by Abby Green
He made a scathing sound. ‘I’m sure. Being a jockey is gritty, hard work. You look as if a puff of wind would knock you over. Somehow I can’t really see you rousing at dawn and putting in a long day of the back-breaking training and work that most jockeys endure. Your pretty hands would get far too dirty.’
Nessa bristled and instinctively hid her hands behind her back, conscious of how unpretty they were, but not wanting to show Barbier, even in her own defence. She still felt raw after his stinging remark, I can’t say that you’d be my type.
The unfairness of his attack left her a little speechless. Her family had all worked hard at their farm for as long as she could remember, getting up at the crack of dawn every day of the week and in all kinds of weather. Her family had certainly never lived a gilded life of leisure. Not even when Nadim had bought them out and pumped money into their ailing business.
‘Who do you ride for, then?’
She forced down the surge in emotion and answered as coolly as she could, ‘My family stables, O’Sullivans. I’m well used to doing my share of the work, believe it or not, and I’ve been training to be a jockey since I was a teenager. Just because I’m a woman—’
He held up a hand stopping her. ‘I have no issue with female jockeys. What I do have an issue with are people who get a free pass on their family connections.’
If Nessa had bristled before, now she was positively apoplectic. She’d had to work twice as hard to prove herself to her own family, if not even more. But she was aware that to really prove herself she’d have to get work with another trainer. It was a sensitive point for her.
‘I can assure you,’ she said in a low voice full of emotion, ‘that my being a jockey is not a vanity project. Far from it.’
She might have laughed if she were able to. Vanity—what was that? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn make-up.
Barbier looked unimpressed. ‘Well, I’m sure the family farm will cope without you.’
Nessa realised that she was damned if she walked out the door and and damned if she didn’t. But there was only one way of containing the situation and making sure that the rest of her family weren’t dragged into it, and that was doing as Barbier said. She wished she could rewind the clock and be safe at home in bed...but even as she imagined that scenario something inside her rejected it. Rejected the possibility of never having had the opportunity to see this man up close. The shock of that revelation made her stop breathing for a second, its significance terrifying to contemplate.
But the fact was that Nessa’s blood was throbbing through her veins in a way she’d never experienced before. Not even after an exhilarating win on a horse.
Shame bloomed deep inside her. How could she betray her own brother, her family, like this? By finding this man so...compelling? Telling herself that stress was making her crazy, she asked, ‘What will I be doing here?’ She tried to quash lurid images of herself, locked in a tower being fed only bread and water.
Barbier’s eyes flicked up and down over her body as if gauging what she might be capable of. Nessa bristled all over, again.
‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find something to keep you occupied, and of course any work you do will be in lieu of payment. Until your brother resurfaces, his debt is now yours.’
Barbier straightened up to his full intimidating height and Nessa’s pulse jumped.
‘I will have Armand escort you back to your home to retrieve what you need. You can give me your car keys.’
This was really happening. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nessa reluctantly reached into her pocket for her keys and took the car key off the main ring, all fingers and thumbs. Eventually she got it free, skin prickling under the laser-eyed scrutiny of Barbier.
She handed it over, a little devil inside her prompting her to say, ‘It’s a vintage Mini. I doubt you’ll fit.’ Even the thought of this man coiling his six-foot-plus frame into her tiny battered car was failing to spark any humour in the surreal moment. She really hadn’t expected the night to turn out like this...and yet she could see now that she’d been supremely naive to assume it would be so easy to infiltrate the Barbier stud.
He took the key. ‘It won’t be me retrieving your car.’
Of course. It would be a minion, despatched to take care of the belongings of the woman who was now effectively under house arrest for the foreseeable future.
Not usually given to dramatics, Nessa tried to quell her nerves. She was within five kilometres of her own home, for crying out loud. What was the worst this man could do to her? A small sly voice answered that the worst he could do had nothing to do with punishment for Paddy’s sins, and everything to do with how he made her feel in his presence. As if she were on a roller coaster hurtling towards a great swooping dip.
Barbier turned away and opened the office door to reveal the huge burly man still standing outside. They spoke in French so rapid that it was beyond Nessa’s basic grasp of the language to try and understand what they were saying.
Barbier turned back to her, switching to English. ‘Armand will escort you home to collect your things and bring you back here.’
‘Can’t I just return in the morning?’
He shook his head, looking even more stern now, and indicated for her to precede him. Mutely, Nessa stepped over the threshold and followed the thick-set security man back out the way she’d come. In the courtyard there was a sleek four-by-four car waiting. Armand opened a car door for her.
For a second Nessa hesitated. She saw the entrance to the courtyard and a glimpse of freedom, if she moved fast. From behind her she heard a deep voice. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
She turned around. Barbier was right behind her and looked even more intimidating in the dark. Taller, more austere. His face was all hard bones and slashing angles. Not even the softness of that provocative mouth visible.
Nessa put her hand on the car door, needing something to hold onto. ‘What happens when I come back?’
‘You’ll be informed when you do.’
Panic made her blurt out, ‘What if I refuse?’
