“Yeah,” said Todd, taking off his suit jacket and, despite her protests, draping it over her shoulders. “I do. And tea sounds great, thanks.”
Ten minutes later, they were ensconced in the pantry next to the wood-burning stove, sipping the last of the PG Tips that Milly had brought back with her from England.
“Seriously, I’ve been following your form, you know,” said Todd. “That win in Los Alamitos was a real landmark—very impressive.”
“Thanks.” Milly beamed. Warmed by the tea and the unexpected compliment, she was starting to feel a lot better. “I hope Bobby will think so.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Todd casually. Loosening his tie, he could already feel his eyes and skin starting to burn. Even indoors Highwood was an allergy sufferer’s nightmare, with no chair or couch free from animal hair of one sort or another.
“I don’t know,” sighed Milly. “Sometimes he just doesn’t seem interested anymore, you know? Unless it’s about Summer, or ranch business, he doesn’t want to know.” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “But I don’t really care. I got ten percent of the prize money for that race.” She jutted her chin out proudly. “Not much, I know, but it’s a start.”
It was funny. She didn’t really know Todd very well—had only met him twice, in fact, since he and Bobby became partners—but there was something about him today, the way he listened, and seemed genuinely interested in her life and her career, that made Milly want to open up to him. It was the same feeling she’d had with Bobby when he first came to Newells. Like finding a kindred spirit. Soon she was pouring her heart out about Cecil’s death, her feud with Rachel, and her desperation to somehow get her home back before Rachel destroyed it completely.
“That’s terrible.” Todd furrowed his brow in a good imitation of genuine concern once she’d finished. “This girl, Rachel. She’s well known in Britain, you say?”
Getting up, Milly left the room for a few moments, returning with February’s copy of Loaded magazine.
“That’s her,” she said, pointing contemptuously to the cover. Under the title “What a Ride!” a filthy-looking blonde was crouched on all fours, naked but for an infinitesimal sliver of metallic material at her crotch, a riding hat, and skintight patent leather riding boots. She was overmade-up and, judging by the plastic-smooth look of her thighs, had been airbrushed to within an inch of her life. But there was no denying she was sexy.
Sensing that any sort of positive reaction on his part would go down like a sack of shit, however, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “She looks like a hooker,” he said. “I find it hard to believe she’s taken seriously as a sportswoman with poses like that.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Milly, shoving the magazine under a cushion and sitting on it. “But somehow, she is. ‘The finest horsewoman to be seen in England since Lucinda Green,’ that’s what they call her in that stupid bloody wank mag. Sorry,” she said, blushing again at her own bad language.
“Oh, please,” said Todd, “don’t mind me.”
“And now she reckons she’s a bloody business genius as well,” Milly ranted on. “I mean, what on earth does she know about running a stud farm? I’ll tell you. Fuck all, that’s what.”
So, thought Todd, assessing the situation. She felt tired, vulnerable, overworked, and ignored. She was alive with resentment and hatred for this other English girl who’d fucked her over and who seemed to be hitting the big time back home while she was stuck racing for peanuts in Butt-Fuck County, Nowheresville, California. And meanwhile, Bobby Cameron was back to his arrogant, self-absorbed best, doing a good impression of someone who didn’t give a shit about her problems.
If that wasn’t a situation ripe for exploitation, then his name wasn’t Todd Cranborn.
Gaining Milly’s trust clearly wasn’t going to be a problem. All she wanted to do was talk, and he was more than happy to listen. Sooner or later she was bound to spill something, some nugget of information that he could use against Bobby to get his hands on that wasted oil. And in the meantime, he could enjoy the challenge of trying to seduce her. Not only did he find her combination of sexiness, ambition, and innocence a turn-on but he knew Bobby did too. Stealing Milly from right under Cameron’s nose was going to make his enjoyment of her all the sweeter.
