Showdown

  “Nice horse.”

  Robbie had suddenly materialized at Jasper’s side. With the race effectively in the bag, he could afford to be friendly, and showed none of the nerves of the other jockeys, many of whom viewed the Oaks as the pinnacle of their careers.

  “This old nag?” said Jasper waspishly. “You’re joking, aren’t you? She’s practically on crutches.”

  It was a cardinal sin among jockeys to slag off your own mount, but Jasper did it all the time. He knew it earned him a bad reputation, but the alternative would have been to blame himself for his poor performances, something his fragile self-image would never allow.

  “Saw you chatting up the delectable Miss Delaney earlier,” said Robbie, changing the subject with what he thought was a matey wink but which Jasper immediately misconstrued as patronizing. “Fancy your chances, do you?”

  “And what if I do?” Jasper bridled. “You don’t have a monopoly on all the decent-looking girls, you know, mate.”

  “All right. There’s no need to be so touchy,” said Robbie, the smile dying on his lips. Cecil Lockwood Groves was a decent bloke, but his son was obviously an arsehole. “I was only making conversation.”

  “Twat,” muttered Jasper as he rode off. Only making conversation indeed. It was obvious he was after Rachel—he just wasn’t man enough to admit it. Well, screw him. This was one race the greasy woppo bastard wasn’t going to win, not if he could help it.

  His heart sank still further as he caught sight of his mother chatting animatedly to the Delaneys. Linda was a crashing snob, and always made an effort to ingratiate herself with anyone titled. Sir Michael Delaney may have been born in Barnsley and earned his knighthood building a textiles empire, but he still qualified, as, by extension, did his daughter. Linda had always considered the so-called feud between Milly and Rachel to be a lot of adolescent nonsense. Certainly, she wasn’t about to let it dampen her obsequious enthusiasm for the Delaneys’ company.

  She gave Jasper an enthusiastic wave, encouraging Lady Delaney to do the same, before heading back toward the Queen’s stand. Christ, she looked shocking. Even at this distance, he couldn’t miss her in that godawful lime-green suit and matching hat. Sadly, Linda’s blind love for her son was not reciprocated. Although Jasper recognized the need to keep her sweet, especially if he wanted to keep his allowance, he had always found her public doting a hideous embarrassment.

  What the fuck was she doing here anyway? Wasn’t she supposed to be up in London, arranging flowers or something for Milly’s stupid ball?

  Gritting his teeth, he waved back, praying that she didn’t do anything too stupid to fuck things up for him with Rachel.

  Thankfully he was soon distracted from this awful prospect by the officious, clipped voice of the steward ringing out around the paddock.

  “To the gates, please!”

  A frisson of excitement swept visibly across the crowded Lonsdale Enclosure and up to the Hill, where families, local enthusiasts, and truckloads of grinning Irishmen had bought out all but a couple of the cheaper tickets. Feeling his intestines give another ominous rumble, Jasper made his way toward the starting gate with the other nine jockeys. Some of the fillies were wild-eyed with excitement already, frothing at the mouth and flaring their nostrils frenziedly in anticipation of the race to come. Others, like Marigold Kiss, stood calmly, looking as supremely uninterested in the proceedings as the Queen at a royal variety performance.

  Fucking Irish plodder, thought Jasper grimly. She’d better pull her finger out once they got going.

  Almost before he knew it, the starting stalls had miraculously opened and they were off. He was dimly aware of the roaring of the crowd in his ears, the sound trying to battle its way through the deafening pounding of hooves and beating of equine hearts that surrounded him as Marigold Kiss lurched forward into the fray.

  Unfortunately, her initial burst of speed when faced with real, live competition threw him completely.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, as his left foot slipped out of the stirrup and he felt himself sliding dangerously around in the saddle. He’d almost come unseated completely before he eventually managed to wrench himself back upright and regain his balance. “Double fuck!”

