Breaking Free (Thoroughbred Legacy #10)

by Loreth Anne White

  Dylan stopped suddenly, forcing her to halt, too. “Why’d you laugh when you were lying on the ground?” He looked directly into her eyes, but at the same time he appeared to be cognizant of her hands, her lips, her legs—everything about her—in that all-consuming cop way.

  Her pulse quickened. “I might ask why you didn’t come to my rescue, officer,” she said softly.

  “I almost did. But as I reached the fence, and you started laughing, it dawned on me you were not the one that needed rescuing.”

  “Who did?”

  Dylan was silent for a moment, then a dry smile crossed his lips. “Me, perhaps.”

  She angled her head, curious. “How so?”

  “I was pretty mesmerized by you on that horse, Megan.”

  Why was he telling her this?

  She flushed unexpectedly, and a shaft of heat shot clear through to Dylan’s groin. She turned, walked away. Too fast.

  Dylan blew out a long, steady breath, gathering himself before going after her. The woman had a way of unhinging him.

  “I laughed,” she said as he caught up with her, “because I realized Louisa had given me Breaking Free as a test. She damn well knew he’d throw me. Eventually.”

  “A test to see if you are worthy of her cash?”

  This time she halted, faced him square. Her green eyes sparked. “For the record,” she said tightly, “my grandmother Betty left a sizeable legacy of her own. Sorry to disappoint you, Serge, but Patrick and I are not the desperate money-grubbers you seem to want us to be.”

  A volatile tension swelled thick between them as they locked eyes in silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  She watched him for a beat. “Why did you come here today, Sergeant? What do you really want?”

  You. Pressed naked against me, dirt and all. Right here, right now.

  “The missing pieces of the puzzle, Megan,” he said, his voice rough. He held up his list of Fairchild employee names. “I want to talk to the estate staff again. I need to know who might have had access to Louisa’s .38.”

  A sharp flash lit her eyes. “So you do think her gun may have been stolen? That Louisa may have had nothing to do with Sam’s death?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her they’d received a tip that her aunt had paid someone to cover up the murder, and that he was looking for an accomplice now.

  “It’s a possibility,” he said, guilt edging into him as he saw hope widen her clear green eyes, their color even lighter, more bewitching, against the contrasting dark streaks of dirt on her face. Dylan could see she was going to develop one hell of a bruise on her chin. Her helmet strap had also cut a raw mark under her neck in the hard fall. The image of her astride the black stallion sifted into his brain again. “It would be easier to determine the truth, Megan,” he said softly, “if your aunt quit throwing up legal blocks.” He moved closer to her, every molecule in his body inexorably drawn to touching that bruise, every instinct warning him not to.

  “If I could interview the Fairchild staff,” he said, voice lowering an octave, “I might also learn who has a link to Lochlain Racing, because whoever took that security tape knew his or her way around Lochlain’s systems.” He shrugged abruptly. “But it looks like D’Angelo has put paid to that, because getting a warrant until I have more to go on could be tough.”

  He turned to go.

  “Wait,” she said suddenly.

  He stilled, turned slowly back to face her, guilt deepening at playing her like this.

  “Do you think I’m a fool, Sergeant?” She drew her shoulders back as she spoke. Under her snug white T-shirt her nipples were still tight from exertion, adrenaline. “Do you think I can’t see you’re manipulating me for information?”

  She reached forward, snatched the list from his hand. “I’ll look through it, let you know if anything jumps out at me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want this to get to court, that’s why. Because I want you to find who killed Sam, and to lay off trying to charge Louisa before D’Angelo makes a bloody legal mess of everyone’s lives. Just don’t play me for an idiot.” Her eyes crackled with sexy anger. “I’m your last resort, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

  Silence thrummed between them.

  He stepped closer, reached up suddenly, and touched her chin. “You should put some ice on that,” he whispered.

  Megan’s mouth opened, soundlessly, desire rushing so hot and fast and heavy through her body, it rooted her boots to the ground.

  And then he was gone.

  She blew out a shaky breath, and Patrick’s words whispered through her mind. Be careful, Megan. This could get messy. D’Angelo plans on nailing this guy big-time…

  She stared at his broad back as he strode up the lawn with aggressive purpose. The sexiest darn guy she’d run into in years. What in heaven did she think she was doing getting into bed with him like this? Going against Louisa’s law firm? Against her brother? She was playing with fire.

  But her gut told her it was the right thing. They were all being as stubborn as Breaking Free when he’d first been led into that ring this afternoon.

  But she’d brought the stallion round.

  Could she do the same with the cop?

  Or was she “overmounting,” the term for choosing a horse beyond your expertise or skill.

  If that was the case, she was in serious trouble.

  “That police officer came by today,” Patrick said over dinner.