She saw the gallic shrug. ‘It’s up to you but you’ve made it clear you don’t want to involve your family. If you refuse to return I can guarantee that that will be the least of your worries. You would be an accessory to a crime.’
Nessa shivered again in the cool, night-time air. She had no choice, and he knew it. Defeated, she turned and stepped up into the vehicle, and the door closed behind her.
The windows were tinted and Nessa was enclosed in blackness as the bodyguard came around the front of the vehicle and got into the driver’s seat. Barbier strode away from them towards the main building and she felt suddenly bereft, which was ridiculous when the man was holding her to ransom for her brother. You put yourself up for that ransom, a voice reminded her.
As they approached the main gates Nessa reluctantly gave Armand directions to her own home. They passed her lonely-looking car on the side of the road and she sucked in a deep breath, telling herself that if she could endeavour to persuade Paddy to return to prove his innocence, and prevent anyone else from getting involved, then this—hopefully!—brief punishment at the hands of Barbier would be worth it.
Nessa tried to call up her usually positive disposition. Surely if Barbier saw how far she was willing to go to prove her brother’s innocence, he’d be forced to reconsider and give Paddy a chance to explain, wouldn’t he?
But why was it that that seemed to hold less appeal than the thought of seeing Luc Barbier again? Nessa scowled at herself in the reflection of the tinted window of the car, glad she wasn’t under that black-eyed gaze when her face got hot with humiliation.
* * *
When Nessa returned a short while later the stud was in darkness and quiet. Armand handed her over to a middle-aged man with a nice face who looked as if he’d just been woken up, and he was not all that welcoming. He introduced himself as Pascal Blanc, Barbier’s stud and racing stables
manager, his right-hand man, and Paddy’s one-time immediate boss.
He said nothing at first, showing her to a small spartan room above the stables. Clearly this was where the most menial staff slept. But still, it was clean and comfortable, when Nessa had almost expected a corner of the stables.
After giving her the basics of the Barbier stud schedule and informing her that, naturally, she would be assigned to mucking out the yard and stables, and to expect a five a.m. wake-up call, he stopped at her door. ‘For what it’s worth, I would have given Paddy the benefit of the doubt based on what I thought I knew of him. We might have been able to get to the bottom of this whole nasty incident. But he ran, and now there’s nothing I can do except hope for his sake and yours that he either returns himself or returns the money. Soon.’
Nessa couldn’t say anything.
Pascal’s mouth compressed. ‘Luc... Mr Barbier...does not take kindly to those who betray him. He comes from a world where the rule of law didn’t exist and he doesn’t suffer fools, Miss O’Sullivan. If your brother is guilty, then Luc won’t be gentle with him. Or you.’
Somehow these words coming from this infinitely less intimidating man made everything even bleaker. But all Nessa could find herself doing was asking, ‘You’ve known Mr Barbier for long?’
Pascal nodded. ‘Ever since he started to work with Leo Fouret, the first time he came into contact with a horse.’
Nessa was impressed. Leo Fouret was one of the most respected trainers in racing, with hundreds of impressive race wins to his name.
‘Luc didn’t grow up in a kind world, Miss O’Sullivan. But he is fair. Unfortunately your brother never gave him that chance.’
Luc didn’t grow up in a kind world... The words reverberated in Nessa’s head for a long time after she’d been left alone in the room. She eventually fell into a fitful sleep and had dreams of riding a horse, trying to go faster and faster—not to get to the finish line but to escape from some terrifying and unnamed danger behind her.
* * *
What on earth did she have to laugh about? Luc was distinctly irritated by the faint lyrical sound emanating from his stableyard, which was usually a place of hushed industry in deference to the valuable livestock. It could only be coming from one person, the newest addition to his staff: Nessa O’Sullivan.
Her brother had stolen from him and now she laughed. It sent the very insidious thought into Luc’s head that he’d been a total fool. Of course she was in on it with her brother and now she was inside the camp. It made him think of the Trojan Horse and he didn’t find it amusing.
He cursed and threw down his pen and stood up from his desk, stalking over to the window that looked down over the stables. He couldn’t see her and that irritated him even more when he’d deliberately avoided meeting her since her arrival, not wanting to give her the idea that their extended dialogue the other night would ever be repeated. Now he was distracted. When he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
He’d only just managed to convince Gio Corretti that the slight delay in money arriving to his account was due to a banking glitch.
Luc’s reputation amongst the exclusive thoroughbred racing fraternity had been on trial since he’d exploded onto the scene with a rogue three-year-old who had raced to glory in four consecutive Group One races.
Success didn’t mean respect though. He was an anomaly; he had no lineage to speak of and he’d had the temerity to invest wisely with his winnings and make himself a fortune in the process.
Everyone believed his horses were better bred than he was, and they weren’t far wrong. The rumours about his background merely added colour to every other misconception and untruth heaped against his name.
But, as much as he loved ruffling the elite’s feathers by making no apology for who he was, he did want their respect. He wanted them to respect him for what he had achieved with nothing but an innate talent, hard work and determination.
The last thing he needed was for more rumours to get around, especially one suggesting that Luc Barbier couldn’t control his own staff. That he’d been stupid enough to let one million euros disappear from his account.