  By the time he’d gotten his breath back the crucial seconds had already been lost. Sensing his loss of focus and control, his horse had already eased back into her usual, more sedate pace. A few seconds later, to his absolute fury, Jasper saw Robbie’s distinctive gray careering past him on the far left, moving up to join the early leaders, as he and Marigold slipped ever farther toward the back of the center pack.

  “Come on, you bitch!” he bellowed against the din, his whip going almost constantly against the filly’s right flank. “Run!”

  A more sensitive, more responsive rider might have found a way to squeeze those vital few ounces of reserve energy and speed from the young horse when it mattered most. But Jasper’s crazed, indiscriminate whipping and straining seemed to be having the opposite effect. Before he realized it, the first mile of the undulating, U-shaped course was already behind him. By the time he reached the uphill run-in in the final furlong, he had fallen back still farther, trailing the pack to finish a less than heroic ninth.

  Winded with wasted effort and disappointment, he brought the horse to a stop directly in front of the grandstand. He was just in time to hear the tannoy announcing that Robbie Pemberton, as predicted, had won by a length and a half.

  A wave of envy washed over him as he watched his rival make his way slowly over to the winner’s enclosure, answering the shouted press questions with the shy nods and monosyllabic mumbles he was famed for. Robbie was not given to Dettori-like flying dismounts or unseemly displays of emotion. He was an old-school jockey—the strong and silent type—beloved, it appeared, of both women and owners alike.

  Even more so now, Jasper supposed, with two of the fillies’ triple crown races under his belt. The jammy bastard.

  Turning disconsolately back to the paddock, he was soon cornered by a despondent Marcus O’Reilly and Dominic Beale, Marigold’s trainer.

  “Bad luck,” said Marcus, disappointment lacing his broad Dublin accent as he patted Marigold’s neck. “You did yer best, son.”

  A fat, jovial Irishman who owned racehorses for the sheer love of it, and looked on wining races as merely the icing on an already very satisfying cake, Marcus was not in the habit of tearing a strip off his jockeys, no matter how badly they may have performed. Besides, he stabled three of his top stallions with Cecil Lockwood Groves, so he wasn’t inclined to look for a falling-out with the breeder’s son.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

  Dom Beale, who had watched with his head in his hands as months of his hard work were washed down the drain by this clueless excuse for a jockey, was clearly not in the same stoic, forgiving mood as his boss. Unlike Marcus, he trained racehorses because he liked to win and regularly ate far more experienced riders than Jasper for breakfast if their performance was subpar.

  Jasper’s performance had been horrific.

  “Call yourself a jockey? My blind grandmother could have ridden a better race than that!” he fumed. “You’re not in the Pony Club egg and spoon now, my boy. This is fucking Epsom. You were a disgrace. And in case you were wondering, you can forget about the fucking St. Leger.” He shook his head in disgust. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Oh, now come on, Dom, go easy,” said Marcus. “I’m sure the lad was trying.”

  Jasper had turned bright red, whether from anger, embarrassment, or exertion it was impossible to tell. Over his right shoulder, he was dimly aware of Rachel sashaying over toward him, her fabulous fuck-me boots sinking into the turf with each swing of her hips. Gorgeous as she was, his heart sank. The last thing he needed was for her to see him like this, being given a dressing-down from Dom Beale like a naughty child.

  Thankfully she was waylaid by a stray reporter, no doubt wanting to hear her opinion on the result and Pemberton’s perform
ance. Though she hadn’t ridden today, Rachel was already making something of a name for herself as an up-and-coming competitor and was frequently quoted by the racing press, all of whom adored her, partly because she was Sir Michael Delaney’s daughter and partly because she was such a beauty.

  Good girl jockeys were rare enough. Pretty ones were like gold dust.

  While she was otherwise engaged, Linda, looking like a human Starburst candy in her lime-green suit, began fighting her way through the paddock to Jasper’s side.

  “Darling,” she said, her face a picture of sympathy and concern. “What bad luck.”

  For once he was actually pleased to see her. Even Beale would have to ease up now that a lady was present.

  “You must be absolutely exhausted.”