  Megan raised her eyes, stopped chewing for a moment.

  It was just the two of them enjoying a quiet meal together in the solarium, specially prepared by Louisa’s head chef François. Megan waited for François’s assistant to pour the wine, tension shimmering softly as the liquid splashed into the glass, bouncing candlelight.

  “He said he wanted to talk to the staff.” Patrick’s eyes held hers once the assistant had left.

  She nodded.

  “Then he asked if you were in. He said it was personal.”

  She poked at her salad with a fork. “I told you, I offered his kid a horse to ride here.”

  “Does Louisa know?”

  “Not that she’s his daughter.”

  “Megan—”

  “Don’t worry, Patrick. I can handle him.”

  “He’s using you, Megan. He’s using you to get at all of us.”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “Maybe, Patrick, I am using him.”

  He regarded her steadily.

  “Are you only concerned about the inheritance, Patrick? When did you get so damn cold?” She got up, threw her linen napkin to the table, and started to walk out.

  “Megs—” He caught hold of her hand. “I’m concerned about you,” he said in a big-brother-gentle tone she hadn’t heard for years. It brought moisture to her eyes, and an unarticulated longing. She swallowed.

  “He’s a good-looking single guy, Megan,” he said quietly. “But right now, he’s also dangerous.”

  She studied Patrick. “He’s dangerous to your money, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve fallen for him.”

  She moistened her lips. “If I’m falling for anything, Patrick, it’s this valley. This farm. The horses. I’m beginning to think how nice it might be to raise a family out here, okay?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised her hand to stop him. “And don’t tell me you haven’t thought the same thing. This place, this land, it’s infectious.”

  “That’s exactly why Dylan Hastings is a threat, Megs. If we let him put Louisa away, we could lose it all.”

  Dylan sat at the round oak table with his mother and Heidi, Muttley resting on his foot, and Megan on his mind.

  “Dad?”

  “What?” he said, irritated to have been distracted, once again, by the sensual memory of Megan on that horse. He’d become obsessed this evening with trying to articulate why the voyeuristic vignette had wrought such a mess inside him, why
he’d dared cross the line by touching her face like that.

  But deep down he knew why.

  He’d fallen for Megan Stafford. A woman who represented everything he had no taste for.

  And that meant he was in trouble. Again.

  “Dad, are you listening? There’s a big school dance coming up. It’s, like, the event of the year, and I’m giving you plenty of warning because Zach has asked me to go.”

  “Zach?”

  “Zach Harrison.”

  Dylan made a mental note to vet the Harrison family as he cleared the dishes from the table. He should have done it ages ago.

  “The dinner was wonderful,” he said, giving his mum a kiss on the cheek.

  “It was Timmy’s favorite,” she said.

  Dylan stilled. “You’re thinking a lot about Timmy, aren’t you, Mum?”

  He could feel Heidi watching as she packed the plates into the dishwasher. His mother’s eyes clouded for a moment as she cast her memory back, her brow furrowing slightly in confusion. She looked embarrassed. “Not really. It’s…just that it’s autumn, and it was March when…when he…”

  He cupped her cheek. “I know,” he said softly. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “Sometimes it feels like just yesterday. It…muddles me up.” Her eyes filled with moisture.

  And that told Dylan she was feeling the pain all over again.

  He went into his office to look up the number of the psychiatric specialist in Sydney. It was time his mother saw him again. They’d warned him her dementia might progress, that she might increasingly lose touch with reality, blurring the past with the present as her short-term memory went.

  Her mental illness was a direct result of his brother’s brutal sexual assault and murder. A part of his mother had retreated into herself that day. And her condition had gotten slowly worse over the years, exacerbated now by age.

  It might never have happened if Louisa had allowed his family to see justice done. But because her high-priced lawyers had brilliantly—and successfully—defended a murderer and a child molester, his parents had been denied the chance to heal. To put Liam and the tragedy properly to rest.

  And for that he blamed Louisa. He hated her.

  As Dylan approached his desk he noticed Heidi’s Snoopy pencil lying on it. He tensed. She’d been in here.

  That meant she’d have seen the envelope addressed to her mother.

  Had she opened it? Seen the signed divorce papers?

  He flicked his gaze over the rest of his desk, noting his leather-bound address book was open at Sally’s name.

  He may have left it like that himself—he couldn’t be sure.

  He traced his fingertips softly over the surface of the notepad lying next to it, feeling the indentations. He ripped off the top page, held it to the desk lamp.

  And he saw the impression left by Sally’s residential and e-mail addresses. Written in Heidi’s hand.

  He went into the living room. Heidi was busy on the computer, and she quickly shut down a file as she heard him approach.

  “What?” she said, confrontationally.

  “You expecting e-mail?”

