Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  By the time the truck rolled in, she had set the kitchen table and poured them each a glass of red wine. The dogs lay on the shabby couch in the living room. The cat lay on top of them.

  “Pizza man!” he called from the door. All three animals raced to greet him.

  “No pizza for them,” she said. “They throw it up, and besides, I’m starving.”

  He set the box on the table, opened it and reached for his wine. “To our first day together. And to many more.”

  She felt herself blushing as they touched glasses.

  “So, do I suit, lass?”

  “Until something better comes along. No, seriously, you’re a godsend and you know it. We need to talk about a decent salary. I was thinking a full groom’s wages plus what I planned to pay Angie Womack to exercise. Plus the free room, of course, if we ever make it habitable.”

  He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “You’re a generous woman.”

  “You’re doing the work of at least two people, so you should receive the pay. Heck, I’d pay you just to keep Blockhead from yowling his head off all day.”

  “Why do you call him Blockhead? He’s got a lovely head.”

  “It’s his temperament. At least it was until you got hold of him. My new nephew-in-law, Mike Whitten, had never been around horses or the horse-show business before he met Liz, and he’s sort of ga-ga. And he adores her. He found out quite by accident that the big annual European Sport Horse Sale was taking place so off he went.”

  Jamey sat back, laughed gently and shook his head. “And bought the biggest blackest stallion he could. They must have seen him coming. The horse isn’t branded. I’d say he’s what—three, four years old?”

  “That’s the thing. Mike refuses to tell even Liz how much he paid, but I suspect it was a bundle. And the horse has no papers—none.”

  Jamey sat upright. No papers? That was a bonus. He wouldn’t have to prove forgery.

  “Some German farmer brought him to the show, auctioned him and disappeared the moment he signed the bill of sale,” Vic continued. “Without proof of ancestry, Mike can’t even enter him into the American Stallion Provings so that he can be approved as a breeding stallion after he’s trained.”

  “It’s high time other countries began to develop their own sport-horse breeds. The Irish do a fair job, but none of their horses are consistent enough to compete with the Europeans. The French are fairly successful, but a new breed registry requires a prepotent foundation stallion that’ll sire a line of horses as fine as he is—” Jamey stopped speaking abruptly and looked at her.

  “Well, go on. I agree with you. How do you propose to do that in one lifetime?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “It’s all theory. Too much for a saddle burn like me.”

  “Still, it’s a good idea. It would be fun to be a part of something like that.” She reached across to the kitchen counter and snagged the wine bottle. “Another glass to go with the last piece of pizza?”

  “Thank you. And tonight I clear away.”

  “Be my guest. I’ll make us some decaf.” She was aware of his eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen. She found herself holding her stomach in.

  As she set his cup before him and slid back into her seat, she said, “Marshall told me you’d had a run of bad luck lately.”

  He froze with his good hand halfway to his lips and stared at her over the rim with narrowed eyes. “What else did he tell you?”

  His voice was hard and flat.

  She stammered, “Th-that’s all, really. Something about losing your brother?”

  He set the cup down and closed his eyes. When he opened them a millisecond later, he’d put his pleasant expression back in place. “Killed in an automobile accident a couple of years ago south of Lyons in France while I was in hospital with this.” He held up his gloved hand. “Along with my wife.”

  She realized she wanted him to be unencumbered by wives, fiancées or even casual girlfriends. Unlikely.

  She said, “I’m so sorry. Both of them? At the same time?”

  “They were in the same car. Mine, as it happens.”

  “While you were in the hospital? In Scotland?”

  “Yes. Let’s drop it, shall we?”

  “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anybody waiting for you now in Scotland?” Vic felt a jolt. Of course he’d have a wife at his age. Did he have a second wife now? Someone waiting patiently for him back in Oban? She’d never asked.

  “Indeed there is.”

  Her heart fell.

