Giving Chase (A Racing Romance) (Aspen Valley Series #2)

by Hannah Hooton

She looked around frantically for a face comfortably familiar for her to approach without seeming weird. No, it was too dark. Making a conscious effort to stand up straight, she walked across to the one of the drinks tables. Alcohol was always a good place to start when feeling self-conscious.

  She helped herself to a plastic cup of punch and feeling less conspicuous with a drink in her hand, turned to survey the other attendees. Rhys was nowhere to be seen and her excitement sunk a level. She recognised June standing not far away in conversation with three other lasses. She hesitated. Her eyes left that group to seek out other allies. At last, she saw Pippa sitting on a jump along the far wall, chatting with Billy and a slimmer-looking Emmie.

  *

  ‘Hey, Frankie!’ Pippa cried above the music as she came within earshot. ‘Come join us. You remember Emmie, don’t you?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Frankie, still feeling a little shy. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Urgh, you know, sleepless nights, lots of puke and dirty nappies,’ Emmie shrugged. ‘Mum’s babysitting tonight and giving us the night off.’

  Pippa patted the pole next to her.

  ‘Come sit, Frankie. I like your hair. Have you had it cut or have I just never noticed?’

  Frankie gratefully sat down so she didn’t feel so like a freak show in front of a seated audience.

  ‘I just had it done. My mum’s a hairdresser.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Emmie. ‘She’s good. You look like a royal.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Pippa said. ‘We were just talking about whether his lordship, Sir Bradford, is going to grace us with his presence. Donnie’s just arrived.’

  Frankie felt like pointing out that a lordship and a knighthood were two completely different things and neither necessarily constituted royalty, but then again she also wanted to know if Rhys was going to attend.

  ‘Did he say he was coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Jack didn’t hold out much hope,’ Pippa replied. ‘He didn’t come to the last one.’

  ‘In his defence he was holed up in hospital with a smashed up leg,’ Billy piped up.

  ‘Oh, yes. I forgot about that.’

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ Frankie asked.

  Holding her WKD aloft, Pippa pointed into the throngs of people.

  ‘Over there talking to Donnie. Have you seen Donnie’s girlfriend? She’s stunning. Yet Donnie looks like he got into a fight with an angry tractor. He must have a great sense of humour or something.’

  ‘I think “something”,’ Frankie grinned. ‘Or to be more precise probably ten inches of something.’

  Pippa gasped and she and Emmie stared at her, wide-eyed. Billy looked horrified.

  ‘Ten inches? Are you serious?’ Pippa squeaked. ‘How do you know? Did you and Donnie have a thing?’

  ‘No, but sadly we do sometimes have to share the same sauna at the races.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d call that particularly sad—oh, hello,’ Pippa interrupted herself, focussing on the doorway. ‘I don’t suppose you know what his measurements are?’

  Frankie followed her gaze.

  Rhys stood in the doorway, looking much like Frankie had felt when she’d first arrived. Dressed in dark jeans and a black dinner shirt undone a couple of buttons, he scanned the indoor school. Frankie’s mouth watered.

  ‘No,’ she said, answering Pippa’s question beneath her breath. ‘But I would love to find out.’

  As the night barrelled on, Frankie became less conscious of Rhys standing on the sidelines in company with Donnie. Buoyed by alcohol and the general cheery atmosphere, she laughed as Billy pulled her round the sandy dance floor and tried to match his Gangnam style moves. Any reservations she had about her own dance skills were put to bed by Billy’s own inept rhythm. Hanging onto each other as the song ended, they stumbled back to Pippa and Emmie and collapsed in a heap of giggles onto the jump.

  ‘Having a good time?’ Pippa yelled in her ear.

  ‘Great time!’ she yelled back. ‘You?’

  ‘Brilliant. Seems everyone’s enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Cheers to that,’ Frankie said, raising her cup of punch to tap against Pippa’s.

  Pippa cheered and whooped as Jack was dragged onto centre stage by inebriated stable lasses to dance to a sixties track. Frankie clapped with everyone else, laughing at her boss’s reluctance. Not for the first time that night, her gaze drifted over to Rhys. Coloured lights lit up his face and she saw a small smile on his face as he too watched Jack.

