Breaking Free (Thoroughbred Legacy #10)

by Loreth Anne White

  “Give her a break, Dylan. She’s suffering over the near-loss of Anthem. I had no idea she was your daughter when I offered her a horse.”

  He blew out air, dragging both hands through his damp hair, clearly exasperated. And so damn hot. Megan couldn’t take her eyes from the gold chest hair covering his dark tan, the way his biceps rolled under his skin, the way his abs rippled down into his jeans when he moved his arms up. The way his jeans were slung so low she could see the fine trail of darker blond hair running down to his groin.

  A complex heat burned through her belly, and Megan swallowed, trying not to gawk at how his jeans were faded around his fly, trying not to think of how every molecule in her body wanted to be naked and pressed up against this man.

  She didn’t think she’d had the pleasure of personally encountering a male specimen this ripped in quite a long time. Or being turned on sexually so fast by a man’s chemistry.

  She forced herself to meet his eyes, heart beating faster, wondering if he’d seen her reaction, the flush in her cheeks. “I…I honestly had no idea until I saw you coming out that door who Heidi was,” Megan said, clearing the huskiness from her throat. “I’m sorry. But I can’t take the offer back now, and you can’t take it from her either. She needs this.”

  “And just who in hell do you think you are to tell me what my daughter needs?” he said, his voice dangerously low.

  She reached nervously behind her for the car door. “Why won’t you let me help her, Dylan?”

  “Because we’re on opposite sides of a homicide investigation, Stafford. That’s why. And you’re the one who wants to take me—” he flung his hand back towards his house “—and my family down, remember? I’m the sole supporter here, and any involvement with you in whatever capacity could seriously cost me down the line. So, please, get the hell off my property.”

  She hesitated, realizing how her battle to save Louisa had in fact just become a battle to undermine this home, this gorgeous single father who clearly had more than he could handle on his plate.

  But something else surfaced through her conflicted feelings—her own stubborn need to get through to people. To make them understand where she was coming from. To make them like her.

  “Just let her ride at Fairchild, Dylan,” she said softly, in spite of the blood pounding loudly through her veins. “Heidi needs this. And—” She raised her hand to stop him from speaking. “And don’t tell me I don’t know what a fourteen-year-old girl needs, because I have the edge on you there, Sergeant.”

  He swore softly, and Megan knew she’d hit a sore spot. Despite the fact they were on opposite sides of a murder case, Megan was undeniably drawn to him by something quite apart from the lust burning in her belly—compassion.

  She’d never dreamed the tough macho Aussie cop would live with his mother and daughter, a scruffy hairy mutt, and pink-white roses and lavender in his front garden.

  This was a traditional and fiercely protective family man, and she found that utterly compelling. Seductive in so many ways.

  The fact that he looked like a half-naked Greek god without his shirt didn’t hurt either. He was melting her from the inside out in all sorts of ways.

  “I think you should leave,” he said quietly, ominously.

  “Only if you’ll agree to let Heidi ride with me,” Megan said. “For her sake.”

  He was silent for a beat. “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because I was there. I was her once.”

  A muscle pulsed at his jaw as he studied her. “Fine,” he said finally, quietly, pushing the word out around clenched teeth. “She can ride.”

  Well, that was about all the thanks she was going to get. Megan nodded curtly. “Fine,” she said as she opened her car door. But she stopped suddenly. “You know what I don’t understand, Sergeant,” she said, turning back to face him, her voice oddly thick, “is why a man like you, clearly committed to family and community values, is so bent on hurting my aunt. What is it that you have against her? Why do you need to humiliate her like this? Why is it so personal?”

  He stepped really close, placing his large hand on the open convertible door, closing her in, and she felt her muscles tense.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Stafford. Your aunt doesn’t give a damn about family and community values, so don’t try and pull that one on me again. She’s a callous woman who thinks Australian justice is the best money can buy. And—” he paused, watching her, his lips so close, his warm scent enveloping her “—besides her charming personality, all the evidence points straight to her. It’s not personal. It’s my job. Pure and simple.”

  “Perhaps you see nailing the great Louisa Fairchild as a feather in your career cap,” she countered, unable to stop herself.

  That muscle in his jaw throbbed steadily as his voice dropped another octave, dangerous in its quietness, yet darkly seductive at the same time. “If I wanted to climb career ladders, Megan, I’d have stayed with Sydney homicide.” She could smell his shampoo, the faint scent of aftershave, the heat on his skin. “I’m here to catch criminals, not climb career ladders. I sacrificed my career to move here to build a family. Not that that would mean anything to someone like you.”

  That cut. So very deep he had no idea. She nodded slowly, watching his mouth, not trusting herself to speak. She believed him on one count. This was a man who’d protect family at great cost. Even if it meant sacrificing a career.