  “My father’s brother, Hamish, the stereotypical big braw Scotsman, and my mother’s brother, Vlado, who is about half as big and twice as feisty. They’re keeping up the place while I’m gone. And as many relatives as there are grains of sand on the beach at Dover.”

  No wife, then. Or none he planned to tell her about. She sighed in relief.

  “So, boss-lass, do you have a deck of cards?”

  She laughed. “Sure. You play gin?”

  “Two-handed poker. It’s early yet. We could play for matchsticks if you’ve got ’em.”

  “We could play for a penny a point if you prefer.”

  He shook his head.

  “Hey, I’ll have you know I am a veteran of any number of tack-room poker games.”

  “Get the cards and the matchsticks.”

  An hour later Vic was down to five matchsticks, while Jamey’s pile threatened to roll off the kitchen table onto the floor.

  “Full house,” he said, laid his cards down and pulled the small pile of matchsticks onto his side of the table.

  She tossed hers down. “Two lousy pairs. Shoot! How do you do that?”

  He leaned back in his chair, hooked his good hand in his belt, and smiled a lazy smile at her. “I could win this place off you before morning if I had a mind to.”

  “You’re cheating. You’ve marked the cards somehow.”

  “No. The cards aren’t marked. Do you know what a ‘tell’ is?”

  “No idea.”

  He leaned across the table and gently touched his index finger to the left corner of her mouth. “Every time you bluff or draw to an inside straight or try to fill a flush, you poke the tiniest bit of your tongue out the corner of your mouth.”

  “I do not.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. And when you think you’ve got a pat hand I cannot possibly beat, you hold the cards straight up like this,” he demonstrated, “and take a single deep breath before you bet.”

  She felt the flush start around her toenails.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Those are your tells, sweetheart. I could tell you were lying across a crowded room if you were talking to the Queen of England.”

  “Dammit!” She reached over with both hands and scooped up his matchsticks, then bolted out of her chair and into the living room waving her clenched fists above her head. “You cheated! I win!”

  He whooped and charged after her. “Come back here with my winnings!”

  The dogs began to bark frantically and joined in the chase.

  “No fair!” She skittered around the corner and into her bedroom.

  He slid after her.

  They both fell on the bed howling with laughter.

  He grabbed the fists she had clenched over her head and rolled her over. “Never steal from a Gypsy, darling. We’ll cast the evil eye on you.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  So did he.

  She could feel the weight of his body on hers. He was suddenly dead serious, those black eyes boring into hers. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, wanted to drown in his eyes, feel the strength of his hands holding her wrists.

  His kiss was hard, demanding, forcing her lips against her teeth. Without her will, her lips parted for his questing tongue, which she met with her own. Her body writhed beneath him as though it had developed a mind separate from her brain. He was hard against her belly, his thighs against hers, his chest against her breasts. She couldn’t br
eathe.

  Her loins ached.

  The strength went out of her.

  An instant later he rolled off her, stood and turned away. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.”

  She raised herself on her elbows. Her breath shuddered in her throat. “You didn’t do it alone.”

  He didn’t turn to look at her. “And I’ve wanted to do it since the moment I saw you. I just didn’t realize how much until this minute. Forgive me.”

  “For what? Things got a little out of hand. Big deal. Call it the wine.”

  “I’ll sleep in the barn.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep upstairs.” She went to him, stood behind him without touching him and said softly, “You’re a gentleman, Jamey McLachlan. And my guest. You’re not the sort of man to betray a hostess.”

  He turned to look at her with anguish in his eyes. “Don’t count on that, lass.” He strode to the front door and took his jacket from the coat rack. “I’ll walk down to the barn and check on things. Be back in a few minutes.”

  THE NIGHT HAD TURNED bitter with a three-quarter moon riding in a sky so full of stars it seemed to pulse. His hands in his pockets for warmth, Jamey loped down the hill to the stable. How could he have been so stupid?

  How could she?

  It was her fault. She was too damned trusting, too damned sexy, too damned appealing, and she didn’t even have sense enough to know it!

