by Nora Roberts
“Yes, it was. My mother’s devastated.”
“She looked sturdy enough at the press conference.”
With a frigid nod, Kelsey sat, and gestured for Rossi to join her. “Did you expect her to fall apart, publicly?”
“Actually, no. But I did find it interesting that Slater sat in on it.”
“We’re neighbors, Lieutenant. And friends. Gabe is also an owner. And the fact that his colt won, under such tragic circumstances, made it difficult for all of us. We asked him there to show our support, and he accepted to show his.”
“You’ll excuse me, Ms. Byden, but from what I’ve seen in the press, you and Mr. Slater seem to be more than friends.”
The Byden genes swam to the surface, adding a cool, arrogant tilt to her head. “Is that an official statement, Lieutenant?”
“Just an observation. It’s natural enough; you’re both attractive people with mutual interests.” She didn’t rise to the bait. But he hadn’t expected her to. “I was hoping you could help me out with the details of what happened at Churchill Downs.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in horses, Lieutenant.”
“Murder interests me, even in horses.” He waited a beat. “Particularly if it ties in with a homicide case I want to close.”
“You think what happened to Pride is tied in with Old Mick’s murder? How? Lipsky’s dead.”
“Exactly. From what I’m told, it’s not easy to get to a Derby entrant.”
“No, it’s not. The security is tight. We have guards.” Her brow furrowed. “It was Gabe’s colt Lipsky was after, not ours. And I was under the impression Lipsky’s death was considered a suicide. You think it was murder?”
“There’s debate on that” was all he would say. “I’d like to snip any loose ends. If you could tell me who had official access to the colt before the race?”
“I would, of course. My mother, Moses, Boggs, Reno.” She blew out a breath. “The official who checks identification, the handlers at the gate. The outrider, the one who ponied him onto the track. That was Carl Tripper. The other members of the crew.” She ticked off names.
“The guards?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.”
“And unofficially?”
She shook her head, but her mind was working. “You’d have to be very slick to get through security on Derby day, Lieutenant. It may look like a free-for-all on television, but the horses are closely watched.”
“The drug. It’s hard to tell when it was given to the horse.”
“That’s part of the problem.” She took a steadying breath. It was still hard to talk about it. “Pride had traces of digitalis and epinephrine in his bloodstream. It killed him, overworked his heart. He was edgy, but he usually is before a race. Moses keeps him that way.”
“Now, why would that be?”
“Some horses run better when they’re wired up. Others need to be soothed and calmed. Pride ran best wired.”
“How do you know about that?”
“A lot of it comes from the horse. They know when they’re going to race. They’re not fed as much, they’re prepped differently. There’s atmosphere. And you might hold them back at the workout when they’re itchy to have their head.”
“No chemicals?”
Her face went very still. “No drugs, Lieutenant. We don’t doctor our horses here with anything that isn’t approved and necessary for their health. What someone gave Pride pumped up his heart rate, his adrenaline. The race, the strain of driving him hard for more than a mile, killed him.”
Which was precisely what the colt’s autopsy report had told him. “Shouldn’t the jockey have known something was wrong?”
Her jaw tightened. She wouldn’t permit anyone to blame Reno. Not after what he’d been through. She’d seen for herself the way he’d suffered. The way he’d continued to suffer.
“Pride ran because that’s what he was born to do, what he’d been trained to do since he took his first steps. He didn’t falter. He didn’t fight Reno. You only have to look at the tape to see he was putting everything he had into winning that race. And killed himself trying. Reno was lucky he wasn’t killed as well.”
Rossi studied his notebook. He’d watched the tape of the race over and over, slowing the speed, freeze-framing. Finally, he nodded. “I’ve got to agree with that. If he’d have gone onto the track instead of the infield, I don’t see how he’d have escaped being trampled. And the way he went down, I figured a broken neck.”
“So did I. As it is, he won’t be up for another month, at the earliest.”
“That should do it for now. I’m going to want to talk to some of the names you gave me. Check out their perspective.”
“I appreciate your interest, Lieutenant. I’d rather you didn’t question my mother, unless it’s vital.”
“It was her horse, Ms. Byden.”
“I think you understand what I’m saying.” She rose, ready to defend. “You’re perfectly aware of the background here, and how difficult it is for my mother to undergo police interrogation.”
“A few questions—”
“Amounts to the same thing, for her. And whether you can understand it or not, she’s grieving. You can ask me anything you like, or you can go to the Racing Commission.”
“I can’t make any promises, but there’s no need to disturb her at this time.”
“Thank you.” She started to walk him to the door. “Lieutenant, you weren’t involved in my mother’s case, were you?”
“No. I was still at the police academy back then. Green as iceberg lettuce.”
“I was curious who was in charge.”
“That would have been Captain Tipton. Jim Tipton, retired now. I served under him when he was a lieutenant, and after he made captain. A good cop.”
“I’m sure he was. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Ms. Byden.” Rossi walked back to the car, nibbling on the seed of an idea. Kelsey Byden had something on her mind, he mused. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little digging back himself.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
“WHY DO I GET THE FEELING THE ONLY PLACE I’M GOING TO GET YOU in bed is in a hotel?”