  D’Angelo had said Detective Sergeant Hastings’ demotion to Pepper Flats might well have been precipitated by some misstep, some disgrace that had been buried years ago. Something the lawyers would find and use against him in court.

  But Megan was beginning to see it differently.

  “And your talk of art school is threatening my family, understand? I don’t want my daughter going to school in Sydney.”

  “It’s just school,” she said, her voice thick. “She’d come home weekends, still be able to ride.”

  “This has nothing to do with you, and I’d appreciate it if you left. Now.” He paused, a sexual current thrumming between them. “Before we both regret it.”

  She nodded again, her cheeks flushing deeper. “Fine,” she said. “But maybe the next time she’s sobbing alone by an empty paddock, you should be there for her instead of a stranger.”

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, “if your aunt hadn’t shot someone, Megan, I would have been.”

  His eyes skimmed her bare legs as she got into the car, then met hers again. “What were you doing at Lochlain anyway?” he asked as she banged the door closed.

  “Your job,” she said, putting the car in gear. “Finding the real killer so you will see that my aunt is innocent.”

  And she backed out of his driveway.

  Chapter Five

  Dylan cursed as he watched the pale-gold Aston Martin disappear down the undulating ribbon of road, heading toward the prime stud farms in the region.

  Seeing his kid pulling up in a Fairchild luxury convertible had unhinged him. And the hero-worship he’d glimpsed in Heidi’s eyes when she looked at Megan had frustrated the hell out of him.

  That’s all he needed. Another coltish blonde messing up his life and libido—a glamorous Sydneyite with big-city ideals, and a privileged member of the Australian Thoroughbred set to boot.

  Sydney and a blonde had damn near destroyed him once already. He had no stomach for it.

  So why in hell was his body defying him like this?

  Why was he feeling this physical magnetism toward Megan Stafford when she represented everything about a lifestyle he’d rejected?

  And she’d stood there next to her sports car so darn cool and aloof while he’d been burning up with lust and anger inside. He swore again. Heidi hadn’t seen her mother in ten goddamn years. Now she was throwing Sally back at him, and Dylan was convinced it was because of Megan.

  How ironic would that be? To have struggled for the last decade to build Heidi a life out here, only to have her follow her mother’s
path, regardless.

  He didn’t want Megan around.

  For too many damn reasons to count.

  Especially given the scope of this case, and what it could cost him if it went down the tubes. Dylan turned to go back into the house, whistling for Muttley as the mobile on the belt of his jeans rang. He flipped it open. “Hastings.”

  It was Superintendent Matt Caruthers. “Hastings, we’ve had an anonymous tip come through our crime line. Some guy calling from a prepaid disposable maintains that Louisa Fairchild killed Sam Whittleson.”

  Dylan stilled.

  “He claims Fairchild has a lackey on regular retainer to do unpalatable jobs for her, and this bloke was allegedly called into service the night of the Lochlain fire. Our tipster says Fairchild shot Whittleson in a fit of rage because she’d just gotten word the courts were going to rule in his favor over Lake Dingo.”

  “Go on,” Dylan said, frowning.

  “This guy claims Whittleson went to Lochlain that night to personally deliver the good news to his son, Daniel. Fairchild knew this because she’d just called him at the airport to try and offer him a settlement. Whittleson allegedly refused. She was furious, drove to Lochlain, confronted him in the barn, and things went south. She shot him, realized she’d actually killed him this time, panicked, and had this lackey of hers on scene within two hours to cover up her mess and remove the security footage. He used her truck, apparently, which is why it was seen fleeing the blaze.”

  Dylan’s frown deepened. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, autumn sun hot on his bare torso. “So what’s stopping this guy from coming forward to make a statement?”

  “Hell knows. But the pieces sure fit.”

  They did. And the arson would certainly make more sense. “How do we know this tipster is for real?”

  “We don’t. But—and this is the clincher—he said Fairchild, in her panic, tossed her Smith & Wesson into a fertilizer drum in the maintenance area of the barn. She told her guy to retrieve it, but he couldn’t locate it in time. Thing blew in a chemical fire.”

  Dylan’s pulse quickened. The location of the murder weapon had not been released to the public.

  Either this anonymous tipster had got his information direct from the homicide cops, or he really did know who’d killed Sam.

  “What’s in it for this guy?” said Dylan.

  “We don’t know yet. But whatever his motivation for spilling the beans, it gives us something to work with. And the pieces do fit.”

  “An anonymous tip is not going to get us a warrant to get at Fairchild’s payroll and bank records to see who she might be paying under the table, Matt.”

  “Try squeezing the family, rattling her staff, see if you can shake anything loose about the identity of this lackey. Really put the pressure on, and something may give. Let Fairchild know you’re going to get a bedside hearing into Elias Memorial and charge her as soon as she’s well enough. Make her believe that when she does leave that hospital it’ll be straight for a correctional centre in Sydney where she’ll await trial without bail. Make her think that if she coughs up her accomplice there could be a plea bargain on the horizon. Then we work the accomplice into giving her up, play one off against the other.”