  They were both too hungry, that was the problem. His wife had been dead more than two years. Not that she’d been particularly interested in lovemaking—well, not with him, at any rate. But then, he’d never been able to turn her on the way little brother Robert apparently had.

  And according to Hamish, Vic’s husband had been a loudmouth brute.

  Jamey should be shouting for joy. Her vulnerability would make his job a hell of a lot easier. If he took her to bed and did it right, he’d have her climbing on a horse again merely to please him so that he would continue to please her. He’d have her lending him a trailer and truck and practically begging him to steal the stallion.

  He leaned against a tree. He couldn’t do it. Not that he didn’t want Vic. He did. He wanted her as he had not wanted another woman in years. But he simply could not allow himself to make love to her—assuming she’d let him—and betray her afterward. She deserved better. She deserved a man who valued her. A man who saw what she needed and met those needs. A man who would cosset and protect and adore her. Someone who would give her the respect her first husband had not.

  Not a man who intended to force her to conquer her greatest fears, then rob her blind.

  He walked into the darkened stable and listened for a moment to the stampings and snufflings of the sleeping horses. He leaned over Roman’s stall door and began to whistle a tune under his breath. The stallion sauntered over to have his forehead scratched. “What am I going to do about you, old son?” he asked.

  The stallion wickered softly.

  “I owe Jock McLachlan his dream. He left it to me when he left me the yard. And I want it for him—want you for him, if you’re all I think you can be.

  But does it have to be at the expense of my honor and Vic’s trust?

  CHAPTER SIX

  “HEY, COOL MOTORCYCLE!” Albert’s nephew Kenny said as he walked into Vic’s office the following morning. “Who’s it belong to?”

  Vic jumped guiltily. Above her head she could hear the scrape of furniture being dragged across the floor. Jamey was safely out of Kenny’s way. What Kenny didn’t see, he didn’t report to Albert, and what Albert didn’t know, he wouldn’t worry about.

  In many ways, having a protector the size and shape of Albert was a godsend, but there were times when she wished he had a bit less Doberman in him and a bit more spaniel.

  “Hey, Kenny,” Vic said. “The motorcycle belongs to one of the clients. He’s leaving it here while he’s out of town.” She didn’t normally tell bald-faced lies, but this was an emergency. Albert did not need to climb out of a sickbed to check her out. “How’s Albert? Is somebody looking after him and Linette?”

  “They’re fine. Well, not fine. Albert’s fussing when he’s not asleep, which is mostly. Linette is getting over it, but she still feels pretty achy. Albert sent me over this morning on my way to school to see if you needed me this afternoon to muck out stalls and stuff.”

  “You’ve got your hands full with college, young man. And I’m managing fine.”

  “Has that disloyal Benito come back from Juarez yet?”

  Vic laughed. “He’s not disloyal. He was just homesick. How would you like to be a thousand miles from your family at Christmas? He’ll probably show up again in March when his money runs out and the weather’s warmer. You have to admit, he works hard when he’s here.”

  “Yeah. Well, Albert says y’all have got to have somebody you can count on. This place is too big to run with just y’all.”

  “I’m looking, Kenny, but in the meantime having you to help out on the weekends is plenty. I promise you, I am not suffering. Tell Albert to relax and enjoy being poorly, and tell Linette not to brain him if he starts complaining. I’ll call later this afternoon.”

  Overhead something crashed. “What’s that?” Kenny asked, looking in the direction of the noise. “You got possums or something up there?”

  Vic stood and quickly moved him out into the hall. “Just one of the clients hunting for something. Don’t worry.” She practically shoved him toward the front door. “Go to school before you’re late. And thanks for stopping by.”

  He moved, still glancing over his head. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I promise. Now scat.”

