At last a nanny arrived to relieve poor Amy of her wriggling charges, and Sean immediately thrust a stiff drink into her hand and pulled her over to a sofa for a chat. It would be dinner in a few minutes, and he wanted to give her a chance to unload on someone before they all sat down.
Meanwhile, Jimmy was talking real estate with Todd, with one fat arm wrapped proprietorially around his wife’s waist. Bobby hovered in the background watching, trying to gauge the dynamic between them.
Candy stood almost a foot taller than her husband in her gold stilettos. She reminded him a bit of a sexed-up Snow White petting the fattest and gingeriest of the dwarves: Though some decades Jimmy’s junior, there was nevertheless something almost maternal about the way she ran her fingers through his thinning hair. It was creepy. At the same time, she was clearly as happy to flirt with Todd as she had been with him out in the hallway a few moments ago. Jimmy seemed not to notice the way she giggled girlishly at all Todd’s jokes and compliments, blatantly leading him on. He evidently felt secure in his wife’s affections—more secure, Bobby suspected, than he had reason to be.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The maid was back, approaching her mistress with understandable timidity. “I don’t mean to interrupt you. But dinner is served.”
At dinner the talk was all of horses and the extortionate prices reached for some of the average-looking Thoroughbreds at the recent Kentucky auctions.
“I could buy six top-flight quarter horses for the price of that filly Magnier picked up last month,” said Jimmy, treating the table to a view of his mouthful of semimasticated food as he held forth. “Tuberose or something, she was called. Sounds like a fucking scented candle. Of course”—he swallowed, washing the food down with a slug of red wine—“I have been known to spend a fair bit on Thoroughbreds myself.”
“No shit,” said Sean under his breath.
“But I’m making more money on my quarter horses,” said Jimmy. “A lotta people find that hard to believe.”
Bobby, who had Amy on his right, caught her stifling a yawn and grinned.
“You’re not interested in horses?”
“Oh! Yes, of course I am,” she mumbled automatically, blushing through a mouthful of mashed potato, before deciding that her father wasn’t listening and admitting, “well, actually, no, I’m not. Thoroughbreds, quarter horses. It’s all double Dutch to me, I’m afraid. When it’s around you all the time, you just sort of switch off. But Daddy’s completely obsessed.”
“Some people say the same thing about me,” said Bobby. “That I’m obsessed, I mean. Horses are my passion.”
Amy laughed bitterly. “I very much doubt you compare to my father.”
It was the first time he’d had a chance to take a good look at her. She could only have been a year or so younger than her stepmother, but the differences between the two women could not have been more marked. She was wearing a plain black linen shift dress that looked like a sack, teamed with a pair of too-chunky black heels that only emphasized the heaviness of her legs. Her hair was thin and blond—the very pale, borderline-albino variety—and she seemed to have inherited her father’s red eyelashes, as well as his weight problems. Her features on the other hand—the short, straight nose, deep-set, soulful eyes, and perfect Cupid’s bow lips—must have come from her mother. And though their beauty was all but lost in the fat, waxy roundness of her pale face, you could see that if she shed fifty pounds or so, she might actually be pretty.
“You see, it’s not just the animals Daddy loves or the buzz of winning,” she was saying, keeping her voice low so that Jimmy couldn’t hear. “It’s the whole social scene that goes with it. I call him a sceneoholic. Candy’s the same. So was my mother, when she was younger.”
Bobby shifted uncomfortably in his seat at this unexpected mention of the first Mrs. Price.
“Oh, please, don’t worry,” said Amy, clocking his reaction. “It’s fine. I can talk about her now. It was a long time ago. Really.”
“You know, my mom was a bit of a party girl too,” he said. “Still is, in fact.”
“Amy.” Jimmy’s voice boomed across the table. “Quit boring him, would you?”
Amy shrank back into silence, and Bobby’s heart went out to her. It was like watching an ant getting sprayed with Raid—one moment she was animated and lively, the next she was shriveled away to nothing.
