He studied her for a moment before lifting a shoulder. “Mom didn’t have the money to send me to school. No one from our family ever went to college. Everyone worked here at the track at one time or another. Then when mom got sick—Well, I had to stick around. It’s okay. It all worked out.” He returned to his book.
She felt bad for him. He was stuck with Keystone Downs—the same way she was.
She picked up the left-behind book and perused the pages. Her eyes narrowed. She recognized a word here or there. Easy words like: to, the, and, it, and horse. She knew that word well, that was a word that was on almost every sign around the racetrack, “horse”. But the rest she couldn’t decipher. Wishing she could, she shrugged. She replaced the book on the bucket and shuffled back to the bale of straw, and pile of dirty bridles.
Charlie Rich crooned, “Behind closed doors ...” Sighing, she submitted to hum along as if she had a choice in the matter.
The early evening sunshine sliced into the barn when the door creaked open. The backwash of bright light provided only the silhouette of a man standing in the threshold. His broad shoulders eased down through his slender hips. “Hey, Margie, what’s going on?” Mike West’s voice carried like a song down the aisle.
Her face lit-up. She pitched the rag to the floor, brushed back a frock of hair from her eyes, and wiped her hands on her cruddy jeans. “Hi, Mike. What brings you by?” She tried to smother a nervous giggle.
“Coco’s horses.” He walked down the aisle to perch his boot on the bale next to her.
Margie’s face drooped. Her shoulders slumped. She snatched up the rag and returned to her chore. Coco Beardmore, no freaking kidding. “My father ain’t here, and I don’t know when he’ll be back,” she said with a cool, clipped tone.
“I was hoping you could help me,” he said with an easy smile.
Stopping in mid-chore, she peered at him askance. “With what?”
“How smart is that big grey gelding, Charlatan?”
Margie sighed. After contemplating Mike’s question, and his gorgeous, piercing hazel eyes for a moment; she tossed the rag to the floor with a disgusted groan.
Oh, it isn’t him. It’s me, and the fact that I can’t help myself. True, Mike West would never give me the time of day unless he needed something. Why should he? Look at him, just look at him, he’s fabulous. What’s wrong with Ava West? Carrying on with other men the way she does. If I had Mike, I’d never look at another man.
She stood up. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Following her toward the stable office, he glanced down with surprise at her attractive figure. She was slender and tall. Her ripped jeans resembled the designer label called hard freaking work, but they clung to her tight shapely buttocks. He noticed the startling gentle sway of her hips when she walked.
She stopped abruptly at the office door and turned to him. Suddenly nose-to-nose with unattractive end of Margie O’Conner, he jumped back, which sent him tumbling over a bale of hay. He landed sprawled on his back into the dirt.
“Coco rubbing off on you?” Chuckling, she held out her rugged man-hand, but he managed to scramble to his feet without touching her. She opened the door to the office and invited him inside with a chilled nod.
Doug O’Conner’s office was pretty much a reflection of its owner: old and crusty. The walls were paneled with dirty rough-cut lumber. Faded win pictures hung crooked on the walls among weathered bridles and dirty clipboards. A beat-up desk littered with tattered race programs, ashtrays filled to the brim with crushed half-smoked cigarette butts, filthy coffee mugs, and several empty cans of Copenhagen filled one corner. A brick substituting for one of the legs was stuffed under a corner of the desk.
Covered with a thick layer of dust, a small black-and-white TV and an old VCR rested on a rickety stand next to the desk. Margie gestured to a scarred wooden chair near it, but Mike politely declined with a wave of his hand.
She pushed the door closed with a loud clap. Uncomfortable with being in a small, closed-in room with her, Mike flinched. The anxiety etched on his face did not go unnoticed, but she let him off the hook and got to the business at hand.