  She waved as Kenny’s ancient Toyota wound its way down the driveway. Close one. She knew she was borrowing only a small amount of time with Jamey McLachlan until somebody snitched to Albert or, even worse, to Liz or Mike in Florida. She hoped it wouldn’t dawn on Kenny that the only vehicle outside the stable had been her old truck. Any client upstairs would have had to materialize out of thin air.

  Vic had sworn Angie to secrecy over lunch, and Angie was usually trustworthy. But people kept doing stuff for Vic’s own good. As though she were some ditzy idiot who needed protecting from her own bad decisions.

  Well, hiring Jamey McLachlan had so far proved to be the best decision for ValleyCrest she’d made since she convinced Mike Whitten to set up an after-school riding program for his daughter and her classmates. That had eventually resulted in Liz and Mike’s marriage, and his daughter Pat’s great strides as a junior rider. And muchneeded solvency for ValleyCrest, which had suffered after Vic’s husband, Frank, an internationally ranked trainer, had died suddenly.

  She had no intention of using any of Mike’s money to subsidize ValleyCrest, but she took a certain amount of comfort in knowing that he had offered to bail them out if necessary.

  As it was, he was paying for the renovation of the old family home and for some repainting and repair to the cottage.

  For the first time in her life, Vic found herself with no one looking over her shoulder. She’d always considered herself to be tough-minded and independent, but in reality she’d been under her grandmother’s thumb, then under Frank’s, and then there were Albert and Liz and the clients and Lord knew who else. Sometimes she felt as though the entire world spent its time pulling on her, demanding her attention.

  She couldn’t boss Albert or Liz. Actually, they usually did the bossing. She hated confrontations with either of them.

  But Jamey worked for her.

  Well, sort of.

  She’d been in her room with the door shut when he returned from the barn last night, and had heard him mount the stairs to his bedroom. This morning he’d been gone before she got up. The man apparently didn’t require as much sleep as the average raccoon.

  So far today she had not seen him—only the evidence of his presence. Morning chores were already complete. Amazing. He must be physically exhausted.

 
That made them quite a pair, since she felt psychologically exhausted. “Oh, help!” she said softly.

  “What with?”

  She jumped as Jamey landed beside her from the ladder.

  This morning he wore jeans and paddock boots. He’d thrown a pair of leather chaps over the wash-rack rail. He’d hardly be likely to scrub the room upstairs in riding britches and good boots.

  “Stop doing that! You’re going to give me a heart attack!” she said.

  “Sorry, lass. Now, what do you need help with?”

  Her soul? Her spirit? Her libido? She couldn’t tell him about those problems. “Nothing in particular. Just feeling generally overwhelmed. How’s the room upstairs coming?”

  “I’ve got that old mattress ready to toss down and throw away, but I may need a hand with the sofa. And then it’s a matter of a new mattress, new bedding and a good paint job on all the flat surfaces.”

  “You can’t accomplish that today. I’m not sure you should have to. Seems to be working out, having you upstairs from me. Although you certainly do not have to keep entertaining me at dinner and beyond. I know you have your own life to lead.”

  “Do I now?” He laughed. “And what would that be, and with whom? I’m a stranger in a strange land. You and the others here are the only people I know. I don’t spend my time hanging out at bars, whatever the reputation of the Scots may be. And I don’t gamble.”

  “From what I saw last night, it wouldn’t be fair to the casinos if you did.”

  “One thing I learned is never bet against the house. And never trust to luck. It doesn’t exist.”

  This last was said with a bitterness that startled Vic. “Life’s too short not to trust,” she said.

  “You’ll get your heart broken that way, Vic. And your spirit. It’s always the people you love who betray you.”

  Who betrayed you? she wondered. Your wife? Your brother? She made a mental note to call Marshall Dunn back the first chance she got to see if he’d be willing to tell her more about the mess with Jamey’s wife and brother. She already had an inkling. If the pair of them were off gallivanting in Jamey’s car in the south of France while he lay in a hospital bed with a damaged hand, chances were they were doing more than searching for a miraculous cure. And they’d paid dearly for their indiscretion.