No prizes for guessing which of his kids Daddy loved best. And no wonder Candy was so dismissive of her stepdaughter: She obviously took her cues from Jimmy.
“He wants to talk horses, don’t you, kid?” Before Bobby had a chance to answer, Todd jumped in.
“We’re starting small at Highwood, but Bobby’s reputation as a trainer is second to none, and we’ve got high hopes for the place. In terms of facilities, there’s no one in mid-California to match us.”
“Is that so?” said Jimmy. “And you say you’re already training out there?”
“Only my own horses,” said Bobby. “I have a young girl from England, a very promising jockey, who I’m working with right now.”
Jimmy looked at Todd.
“Milly, right? The sexy one.”
Bobby felt a lump rise in his throat and looked daggers at Todd. The sexy one? Was that how he thought of her?
“She’s seventeen,” he said icily. “She’s a child.”
“I’d like to meet her,” said Jimmy, either ignoring his hostility or failing to register it. “I’ve been saying for years I’d like to find a really good girl jockey to promote. If she’s good enough, and as hot as Todd says she is, she could make herself a small fortune in sponsorship deals. With the right backing, of course . . .”
Bobby ground his teeth together so hard it hurt. The idea of Milly being “backed” by Jimmy, or even meeting the man, made him feel sick to his stomach. And as for Todd’s “interest” . . . they’d be having words about that later.
He told himself his feelings for Milly stemmed from protectiveness—but deep down he knew it was more than that. He was scared of losing her. With every day that passed, her incredible talent as a jockey became more and more evident. How long could it be before she outgrew little local races and wanted to spread her wings? Not long enough, that was for sure. She’d be off traveling the quarter horse circuit in no time, surrounded by sharks like Price and perhaps even worse. And he’d no longer be able to protect her.
Where the fuck did Todd get off, ogling her like some sort of pervert and putting ideas about her career into Price’s head?
“Milly’s nowhere near ready for a national career,” he blurted out, more curtly than he’d intended. “And when she is, I’ll be the one to manage her. She’s interested in racing, not sponsorship deals.”
Jimmy laughed.
“Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Cameron,” he said, relighting the stub of the cigar he never seemed to put down, not even while eating. “Everybody wants fame. Women especially.”
“Well, Milly doesn’t,” growled Bobby. “And she’s not a woman. She’s a girl.”
Todd said nothing, allowing the conversation to drift back into safer waters. But inside, his mind was racing.
Clearly, Bobby had the hots for Milly, and he had them bad. Interesting.
He hadn’t yet figured out exactly how he might exploit this situation. But if he wanted to get his hands on that oil one day, he needed to start looking for chinks in the Cameron armor.
Perhaps, in the form of Miss Milly Lockwood Groves, he might have just found one?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
November in Cambridgeshire had been as gray and dreary as ever. Duvet-thick layers of cloud had failed to take the edge off the biting Siberian wind as it sliced across the fens, ripping the last of the leaves from the trees and turning the rain into flying needles. Everywhere people shivered and grumbled under parkas and scarves, longing for spring or at least a break in the weather.
Rachel was used to it. She’d grown up riding in all conditions, but it still depressed her. So
today, when a dazzling winter sun had finally deigned to make an appearance, and the clouds had given way to a thin, almost translucent-blue sky, she woke up in unusually good spirits.
Turning up the radio in the hundred-thousand-pound Mercedes convertible her parents had bought her for her eighteenth, she set off on the fifteen-mile journey to Newells. These days she stayed over there more days than not. But last night she’d finally cracked and decided she needed a break from Jasper and his constant whining. Ever since the disaster at Epsom his career had been on a steady downward slope, just as hers was skyrocketing into the big league. As a result his ego, fragile at the best of times, now needed almost constant massage and attention. Normally she was pretty good at it, listening patiently and without laughing to his ludicrous conspiracy theories about why he wasn’t being picked for more races, dutifully praising him every time they made love, sticking to him like glue whenever they went out in public. But sometimes even she needed a quiet place where she could go and scream.
