The light of challenge was so fierce in his eyes that his team, mistaking it for the fire of battle, wheeled away.
Bella would be different. Not easy, Nero thought as he took his helmet off to acknowledge the roar of the crowd when he galloped onto the field. Bella would not yield to him as easily as her pretty mare had. There was something else behind that composed stare. Fear. He wondered at it. She feared the loss of her pony—that he could understand, but there was something more. And there was another question: why did such a successful and attractive woman live the life of a celibate in what was a notoriously libidinous society?
Because Bella was different. She was an independent woman, and courageous. She had coped well with her father’s disgrace, supporting Jack Wheeler to the bitter end and salvaging what she could of the business. But where a private life was concerned she seemed to have none, and planned to keep it that way, or why else would she dress so severely?
Bella was all business and no fun, Nero concluded, as if to show the slightest warmth or humour might put her at risk. Yet beneath that Ice Maiden façade he’d heard she was much loved by the children she invited to her stables. She could be useful to him. With that thought in mind, he replaced his helmet and lowered his face guard. Training his restless gaze on the stands he searched for Bella as he cantered up to start the match.
CHAPTER TWO
BELLA hated him. Nero Caracas had almost single-handedly annihilated the home team. Never mind that his three team-mates had played well, she held Nero directly responsible for trouncing the team whose ponies she had trained. She had one bittersweet moment when the prince, who was awarding the prizes that day, had named Misty pony of the match, but even that triumph was quickly smashed by the quick look Nero shot her—the look that said, I’m having her. She’s mine. The look that had prompted Bella to flare back silently, Over my dead body.
Over your body, certainly, had been Nero’s outrageously confident response, which he had laced with a wolfish grin. And now she was being forced into his company in the evening too. The prince had invited all the players and their trainers to dinner at the castle. It was not the type of invitation Bella could easily refuse. And why should she? The opportunity to eat dinner with the prince, to see round the royal castle—was she going to let Nero Caracas stand in the way of that? It was a signal from the prince himself that her father’s yard was back in favour. Jack Wheeler’s name would be spoken again with pride. And, realistically, her chance of being seated next to Nero was zero, Bella reassured herself. Protocol was everything in royal circles and she was sure to be seated with her team.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I put you next to me,’ the prince said, smiling warmly at Bella, ‘and that you’re not sitting with your team…?’
‘Of course not, Sir, it’s an honour,’ Bella replied graciously, trying not to care who was sitting across the table from her on the other side of the prince. Or the fact that Nero seemed unusually chummy with their royal host.
‘The captain of the winning team and the owner and trainer of the pony of the match—it seemed an inevitable pairing to me,’ the prince confided in his usual laid-back manner.
‘Indeed, Sir,’ Bella agreed, coolly meeting Nero’s amused stare. What was going on?
‘Your Royal Highness is, as ever, a most perceptive man,’ Nero drawled, raising one sweeping ebony brow as he connected with Bella’s narrow-eyed stare.
Bella Wheeler in a dinner gown. This was an image he had toyed with on his way to the castle. He had thought she might free her shiny auburn hair from its cruel captivity and reveal the young body that lurked beneath her workmanlike clothes. Instead, she was trussed up in a gown her grandmother would have approved of, and her hair was more tightly dressed than he had ever seen it. Did she have to make a statement every time they met? If it went on like this, he fully expected her to be wearing a sandwich board on the next occasion, proclaiming: Look, Don’t Touch.
‘So, Bella,’ the prince said, distracting him, ‘I’ve been hearing good things about you—and not just as far as training polo ponies goes. I’m thinking more of your work with children,’ he explained.
Bella blushed. She didn’t like to make a song and dance about the work she undertook in her free time.
‘Have you ever thought of expanding your scheme?’ the prince pressed.
Bella noticed Nero appeared to be equally intent on her answer. ‘My polo commitments don’t allow for it, Sir—’
‘But you do what you can, which is more than most people even attempt,’ the prince went on. ‘And I’ve been hearing some very good things about you—’
Bella answered this with a modest smile.