“Every morning we’d come into a wrecked barn,” she said, “Charlatan and his friends would really work the place over every night.” She slipped a battered tape into the VCR. “Dad got sick of it, so we set-up a close-circuit TV to see who the smarty-pants in the group was. Watch this.” She poked a screw driver into a hole where the power button used to be and turned it, the screen lit up to a dull gray.
A wobbly image of the barn aisle filled the screen. Gradually, a stall door jerked, bumped, and then slid open. Charlatan stepped out of his stall and meandered down the aisle while plucking mouthfuls of hay from the bales stacked along the walls.
Stopping at a stall, he nuzzled the horse through the bars. Then, with proficiency, he unlatched the stall door with his teeth, and slid it open. Repeating the routine, he continued down the aisle until five horses wandered freely through the barn to munch on the stacked bales and knock over pitchforks, wheelbarrows, and buckets of water.
“Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve got a regular Houdini on our hands.” Mike was most impressed.
“He’s very smart,” she said. “Funny how he only lets out some of the horses. His buddies, I guess.”
“We’ll fix that.”
“Good luck.”
Mike turned from the TV. She was so close to him that her breath feathered his face. He swiftly eased away. “Well, thanks for the information, Margie.”
“Sure.” She looked into those mysterious hazel eyes. He’s uncomfortable, but maybe if he got to know me better, that would change. She wanted it so badly to change that she decided to take a leap. “Hey, Mike, I’m making my famous fried chicken for supper. Dad will be at the bar for a while. You wanna come over?”
Now Mike’s body language was shrieking. His eyes immediately darted to the closed door. Struggling, he stammered for words. “Oh … I’d love to, Margie …” What luck! He remembered his other engagement. “I’m having dinner with Coco tonight. Maybe some other time.”
By the look on Margie’s face, he knew the words didn’t come out well. They sure as hell didn’t go over big.
She bit her lip and dropped her gaze to the floor. Abruptly, she lifted her chin, marched to the door, and yanked it open. “Sure.”
“Thanks again, Margie.” He scooted out the door as fast as he could.
She slammed the door behind him and leaned against it. Her breath boomed inside her head and chest. Much to her own surprise, she wasn’t feeling helplessly contrite like she usually did when she saw him in the shed rows, and he didn’t acknowledge her. After all, it was no secret—not even to her—that she was no raving beauty.
No, she was feeling rather unabashed and resentful. Hot tears welled in her eyes. Maybe Ava isn’t so crazy. Cocky, that’s what he is. Maybe Ava gave him just what he deserved. I’d like to give him what he deserves. Not really, I’d like to give him anything he wants.
Those very thoughts angered her more than Mike’s rejection.
She ripped the rubber band that held her ponytail out of her hair. Her long locks tumbled wildly over her shoulders when she raked her harried hands through it. One furious kick sent the rickety chair toppling over. She grabbed several of the empty Copenhagen cans and hurled them at the small TV. With a swipe of one arm, she sent the race programs flying from the desk to scatter over the floor.
She stopped and buried her face in her hands. Men like Mike West only look at beautiful women. How do they put it? “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly is to the bone.” Is that how he sees me? Bone ugly?
Needing to calm down, she picked up the chair and plopped down in it. A long sigh escaped her and she wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks.
It is what it is, she ruef
ully decided.
Mike hurried from the O’Conner stable. He wanted to get as much distance between him and Margie’s dinner invitation as possible.
He was concerned that there may be a small calculated risk in having dinner at Coco’s place with her preparing the dinner—on a stove.
Actually, he was feeling bad. He had hurt Margie’s feelings. C’mon. She didn’t really think I wanted to have dinner with her. Not that she isn’t a perfectly nice person. She just isn’t my type. I’m not sure whose type she would be.
Mike’s guilt-trip was interrupted when he bumped into Scott and sent the poor guy to the pavement. He whipped his hand out to help him up. “Sorry, man, I didn’t see you.”
“No problem.” Scott was jovial as always. “What’re you doing here?”
“I came by to see Margie.”
Scott’s voice sounded stiff. “Margie?”