Still, she thought, as the sunlight streamed through the windscreen so brightly she had to squint to see the road ahead, it was all worth it. When Cecil had first decided to let Milly go to America to race, she was so furious she’d almost dumped Jasper then and there. After all, if the whole point of the relationship was to get under Milly’s skin, then why continue with it, if she wasn’t even going to be in the country?
But within a day or two she’d changed her mind. Milly’s absence wasn’t a setback, it was an opportunity. It left the way completely clear for her to win over the gullible Linda, who would no doubt be looking for a daughterly shoulder to cry on, what with Cecil still so weak. And though it was annoying that the little brat was being allowed to race at all, the fact that Milly had been banished to some obscure, cowboy sport on the other side of the Atlantic meant that she was no longer even a potential threat to Rachel’s own ambition to become the most successful girl rider in England, an ambition that she was getting closer to realizing every day.
By the time Milly came back—if she ever did—she’d find she’d been well and truly usurped.
And in the meantime, as irksome as Jasper could be, there were other, additional benefits to dating him. Rachel’s media value, she’d rapidly realized, was doubled by being part of a high-profile couple. Despite his career doldrums, Jasper was still in enough demand on the party circuit to be considered high profile. And then there was the sex. He might be a pathetic, vain, needy buffoon most of the time. But even Rachel had to give credit where credit was due: He was a lot better at fucking than he was at racing. Since they’d been together, he’d learned what worked for her and what didn’t, to the point where she now regularly orgasmed two or even three times whenever they slept together, which even after five months was on a daily basis.
“Rachel, sweetheart. There you are!”
Linda, dressed in her gardening togs: pristine green cord trousers with matching green wellies and jumper, both of them printed with little pictures of trowels and forks—no outfit was complete, apparently, without a theme—came rushing out of the house to meet her as she pulled into the yard.
“Now, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s this marvelous news, hmmm?”
Rachel groaned inwardly. Bloody Mummy. She must have gotten on the blower the minute she left the house this morning. One of the major drawbacks of having to pretend to like Milly’s family was that her parents had taken it as their cue to adopt Cecil and Linda as new best friends.
“Hello, Mrs. LG.” She gave Linda a fixed smile of faux warmth before kissing her on both cheeks. “It’s not that big a deal, actually.”
“What isn’t?” said Jasper. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, still in his pajama trousers, with a skintight cashmere and silk sweater sprayed onto his torso. Whenever possible he preferred to go topless so he could show off his rippling triceps and broad, hairless chest, but even he didn’t fancy it with frost on the ground. The sweater was the next best thing.
“Julia called a few minutes ago,” said Linda breathlessly. “Apparently, Rachel’s had some thrilling news. But she will insist on being modest about it.”
Rachel regarded her with silent disdain. She was like a child, or a puppy, painfully eager to please. No wonder J. was so ashamed of her.
The truth was, she did have news, news that she was certainly excited about. But something told her Jasper might not be quite so pleased. She’d wanted time to figure out the best way to break it to him. But now Hyacinth bloody Bucket had forced her hand.
“I’m not being modest,” she said, slipping her arm around Jasper’s waist as they all went inside. “But it’s honestly no great shakes. Have, er . . . have you heard of a magazine called Loaded?”
Linda looked blank. Jasper pulled away from her as if he’d just been stung.
“Is it a shooting periodical?” Linda asked tentatively. She’d tried for years to get Cecil to agree to go shooting, thinking it would help them to mingle socially with the local aristocracy, but he’d never had the slightest interest. As a result, she was not au fait with the smart shooting and fishing mags. She did hope she hadn’t just betrayed her ignorance in front of Rachel.
“No,” said Rachel, trying to sound lighthearted in the face of Jasper’s patent fury. “It’s a lifestyle magazine. For men.”
“Oh,” said Linda, none the wiser. “I see.”
