Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  “Okay, okay,” Carrie mumbled with a mouthful of muffin and jam. “You're the boss.”

  “I don't want to be the boss,” Molly replied on a quiet exhalation. “I just want us to get along. And I don't want problems… like your ears falling off,” she went on, slipping her arms into an Irish tweed jacket in an unusual lavender tone. “I don't want you looking like an eighteen-year-old starlet when you're eight either. And why the hell do terrorists keep killing innocent people?”

  “I think they don't have land or food or something.”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Molly murmured half to herself as she searched through her purse for her car keys which were misplaced again. “Have you seen the car keys?”

  “On the counter in the bathroom.”

  “In the bathroom?”

  “Face it, Mom, you're not organized.”

  “Don't get smart, kid, at eight o'clock in the morning or I'll-”

  “What, Mom?” Carrie teased.

  “Just eat now,” she muttered. Intimidating threats were not part of her repertoire with her daughter. She loved her too much. “I'm leaving in five minutes, and if you're not ready you'll have to take the bus to school.”

  “Mommmmm!” It was a long, drawn-out wail. “Don't be cruel.”

  Molly paused in the doorway, remembering the unwritten code apropos bus riding. No one ever rode the bus unless every other possible option for transportation to school had been wrung dry and discarded. Inadvertently, she'd struck a raw nerve of childhood protocol. “Don't panic, I'll wait. I'm the owner, right? I can come in when I want. But hurry,” she reminded her daughter. Owner or not, if she didn't put in long hours every day her fledgling business, which seemed to be creeping into the black after two precarious years, could just as easily go under. That would make her ex-husband Bart happy as hell. And she'd resist that happening with the last breath in her body.

  Her high heels clicked on the parquet floor as she walked down the hall to the bathroom to get her car keys. There shouldn't be people like Bart, she thought, her long-legged stride causing her blond shoulder-length hair to sway gently from side to side. There shouldn't be hunters and victims. There shouldn't be terrorists killing innocent children. It was so damned Machiavellian. So barbaric. Hadn't civilization progressed at all? Oh, damn, she silently swore, glancing out the terrace door next to her bedroom, the rain still hadn't let up. Her hair would frizz up like crazy again.

  CHAPTER 4

  I t was an appalling day to be out. His father had warned him in his customary quiet way. His stable master had been less polite. “Day for a damned fool to kill himself,” he'd said.

  “Shorten the leathers a shade then, Leon. That'll keep me alive.”

  “Shit. Take more than that today,” Leon muttered, but he'd seen the restrained fire in his employer's eyes, and had done as he was told. When Charles Fersten's mouth clamped shut in that thin straight line, everyone did his bidding or stayed out of sight.

  For the fifth day in succession, cold, driving rain swept the northern Minnesota countryside. There were pools of water on the practice track near the stables, and the first curve of the private steeplechase course visible from the paddock resembled a snipe bog.

  “Positive you want Tarrytown?” Leon tried one last time to dissuade his employer.

  “He's surefooted in heavy going,” was the curt reply.

  Also had a bad mouth, which combined with his phenomenal strength, made him a difficult horse to hold, Leon thought. But maybe that was a masochistic fire in those black eyes and the count was out to match his temper against Tarrytown's gigantic strength.

  Leon wasn't so far off the truth, although Charles Bernadotte Carrville Fersten, a count if he chose to acknowledge his father's lineage, normally didn't scrutinize his motives too closely. He just needed to ride.

  His father had seen the morning news, too. As they watched, the death toll had mounted from the terrorist attack in Rome. Sixteen dead last count. The attack, reporters said, had Shakin Rifat's mark.

  Whenever Shakin Rifat struck, Egon fell apart.

  And then the phone would ring, and Sylvie would make demands.

  Charles swore and swung himself up into the saddle.