  Pippa nudged Frankie with alcohol-induced forced.

  ‘Why do you reckon he even came?’ she said, nodding in the jockey’s direction.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He hasn’t danced once all night. He’s just stood there drinking poxy orange juice.’

  ‘He doesn’t drink,’ Frankie replied. ‘And he’s probably riding tomorrow at Chepstow.’

  ‘Bleurgh,’ Pippa said, fobbing a hand in his direction and nearly falling off the jump. ‘Party pooper.’

  A hazy wall of defensiveness rose in Frankie.

  ‘Maybe he’s just shy. Nobody’s exactly dragged him onto the floor like they have Jack.’

  Pippa looked at her, eyes not quite focussing.

  ‘I bet,’ she said, swinging her drink up and pointing at Frankie, ‘he wouldn’t dance even if the Duckegg of Chambrish asked him to.’

  Frankie licked her lips in contemplation and glanced over at Rhys again. Alcohol lent her courage—or stupidity, but that word had ceased to exist after three strong doses of punch.

  ‘How much?’

  Pippa flung her head back and tried to focus on Frankie.

  ‘Kate’s here?’

  Frankie grinned.

  ‘No. I mean how much if I got him to dance with me?’

  Pippa’s head lolled from side to side as her brain tried to process what Frankie was saying.

  ‘Ten quid—no, twen’y!’

  ‘You’re on.’ Frankie downed the last swallow of her drink and handed an open-mouthed Pippa the empty cup.

  *

  Walking not quite as steadily as before around the outskirts of the school, she approached Rhys. She wiped the sweat from her palms on her dress and tossed her new hairstyle back. Donnie was first to spot her advance. He said something in Rhys’s ear. Frankie gulped as Rhys turned to watch her as well. She suddenly felt very sober and not quite as confident as she had on the other side of the arena. Donnie grinned at her sudden faltering steps. Rhys just watched her, not smiling, but thankfully not sneering either. Frankie’s eyes whipped around, trying to find a get out clause. There was none. She gulped again. She was beyond the point of no return.

  ‘Hello, Frankie,’ Donnie said as she drew to a stop before them.

  ‘Hello, Donnie. Hello, Rhys,’ she said politely.

  ‘Frankie,’ Rhys greeted her with a nod.

  They stared at each other. Frankie didn’t know what to say—well, she did, but didn’t have the guts to say it just yet. She licked her lips and tried to smile.

  ‘Having fun?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, not bad.’

  Adrenalin whizzed through her body as the moment of truth arrived. Donnie’s grinning face was not helping matters. In the ultraviolet light, it looked like he’d swallowed a piano. Frankie felt about fifteen as she focussed solely on Rhys.

  ‘Would…would you like to d–dance?’

  The lights played off Rhys’s face. Was she imagining it or did she see a trace of pity in his eyes? Oh God, he was going to turn her down. How would she survive the walk of shame back to Pippa and the others?

  Donnie said something in Rhys’s ear, shielding his mouth so she couldn’t lip-read. Frankie wished he would go away. Rhys’s gaze flickered away from Frankie to look levelly at Donnie. She held her breath as he returned his focus back to her. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Frankie staggered backwards. In a daze she let Rhys take her hand, his touch warm on her palm,
and allowed herself to be led to the makeshift dance floor. Open mouths and wide unfocussing eyes followed their passage. Frankie didn’t blame them, she was working hard on not adopting the same expression. Rhys stopped in the middle of the floor and bridged his right arm for Frankie to step into his personal space. Rhys’s eyes glinted.

  ‘You realise everyone’s watching,’ he murmured in her ear.

  Frankie was having difficulty computing the fact Rhys’s hands were on her body, never mind what everyone else was doing.

  ‘Are they?’ she said, gazing unseeingly over his shoulder.

  Michael Bublé saw this as a good time to sing Save the Last Dance For Me.

  ‘Shall we really give them something to watch then?’ he said, swaying demurely from side to side.

  ‘What?’ She didn’t have time to think what he might mean by it though.

  Rhys deftly swung her round and brought her spinning back into his arms. Frankie stared, saucer-eyed at him. Following his lead, she stepped back three steps then forward.