“It’s soft bloody porn, that’s what it is!” Jasper exploded. “You’re not doing it.”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” said Rachel, lighting up a cigarette to steady her nerves. “Des thinks it’ll be great for my image. You know, as a female jockey, making it in a man’s world, that sort of thing?”
“Who’s Des?” Linda was starting to feel out of her depth.
“My agent,” said Rachel proudly. She loved saying the word “agent.” It made her feel like a movie star.
“Des is out of his mind,” barked Jasper. “It’s bad enough you parading around in your undies for Heaven Sent.” Heaven Sent was the lingerie firm that had recently signed Rachel as a model. “But no girlfriend of mine is going to strip off for some cheesy lads’ mag, rolling around in foam or whatever the fuck it is they make you do.”
Rachel pouted and forced the tears into her eyes. No way was she giving up a three-page feature in Loaded just because Mr. Insecurity was jealous. But at the same time, she couldn’t afford to lose him. Not yet.
“Oh, now, come along. Don’t cry,” said Linda, putting her arm around Rachel and frowning at Jasper. She hated it when they rowed. Ever since they’d gotten together she’d spent many happy hours picturing the big society wedding, perhaps in Hello!, with Jasper looking handsome as could be at the altar and herself, mother of the groom, in what? A John Galliano suit, perhaps? Or something more conservative. Maybe a Stella McCartney?
But it wouldn’t happen if J. kept throwing his weight around and upsetting the girl.
“Jasper, darling, I think you should apologize,” she said sternly. “See how you’ve upset her.”
“But, Mother,” he yelled, exasperated. “It’s porn!”
“What’s porn? Oh, hello, Rachel.” Cecil, just back from the first cover of the morning, had wandered in in search of a cup of tea. He still looked terribly thin, Rachel thought idly. And Linda had confided in her that ever since the stroke he’d been low on energy. Give or take a few nervy clients, who’d taken their business elsewhere, the stud had pretty much bounced back from the equine flu debacle. Even so, Cecil sorely missed Milly’s free and valuable help around the yard, and it was clear that the day-to-day running of Newells was tiring him a lot more than it used to.
“Loaded,” said Jasper bitterly. “Rachel seems to think that getting her baps out in every WHSmith in the country is going to boost her career.”
Linda gasped, and her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “You wouldn’t . . . I mean, it’s not really . . .” she could hardly bring herself to say it, “pornography? Is it, Rachel?”
/> “No, no, no,” said Cecil dismissively. “Of course it’s not. Give over, J. You read Loaded. It’s not exactly Penthouse, let’s face it.”
“Maybe,” said Rachel quietly—she was still playing the wounded and demure card for all it was worth—“maybe we could do it together? Make it some sort of hot couple thing?”
“Well,” Jasper mumbled grudgingly. “That would make it a bit better, I suppose.”
Gotcha! thought Rachel. Honestly, if it weren’t so pathetic it would be funny. He couldn’t bear for her to have the limelight. But as soon as there was a chance of him being involved, he was backtracking faster than an Italian tank under enemy fire.
“Anyway,” she sniffed, “we don’t have to decide now.”
Jasper pulled her onto his lap, and Linda breathed a sigh of relief. Milly’s defection to America had been a blow to her social aspirations. But it was a blow greatly softened by the love blossoming between these two wonderful young people.
“Well,” she said brightly. “I’d better get back to my gardening. Leave you two to, er . . . talk. Come on, Cecil.”
“But I haven’t had my tea yet,” Cecil protested lamely.
“Never mind that,” said his wife firmly. And taking him by the arm, she pulled him back outside into the cold blue sunshine of the day.
It was equally clear and bright a few days later in California for the opening of the Ballard Rodeo weekend.
Despite Summer’s scathing remarks, Ballard was, in fact, a huge and eagerly anticipated event on the local calendar: a sort of hybrid county fair and serious racing fixture. For three days in late November, this tiny town—composed of a few Victorian cottages strung along a single-lane road, an old red schoolhouse, and two dilapidated but well-attended churches—was transformed into a bustling center of commerce, gambling, and raucous entertainment.