  Tarrytown jumped the first two timber fences beautifully, even under the adverse conditions. He was a massive horse of remarkable power, and a smile flashed briefly across Charles's mouth in appreciation. A half mile into the three-mile course, both horse and rider were thoroughly soaked and splashed with mud. Tarrytown took the first water turn without breathing hard and cleared the third and fourth hurdles like a leaper. Then, his head stretched out like a racer on the straight, his hooves scarcely touching the dark ground, Tarrytown flew down the treelined course. The pines were dark against the gray northern sky, in contrast to the silvery birches wet with rain, their tiny buds still tightly curled, waiting for a warm spring sun. Charles's spirits soared with Tarrytown's burst of speed and, despite the cold driving rain, he felt a warm surge of pleasure, a familiar elation synonymous with reckless wild rides.

  But at the next water jump thoughts of Sylvie intruded like unwelcome messengers of doom, and he inadvertently tightened his grip on the reins. Tarrytown had already launched himself before the unexpected tug at his mouth. He cleared the water, but not with his usual rise, having faltered midair with the cut of the bit. The huge bay slipped on landing, slithering for several yards. It was touch and go for several breathless seconds before he recovered his legs. But his formidable strength pulled him through, and he managed to struggle upright, leaving both horse's and rider's hearts pumping furiously. A rider had to give his horse its head going over a jump; a rule Charles knew instinctively. Bending over, he apologized softly to Tarrytown, stroking him gently beneath his ear. “Sorry,” he murmured, “my fault…” and added a few pithy comments concerning his ex-wife.

  Dismounting, Charles walked Tarrytown back to the stables, talking aloud to his old companion… about Sylvie and her stupidity, about Sylvie and her arrogance, about Sylvie and her weak-willed brother. During the mucky walk back the rush of adrenaline slowly subsided and, like a cleansing tonic, it washed away much of his tension. Or maybe it was the wild ride that eased the tension. Since boyhood, a horse and speed had been comfort, therapy, intoxication-all things to Count Charles Fersten.

  “Didn't go the whole,” Leon laconically remarked when they returned.

  “You were right, Leon,” Charles replied with his familiar smile, the fire gone from his eyes. “Damn near got killed out there.” He even felt restored enough after the exhilarating ride to ask, “Any phone calls?”

  “Nope.”

  She hadn't called yet. Maybe this time she wouldn't, Charles thought, his normal cheerfulness renewed.

  Bitch must not be able to get a call through, Leon uncharitably thought. And a cable wouldn't do her much good. If you're going to threaten and plead, it loses impact somehow on paper.

  “See you tomorrow,” Charles said, turning to go, the light from the open door silhouetting his powerful frame and the spiky outline of wet windswept hair.

  “If the rain lets up.” Leon was busy wiping Tarrytown down.

  Charles's dark brows quirked like the grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “Can't take care of me forever.”

  “Someone has to. Besides all the eager women, that is.”

  “I don't know, Leon. You might lose against that kind of competition.”

  And he had on numerous occasions. But not for long. “Any woman last more than a week?” his stable master bluntly asked. “Besides the bitch, I mean. And from the looks of it, you might never shake her loose.”

  “Now, Leon, a little respect for my ex-wife.” But the grin accompanying the words was wickedly boyish.

  “I'd like to give her a whole lot more, but she never gets close enough to put my boot where it'll do her the most good.”

  “Speaking of boots. Did my boots come back for the Maryland Hunt Cup?”


  “This morning.”

  “Good. I'll try them tomorrow. Think Tarrytown can take those terrifying timbers two years in a row?”

  “If he can't, there's not a hunter that can. The Ferstens are the best breed of jumpers in the world.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “And to your pa.”

  The phone line from the house trilled tinnily in the stable and they both stiffened, their expressions instantly altering. Charles's heavy brows creased into a frown.

  “I'd say it's the bitch,” Leon growled.

  “Wouldn't bet against you on that one,” Charles quietly replied. “If it's Sylvie, I'll take it in the house.”

  When Leon picked up the receiver, he nodded darkly and said, “Sit tight, Countess, he's on his way to an inside phone.”

  And Charles reluctantly started across the muddy paddock.

