***
Jessica pointed the remote and flicked through an assortment of TV channels. A feature on heli-skiing in the Rockies looked mildly interesting, and she raised the volume. Now this was promising; she’d always loved adventure skiing, and it was a treat to watch TV again.
She fluffed her pillows and stretched on the huge bed, watching as three skiers with tanned faces and sparkling white teeth climbed into a helicopter. It rose in a crescendo of noise and swirling white. The snow cover wasn’t too deep, about to Buddy’s knees, although horses would definitely struggle to get through the higher banks. It was probably fun to ride in the snow. Wouldn’t hurt a bit if you fell off.
She rose and wandered into the bathroom. Leaned close to the mirror so she could inspect her eye. Still blackly bruised, but Mark had said it would turn yellow soon. She reapplied her makeup, stood back and studied her face. Marginal improvement. She flicked off the bathroom switch and stared at the mirror. In the dim light, the bruise was almost indistinguishable.
She returned to the TV. The skiers grinned with anticipation as they adjusted their packs and stepped into their bindings. A few more minutes and they’d be ready to tackle the mountain.
She picked up the sales catalogue and flipped through the sire list, surprised when she recognized several names. Buddy’s sire wasn’t listed, nor was his grandsire or his dam sire.
But Barkeeper, Assets’ sire, was on the list. He had five weanlings and two yearlings offered for sale, and it was thrilling to read that Assets was his first black type winner. Interest pricked, she grabbed a pen.
Some colts didn’t have names yet. Mark said owners often liked to name their own horses and that it was a selling feature, but it made her sad thinking the babies had gone six months without a real name. Sometimes the business side of horse racing was depressing.
The horses she found most appealing were ones with the same sires or broodmare sires as runners she’d watched at Belmont. She remembered betting on a bay gelding that hadn’t won a race until he was four—certainly a late bloomer—but his delighted connections had enjoyed a raucous time in the winner’s circle. Maybe it was preferable to have an older gelding who wasn’t a superstar, a horse with no pressure to retire and exploit his breeding value.
There’d be no need to rush the training either. Despite studies that proved horses raced as two-year-olds lasted longer, she knew Mark worried about Assets’ fragile bones. He was always trying various poultices, checking and rechecking legs.
She flipped to the front of the catalogue and reviewed pedigrees. The skiers were irritating now, so she clicked the TV off and focused on the reams of information, circling any horse she found interesting and adding asterisks to the most appealing.
Tomorrow might be fun after all. They’d be able to inspect the horses too. Mark was fussy about legs, always noticing tiny things, whereas she tended to focus on the look in the eye. Sometimes she couldn’t get past a pretty head.
She glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty. He might still be in the lounge, and it was obvious now she’d done her homework. She didn’t check her makeup, just grabbed her catalogue and hurried to the elevator.
A hubbub of noise spilled into the hotel lobby—droning voices, music, the clink of glass. She circled through the foyer, past people sprawled on oversized chairs and speaking in earnest whispers. Clearly this was a popular hotel for the horse crowd, as several had sales catalogues spread on their laps.
She slipped into the bar, pausing to let her vision adjust to the muted light. Seemed an odd place to study a catalogue: busy, hard to see, no privacy. On the plane, she’d noticed how Mark had turned the page when anyone ventured too close, always making sure his notations remained private.
A plump blonde with reddened eyes and tight white pants barged past. Jessica stepped sideways and spotted Mark. His back anyway. His hip was propped against the bar, no sign of his catalogue, and he was in deep discussion with a beautiful lady who looked vaguely familiar. Definitely not a track worker—too much of a power suit, too much assurance.
Mark, however, didn’t seem at all intimidated. He leaned down with a lazy smile and whatever he said made her laugh, a tinkling laugh that drew the attention of several envious men. A flirtatious laugh that cut Jessica’s heart and froze her feet in the doorway. Her hand drifted to her wounded eye, and she stared for another agonizing moment before backing away and retreating to the sanctuary of her room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jessica woke at four a.m., flipped the pillow and tried to fall back to sleep, but new habits were hard to break. At six-thirty she finally dozed off, and at the next check it was after eight.