As the meal continued her tension relaxed. She was imagining things, Bella reassured herself. Nero sitting across the table had made her edgy. There was no plan afoot between Nero and the prince. Her royal host was always well briefed, and was not only genuinely interested in the people he met but was an excellent conversationalist. Her father had been invited to the castle in his heyday, but this was Bella’s first time and she wasn’t going to waste it fretting about the prince’s fanciful seating plan that saw spinster-and-contented-with-her-lot Bella Wheeler seated across the table from the world’s most desirable man. She could only hope Nero had got her message—Butt out of my life, Caracas. You’re not wanted here.
But she did want him. She wanted Nero with an ache so bad she could only hope the prince, who was undoubtedly a man of the world, hadn’t picked up on it. Nero was a force of nature, a man who could have any woman in the world. What if he suspected how she felt about him? How professional would Nero think her then?
He’d think her a naïve fool. And he wouldn’t be that far out. Right now, she was feeling as if she’d been parachuted in from Little Town in Nowhere Land to a life of such pomp and privilege she had to pinch herself to prove she wasn’t dreaming. Thank goodness she’d found a gown at the back of the wardrobe suitable for dinner—ten years out of date, but conservative, which was all that mattered. She didn’t like to draw attention to herself, which was another reason she appeared cold.
She stiffened and held Nero’s gaze as he looked at her for one long potent moment, then turned away when the prince began talking to him. It was an opportunity to soak everything in—all the life-sized oil paintings on the ruby silk walls. Stout kings and thin kings, with glittering swords and crowns bearing testament to their wealth and power. Happy women and sad women, wearing sumptuous gowns, some of whom were surrounded by strangely disaffected children staring off bleakly into an unknowable future. With a shiver, she dragged her gaze away and began to study the vaulted ceiling instead. On a ground of rich cobalt blue, this was lavishly decorated with rosy-cheeked cherubs and cotton wool clouds and, coming back down to earth again, there was more crystal and silver on a dinner table made magical by candlelight than she had ever seen before. There must have been fifty people sitting at the table with them, and it was longer than a bowling alley to accommodate that number. A mischievous smile played around her lips when the royal butler and his team of efficient footmen strode silently by—some wild child inside her wanted to dance a crazy quickstep after them down the jewelcoloured runners that marked out their transit through the hall.
She could act serene, but inside her there was a wild child longing to get out. Nero was as relaxed in this setting as he was on the polo field. How elegant and confident he appeared, lounging back in his chair, chatting easily to the prince—as well he might. Rumour said Nero lived in considerable style on his estancia back home, where he ruled his estate like his own private fiefdom. And if he had been devastating in match clothes, he was off the scale tonight in a beautifully cut evening suit. The dark cloth moulded his powerful frame to perfection, while the crisp white shirt and steel-grey tie showed off his tan.
Damn! He was watching her. She turned her attention quickly to her plate. She was safer with her ponies than with all these men. Men were strong and could physically over
whelm her, and Nero Caracas was the strongest of them all. When you’d fought and lost as badly as she had, you never forgot—
Yet here she was, wrapping her lips around the tines of her fork as if she wanted him to look at her.
Must she court danger at every opportunity?
It must be the Nero effect. She was never so foolish, but just sitting across from him was enough to make her act differently—made her monitor how she held herself and how she ate. She had even taken to sipping her drink demurely!
Damn this to hell! She was a professional woman, not some impressionable teenager. Straightening up, she made a special effort to engage the prince in a topic of conversation which she knew he would appreciate, but even the prince seemed to be on Nero’s side.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t made an offer for the pony of the match, Caracas,’ the prince observed after a few minutes of conversation which had fallen well within the bounds of what Bella considered safe.
Bella tensed. Must everything come back to this?