  “Hello, Mother,” he said, dismounting and pointedly turning away from the trainer in midrant to kiss her. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Shouldn’t you be up in London sorting things out for tonight?”

  “I should really.” She gazed up at him from under her fringe with the same adoring, Princess Di gaze that she always reserved for her son. Still attractive in an expensive, put-together, older-woman sort of a way, she had always been whip thin and blessed with naturally youthful skin. Sadly, she had a tendency to take the edge off this gift by wearing too much heavy makeup and mistakenly believing that an expensive designer label could excuse outfits as loud and vulgar as the green Jean Muir monstrosity she was wearing today.

  “But I couldn’t have missed your first Classic ride, now could I?” she simpered. “Daddy got stuck at the farm with some ghastly client, but the Delaneys kindly took me under their wing. Oh, hullo, Marcus darling.”

  Turning to O’Reilly, Linda deftly, though quite inadvertently, succeeded in edging the still-fuming Dominic completely out of their little huddle. Eventually he stalked off, unable to bear the air kissing and pleasantries any longer. Jasper breathed a sigh of relief.

  Moments later Rachel bounded over. Her interview finished, she flung her arms around Jasper like a long-lost puppy returning to its master. Evidently he needn’t have worried: his unflattering silks and disastrous performance didn’t seem to have put her off in the slightest.

  “Are you all right?” she said, slipping her hand into his and giving it a very deliberate squeeze. “You must be terribly disappointed.”

  “I was,” he said, squeezing back and dropping his voice to a whisper so Marcus couldn’t hear him. “Bloody horse had her hand brake on right from the gate, unfortunately. Nothing I could do.”

  If Rachel disagreed with this assessment of his options, she didn’t show it.

  Pulling her closer, Jasper grinned lasciviously. “I’m starting to feel better now though. Much better, in fact.”

  Rubbing the ball of his thumb against the inside of her wrist, he was gratified to hear her breathing quicken with desire. This would be like taking candy from a baby.

  “D’you want to get out of here?” he whispered in her ear, surreptitiously slipping one warm, rough hand inside her dress. His mother was still deep in conversation with O’Reilly, so they might as well make a break for it while the going was good.

  “Absolutely.” She giggled. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask.”

  Half an hour later, Jasper was lying on his back on the floor of Marigold’s horse trailer with a naked Rachel straddled magnificently above him, tossing her head back and moaning in a reassuringly convincing display of sexual ecstasy.

  “Ooo, yes!” she gasped, her muscles spasming tightly around his cock as her orgasm took hold. “Oh God, yes!”

  “Say my name,” he breathed. “Say I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, Jasper,” she rasped dutifully. “Don’t stop! You’re the best! You’re the best ever!”

  He came then in three short, hard thrusts, grabbing hold of her taut, round bottom to pull himself even deeper into her and letting out a small, involuntary sound that was part sigh and part whoop of triumph.

  He’d done it. He’d officially scored the fittest bird in racing.

  Robbie Pemberton might be the bookies’ favorite, but he still played second fiddle to Jasper Lockwood Groves when it came to the ladies. Rachel could have had any man she wanted on the racing circuit—but he was the one she’d chosen.

  Not Robbie. Him.

  Easing herself slowly up off his rapidly softening dick, Rachel reached down for a handful of straw to wipe herself with. The sex had been fine. Not fabulous, but perfectly adequate, and at least his dick had been a reasonable size.

  More important, though, it was mission accomplished: she’d successfully seduced Milly’s brother—and for this she couldn’t help but allow herself a small smile.

  As Jasper’s girlfriend she’d have unlimited opportunities to get under Milly’s skin. She could hang around the stables all the time, riding the Newells horses that were forbidden to her rival. And what could be simpler than ingratiating herself with Milly and Jasper’s ghastly, common, social-climbing mother?

  After the way Milly had lorded it over her when they were kids, beating her so effortlessly at every gymkhana, not to mention stealing what should have been her place in the junior eventing team, this would be nothing more than just deserts.

  Delightful, delicious karma.