Even now he still felt the burn of recrimination for finding Paddy O’Sullivan’s open expression and infectious enthusiasm somehow quaint. He should have spotted a thief a mile away. After all, he’d grown up with them.
Luc tensed when he heard the faint sound of laughing again. Adrenalin mixed with something far more ambiguous and hotter flooded his veins. Nessa O’Sullivan was here under sufferance for her brother—and that was all. The sooner she remembered her place and what was at stake, the better.
* * *
‘Who were you talking to?’
Nessa immediately tensed when she heard the deep voice behind her. She turned around reluctantly, steeling herself to see Barbier for the first time since that night. And she blinked.
The skies were blue and the air was mild but, in that uniquely Irish way, there seemed to be a mist falling from the sky and tiny droplets clung to Barbier’s black hair and shoulders, making him look as if he were...sparkling.
His hands were placed on lean hips. Dark worn jeans clung to powerful thighs and long legs. He was wearing a dark polo shirt. The muscles of his biceps pushed against the short sleeves, and the musculature of his impressive chest was visible under the thin material.
He couldn’t look more virile or vitally masculine if he tried. Nessa’s body hummed in helpless reaction to that very earthy and basic fact.
‘Well?’
Nessa was aghast at how she’d just lost it there for a second, hypnotised by his sheer presence.
She swallowed. ‘I was just talking to one of the grooms.’
‘You do realise you’re not here to socialise, don’t you, O’Sullivan?’
Tendrils of Nessa’s hair escaped the hasty bun she’d piled on her head earlier, and whipped around her face in the breeze. Her skin prickled at her reaction to him and irritation made her voice sharp. ‘It’s hard to forget when I’ve been assigned little more than a cell to sleep in and a pre-dawn wake-up call every day.’
She was very conscious of the unsubtle stench of horse manure clinging to her. And of her worn T-shirt tucked into even more worn jeans. Ancient knee-high boots. She couldn’t be any less his type right now.
A calculating glint turned his eyes to dark pewter. ‘You assured me you were accustomed to hard work and you did offer your services in the place of your brother—if this is too much for you...’ He put out a hand to encompass the yard around them.
Nessa stiffened at the obvious jibe. He was clearly expecting her to flounce out of here in a fit of pique. And yes, the work was menial but it was nothing she hadn’t done since she’d started walking and could hold a broom. That, and riding horses. Not that he’d believe her.
She squared her shoulders and stared him down. ‘If you don’t mind, the yard has to be cleaned by lunchtime.’
Barbier looked at the heavy platinum watch encircling his wrist, and then back to her. ‘You’d better keep going then, and next time don’t distract my employees from their own work. Flirting and gossiping won’t help your brother out of his predicament or make things any easier for you here.’
Flirting? For a second Nessa’s mind was blank with indignation when she thought of the groom she’d been talking to—a man in his sixties. But before she could think of anything to say in her own defence, Barbier had turned his back and was walking away.
In spite of her indignation, Nessa couldn’t stop her gaze following his broad back, seeing how it tapered down to those slim hips and a taut behind, lovingly outlined by the soft worn material of his jeans. He disappeared around a corner and Nessa deflated like a balloon. She turned around in disgust at herself for being so easily distracted, and riled.
Feeling thoroughly prickly and with her nerves still jangling, Nessa turned the power-hose machine back on and imagined Barbier’s too-beautiful and smug face in every scrap of dirt she blas
ted into the drains.
* * *
‘She’s totally over-qualified, Luc. She’s putting my own staff to shame, doing longer hours. I shouldn’t even be saying this but the yard and stables have never been so clean.’ Luc’s head groom laughed but soon stopped when Luc fixed him with a dark look.
‘No, you shouldn’t. Maybe you need new staff.’
Simon Corrigan swallowed and changed the subject. ‘Can I ask why we’re not paying her? It seems—’
‘No, you can’t.’ Luc cut him off, not liking the way his conscience was stinging. He was many things, but no one had ever faulted him on his sense of fairness and equality. But only he and Pascal Blanc knew what was behind Paddy O’Sullivan’s sudden disappearance, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Nessa had been working at his stables for a week now. She hadn’t turned tail and run or had a tantrum as he’d expected. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—standing in the yard the other day, her back as straight as a dancer, face flushed, amber-green eyes bright and alive. That soft lush mouth compressed. Long tendrils of dark red hair clinging to her hot cheeks as she’d obviously struggled to keep her temper in check.
Her T-shirt had been so worn he could make out the shape of her breasts—small, lush swells, high and firm.
He could also remember the feeling that had swept through him when he’d heard her carefree laugh. It hadn’t been anger that she might be up to something. It had been something much hotter and ambiguous; a sense of possessiveness that had shocked him. It wasn’t something he felt for anything much, except horses or business acquisitions.
‘Where is she now?’ Luc asked Corrigan abruptly.
‘She’s helping to bring the stallions in from the paddocks. Do you want me to give her a message?’
Luc shook his head. ‘No, I’ll do it.’
But when Luc got to the stallions’ stables Nessa was nowhere to be seen and all the stallions had been settled for the evening. Feeling a mounting frustration, he went looking for her.