Mike found the change in his tone and the look in his eyes surprising. It was the look of suspicion and jealousy. How weird is that? “Yeah, again, sorry I knocked you over.” He clapped his hand on Scott’s shoulder while trying to smooth any ruffled feathers before hurrying on his way.
Shell-shocked, Scott stared while Mike disappeared around the corner. Why would Mike West ever want to spend five minutes with Margie? He pressed through the barn door at the same time she stepped out of the office. His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates at the sight of her adjusting her flannel shirt. Her hair was askew, her cheeks were flushed, and she wore a resolute expression in her eyes.
She stopped when she noticed him. “Scott, what’re you doing here?”
He stared at her for a moment before blinking hard. “I forgot my book.” He reached for the paperback on the bucket.
“Oh.” She hummed along with Tammy Wynette on the radio, “Stand by your man ...” while strolling down the aisle.
Five
Tilting back his head, the golden Cocker Spaniel let out a growl mixed with a whine while wagging his tail in an effort to capture Coco’s attention.
It was all for not.
She was much too busy caressing her plump lips with a pink blush lipstick. She sat back in the zebra-striped chair to admire her handiwork in the vanity mirror. Her blonde hair cascaded around her downy shoulders, and her supple breasts lifted from the black satin and lace bra.
The three-caret diamond stud earrings that her ex-husband, Henry, had given her for her thirtieth birthday winked at her from the open jewel box. She picked them up and dipped them into her earlobes. They glimmered in the soft glow of her bedroom.
Every time she wore the earrings she would think of her ex.
Henry Snodgrass was an investment counselor to some of the world’s most influential and wealthy people. Almost twenty-five years Coco’s senior, he had been widowed only four months when her father had introduced them at a Beardmore Industries’ Christmas cocktail party.
It was Henry who had opened up the world of Thoroughbred racing for her. He taught her how to read a racing form, handicap the ponies, and make an “educated” choice, or at least a good guess. That was four years ago.
With a sigh, she stood up and admired the lacey, black g-string she had purchased that afternoon.
Perfect.
When the doorbell rang, the Cocker Spaniel jumped to his feet and scampered down the stairs while barking like a Rottweiler. Quickly, Coco slipped into the saucy little black dress she had also purchased to go with the satin and lace bra, and the g-string. Creating cleavage sure to make Mike salivate, the little black dress clung to all the right places.
Perfect.
While waiting on the steps of Coco’s brownstone townhouse, Mike hoped his evening would be worth the trashed trailer and, anticipated, acute case of heartburn. He cocked his head when he heard what sounded like a large dog growling and barking from behind the lavishly beveled front door. He looked around at the townhouses with sporty Mercedes, Porsches, and BMW’s parked in their driveways before glancing over his shoulder at his pickup parked next to Coco’s wrecked SUV.
When the door finally opened the Cocker Spaniel sprung out to circle his legs while sniffing, barking, and snarling at him.
“Booger, behave.” Coco looked like forgiveness wrapped in a little black peel-me-off dress when she appeared in the doorway. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. Come in, Mike,” she said like a spider coaxing a fly.
She guided him through the foyer into a living room decked-to-the-hilt with stylish, French provincial furnishings. Following close behind, Booger sniffed and nipped at Mike’s legs.
Beautiful paintings hung on the walls in ornate frames. Mike knew exactly one thing about artwork: Jackshit. But it was obvious, even to him, that these pieces had come from a gallery, rather than a retail store. The vibrant colors splashed across the canvas were thick, and sweeping, and perhaps a little angry, that much he could appreciate—kinda.
A gilded mirror hung on the wall behind the sofa. Crystal framed photographs of Coco and her father filled the coffee tables. Classy.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” She slipped through the doorway into the kitchen.
Mike buried his hands into the pockets of his Levis and studied an abstract work of art on the wall. What the hell is that supposed to be?