She scrambled out of bed and rushed into the pristine bathroom. Studied her eye. More yellow today. Not so bad. Turned on the shower and stood beneath a reviving spray of warm water while she considered her options.
There weren’t many. Hide in her room and wait for her grandfather, or call Mark and insist he take her with him. And she really wanted to see those beautiful Thoroughbreds.
She’d have to call him before he left. He might still be in his room, but if the woman from the bar answered his phone, Jessica didn’t know if she’d have the aplomb to handle it. Safer to call his cell, even though it was long distance.
“Mark Russell,” he answered, so cool and crisp she waited a beat before she was able to speak.
“Hi, it’s Jessica.”
“Good morning.” His voice seemed to warm. “Rested up?”
“Yes, I’d like to come with you this morning…if that’s okay.” She strained to hear the background noise, to hear if the woman was in his room.
“Good. Come to the lobby,” he said. “I’m in the parking lot. Pick you up at the door.”
She gulped, staring in dismay at her bare feet, at the fluffy bath towel wrapped like a sarong. “But I just got out of the shower. How long can you wait?”
He chuckled as though she’d made a joke. “As long as you want,” he said.
***
“Oh, wow!” Jessica stared in awe as Mark guided the rental car past the Keeneland sign and cruised along a smooth drive lined with white fences, lush grass and spacious stables. “This is gorgeous, like a private farm. And Kentucky grass really does have a bluish tinge.”
She lowered her window to absorb the atmosphere and watched as impeccably-dressed handlers led gleaming horses along a pathway. White hip numbers were apparent even from this distance, and her eager fingers grabbed the door handle. This was going to be so much fun, especially as it was just the two of them, and Mark seemed genuinely happy to have her company.
He parked in a treed lot, flush with yellow and red leaves. “Let’s look at the two-year-olds first.” He gestured at some barns on their right.
She hurried after him, trying to keep pace with his purposeful stride. Several people called out greetings. He replied but didn’t stop, not until they reached the rail beyond which horses paraded along a walkway.
“Oh, my. The horses are turned out so nicely.” She stared in appreciation at their shiny coats, their perfect manes and flowing tails. Even the leather halters glistened.
“Prepped by professionals,” Mark said. “Makes a difference in their sale price.”
She noted not a single horse was braided and guessed he was making a little dig but was too enthralled to care.
“Watch that colt walk,” he said. “What do you see?”
“Big stride, long, kind of flowing. His hind legs land way past his front.”
“Good girl.” Mark smiled at her. “A nice walk usually means a big gallop. If you can get an extra inch or two, it can make a difference. Now look at that bay filly walking toward us,” he added. “Notice how the left leg wings slightly.”
“But she looked straight standing still,” Jessica said. “And she has a beautiful head. What a shame.”
“Doesn’t mean she isn’t fast. Just might be a problem keeping her sound. But I’ve run horses that looked
worse and stayed sound, and I’ve had correct horses break down. A lot of luck is involved.”
“I like that bay colt over there.” She pointed to her left. “He’s gorgeous and so full of himself. Struts like he owns the place.”
Mark chuckled. “Good-looking guy but way out of our price range. That’s a Dynaformer baby. Same breeding as Barbaro. In May, we’ll come early to the Derby and visit Three Chimneys. See their studs…if you want.”
“I’d love that,” she said quickly, praying he meant it. Prayed Assets would make the Derby. At least then they’d have Gramps’ horse as a link.
“We need to avoid the fashionable bloodlines,” Mark went on. “I think your grandfather prefers to buy yearlings. But I’ve only been to one sale with him, last fall when we bought Assets.”
“So you found Assets for him? He must be deliriously happy about how that worked out.”
Mark shrugged. “Think so but it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t throw away much praise.”
“Yes, I know,” she said ruefully.
Their gazes locked. They both grinned and she felt light with shared understanding. Didn’t feel the necessity to hide her feelings behind a flippant comment.