“Look,” he said, leaning forward enthusiastically with his hands on his knees. “I don’t mean to stick my nose in. But you look like you could do with a little fun. Are you done here for the day?”
“Well, yeah.” Milly shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, I have to turn the horses out into the lower pasture . . .”
“One of the hands can do that,” said Todd imperiously. “When was the last time you got dressed up and went out?”
“God,” said Milly, shaking her head and trying to think. “I don’t know. A long time ago, I suppose. Things have been so busy around here.”
To be fair, Dylan and Tara had invited her into town for dinner a couple of times last week, while Bobby was away. But she’d been so exhausted from training and racing it was all she could do not to nod off at the table.
Todd showing up like this was bizarre and completely unexpected. But seeing as he had shown up and been so nice and offered to take her out . . . why not? He was Bobby’s partner, after all, and so nominally her boss. She ought to get to know him. Besides, it was the weekend, and she deserved a break.
“When were you last in LA?” he asked.
“LA? Never,” she said simply. “Well, I’ve landed at the airport. Twice. But I guess that doesn’t really count.”
“Never?” Todd feigned surprise. “You’ve been here for six months and Bobby’s never taken you to LA? Jeez. No wonder you’re climbing the walls.”
She’d never thought of it like that before. But, come to think of it, Bobby had always left her behind when he went to the city or, indeed, anywhere fun. Suddenly, she started to feel quite taken for granted.
“Come with me.” Leaping to his feet, Todd grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.
“What are you doing?” she said with a giggle, breaking into a jog to try to keep up with him. For a short man, he was surprisingly strong. She felt like a puppet having its strings pulled too hard as he yanked her along.
“Where’s your bedroom?” he demanded.
Milly’s eyes widened. Oh, shit. He wasn’t going to try anything, was he?
“Don’t worry,” he said, grinning as he caught the look. “I’m not going to ravish you. I’m going to help you pack.”
“Pack?”
“That’s right,” said Todd. “I’m taking you to LA for the weekend. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Bobby arrived home that evening, he was already in a foul mood. Not only had his flight been delayed, but when he’d finally gotten on the damn plane he’d found himself sitting next to a Texan woman with verbal diarrhea and perfume strong enough to stun a bull at twenty paces. The combination had left him with a splitting headache that the crawling Friday night traffic on the freeway had done nothing to dissipate.
All he wanted was a hot bath, a double shot of bourbon, and his bed. But as he turned his truck wearily into the drive, the first thing he saw was Domino and Charlie Brown, his two most valuable quarter horses, still out in the paddock and without so much as a blanket between them.
“Where the hell is Milly?” he snapped, bursting into the McDonalds’ living room as soon as he’d dumped his cases. “She’s left the horses out and it’s freezing out there.”
The whole family was in the living room, glued to American Idol. It was a few seconds before any of them even heard the question.
“Oh, hi, you’re back,” said Dylan eventually. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” said Bobby, trying not to lose his temper. “But where’s Milly?”
“Not here,” said Summer, smiling up at him from the couch. She’d washed her hair and changed into her tightest, s
exiest pair of jeans for his return, but as usual her gorgeousness seemed to be passing him by.
“What do you mean, ‘not here’?” He frowned. “Where’d she go?”
“To LA,” said Dylan, finally tearing himself away from the TV to talk to him properly. “Todd Cranborn invited her down there for the weekend.”
Bobby felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Todd was here?” he said. “Why? He knew I was away. What possible business could he have . . .” The words died on his lips as his mind flashed back to that awful dinner at Jimmy Price’s mansion and the comments Todd had made about Milly. It was her he’d come to see. He’d deliberately waited till Bobby was in Montana so he could make his move.
Dylan shrugged. “No idea. But Milly looked really happy to be going. You shouldn’t be too hard on her about the horses. She’s been working like a dog since you’ve been gone, you know.”
Seething with rage—at Todd for being so conniving, Milly for being so naïve, and himself for being so fucking stupid—he stormed into the kitchen and picked up the phone. But after pacing up and down with it in his hands for a few minutes, he finally slammied it back into its cradle.