  ‘My God! You can dance!’ she said, looking down and watching his snaking hips and flicking feet.

  Rhys’s eyebrows rose and he treated her to a sexy smile.

  ‘My mother would make me take lessons whenever I visited her in Spain. Can you cha-cha?’

  Frankie shook her head.

  ‘Want to learn?’

  Frankie nodded.

  ‘Let’s just do the basic steps then. Left foot behind the right—no, left, you wally.’

  Frankie snorted. She tried again and lost her balance. Only Rhys’s arms supporting her saved her from falling over.

  ‘Oh God, I’ve got my work cut out for me here,’ he groaned, making her laugh. ‘Now, listen to the music. Can you hear that triple beat?’

  Frankie listened.

  ‘Yeeeaaahhhh,’ she said dubiously.

  ‘Now step on the spot like this.’ Rhys’s hips snaked as he shifted his weight to the beat. Frankie’s mouth fell open. Rhys had metamorphosed into Johnny Castle. ‘Now you try it.’

  Frankie stepped like a wooden soldier. Rhys grinned.

  ‘Bend your knees. Let your hips absorb the movement,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s better. Right, left, right. Now you’ve got it.’

  Frankie giggled uncontrollably as she jigged up and down on the spot.

  ‘Okay. Now let’s try a step. It’s the same as before on one, step back on two, stay the same on three—no, don’t step back on three. Try it again. Listen to the beat in the music. One, two, three. And again, one, two, three. Ow! Don’t step forward on three. Just step in place. Look at me, don’t look down.’

  As Frankie gradually found her rhythm, she felt like she’d been transported into Dirty Dancing. Any minute now, Billy was going to whip out a Time Of Your Life vinyl.

  ‘Good. Now step forward in the same way starting with your right, step in place on four and five. Let it carry you forward again for six, seven, eight and one. Don’t look down.’

  Frankie had difficulty in tearing her eyes from Rhys’s grinding groin.

  ‘You can dance,’ she said again faintly.

  Rhys laughed for the first time.

  ‘So will you after I’m through with you. You ready to go again? One, two, three…’

  Something about the rhythm, the beat, the way Rhys’s body taunted hers into following his lead, made Frankie feel sexy and dare she say it, womanly. With a deft flick of his wrist, he spun her round and catching her, dipped her backwards. Frankie squealed with glee. Others around them cheered and clapped. Frankie forgot that moments ago she’d been as nervous as hell. Holding his hand in a looped arc, she rocked back and forth, following, backing-up, teasing and twirling. She’d never thought she’d ever learn to dance. But here she was doing it, and doing it with Rhys, no less.

  The song came to an end and Frankie fell against Rhys in exhausted bliss.

  ‘That was so fun,’ she said breathlessly.

  Perhaps encouraged by their attempt at Latino dancing, the DJ switched track to La Bamba. Obviously a hit with Aspen Valley, everybody bounded in to dance including Billy, Emmie, Pippa and Jack.

  ‘Wanna keep going?’ Rhys murmured in her ear.

  Her glittering eyes was answer enough and with a smirk, he spun her out and with one arm around her back and the other held out wide, he danced beside her. With another twirl they danced the other way. The room spun around Frankie, faces and lights were a dizzy blur as she kept step with Rhys. Why had she waited so long to ask him to dance? Hell, Pippa could keep her twenty quid now. She’d even be happy to pay her twenty quid, even fifty if Atticus didn’t mind having basic brand cat food for the next fortnight.

  *

  Completely out of breath and with a stitch in her side from laughing so much, Frankie begged for mercy after ten more minutes of being twirled around like a washing machine on spin cycle.

  ‘I’m dying,’ she panted, one balancing arm clinging to Rhys.

  ‘Do you want some air?’ he asked.

  ‘Good idea,’ she nodded.

  The doorway was squashed with smokers sheltering from the pouring rain. Although the coolness of the December night was a relief, the air was hardly fresh. Frankie stood squashed up against the doorframe.

  ‘I had no idea you could dance so well,’ she said, raising her voice above Jennifer Lopez’s.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I HAD NO IDEA YOU COULD DANCE SO WELL.’