  Dylan hooked the phone back onto his belt and called for Muttley again as he climbed the stairs to his front door, flagstone warm under his bare feet.

  Caruthers was right. It did fit. Almost too perfectly. He could rattle Louisa’s cage on that one, especially if she felt guilt over the horses.

  He needed to question Fairchild and the Lochlain staff again, see if he could find out who might be working under the table for Louisa. If this tip was genuine, her accomplice would likely be someone who knew his—or her—way around Lochlain Racing well enough to know where to find the security CD. He or she was probably also a recognizable face around both farms.

  Whoever the tipster was, he clearly wanted to see Louisa go down for this, and it added another uncomfortable dimension to the case for Dylan. Because if the guy wanted her nailed so badly, could it be remotely possible she was being framed for some reason?

  This homicide was beginning to feel a lot bigger than a simple feud over water.

  Dylan changed into his uniform, and went to find Heidi. She was watching TV, her sketch pad on her lap, and on the page was an evocative black-and-white impression of Anthem being led by a woman with long hair. A woman who looked an awful lot like Megan.

  “Nice,” he said, looking over her shoulder.

  She said nothing.

  “Who is the lady?”

  “Mum.”

  Dylan’s heart bottomed out. Heidi hadn’t seen a photo of her mother in years. She was superimposing Megan’s image onto something in her imagination. He swallowed against the tightening in his throat. “It’s a nice drawing.”

  She remained silent.

  He ruffled her hair, and she pulled away, staring at the TV.

  Dylan inhaled deeply, went into his office and pulled out the papers from the old divorce kit. He set them on his desk and stared at them—papers Sally had long ago signed and returned for him to initial before forwarding copies back to her.

  He never had.

  He wasn’t sure why not.

  Perhaps it was his innate resistance to divorce in general. He’d seen firsthand what it could do to a family. Or perhaps it was because he was a lifer—for him marriage simply meant forever.

  Or maybe it was because he had wanted somehow to leave the doors open for Heidi to connect with her mother.

  That hadn’t happened.

  And the way Heidi was bringing her mother up now was unhealthy. She was going to get burned if she tried to reconnect with Sally at this point. If Dylan was truly honest with himself, he’d known in his heart from the night Sally walked out that she would never have anything more to do with either of them again.

  Ever.

  He looked up, out the window, stared at the gums on the ridge, the family of kangaroos grazing there. And he couldn’t say why, but he picked up that pen, and scribbled his signature across the requisite pages.

  Then he unlocked his top drawer, pulled out his address book, flipped it open and copied Sally’s London address onto a large white envelope. He slid the papers inside.

  And he blew out a heavy breath.

  He’d get it into the mail tomorrow.

  He walked out the door, feeling an odd lightness inside. In spite of everything else going on in his life, part of him had just broken free.

  Megan lobbed the ball back at Patrick, muscles burning, sweat plastering her tennis dress to her stomach, breath rasping in her lungs. He returned it with a sharp crack of a backhand, and she burst into a sprint to the left of the court, missing the ball as it singed the asphalt in a puff of fine dust just inside the line.

  “Christ, Patrick—” she rested her hands on her knees, panting, laughing “—you’ve really been keeping in shape all these years.”

  He chuckled from the other side of the court, bouncing another ball, getting ready to serve again. “You’re getting soft, little sister.”

  “I am not!” She stood, shoving damp tendrils back from her forehead, relishing the warm burn in her body. She’d needed to hit something and work up a sweat after encountering Dylan half-naked yesterday. She hadn’t got that wound up about a man in a long time. Her body was still humming with pent-up adrenaline.

  “Ready?” he called from the other end of the court.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m ready,” she called back, widening her stance, bending her body forward, rocking slightly from side to side, both hands on the racket, eye on the ball.

  He tossed it up into the air, sliced at it with his racket. She lunged, swinging at empty air as the ball zinged past in a yellow-green blur.

  He laughed. “Give up yet?”

  She swiped the back of her wrist across her forehead, smiling. “Not on your life, baby.”

  And he lobbed another ball, this time easy and well within he
r reach. “Tell me about this cop,” he yelled as he swung through.

  And she missed instantly.

  “Damn it, Patrick,” she yelled, angry more at her complex feelings for the cop than the fact he’d made her lose focus and miss the ball. “What do you mean, anyway?”

  He came up to the net, gorgeous, tanned, healthy, his brown hair gleaming under the sun. “A tad defensive, are we?”

  “Comes from missing the ball,” she retorted.

  He grinned. “Good game, sis. Thanks.”

  She walked alongside him on the other side of the net. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Much too long.” He shot her a look. “Told you it would be good to come.”