  CHAPTER 5

  S ylvie von Mansfeld was a countess in her own right, rich, beautiful, spoiled, and young. She'd met Charles one summer when she'd turned to acting in an attempt to escape boredom. She was captivated by Carey Fersten, the brilliant young director from America who had roots on the continent. She was delighted that his aristocratic family north of the Baltic held a knight's title a thousand years older than her family's mercantile nineteenth-century coat of arms. She was bewitched by his compulsive decisions. When they first met during filming in Yugoslavia, the young genius director was operating on instinct alone. Carey was drinking too much then, using recreational drugs in an excessive way that appealed to her excessive nature. It wasn't until the second week of sharing his bed that he'd stopped in mid “Darling” and asked her name. It still sent tingles down her spine recalling those days, old memories freshly rekindled by the sound of his deep, husky “Hello.”

  “I need you,” Sylvie purred into the phone.

  “The feeling is not mutual, Sylvie. What do you want, as if I didn't know,” Charles said bluntly, settling into a worn leather chair in the library.

  His cool tone brought Sylvie back to her present problem. “You have to come and talk to him. Egon called. He was at the airport during the shooting, and now he's worse than ever. God knows his fear is reasonable. Especially after what Rifat did to the car. He was barely coherent when he called. You have to come and talk to him, Carey!”

  “Jesus, Sylvie.” Charles kept his voice steady, despite his feelings on the subject. “I was just there a month ago. Put him in a sanitorium. Find him a confessor. Find him a woman, for Christ's sake. I can't come and hold his hand every time he OD's on terrorism.”

  “Those madmen are using him, Carey, you know that. Capitalizing on his nerves and drug habit. He's terrified. No one else can calm him when he's in this state.”

  “I can't this time, Sylvie. I'm sorry. I'm scheduled to ride in a meet in Maryland next week, and my next film starts two days after that.”

  “I need you. Egon needs you. You owe me!”

  Carey sighed. “I can't keep paying for that mistake forever. Everyone was doing drugs out there.”

  “But you started him.”

  “I didn't, but I'll never win that argument with you. Oh, Christ, it could have been anyone. He was out looking for it.”

  “You made him what he is,” she snapped.

  “Lord, grow up. He is what he is, with or without me.”

  “If you don't come, he's going to die. I could barely understand him on the phone.”

  There was a silence on the overseas connection while Charles damned the day Sylvie von Mansfeld first slipped into his bed. “Okay, all right,” he said at last, his feelings for Egon overcoming his aversion to Sylvie, “I'll be there, but I have to be back Wednesday next.”

  “We're at the villa in Nice.”

  “This is the last time, Sylvie, I swear.” Hanging up, his expression grim, Charles angrily punched the phone number for the stable. “Tell Jess to have the jet fueled. We leave in an hour. And bring my saddle, will you Leon? Maybe I can get in a few hours of riding before the Hunt Cup.” In a brisk cadence he finished his instructions to Leon. Then he dropped the phone receiver in its cradle and turned to his father. “Damn and bloody hell,” he softly swore. “When will it end?”

  His father had been seated at the marquetry desk near the window during the phone conversation, his eyes half-closed. Opening his eyes fully now, he glanced at his only child with tolerant affection and quietly said, “The sins of your youth, eh?”

  “With Sylvie and Egon, I'm never going to be allowed to forget them.”

  “Surely there must be some treatment center with an effective program for”-his father paused delicately-“his variety of problems.”

  Bernadotte had never understood Egon's bisexual idiosyncrasies. Firmly heterosexual, he viewed them as an aberration. “He's tried most of the drug treatment centers,” Carey replied, ignoring the other insinuations, “but so far none of them have turned him around. And Sylvie's right, he does respond to me. It makes it harder though since Egon's witless flirtation in the arms business last year. With Rifat leaning on him, he needs the heroin more to blot out the insecurities and fear, just at a time when he'd be better off facing them clean.”

  “I understand your attachment for the young man, my concern is your mother,” Bernadotte said, dismissing Egon with a casual wave of his hand. “She's going to be disappointed if you're not back for the Maryland Hunt Cup. The house was opened last week and she has a full guest list waiting to visit with her ‘darling' boy.”