  Rhys nodded.

  ‘Thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself after a while.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘YOU WEREN’T SO BAD YOURSELF AFTER A WHILE.’

  Frankie frowned, wondering why Rhys should be telling her she wasn’t sober after wine. She hardly ever drank the stuff. She shook her head.

  ‘I’ve been drinking punch, not wine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’VE BEEN DRINKING PUNCH—’

  Rhys cut her off with a shake of her head.

  ‘Neither of us can hear fuck all next to these speakers.’ He craned his neck to look up at the saturated sky. He looked back at Frankie, a twinkle in his eye. ‘You wanted to cool off, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  He grinned.

  ‘Come on, then.’ He grabbed her hand and ran into the rain.

  Screaming, Frankie was pulled after him. The icy rain soon drenched her hair.

  ‘Rhys!’ she shrieked, but was only laughed at in response.

  Running and sliding along the muddy path, Rhys skidded to a halt next to the hay barn door. Pushing the big sliding door open, he pulled Frankie inside. It was dark inside with only a thin stream of light from the open doorway highlighting the mountains of bales. The air was heavy with the scent of hay.

  ‘We’re soaked,’ Frankie said, looking down at their dripping clothes in the dryness of the barn.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Rhys said, twisting a stream of moisture out of his shirt. ‘You don’t feel half as hot as you did two minutes ago though, do you?’

  Looking at Rhys with his short curls slicked to his forehead, his cheeks pink from exertion and his shirt moulded against his chest, Frankie felt that was debatable.

  She was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was alone with him. Not only that, they were on speaking terms too. More than speaking terms even. Dancing terms was in a completely different stratosphere. Rhys appeared to cotton on to this fact at the same moment. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Frankie mirrored his glance at the doorway. The rain was pelting down, hammering on the roof of the barn and drowning out the music next door. She shivered as a cool whisper of wind threaded past and she crossed her arms for protection. Rhys raised his hands and rubbed her forearms.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t quite think this plan through.’

  His hands were hot on her skin. Frankie bit her lip.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Rhys’s eyes shifted to her mouth. He swallowed again. His grip on her arms tightened. He look
ed solemnly at her then turned away with a mirthless exhalation.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘This isn’t what I usually do. I mean this is crazy—here with you and me,’ he said, pointing to the both of them.

  ‘Do you always live sensibly?’ Frankie ventured. Her heart was doing its best to battle its way out of her chest. She had come this far, she wasn’t going to walk out of here without giving it her best shot.

  Rhys paused to think for a moment then nodded.

  ‘Yes. I like things to be in order. But this is—this is—’ He gestured to her, his eyes travelling over her body where her dress clung to her. He took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t orderly.’

  ‘Order is meaningless without chaos,’ she replied with a coy smile.

  Rhys stopped breathing. He stared at her. She didn’t know if the penny was taking its time to drop in his head or whether he was trying to think of an excuse to get away. She stepped closer to him. Rhys licked his lips. He raised his hand and cupped her cheek. Frankie closed her eyes, revelling in the soft warmth. She heard the crackle of hay breaking beneath his feet. A gentle pressure on her lips, a tang of masculinity tickling her nostrils. He cupped her other cheek and the pressure on her lips intensified. She breathed in a ragged breath, parting her lips to accommodate his kiss. He drew back and Frankie opened her eyes. Christmas was twelve days early.

  They stared at each other. Rhys looked slightly shell-shocked. Frankie reached out a trembling hand and hooked her fingers into his shirt. She gently tugged him towards her again. Before closing her eyes once more, she thought she saw a ghost of a smile flicker over his mouth.

  *

  Frankie soon realised hay barns were overrated when it came to romantic escapades. The force of Rhys’s body pressing against hers pushed her backwards into a stack of bales. The sharp blades scratched her head and her neck.

  ‘Ow,’ she muttered.

  Rhys pulled away and looked around them. He gathered up a couple of horse rugs dumped by the doorway and threw them on to the uppermost bales. Precariously balanced, he climbed the mountain of hay then leaned over and offered his hand.

  ‘You coming?’

  Frankie kicked off her heels.

  ‘I certainly intend to,’ she said, taking hold.