  The whole thing had been so easy too. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it years ago. She’d even managed to convince the vain, self-obsessed Jasper that it had all been his idea. Evidently he fancied himself as a major Don Juan. Still, if he wanted to delude himself that she was some wide-eyed innocent, powerless in the face of his animal magnetism, that was fine by her. All that mattered was putting one over on Milly. And this time, by God, she’d well and truly done it.

  Sitting in the back of a black cab later that evening beside her mother, Milly was just about ready to shoot someone—quite possibly herself.

  By the time Linda had arrived back at the Pimlico flat, bursting with garrulous excitement about Robbie Pemberton’s triumph and armed with her usual array of excuses for Jasper’s latest shitty performance—it was beyond Milly how on earth a serious owner like Marcus had picked a meathead like her brother to ride in such a prestigious race in the first place—she was already at the end of her tether. As if missing the Oaks and having to go to some stupid bloody ball wasn’t bad enough, she’d been forced to spend the whole afternoon having pedicures and blow-dries and waxes until she felt like an overplucked chicken.

  What possessed the women who chose to put themselves through this sort of torture every week? she wondered bitterly, as the sweet but moronic girl Linda had paid a small fortune to come to the flat and do her hair before the ball launched into yet another lecture about the state of her split ends.

  “Have you heard of conditioner at all?” she’d asked, valiantly trying to run a comb through Milly’s tangled thatch of hair. “You really ought to think about cutting it more often, you know. And getting regular hot oil treatments.”

  I’d rather boil myself alive in hot oil than go through all this again, thought Milly, but she tried to be polite and keep her temper. The only time she slipped all day was when Karen, the officious, dumpy lady from Color Me Beautiful, tried to convince her that all her life’s troubles stemmed from the fact that she didn’t wear enough purple.

  “If you blend the purple wiv the pink on your upper lids, like so,” she’d bleated mindlessly, “I fink you’ll agree you get a lovely, subtle effect.”

  “Subtle? Are you blind?” Unable to contain herself a moment longer, Milly’s frayed temper had finally snapped. “I already look like Barbara Cartland in the blasted dress. And now you want to turn me into Dame Edna?”

  In fact, despite the frown she wore now in the back of the cab, she didn’t look half as bad as she thought. Having won the battle with her mother and opted for the blue dress, a long, figure-hugging taffeta affair, rather than the froufrou pink monstrosity, she actually looked quite sophisticated, at least w
hen she sat down. (Though they were beautiful, she could barely stand, let alone walk, in her diamante Manolo Blahnik shoes.) The fake tan that she’d objected to so vociferously this afternoon had in fact worked wonders with her skin tone, so the icy blue of the dress no longer washed her out. And with her hair, worn loose for once, tumbling down her back, newly washed and gleaming, a smidgen of smoky eye makeup, and bronzer on her usually bare cheeks, she seemed older, more elegant and, though she herself would never have thought so, really quite sexy.

  “I knew he’d bottle it.” She was still harking back to Jasper’s failure to trouble the judges at Epsom earlier. “Horses can tell when a jockey hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Milly,” said Linda tersely. “That filly had been overtrained. Any fool could see that.”

  “Bullshit,” said Milly succinctly. “I bet you I could have gotten more out of her. She did well enough in Ireland earlier this year. It’s Jasper that’s the problem.”

  “Darling, I know that your brother riding professionally has been difficult for you,” chided Linda, “but there’s really no point in your constantly putting him down.”

  “Did you say ‘professional’?” Milly spluttered. “Jasper? That’s a joke! O’Reilly only picked him because he wants to keep sweet with Dad. Besides, I’m not putting him down. I’m just telling it like it is.”

  “You weren’t even there, darling,” Linda pointed out reasonably.

  “Which was incredibly unfair,” said Milly, jumping onto her hobby horse for the umpteenth time that evening. “Rachel bloody Delaney gets to race all over the country, but I can’t even go and watch while my own brother makes a tit of himself at one of the most important meetings of the year.”