“Mmmm.” Kelsey twirled her bouquet of black-eyed Susans, part of the centerpiece Gabe had stolen for her from their last Preakness party. “I suppose things have been a little hectic. And you have been busy—giving interviews.”
“I’m going to give more of them tomorrow.”
“That’s what I like. A confident man.” They strolled across the lobby to the elevators. “And Double is being housed in stall forty. The base of Secretariat, Affirmed, Seattle Slew. Are you superstitious, Slater?”
“Damn right I am.” He stepped into the elevator and tugged her in behind him. His mouth was hot on hers before the doors whispered shut.
“The button,” she managed, crushing flowers as she pawed her way under his shirt. “You forgot to push the button.”
He groped, swore, and managed to press the right floor. “I didn’t think I was ever going to get you alone. Two weeks is two weeks too long, Kelsey.”
“I know.” She let out a breathless laugh when his teeth scraped her neck. “Naomi needed me. And there’s hardly been time to think with the investigation, and trying to get the colt ready for tomorrow. I’ve wanted to be with you.”
The doors opened, and she jerked back. Her cocktail dress was a great deal more than off the shoulder. She tugged it back into place, amazed that she’d lose control in an elevator, and grateful that the hall beyond was empty.
“You don’t know whether to be pleased with yourself or embarrassed.”
She fluffed her hair back into place. “Stop reading my mind,” she ordered, and caught the doors before they shut again.
“Your room or mine?”
It was as simple as that, she realized. They’d both been waiting all evening for the chance to pick up where they’d left off in Kentucky.
“Mine,” she decide
d. “This time you can wake up in the morning without any decent clothes to wear.”
“Is that a promise to rip them off me?”
She swiped her key card through the slot and tried to come up with a suitable answer. Even as the light beeped from red to green, the phone began to ring. “Hold that thought,” she told him, and dashed to answer.
“Hello?” She tossed the crushed flowers onto a coffee table, tugged off one earring, then passed the phone to the unadorned lobe. Her fingers went still as they closed over the second sapphire cluster. “Wade? How did you know I was here?” Very carefully, very deliberately, she removed her other earring and set it down on the table. “I see. I didn’t realize you kept in touch with Candace . . . . Of course. That’s cozy, isn’t it? . . . Yes, I’m being sarcastic.”
Her eyes flashed to Gabe, then dropped. Without a word he crossed to the minibar, opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured her a glass.
“Wade. You didn’t call at”—she checked her watch—“ eleven-fifteen to make small talk, and I really have no intention of discussing my mother with you. So if that’s all . . .”
Miserably, she accepted the glass from Gabe. Of course that wasn’t all. It was never all with Wade.
“Do you want my blessing? . . . No, I’m not going to be gracious, and this is as civilized as it gets.” She thought about swallowing her venom, but instead let it spew as his oh so reasonable voice nattered in her ear. “Does the lucky bride know that you have a habit of boffing your associates on business trips? . . . Yeah, I’m real good at holding a grudge. You bastard, you oily, self-centered jerk. How dare you call me up on your wedding eve to soothe your conscience! . . . How’s this? . . . No, I don’t forgive you. No, I refuse to share in the blame . . . . That’s right, Wade, I’m as rigid and unforgiving as ever, but I have stopped wishing you’d die a long, painful, and ugly death. Now I just want you to get hit by a truck while you’re crossing the street. If you want absolution, find a priest.”
She hung up, slamming the receiver hard enough to strike a whining ring.
“Well,” Gabe murmured into the silence, “that’s telling him.” He toasted her with a can of Coke. “Does he make a habit of calling you?”
“Every couple of months.” She kicked the table, then ripped her shoes off her aching toes and heaved them across the room. “To chat. If you can believe that. We can’t be married, but why can’t we be friends? I’ll tell you why. Because nobody cheats on me. Nobody.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gabe watched her, wondering if he should let her cool down, or if he should just scoop her off to bed and help her expel some of that energy.
“He’s getting married tomorrow. He thought I should hear it straight from him, so he called Candace. They still belong to the same club, you know.” She gulped down wine, found she didn’t have the taste for it. “She told him where I was. She told him, as if he had some unbreakable right to know. As if I give a damn about him getting married.”
“Do you?” Gabe reached out to keep the glass she’d slammed down from tipping over onto the rug.
“No.” She needed something to throw, anything, and settled on the complimentary travel guide. “I care that he can call me out of the blue and make me feel, even for an instant, that it was my fault he was with another woman. I care that when he does, I think back and remember how perfect it was supposed to be. A nice young couple, from good families, having their splashy society wedding, the romantic two-week honeymoon in the Caribbean, the charming little row house in Georgetown. The right friends, the right clubs, the right parties. And I hate when I look back and I realize I never loved him.”
Her voice broke and she fisted her hands at her temples. “I didn’t even love him. How could I have married him, Gabe? How could I have when I didn’t feel even a fraction for him what I feel for you?”
