“Okay,” she agreed, feeling a bit guilty. She didn’t mind the walk, but she did want to minimize the chance of the mysterious leather jacket coming up again. Once inside, the crowd noise and the excitement would alleviate conversation for the most part. She gave him a loving smile before she alighted and closed the door to his black Mercedes. As he pulled away, Alex berated herself for not simply telling Heath the truth. After all, her evening with Jack had been purely innocent, hadn’t it?
Hadn’t it?
She sighed inwardly as she merged with the crowd of people moving through the admission gates. The Keeneland facility was a rambling two-story stone structure that housed covered walkways, spectator grandstands, restaurants, and window after window for placing bets. Horse racing appealed to all walks of life—retirees looking for a day of inexpensive entertainment, college kids looking for an excuse to party, professionals looking for a network, dyed-in-the-wool horse people looking for a reputation, and hard-core gamblers looking for this month’s rent. Most people dressed up, and many women wore hats, as was tradition. As far as people-watching venues were concerned, Keeneland was one of the finest.
Alex loved it here. Just walking past the paddock area where the horses exercised was thrilling—the sight of the colorful silks, the pungent odor of groomed horseflesh, the whinnying of eager mounts. All of it sent the blood rushing through her veins, as if she were a teensy part of the centuries-old legacy.
But the best moment came after climbing the stairs to the stands and walking out for the first breathless view of the track. Awesome. The enormous ring of freshly raked black earth was lined with a fence on both sides, and skirted by lush grass and beautifully manicured shrubbery that spelled out “Keeneland” in enormous letters. As large as a movie screen, the black tote board sat on the inner ring of grass, already flashing jockey changes and entry scratches. The entire scene hummed and was poignant enough to make a person want to burst out singing “My Old Kentucky Home.”
Her spirits lifted with every step as she made her way toward the box seats in the milling crowd. Alex held on to her hat and tilted her face to the sun—she was spending a gorgeous day with the man who cared most about her, and Jack Stillman was far, far away.
“Well, if it isn’t a small world.”
Alex froze, unwilling to believe the familiar voice behind her belonged to the person she thought it did.
“I said, if it isn’t a small world.”
Keeping a firm hold on her hat, Alex whirled. She gaped at Jack Stillman lounging in her father’s box, clad in faded jeans and a pale blue denim shirt, with his black booted feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the little hall wall that separated their four seats from the adjacent box. Small binoculars hung around his neck.
She marched closer and gasped, “What are you doing here?”
“Drinking a beer,” he said, lifting the half-empty plastic cup.
“I mean, what are you doing here, in our box?”
He grinned behind black sunglasses. “Your dad invited me.”
Her heart pounded at the thought of sharing such a small space with him and—good Lord—with him and Heath for several hours. “Why?”
Unfazed by her obvious disapproval, he shrugged. “Because he likes me, I suppose.”
Exasperated, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Where is my father?”
“I haven’t seen him, he told me to meet him here.” He peered around her. “Is your boyfriend with you?”
Alex gritted her teeth, then said, “Yes, Heath is with me, and this seating arrangement simply will not work.”
“Why not?” He looked at the chair wedged next to his and the two close behind him. “Four seats, four people.” He lifted his sunglasses and squinted up at her. “You might have to lose that lampshade on your head, though.”
Her mouth fell open. “You insufferable—”
Jack stood abruptly, balancing his beer with one hand, waving with the other. “Hey, Mr. T!”
Alex blew out a long, shaky breath, listing her hands to resist strangling Jack, then turned to offer her father a welcoming smile.
“Jack! And Alex—what a delightful surprise!”
She leaned forward to kiss her father’s cheek, but her hat poked him in the eye.
“Goodness, my dear, that thing is dangerous.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, shooting a murderous look toward Jack who hid his smile behind a drink from his cup. “I should have asked if you were using the box today. With Gloria the Gold—” She stopped, bit her tongue, then continued, “I mean, with Gloria out of town, I just assumed it would be okay if Heath and I came.”