‘But I have,’ Nero said mildly. ‘I would love to own Misty, but Ms Wheeler seems to have her doubts—’
‘Doubts?’ The prince’s eyebrows shot up as he turned to stare at Bella. ‘Señor Caracas has an enviable estancia in Argentina, with the best living conditions for polo ponies I’ve seen anywhere in the world—’
‘And still Ms Wheeler doubts me.’ Nero’s eyes were glinting with humour as he attempted to capture Bella’s stony stare.
‘You must reconsider, Ms Wheeler,’ the prince insisted. ‘Nero is the best rider in the world, and as such he should have access to the best ponies.’
Should he? By whose right?
Bella flashed a furious look across the table, only to be met by Nero’s relaxed, sardonic stare. Her heart thundered—and not with anger. She could have coped with that more easily than this lust-fuelled desire to engage in combat with him. But the prince’s message was unmistakable. If she was intransigent she would lose his favour and, as the prince was one of the foremost sponsors of the game, everything she had worked so hard to build could quickly turn to dust. ‘Your Royal Highness.’ She appeared to agree—even adding a meek dip of her head, but inside she was fuming. She would not be forced to sell her most cherished possession—and Nero Caracas could stop pulling the prince’s strings. There must be a way out of this and she would find it.
But then Nero foiled her by mentioning a project close to her heart and now, it appeared, close to his. He planned to work with children who wouldn’t normally have the opportunity to ride. She’d been doing that for years, and had seen the benefits first hand.
‘I want them to experience the freedom of the pampas,’ Nero was explaining to the prince, ‘and discover what life is like on my estancia in Argentina.’
She would like to find out too, Bella thought wryly. But then her suspicions grew when it became clear that the prince and Nero had been in negotiations for some time over this proposed scheme—long enough for Nero to persuade the prince to be its patron.
‘There are many similarities to your own work,’ the prince observed, turning to include Bella in their discussion. ‘Perhaps you remember, I mentioned the possibility of spreading your good work a little further earlier this evening?’
She’d been set up, Bella thought angrily, noting the spark of triumph in Nero’s eyes. And since when was Argentina a little further? It was half a world away. She must have paled as the prince indicated that one of the hovering footmen should refill her water glass.
‘Sir, I cannot think of leaving England—especially so close to Christmas.’ She was clutching at straws—and had broken royal protocol by speaking to the prince before he invited her to do so, but the prince, sensing her distress, was at pains to make amends. ‘But Christmas in Argentina is so beautiful and warm. I’m sure that your concerns in this country could be addressed, and Nero would ensure paid professionals were on hand to help you with the day-to-day running of the scheme in Argentina.’
Had this already been decided?
Bella had never found it so hard in her life to hold her tongue, but to interrupt the prince a second time would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette.
‘I understand your concerns,’ the prince assured her. ‘There’s so much paperwork when schemes such as this are set up, but I don’t see you being involved in that. I see you taking more of a hands-on role, Bella—teaching the children to ride, and sharing your love of horses with them.’
‘But, Sir—’ Bella’s eyes implored the prince to understand that she couldn’t leave her yard. She worked every hour of every day to be the best. She even turned to Nero for help, but he merely raised a sardonic brow.
‘There would be ample reward,’ the prince said, as if this would make a difference.
Bella flinched with embarrassment. ‘It isn’t the money, Sir—’
‘Pride is a great thing, Bella, but we all have to be practical,’ the prince replied. ‘Nero’s gauchos have centuries of knowledge that working closely with horses has brought them, just as we do. There’s nothing wrong with sharing that knowledge amongst friends, is there?’ The prince stared at her intently.
What could she say without appearing mean-spirited? ‘You’re quite right, Sir,’ she agreed, avoiding Nero’s sardonic stare.
‘And you could take Misty with you,’ the prince added, warming to his theme. ‘I’m sure Nero would have no objections?’
Was this a joke? Bella wondered as the two men exchanged a knowing glance. And now Nero’s stare was heating her face, but she couldn’t pretend the cash on offer wouldn’t be useful—
So Nero had won.