  “My e-mail is private.”

  “Like my office?”

  Her eyes gave her away.

  “Do you want to talk, Heidi?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, getting up and marching towards the stairs on the verge of tears.

  Dylan nodded, feeling once again that no matter how hard he tried to rein everything in, it was becoming impossible to stop his kid from slipping out of his grasp.

  He thought of Megan astride that black stallion. She hadn’t controlled the massively powerful horse through subjugation or force, but by letting him free in increments, with soft flicks of her wrist, trusting him enough not to bolt.

  She could probably teach him a thing or two.

  On her way up to bed, Megan scooped up the mail that Mrs. Lipton had left for Louisa in the hall.

  She’d take it to the hospital tomorrow, as Louisa had requested. She flipped through the envelopes as she climbed the wide staircase to her guest quarters, pausing on the steps as a British stamp snared her attention.

  Curious, Megan lifted the envelope to study the image. The red-ink postmark showed it had been mailed in Edinburgh. There was nothing unusual about that. Louisa’s pile of mail consistently bore postmarks from as far afield as Dubai, London, New York—she did business around the world. But the design of the stamp had caught Megan’s eye. It was the artwork of an emerging young Scottish impressionist whose work she’d bid on just last month in London for one of her private clients.

  Megan smiled, immensely pleased to see “her” artist being nationally recognized this way. She still knew how to pick a winner.

  She set the mail on her dresser and changed for sleep. She’d take the letters to Louisa before paying Dylan a visit at the Pepper Flats station tomorrow.

  She’d seen several names on the employee list that would interest him, and she’d thought of a few more that were not on the list, casual hires who were paid under the table, according to Mrs. Lipton.

  Nothing escaped that woman’s attention.

  Lying back on the freshly laundered Egyptian-cotton sheets, listening to the wind whispering in the gum leaves outside, Megan tentatively fingered the bruise on her chin, wincing slightly.

  It was where Dylan had touched her.

  In more ways than one.

  Patrick was right.

  She’d fallen for the cop. In the most basic way. And she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Dylan was on the phone speaking to a volunteer firefighter mate about Zach Harrison’s parents when Megan entered the Pepper Flats station.

  Outwardly calm, he felt his heart kick at the sight of her.

  He raised his hand, motioned for her to let herself in and come round to the reception area. His civilian admin assistant had already left for the day and he was alone in the station.

  From the corner of his eye Dylan watched her saunter up to his desk in the way that only some women could—with a mix of catlike elegance and casual grace, the whole mix simmering with latent sex appeal.

  She was wearing faded designer jeans, strappy sandals and a sun-yellow shirt cut low at the neck. Freshly washed hair hung softly about her shoulders. She smiled at him, a toothpaste-ad smile that reached with a twinkle into her apple-green eyes, and Dylan’s mouth turned instantly dry.

  He cleared his throat and thanked his mate, blood pounding softly against his temples as he signed off and returned her smile. “Sorry about that,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Family stuff. Please, take a seat.”

  “Heidi?” she asked, taking the chair across from his desk, making him instantly aware of his body, the temperature of the room and the fact they were alone. Dylan wasn’t sure if he was safe from himself around this woman.

  He ran his hand over his hair, thinking she looked like a bloody health commercial—something that was supposed to be good for you. Except that what she was doing to his body and mind was purely bad.

  For his case.

  For his career.

  For his family.

  “Heidi has a big school dance coming up,” he said, seating himself. “I was vetting a prospective date.”

  “Zach Harrison?”

  Surprise rippled through him. “You know Zach?”

  The corner of her mouth curved up, and be damned if he didn’t go hot. “Girl stuff,” she said. “Heidi told me about Zach and the dance when she came to ride at Fairchild this afternoon. She’s really good on a horse, you know?”

  So are you.

  He shifted slightly in his seat, squaring his shoulders. “You left a message to say you found something on that employee list?”

  “Yes.” Megan opened her purse, and extracted the list. “Lady Manners is a great horse for Heidi, but she’s still fretting over Anthem,” Megan said, unfol
ding the piece of paper. “I’ve organized to have him transported to Fairchild—”

  “What?” Dylan looked up in shock.

  “With your permission, of course.” She leaned forward, and he tried not to see what that did to her cleavage. “Heidi and I phoned the Lochlain vet this afternoon, and he agreed Anthem would benefit from an environment where she isn’t subjected to the stress of the other injured horses and the scent of old fire. The vet said she’s an unusually sensitive and intuitive animal, and a move to a calm environment like Fairchild Acres, with hand-walking several times a day and lots of love, could make a world of difference.” Megan held his eyes steadily. “I have the perfect place for her, Dylan, and I have time to do that for Heidi and Anthem,” she said. “If you’ll let me.”