“But it is,” her father said cheerfully. “This is a family box, Alex, you know that. We’ll have a wonderful time, all of us.” He put one arm around her shoulders, and one arm around Jack’s, pulling them into him. “And with Jack being our company spokesman, he’s practically family.”
Jack grinned at Al—the man was immensely likable. And he respected him for his down-to-earth attitude despite his accomplishments and wealth. He realized suddenly how this man and his own father had formed a bond during their brief encounter. Paul Stillman, like Jack, would have responded to Al Tremont’s magnanimous outlook, and Al surely reacted to his father’s spirit of generosity. In fact, Al reminded him a bit of his father—not so much in looks as in personality. The kinship was comforting.
He glanced from Al’s glowing face to Alex, who glared at him beneath the brim of her ridiculous hat with an almost palpable dislike. Did he imagine it, or did she pull closer to her father? Puzzled, Jack withdrew from Al’s casual embrace, and excused himself to collect drinks for the group. While standing in line at the concession stand on the top level, he mulled his observation. Was it possible that Alex was jealous of her father’s time and attention?
From his vantage point behind and above the stands, he watched Alex with her father, studying their body language. They were still standing, as was most of the crowd since thirty minutes remained until the first race. Alex seemed to find excuses to touch him—straightening the collar of his golf shirt, reaching up to smooth a strand of his sparse white hair.
Al appeared to tolerate her ministrations, but not much more. In fact, he seemed more absorbed in his racing form than in the elegant woman next to him who so obviously adored him. Jack frowned as Reddinger emerged from the crowd to join them. Al shook his hand, but kept Reddinger at arm’s length. The man leaned close to Alex and angled his head as if to kiss her, but the hat got in the way.
Jack smiled.
He paid for four beers and four bowls of thick, dark burgoo stew, then elbowed his way back to the seats. “Lunch is served,” he said, nodding hello to Reddinger, who nodded back with a distinctly unfriendly look.
“Ahh,” Al Tremont said. “I’ve been craving burgoo since I last had it at the spring races.” He collected a bowl and a cup of beer, then settled into one of the two front chairs. Jack looked back and forth between the happy couple. “There’s enough here for everyone, and my arms are getting a little tired.”
“Um, we don’t eat red meat,” Reddinger said, wrinkling his nose as his hand snaked around Alex’s waist. The man looked like a prep school class president. He probably owned a pink sport coat.
“More for us,” Al chirped, having already put a dent in his first portion of the stew thick with a dozen kinds of meat, including wild game.
Jack smiled back at Reddinger and Alex, then nodded toward the beer. “Do you beatniks eat hops and barley?”
“Actually, we prefer mint juleps,” Reddinger said. Naturally.
“Ah, have a beer,” Al said, waving away their resistance. “You two don’t know how to have a good tine.”
Jack struggled to hide his mirth as the pair frowned, then dutifully retrieved their cups of beer. He started to claim the seat next to Al, but the older man held up his hand.
“Jack, I need to discuss a few matters with Heath. Would you mind if he sat
with me?”
“Not at all, sir.” He exchanged tight smiles with Alex and Reddinger, then dropped into the seat behind Al and proceeded to eat. The couple stood around, shifting from foot to foot and murmuring for a couple of minutes before Reddinger sat down next to Al. Within a few minutes, the men had their heads together.
Alex stood a few steps away in the grandstand aisle, apparently unaware that the sun turned the thin dress she wore into a virtual peep show. Jack settled back in his chair to enjoy the view of her slender silhouette, the curve of her breasts bound up in a thin-strapped bra, the line of her hip skimmed by high-cut panties. Damn, with her long graceful neck and delicate limbs, the woman could easily be mistaken for a ballet dancer instead of a ball-buster. He took a long sip of cool beer and swallowed hard.
“Jack, we’re going to place our bets,” Al said, standing. “Want to come?”
Jack tore his gaze from Alex. “No, thanks, I’m covered for the first two races.”