Around them, horses were walked, circled and pivoted. Whinneys, murmurs and jovial greetings filled her with a heightened sense of buoyancy. This was much better than any shopping she’d ever experienced, and with Mark beside her, sharing his knowledge, she became more discerning.
Occasionally he would check his catalogue and request a horse be led out, and people would linger and watch his inspection, clearly respecting his opinion. And always he was attentive, listening to her opinion. Sometimes even agreeing.
After watching the tapes of several two-year-olds and their works, Mark squeezed her shoulder. “Want to take a break? Stop at the kitchen? Your grandfather’s plane has arrived. We’re meeting him in the pavilion at one.”
“I see.” She hid her hurt behind a quick nod but had expected Gramps to call her directly at the hotel. He’d never paid her much attention until her mom died. Had never been impressed with her skiing, no matter how hard she tried. For a brief period they’d consoled each other, but her life had been crammed with skiing, training and travel, and his with work. When he’d pressured her to quit and work for Boone, she’d suspected he really wanted a replacement for her mother. It had been easier to concentrate on skiing—until her knee blew.
She must have sighed because Mark slid his arm around her waist and gave a comforting squeeze. “He’ll be glad to see you. He’s pleased at how well you’ve done.”
“I’ve done well?” She looked up, studying Mark’s face.
“More than well. You’ve surprised me every day.” His approving smile made her heart kick, and she stopped worrying about her grandfather’s opinion.
A man in a blue ball cap hailed Mark, holding the glass door open as they entered the spotless kitchen. Jessica studied the overhead menu while the two men talked; the smell of sizzling bacon made her mouth water.
“What would you like?” Mark asked as he joined her. “The pizza’s good here.”
“No.” She gave her head an emphatic shake. “That last one filled me for a while. I really don’t like anchovies.”
“I don’t like them either.” He gave a wry smile before stepping up to the counter.
“Why’d you order them then?” She frowned, following him and ordering an egg sandwich with extra crisp bacon on the side.
“We can talk about that tonight. In my room, after dinner. Okay?”
“Okay.” She pretended rapt attention as the cook flipped the bacon, afraid Mark would hear the thud of her heart and guess that in his room tonight was exactly where she wanted to be. And clearly he hadn’t hooked up with any blonde.
Excitement spilled from the sales pavilion, and a crowd thronged the outer paddock as horses circled, awaiting their turn to enter. Cell phones rang, beeped and played songs and all around them, people whispered and pointed.
“Did you hear the news, Mark?” a man in a Barbour jacket called. “Sheikh Khalif paid five million for a Smart Strike colt.”
“Number 621?”
“Yeah, they’re interviewing Bobby now. Consignors are ecstatic with the prices.”
People clustered around a lady in a beautiful coral suit, the same lady who’d been with Mark at the bar, and the ESPN microphone pricked Jessica’s memory. Cathy Wright: the sports reporter who covered horse racing. Jessica had seen her on television in the rec room, had even admired her. The reporter was always insightful, gracious and professional.
Cathy asked something, and the stern man she was interviewing nodded. He didn’t look like a sheikh, just an average man in western clothes, but he’d shelled out five million for a colt—definitely cause for excitement.
Mark watched the interview with an amused smile.
Jessica edged closer. “Is that Sheikh Khalif?” she whispered.
“No, that’s his agent. I’ve never seen the sheikh, just his bodyguards. They’re an elusive bunch to nail down. Cathy will be delighted to land this interview.”
“You know her?”
“Yes.” He turned and guided Jessica to the other side, clearly uninterested in the media scrum. “Did you have hip 621 circled?”
“Sure did.” She waved her program. “Three asterisks. How much will my grandfather spend?”
Mark laughed. “Not that much. Three hundred thousand maybe.”
He seemed content to lean on the rail and watch the horses as they waited to enter the pavilion, and didn’t look at Cathy Wright again. Someone called Dutch, wearing a huge cowboy hat, joined them and made an obscure joke about a horse called The Green Monkey. She tilted her watch. Twelve-thirty.
