmy with devastating understatement, setting the boys down and rolling his eyes indulgently as they tore off around the room, screaming like banshees. Unlike his wife, he seemed quite genuinely paternal, taking off after them with a smile on his face.

  “Hey.” As soon as he was out of earshot, Todd nudged Bobby in the ribs and nodded in Candy’s direction. “Did you check out the wife already? Talk about a body!”

  Candy was again having sharp words, this time with the hapless maid, who scurried out of the room afterward like a frightened mouse.

  “Not my type,” said Bobby coolly.

  Todd felt his hackles rising. Who did the kid think he was, Brad fucking Pitt? Candy was every man’s type.

  “Oh, really?” he said. “Don’t tell me. You prefer Tweedle Dita over there.”

  He gestured toward Amy, who had finally managed to grab both her brothers and was fighting a losing battle trying to drag them off for their bath.

  “C’mon,” said Bobby. “She seems like a sweet girl.”

  “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Todd laughed nastily. “Look at her. She’s a fucking dump truck.”

  Bobby winced. He was no saint, especially when it came to women. But he wasn’t cruel. And this wasn’t the first time he’d heard Todd being vindictive either. Over the past week, his partner had revealed a certain casual ruthlessness that made Bobby distinctly uneasy. Nothing dramatic had happened and they hadn’t fallen out, at least not openly. But Wyatt’s warnings about not rushing into partnership with a man he barely knew had started playing over and over in his head like an eerie, scratched record. Tonight he was finding them particularly hard to ignore.