“Alex?”
She shook her head, and with the shade of her huge hat, nearly caused an eclipse of the sun. “I’d rather not fight the crowd.”
“I’ll place a bet for you,” Heath said, and she smiled her thanks.
Jack frowned as the men turned and climbed up the concrete steps toward the covered top level where most of the betting windows were located. As much as Jack wanted to keep ogling her, he was even more compelled to bring her closer. “You going to stand all day?”
The only indication that she’d heard him was a slight lift of her chin. Then, holding the cup of beer as if it were swill, she stepped inside the box, moved her folding padded chair as far away from Jack’s as possible—a full two inches—and sat down primly.
Jack watched with his tongue in his cheek as she looked for a place to set her unwieldy shoulder bag and a place to position her expensively clad feet. After a few minutes of shifting, adjusting, and fidgeting, she fell still, staring straight ahead, her shoulders shoved back against the metal chair.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
She turned her head and the brim of her hat poked him in the eye.
“Ow!”
“I’m sorry,” she said, jerking back and spilling most of her beer on her dress. “Oh, dammit!” She jumped up and held the wet fabric of her skirt away from her. With his lap full of unclaimed food, Jack could only lean forward and dab at the wetness on her thigh with a handful of napkins.
“Stop it!” she snapped, swatting at his hand. When she realized that people around them were staring, she sat down, morosely holding the half-full cup of beer.
“Why don’t you drink it before you drown yourself?”
She shot him a sideways glare, then lifted the cup to her tight little mouth and took a tentative sip. “You left your coat at my apartment,” she said, her voice accusing.
“I figured as much,” he said. “I kept forgetting to ask if you found it.”
“Heath found it.”
“Oh.” He smiled into his beer, then spooned in the last mouthful of burgoo and chewed slowly. “Got you in trouble, did I?”
“No!” She turned her head and her hat poked him in the eye again.
“Ow!” Jack covered his watery eye and glowered at her with the other one.
She winced. “I’m sorry!”
Jack set down his trash, then politely said, “Excuse me.” He stood and with both hands, lifted the hat from her dark head and flung it across the top of the crowd down toward the infield, where the more rowdy patrons gathered in a sea of moving color.
“Hey!” she shouted, staring open-mouthed as the hat sailed on the air like a big, brown Frisbee, finally hooking onto the head of a humongous man, who promptly ripped it off and winged it farther down the line, like a beach ball in a sports stadium.
Her eyes widened to dangerous proportions, and her face flushed fuchsia. Sputtering, she glared at Jack. “That hat cost three hundred dollars!”
He whistled low as he settled back in his chair and retrieved his beer. “Looks like you’re going to have to win big today to recoup that loss.”
“Me? You mean you!” She stood and stared down at him until he’d taken two more deep drinks of beer. Her arms, shoulders, and fisted hands began to shake. “I … you … I’m going to tell—”
“Your daddy? Or your boyfriend?” he asked, half expecting the woman to tackle him, and fully expecting to like it.
“You are so immature,” she hissed.
“Mr. Stillman?”
Jack turned to see a red-haired man standing near him, holding an impressive looking camera and wearing what looked to be some kind of press pass. “Yes?”
“My name is Majeris—I’m the sports anchor for the local PBC affiliate. Sammy Richardson told me to look you up while I was here covering opening day. Said you’d just signed on as a spokesman for a local business, and that I might get a sound bite for tonight’s broadcast.”
Jack rose and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine, sir. You’re a legend around the sports desk.”
Smiling, Jack said, “That’s nice to hear, especially since I’ve been out of the game for so long. But I’m back in town, running an advertising firm with my brother, Derek—he also played football for UK—and there’s a possibility I might become the spokesman for Tremont’s department store.” He grinned and extended his arm to include Alex, who, besides wearing a dazed expression, sported a wet, stained dress and hat-flattened hair. “Meet my lovely boss, Ms. Alexandria Tremont.”