Who was he going to call? Todd? Milly? And what would he say if he got hold of them? “How dare you take a weekend off?” He’d sound like an even bigger fool than he felt, not to mention a controlling, jealous prick. There was nothing he could do. Nothing.
“Hey.”
Spinning around, he saw Summer standing in the doorway. Even in bare feet and jeans, her legs looked endless and her newly washed hair shimmered in the dusky half-light like a blond halo. Guys would be all over her like a rash when she got to Berkeley, he thought protectively.
“Hey.” He smiled, trying to cheer up for her sake. “You look very pretty. So how about a hug from the college girl? Or are you too smart and sophisticated for that now?”
“Never.” She grinned. Slipping into his open arms, she pressed her body against his, closing her eyes and breathing in the warm man smell of his chest. God, she wanted him.
With one hand on the back of her head, Bobby, still lost in unpleasant thoughts about Milly and Todd, began stroking the soft, silky curtain of her hair. It was quite unconscious on his part. But for Summer, it was heart-stopping.
First, he’d sent her flowers—a very un-Bobby thing to do, even after a major achievement like Berkeley. Then he’d called her “pretty” for the first time in her life, ever, and then he’d hugged her—no, he’d actually asked her to hug him, another Bobby first. And now he was stroking her hair, brushing his fingers softly over her neck like a lover.
All she wanted to do was reach up and kiss him. But even now, with all these new and wonderful signals, she didn’t dare. Instead, she merely wrapped her own arm around his waist and pulled him closer, allowing her hand to rest tantalizingly on the belt loops of his jeans.
Milly was gone. For one weekend at least, she had him all to herself.
She intended to make the most of it.
Milly adored LA.
Everything about the place, even the drive down from Highwood with Todd, was exciting. She loved the way that he drove: fast, very fast, but with the confidence and self-assuredness of a really good driver. It was the same way her father used to drive, although with Cecil she had never experienced the same rush of bright sunshine on her face and wind in her hair, or the incredible, shimmering azure beauty of the ocean as they sped down Pacific Coast Highway, so close that at times she almost felt that the foamy white spray from the waves might splash across their windscreen.
She remembered how full of hope and anticipation she’d been with Bobby last year when she’d first arrived in America, making the drive the other way. Highwood was supposed to open up a perfect new chapter in her life. But instead the months that followed had brought nothing but grief and loss. Months later, she could see that her hopes of winning Bobby’s love had been little more than a foolish, childish crush.
But it didn’t even matter anymore. What was one more disappointment after everything that had happened? All that mattered now was her racing and getting Newells back.
Still, it felt wonderful to be able to get away from it all, even if it was only for a weekend. Finally, as the canyons and hills gave way to high-rises and megamalls, she found herself switching off the voices in her head. For the first time since before her father died, she was actually having fun.
By the time they turned in to Bel Air’s east gate just before lunch and began snaking up into the hills, past an endless stream of multimillion-dollar mansions, their electric gates protecting long, grandiose driveways and their perfectly tended yards overflowing with blossoms of every possible color, she was just about ready to pee her pants with excitement.
“Wow,” she said, as the road twisted back down to Stone Canyon and past the famous Bel-Air Hotel. “How much money do these people have? These homes, these cars. It’s unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” said Todd with a practiced air of nonchalance. “It’s a nice part of town.”
She remembered Dylan and Bobby both telling her how much they despised LA. How had Bobby put it again? “It paralyzes people, then sucks the good out of ’em, like a spider with a fly.” Looking around these picture-perfect streets, with their sprinklers and their white picket fences and their all-around American dreaminess, she found it hard to fathom what on earth he could have been talking about.