Misty could only benefit by being ridden by the greatest polo player in the world, and riding high in the prince’s approval meant the future of her stable yard was assured. ‘This doesn’t mean I would sell Misty to you,’ she assured Nero.
As the prince exclaimed with disappointment on Nero’s behalf, Nero said smoothly, ‘I don’t think we need to worry about that yet.’
But some time she would need to worry, Bella interpreted, tensing even as the prince relaxed. She was up against the might of Nero Caracas with no one, not even the prince, to back her up. ‘I couldn’t leave my work here,’ she said firmly.
The prince sat forward as Nero offered what must have sounded to him like a reassurance. ‘I would send a team to take over what is already an established scheme,’ Nero said with a relaxed shrug. ‘They would handle all your outstanding commitments.’
Was she the only one who could see the glint of irony in Nero’s eyes?
Apparently, Bella thought as the prince sighed with approval. ‘We would be in this together, Bella,’ the prince confirmed, tying the knot between them even tighter. ‘All I’m asking from you is that you share your expertise in the setting up of a similar scheme in Argentina to the one you already run in England.’
How reasonable that sounded, Bella thought as the prince turned his kind-hearted gaze on her face. Nero might as well have hog-tied her and served her up on a silver platter. Had his penetrating stare also worked out that he scrambled her brain cells and made her stomach melt? Almost certainly, she thought as his ebony brow lifted.
‘Well, what do you think, Bella?’ the prince prompted gently.
‘Could I have some time to think about this, Sir?’
His Royal Highness hesitated.
‘Not too much time,’ Nero cut in, apparently oblivious to the rules of royal etiquette when it came to getting his own way.
After dinner a recital was to be held in the Blue drawing room, with the chance for everyone to freshen up first.
Freshen up? Bella raged silently, checking her hair was still securely tied back in the gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall of the unimaginably ornate restroom. After listening to the prince’s well-intentioned suggestions on one side, and batting off Nero’s sardonic sallies on the other, she felt like a tennis ball being swiped between the two, frayed a little around the ed
ges, but still ready to bounce—right over Nero, preferably.
Conclusion?
Her carefully controlled life was rapidly spiralling out of control.
Taking one last look around at all the beautiful things in the restroom—dainty chairs with soft leaf-green covers and the comforting array of traditional organic scent bottles lined up on a crystal tray for visitors to sample—she had the strongest feeling that if Nero had anything to do with it, it would be some time before she would be making a return visit here.
In this same anxious mood she opened the door and managed to bump straight into him.
‘Ill met by moonlight,’ Nero murmured with amusement as Bella exclaimed with alarm.
Her breath echoed in the silence as she stared up at Nero’s strong, tanned hand on the wall by her face. ‘Excuse me, please—’
He didn’t move.
‘I said—’
‘I heard what you said.’
‘Then would you let me pass, please?’ She would fight off the effects of that deceptively sleepy stare.
‘What’s your hurry, Bella?’
‘We should be getting back to the recital…’
Nero hummed.
Bracing herself, she looked up. Moonlight was indeed bathing them both in a strange sapphire light as it poured in through one of the castle’s many stained-glass windows. The effect was wonderful for Nero’s dark skin and thick black hair—she guessed her own face was a watery blue and her red hair a strange shade of green. Heating up under Nero’s amused scrutiny, she launched a counter-attack. ‘What were you doing at dinner with the prince and all that talk of a scheme?’
‘It wasn’t talk, Bella—’
‘And I suppose it wasn’t a ruse to make me sell Misty to you, either?’
‘The scheme will continue, with or without your help, Bella.’
In his severe formal clothes, in this most refined of settings, Nero Caracas looked like a dark angel and more dangerous than ever. ‘You led the prince to think I might sell Misty—and that my compliance with the scheme was a given.’
The Untamed Argentinian Page 2