Majeris lifted his camera and shot a half-dozen pictures of the two of them before Alex could even blink.
*
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Alex finally recovered enough to ask the reporter, “Excuse me, but who did you say told you about Mr. Stillman?” Tremont’s had not yet issued a press release announcing the name of their new spokesman—Alex had wanted to wait until the end of the two weeks, in the highly likely event that Jack would not work out.
“Sammy Richardson.”
“Sammy is producing the commercial spots,” Jack supplied. “We spoke this morning to set up studio time for Monday. I figured the station would be sending out someone to cover opening race day, so I thought why not get a headstart on publicity?”
She manufactured a smile, thinking that throwing Jack under the pounding hooves of the horses as they raced by would surely make the eleven o’clock news. “Yes, why not?” she parroted, finger combing her hair in an attempt to counter the effects of her now-missing hat. “Mr. Majeris, you may report a rumor that Jack Stillman will be signed by Tremont’s, but our public relations department will supply your station with a press release in due time.”
The man nodded curtly. “A couple more pictures, Jack?” He shot Alex a guilty glance, then added, “Of Jack alone?”
Tingling with indignance, Alex stepped back while the young man shot several photos in succession with Jack grinning into the lens. Then Jack signed an autograph for the young man who asked that he sign “Jack the Attack”. And either several spectators had already recognized Jack or the reporter’s camera had tipped them off, because before Majeris could leave, a knot of people had gathered for autographs. He worked the crowd like a pro, flirting and signing his name with a flourish.
Alex drained her half cup of beer, then sat down when the alcohol bypassed her empty stomach and zoomed straight to her head. He was a good-looking man, she admitted miserably, an opinion that was mirrored in the eyes of the women trying to get close to him. The denim shirt he wore accentuated his dark hair and his ruggedness. But she remembered too well that he looked just as good in a designer suit. And even better in black thong underwear. Extremely vexed, she acknowledged that her father’s choice to make Jack the store spokesman might not have been as faulty as she had first presumed.
God, how she hated being wrong. And in front of her father, no less.
By the time his fan club had dissipated, Alex had even v
entured to taste a spoonful of the dark stew he had bought—which wasn’t half bad—and she was contemplating going to the ladies room to remove her pale, sheer panty hose. Why keep up the pretense of dignity? She sighed as her beautiful hat, torn, dusty and misshapen, skipped and bumped its way across the infield far below.
“It didn’t suit you anyway,” Jack murmured as he reclaimed his seat. “You look better in a motorcycle helmet.”
“I’ll let the milliners know they’re missing out on a trend,” she said wryly, not about to let on that his words made her heart skip a beat.
“I predict we have the winners,” her father announced as he and Heath returned, tickets in hand.
Heath smiled as he handed her a ticket. “I picked horse number six for you, sweetheart, because the silks are red, and I know it’s your favorite color.”
Next to her, Jack snorted softly.
Alex squirmed. “Thanks.” She shot an irritated glance toward Jack. “Which horse did you bet on?”
His mouth twitched at the corner. “Let’s just say that red isn’t my favorite color.” When Heath and her father sat in the front seats, he added under his breath, “I prefer flesh tones.”
She tried not to react, but the man was so outrageous, she couldn’t help shaking her head in exasperation.
“I think I see the beginning of a smile,” he whispered.
“You’re mistaken,” she whispered back, determined to keep her mirth under wraps. Jack simply mustn’t know how much his nearness affected her.
The tote board ticked down to five minutes until the first race, and the mounted entries were led onto the track by calmer lead horses with their own riders. The crowd hummed louder in anticipation as the horses performed their customary walk down the homestretch of the track, then turned and walked back to the starting line. The jockeys lifted their crops toward the grandstands, churning the spectators into a higher froth.
“Alex,” Heath shouted over the din. “Is that your hat?” He pointed, his eyebrows high, toward the swollen infield, where the weary hat was still being bandied about.
IT TAKES A REBEL Page 11