“Bloody hell,” she said, when they finally pulled into the ornate, wrought-iron gates that marked the entrance to Todd’s own property. It was low built, Spanish, and in better, more muted taste than most of the over-the-top piles they’d just driven by; although it was every bit as huge, sprawling over a full three acres of flat, manicured gardens with a view over the golf course and out to the ocean beyond that was nothing short of spectacular. “You’re seriously rich, aren’t you?”
He laughed, gratified. He liked to have his success admired. But he liked Milly’s naïveté even more. She was so young, she still hadn’t learned to edit herself and had a habit of blurting out everything that popped into her head, a habit that should make her easy to manipulate, both in bed and out of it. Push the right buttons and with any luck she’d be spouting everything she knew about Bobby Cameron’s business affairs like a leaky sieve before you could say “exploitation.”
Of course, he didn’t know for sure that Bobby had an Achilles’ heel. But his gut feeling told him he did and that Milly could lead him straight to it. Either way, with all that oil at stake, he intended to find out.
“Come on in,” he said, lifting her overnight bag out of the trunk. “I’ll show you to your room, and then we can go down into town. How does lunch and shopping in Beverly Hills sound?”
“Amazing.” Milly beamed, but then just as suddenly her face fell.
“What’s up?” said Todd.
“All my winnings are going straight into my Newells fund,” she announced with endearing gravity. “I can’t afford to go shopping. And I don’t have anything smart to wear for lunch either.”
“Relax.” He smiled. “This weekend is my treat. All you have to do”—he opened the front door for her with a flourish—“is enjoy yourself.”
If Bel Air had overwhelmed her, her eyes were on stalks when they got down to Beverly Hills and Todd swept into the cobbled forecourt of the Peninsula, slipping the gray-suited valet a twenty to keep the car parked and ready for them out front.
“I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” Milly whispered, as they sat down to a lunch of chilled lobster tails and fresh truffle risotto, which she wolfed down unashamedly. She hadn’t eaten since her six a.m. breakfast at the ranch and was absolutely famished. “Look at all these women. They make me feel like a bag lady.”
Her bare face and jeans and T-shirt combo did indeed stand in marked contrast to the immaculately coiffed, couture-clad elegance of the Hollywood wives surrounding them. Todd, who had changed out of his suit at home into a pal
e blue polo shirt and chinos, looked across the table at her appraisingly.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Yes. You could do with a bit of smartening up.”
Milly blushed. It was true, of course, but she had expected him out of politeness to contradict her and tell her she looked fine. Perhaps months spent living among cowboys, who for all their faults were without doubt the most polite men on earth, had left her with unrealistic expectations?
Putting down her knife and fork, she found her appetite had suddenly vanished.
“Don’t look so crestfallen,” said Todd. Reaching across the table, he gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I have something in mind. A plan.” He smiled. “But you’re going to have to trust me. Put yourself completely in my hands. Do you trust me, Milly?”
“Of course.” She laughed nervously. He did ask very odd questions sometimes. “Why wouldn’t I trust you?”
“Good.” He grinned. “Then eat up, there’s a good girl. We’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of us.”
As soon as lunch was over and the check was paid, he drove the three blocks to Rodeo Drive, making a few brisk, monosyllabic calls on his cell phone on the way.
“Excellent,” he said, hanging up as he squeezed his gleaming midnight-blue Ferrari with effortless precision into a tiny, metered parking space. “They can fit you in. Follow me.”
For the second time that day, Milly allowed herself to be taken by the hand and dragged, this time into Jennifer’s Beauty Salon.
“’Allo, dahlink,” the crone behind the reception desk rasped at Todd, desperately trying to contort her surgery-ravaged features into a smile and directing the resulting grimace toward him. “Ees zees the young lady?”
She looked at Milly as though she had just crawled out from under a rock. Panicked suddenly, Milly wished that she could run and crawl back under it. The woman looked like something out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
“Yes, this is Milly,” said Todd. “She wants everything done: brows, lashes, nails, full wax. We have Mimi’s at five thirty, so I’ll be back for her at quarter after five.”