  “I know.” Sliding down on his spine, Charles stretched out his long, mud-spattered legs and contemplated the soiled toes of his handmade boots. Then, stretching to relieve the tightness in his shoulders Sylvie's calls always induced, he said, “Tell Mother I'll be back in time.”

  His father smiled his rare smile. “She'll be pleased.”

  “And don't tell her I went to see Egon,” Charles said, rising from the depths of the comfortable chair. “She'll worry needlessly.”

  “I'll make some excuse.”

  “I'll call when I'm heading back.” Charles stood in the library doorway and flashed a quick smile, both brows rising speculatively. “I did tell Sylvie this was the last time, didn't I?”

  “Distinctly,” his father agreed.

  “Then I'm on my last mission of mercy,” Charles replied. “Ciao.” And with a wave he walked from the room.

  “Godspeed,” his father murmured in the quiet library as he began concocting a story that would satisfy Juliana.

  Although Bernadotte and Juliana had chosen to live apart since Charles was three, they maintained a friendly parenting relationship and a true friendship apart from their duties as parents. Charles was really more like Juliana in many ways, Bernadotte thought. He was a Carrville in size; the Ferstens had always been larger than most but without the extreme height of the Carrvilles. And his love of horses was mysterious, with a gravity like Juliana's that bordered on the pagan. Like his mother, he socialized with ease; there was very little of the hermit like Bernadotte in Charles. But in other ways he was his father's son: reckless and instinctive, inquisitive until he found satisfactory answers. He was, above all, the joy of his father's life, and Bernadotte never regretted meeting Juliana.

  Juliana Carrville had been seventeen the spring Count Bernadotte Fersten came to Baltimore to ride in the Hunt Cup. His reputation had preceded him, and every lady invited to the Hunt Ball that night had vied for his attention. He'd just turned forty, was rumored to have spent the previous month with his latest lover, the Maharani of Narayan at her estate outside Delhi while awaiting the beginning of the spring steeplechase circuit. It was a dangerous liaison-especially with her jealous husband in residence-but evidently the count had survived, as he had all his other scandals of the postwar years.

  When his estates bordering the Baltic in Eastern Finland were in danger of being overrun by the Russians in the closing days of World War II, Bernadotte had taken leave from the Finnish army and managed to rescue his retainers and h
is stable of Fersten hunters just hours ahead of the Russians. But his wife Kirsti, whom he'd adored, had been killed in the flight, a victim of exploding shrapnel from artillery pressing the Russian front westward. Her loss, it was said, hurt Bernadotte more deeply than all his ancestral estates left behind.

  Heartbroken, he'd pensioned off all the servants, except those needed for his small stud farm near Helsinki, and left for the continent, not caring whether he lived or died. During the next five years he rode in every steeplechase of consequence. Heedless of death, he won most of them. He drank champagne till dawn, slept with whomever clutched his arm that night, and entertained beautiful women from Oslo to Rome with wit, charm, and intoxicating, moody sensuality.

  But his icon of Kirsti was always the first object he looked at on waking each day, and his standing order dictated that her grave would always be covered with fresh violets, the flower she'd adored. Bernadotte hadn't been able to forget the only love of his life. Her loss so haunted him that he avoided being alone, and was desperately afraid of solitude. Riding, hunting, gambling, sailing, boudoir games, and a reckless pursuit of pleasure obsessed him. And with his capacity to acquit himself well at all these games, he was in great demand.

  When he walked into the drawing room that night in Baltimore before the Hunt Ball, he thought for a blinding moment that Kirsti was waiting for him. But when the tall, blond woman, dressed in violet chiffon turned around, his disappointment must have shone on his face.

  “I feel I should apologize for some reason,” Juliana Carrville said, her large hazel eyes attentive.

  Count Fersten recovered instantly. “Of course not. I'm afraid I mistook you for someone I once knew. She liked violet, too.”

  Thanking her lucky stars she'd picked this dress for the ball, Juliana put out her slim hand and introduced herself.

  Bernadotte recognized the last name. “Your father's on the National Hunt Committee.”