His eyes flashed, then the light narrowed down to a pinpoint of heat. “Be careful, Kelsey. I don’t cheat, but that doesn’t mean I play fair. I don’t give a damn that you’re upset. If you say too much, I’ll hold you to it.”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” Unnerved, trembling, she dropped her hands. “I only know that when I listened to him just now, I realized I’d married him because everyone said he was right for me. And because it seemed like the next natural step. I wanted it to work. I tried to make it work. But how could it? He never once made me feel the way you do.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No one’s ever made me feel the way you do.”
He set down his drink, suddenly aware that his fingers had pressed dents in the can. “Everyone will tell you I’m wrong for you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I hate country clubs. I’m not going to take you to spring balls.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I could get the urge tomorrow and put everything I’ve got on one spin of the wheel.”
Her hands relaxed at her sides. She could almost see him doing it. “I think the wheel’s already spinning, Slater. Maybe you’re not enough of a gambler to put it on the line.”
“You don’t know what you feel for me.” Clawed by his own emotions, he grabbed her, nearly lifting her off the floor. “You’re working on it. Christ, I can almost see the gears turning in that head of yours. But you don’t know.”
“I want you.” Her heart was lodged in her throat, pounding. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
“I’ll make you give me more. And once I’ve got hold, Kelsey, you won’t shake me loose. If you were smart, you’d take a good look at what you’re getting into with me, and you’d run.”
She started to shake her head, but he swept her up.
“Too late.”
“For you, too,” she murmured, and shifted just enough so that her lips could reach his throat. “I’m not running away, Gabe. I’m running after.”
And she knew what to expect now, what to anticipate, what to yearn for. Heat and speed and frenzy. She wanted the ache, knowing he could soothe it away, then incite it again until every pulse throbbed like a wound. And she reveled in knowing it was the same for him, that breathless, burning need, the panic, the thrill that they brought to each other from the first greedy touch.
Tumbling over the bed, groping, gasping, they fought with buttons and snaps until clothes scattered like fallen leaves. The quest was for flesh, the taste of it, the feel and scent that was a prelude to that most basic of desires.
He traced his hands over her, the firm, silky-skinned breasts, the narrow rib cage and hips. In the dark he could see her with his fingertips, every inch, every curve and muscle. Like a blind man seeking texture and shape, he explored the body he already knew.
She was everything he’d ever wanted, ever fought for. Ever gambled for. And she was quivering beneath him, ready, eager. Amazingly his.
Her body surged up, agile, quick. When their positions were reversed, she straddled him. In one fluid move, she imprisoned him inside those hot wet walls, arching back to take him hard to the hilt. Her hands groped for, then grasped his, their fingers tightly interlacing as she rocked them both toward madness.
His last thought was that it was indeed too late. Much too late for both of them.
Morning dawned dreary. Heavy clouds thickened the sky and the air, muting all the color to a gunmetal gray. Occasionally rain pricked its way through the layers and fell in sharp darts that stung and chilled. Men and machines raked the track, turned it up anew, sleeked it with furrows. Pimlico drained well, and its groomsmen attended it as carefully, as tenderly, as a man might tend a much-loved horse.
Rain didn’t deter the crowds, or the press. By post time for the first race the stands were full. Brightly colored umbrellas seemed to float like balloons on a gray sea. Inside the clubhouse, people stayed dry, feeding on crabs and beer while they watched the action on monitors.
The weather had Kelsey opting for jeans and boots rather than the linen dress she’d expected to wear. It gave her an excuse to li
nger at the barn and weave black-eyed Susans through Justice’s blond mane, to decorate him for his regal task of ponying High Water to the track.
And, in her opinion, there was nothing like a rainy day to make you stop and think.
Six months earlier, she hadn’t known Naomi existed. She’d taken no more than a passing glance at the world she was now a part of. She’d been drifting, haunted by a failed marriage, and what she had begun to see as her own failed sexuality. Her job had amused her, nearly satisfied her, yet she’d been thinking of moving on.
There was always another job, another course to take, another trip to plan. She liked to tell herself she’d made all those restless, lateral moves to stimulate her mind. But in reality she’d done so simply to fill holes. Holes she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Holes she certainly hadn’t understood.
She had considered, carefully, whether she was doing the same now, using Naomi, the farm, even Gabe to plug those cracks in her life. Would she, as her family seemed to think, become disenchanted, dissatisfied with the routine, and move on yet again?
Or could she trust the feelings that were blooming inside her? The growing attachment to her mother, a simple, almost quiet evolution from anger and suspicion to affection and respect. Why not just accept that she’d found, and perhaps begun to earn, a place on the farm?
And Gabe? Wasn’t it possible to relax and enjoy what was happening between them? She’d had no doubts the night before when they’d tumbled into bed. No doubts when she’d turned lazily to him at dawn and made slow, languid love.
Perhaps it was that inflexible sense of values, her own unwavering perception of right and wrong. How could she allow Naomi to depend on her when she couldn’t be certain how long she’d stay? How could she take a lover and glory in lovemaking when neither of them had so much as whispered a word about love?
Maybe she was too rigid. If she couldn’t take pleasure in the moment without questioning every motive, what did that say about her own makeup? And was she sulking, just a little, because her ex-husband was being married, perhaps had already taken those vows a second time while she braided flowers into a gelding’s mane?