“I’m going to check out the gift shop,” she murmured to Mark, who was absorbed in Dutch’s animated monologue about folks and horses they both knew back in Texas, a monologue that included an obvious jab at Dino’s ex-wife.
She slipped into a boutique crammed with horse ornaments, Christmas decorations and unique clothing. Sweaters, jackets, stunning hats. Dick would have been proud to offer these designs on his website. She fingered a gorgeous scarf, lovingly sliding the silk through her fingers, but the price was way out of her range, and she reluctantly put it back.
“Jessica.”
She turned toward Mark’s voice.
“Your grandfather has arrived,” he said.
***
Mark watched as hip number 665 was led onto the stage, a wide-eyed bay colt with straight legs and a powerful hip and shoulder. A Hard Spun colt. Could be a good horse. Boone had said he’d pay up to three hundred thousand; hopefully that would be enough. The dam was bred for stamina but had never made it to the races. Mark had contacted the breeder, who assured him it was no fault of the mare’s. She’d been kicked in the knee her first week at the track and promptly retired.
He glanced sideways at Boone, who studied the stage with his usual reserve. Jessica and a man called Ian, apparently a Boone employee, sat on the right side of Boone. Jessica was affectionate with her grandfather, but Mark noticed Boone had stiffened when Jessica hugged him, as though unsure how to handle her affection.
Mark blew out a sigh and stretched in his seat. Be nice to get a hug like that. It had been tough not to put his arm around her this morning, tough trying to figure out what she wanted. It seemed when she didn’t need him for a bath or food, she preferred to sleep alone. Or maybe she’d blown him off last night because of her mysterious jockey friend.
Her grandfather’s presence was also a damper. There hadn’t been time for much conversation before rushing to their reserved seats. But Boone’s reaction to her bruised eye had been one of obvious displeasure.
The Hard Spun colt nickered from the stage, reclaiming Mark’s attention. An attendant closed the door, and the auctioneer began his spiel. Bidding began at fifty thousand but escalated as the handler, well-dressed in a crisp black suit, showed the horse. Spotters gestu
red, noting each bid as the numbers on the display climbed.
Mark lifted his finger at two hundred, but there was a flurry of bidding and at the third lull, high bid sat at three hundred thousand and belonged to someone in a wool cap who sat two rows in front.
Boone leaned forward. “If you really like this one,” he murmured, “I can go a little higher. Maybe fifty more.”
Mark nodded at the spotter. Silence. He waited, taut with anticipation, not daring to breathe. Finally, the auctioneer shouted, “Sold for three hundred and twenty thousand!”
Jessica leaped in her seat, giving him such an enthusiastic thumbs up, he grinned and wished she sat closer. Purchasing this colt was the icing on the cake. He’d attended many sales but had never enjoyed one so much—and it was because of her. She was savvy, fun and genuinely loved the horses. In contrast, Boone had already whipped out his cell phone and was urging an employee to finalize a stock report.
Jessica’s eyes glowed as she leaned past her grandfather. “This is so much fun. I really liked that colt too.” She smiled and held up her catalogue, showing Mark the two asterisks she’d drawn by his number.
“You’re just like your mother.” Boone lowered his phone, and his lip curled. “She loved to spend my money too. Not good at making it though.”
Jessica’s smile flattened. She leaned back and stared woodenly at the next horse on the stage. Boone seemed oblivious he’d just sucked away her pleasure, although it had been like that for the last hour with his never-ending barbs at Jessica and her mother. The pen felt awkward in Mark’s hand as he signed for the colt. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Three horses later, someone slipped in beside him. “Our group can go to sixty,” Cathy Wright whispered. “If you have a stall available, we want you to buy something. We’re looking for a horse that will give us some fun.”
“How many people?”
“Eight, all from ESPN.”
“Sounds like trouble.” But he smiled. “Okay, there are some horses here, ready to race, and I’ll have an empty stall next week. You around later?”
Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) Page 57