Booger’s growl thinned to a low grouse. His curly ears perked, and he stomped his paws against the white carpet.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Purring cautiously at the spunky spaniel, he patted Booger on the head, and then turned his attention to a photo of Stanley Beardmore with his arms wrapped around Coco. Booger sprung at him and clamped his little body around Mike’s leg. Wagging his tiny tail, he humped and panted erotically.
Holy shit. Mike’s eyes widened. Shaking his leg frantically, he danced around the room while trying to free himself from the dog’s nirvanas grip. He braced against a table while kicking his leg; but Booger, enjoying the ride, hung on tight.
“Booger, that’s not nice.” Holding two full wine glasses, Coco trotted toward them. After hurriedly setting one of the glasses on the table, she slapped Booger on the top of his head, during which the wine in the glass splashed down Mike’s white shirt.
Booger shrunk away from his leg with a yelp and scampered out of the room with his tail-tucked between his legs.
“Oh Mike, I’m sorry!”
Hoping that he wouldn’t only have to imagine this butterfingered ballerina naked tonight, he took a deep breath. He truly hoped that it would be an evening of pleasure worth the abyss of calamities that seemed to suck her in.
“Quick, take that shirt off, and I’ll soak it in seltzer water.” She fumbled with the buttons until she opened the shirt to reveal his muscled pecks and tight abs. Her fingers fluttered over his shoulders and down his strong arms when she slipped the shirt from his torso. Blushing, she averted her gaze to the red stain on his shirt. She wet her pink, full lips and looked into his eyes. Good God, he’s setting me on fire. Can I make it through dinner?
Smiling, she brushed a wisp of his dark hair away from his brow. “I’ll be right back.”
Mike watched her trot up the stairs. His thoughts strayed to Ava’s cat. He hated that cat. She was an evil furry thing. He wasn’t exactly in love with Coco’s Cocker Spaniel. Go figure.
When he spied the glass on the table, he drank down the remaining wine to wet his dry mouth.
He heard her footsteps on the stairs, and she reappeared with a shirt draped over her arm. She held up the over-sized nightshirt, which she helped him slip into. Although it was large on her, it was a quite taut for him.
Stepping back to take a look, she giggled.
He looked down and groaned. The shirt was brown with pink lettering that read:
Chocolate and Men The Richer, The Better
“Well, it’s better than no
thing.” She felt how the shirt clung to his firm torso and outlined every detail of his pecs and abs. “Although, nothing would be fine, too.” Her hands traced his shoulders, down his arms, through his fingertips, and then lightly across the crotch of his jeans. “Come sit at the table,” she whispered. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Mike was feeling the heat, but he managed to ask, “What are we having?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I can hardly wait.”
She led him into a spacious, gourmet kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleamed in the bright lights. The white cabinetry swooped around dark, granite counters.
Mike took a seat at the table, which was dressed in white, satin linens and delicate, fine china. The light from the crystal chandelier glinted off the silverware.
Booger scooted under the table to mope.
The kitchen was most impressive, but when he sat at the table with a fresh glass of wine, it wasn’t the cabinetry that he was admiring. Christ, she looks so damned tasty in that tight little rip-it-off-me-now dress. He took a big gulp of wine and swallowed hard while trying to keep other hard things under wraps.
Coco carefully placed several pieces of meat into a skillet. It spit and sizzled in the hot oil. She cradled her wine glass in her fingers. “Your shirt should be ready for the dryer after dinner.”
“That’s fine.”
He felt the squeeze of the dog latching around his shin again. Sonofabitch. He kicked. The dog yelped. He grinned.
Coco was attracted to this handsome man sitting at her table. She was more aroused by the fact that he didn’t cancel their dinner date after she had smashed his horse trailer. He’s definitely a gentleman cowboy. How sexy is that? Her lips curled at the thought. With a sultry gleam in her sapphire eyes, she strode toward him.
More than the meat was sizzling.
Hot Coco Page 4
