A Fashionable Affair (9 page)

“Well, Mother was born in Surrey,” she replied.
“And she never has become very American, not
even after forty years.”

He watched as she put cups and saucers on the
table. “We both spent the afternoon with a friend of
Fred’s, it seems,” he murmured as she sat across from him.

“Oh?” Her brows lifted. “Who did you see?”

“A fellow named Bob Hellman. He said you told
him I was handling your business affairs. He tried
to talk me into turning them over to him. I
refused.”

Patsy looked at him in confusion. “He told you I
had given him your name?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t.” The kettle began to whistle and
she got up to make the tea.

“Hellman said he called you,” Michael explained
when she was sitting once again.

She poured the tea. “He did. And I told him
someone else was handling my affairs. He asked
who it was and I said I wouldn’t tell him.” She put
the pot down. “I’ve learned to give out as little
information as possible about my private life.”

He was very still. Patsy looked at him gravely. “The ballgame,” he said at last. “We were all over
television together at the ballgame.”

Patsy cleared her throat. “I have a famous face,”
she said.

He swore without apology. His mouth suddenly
looked very hard in the bright kitchen light. He hadn’t touched his tea.

“Michael,” Patsy croaked from a dry throat, “will
you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Fred Zimmerman was ripping you off, for one thing,” he said brutally. “That trip to Africa, for example. He charged you a lot more than it cost.”

“But how—”

“Easy enough. Like all good swindles, he did it on
paper. He has receipts for everything. The prob
lem is, the receipts are a work of fiction. He char
ged you much more for plane fares, hotels, and
guides than the airlines, hotels, or guides ever saw. The difference went to Fred—or rather to his num
bered bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

Patsy’s eyes were huge. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, all right. I spent the whole day
checking.” He looked at her. “You’re also paying five hundred dollars a month more for this apart
ment than it actually costs.”

Patsy put her hand to her forehead. “I can’t
believe all this,” she murmured dazedly.

“You can believe it all right, sweetheart. And I’ve
only just started checking. You were quite a little
gold mine for Fred.”

Patsy stared at her tea. “But he was always so
nice
to me.”

“So should I have been if I were in his shoes.”

Patsy’s head remained bent, the loose ringlets
bright golden red against the soft white skin of her
neck. “Oh, Fred,” she said with infinite sadness.

“Oh, Fred, indeed.” Michael’s voice was hard,
and his eyes, when she looked up, were impatient
and ruthless. “The question now is, Who is Fred’s pal and how did he get my name?”

Patsy stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. He didn’t look at all like the Michael she
knew—or thought she knew. And at the moment
he didn’t look like anyone she’d care to tangle with.
“I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

“Neither do I.” The grimness around his mouth
didn’t relax. “But I have a distinctly unpleasant
feeling that I’m going to find out shortly.”

“Your tea will get cold,” she said helplessly. He
picked up the cup and drank. His eyes were
hooded, unreadable.

She tried to change the subject. “I’m going to be
on the island tomorrow. Ebony Lad has been
shipped to Aqueduct from Florida and he’s run
ning his first race. As part owner, I get the pleasure
of sending him off.”

She had his full attention. “Did Fred recommend
that horse to you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come with you to the track.”

“Well, all right.”

“Why don’t you drive to my house first and we can go to Aqueduct together?”

“All right,” she repeated.

“What time?”

“About noon?”

He nodded decisively. “Okay. Noon.” He stood
up. “Thanks for the tea.”

Dismissed again, she thought. She stood up as
well. “I haven’t been bossed around so much since I
was a little kid,” she complained.

He looked around, really seeing her for the first time since the subject of Bob Hellman had come up. She was standing by the refrigerator, and she gave him a slow and beautiful smile. Her dark-
brown eyes were huge, and they held his for a long,
silent moment.

He crossed the kitchen and stood before her.
“You don’t need a boss, Red,” he said softly. “You
need a keeper.” He put both hands on the refriger
ator behind her, imprisoning yet not touching her.
His face was very close to hers and she felt every
pulse in her body leap with awareness.

Her lips parted very slightly. “Are you applying
for the job?”

He smiled faintly, and Patsy stopped breathing.
“I think I’ve already got it, sweetheart,” he said. He
straightened up and moved away from her. “I’ll see
you tomorrow at noon.”

Patsy straightened her own shoulders and glared at him.

The smile lingered on his mouth. “Remember
your promise,” he said.

“Good night,” she answered coolly. “Please close
the front door after you.”

“And you make sure it’s locked. See you tomor
row.” He was gone. Patsy listened to the sound of
the door closing and abruptly sat down. She could
not remember ever being so confused by a man in
her life.

Patsy rang Michael’s doorbell at twelve-fifteen the
following day, and they set off immediately for
Aqueduct in Michael’s car. He did the driving.

“It’s not a big-stakes race or anything,” Patsy
explained as they cruised along the highway. “Earl
said it was a warm-up, a race to get him used to the
track and give him a bit of a workout against the
other horses.”

“Do you often watch him run?”

“I go to all his races in New York. He really is a
love, Michael. Wait till you see him. He has the most
beautiful face.”

Michael spared her a glance from the road.
“When did you acquire this interest in horses?”

“I’ve always liked horses. I read all the Black Stal
lion books when I was a kid. But Mother would
never hear of my taking riding lessons, so I sort of
got interested in other things.”

“I thought the English were crazy about horses,”
he remarked.

“Mother had a younger sister who was killed by a
fall from a horse.” Patsy’s voice was full of compas
sion. “Every time I mentioned riding, her face
would get this frozen, petrified look. I hated to see
her upset, so I gave it up.” She rolled down her
window a little to let the breeze blow into the car.
“Anyway, when Fred mentioned that a racehorse
might be a good tax shelter, I remembered all those
Black Stallion books and said go ahead.”

“You said you were part owner?”

“Yes. I own half, in fact. The other half is owned
by another fellow Fred worked for, a guy named Frank Carbone. He seems nice enough.”

“So did Fred,” he said dryly.

Patsy sighed. “True.”

They parked the car and went to the barn area of
the track where Ebony Lad was stabled with the rest
of the horses trained by Earl Hibbard. The trainer
was nowhere in sight, but one of the grooms came
over to them. “Lad’s looking good, Miss Clark,” he
told her. “Would you like me to take him out of his
stall for you?”

Patsy smiled. “Would you, Tim? I’d like Mr.
Melville to see him close up.”

“Sure.” The groom lifted a halter from the
door, went into the stall, and buckled it around the
horse’s head. He clipped a lead line on the halter and led the horse into the April sun.

He was a big, strong colt who was just coming
into his full growth. He wore a light blanket, but the
coat on his neck gleamed pure black in the sun.
“Isn’t he marvelous?” Patsy asked proudly. She
went to the horse’s head and reached into the
pocket of her cord pants for a piece of carrot she
had brought. The horse’s ears pricked forward and
he nuzzled her, impatient for his treat.

“He sure is big,” Michael said.

“Just over seventeen hands,” the groom
informed him.

Patsy had finished feeding Ebony Lad his carrot
and was gently stroking his nose. “You’re a big boy,
aren’t you, fella?” she crooned gently, and at the
sound of her voice, the horse’s ears pricked for
ward again.

“Patsy!” said a genial male voice, and a small,
stout man with thinning blond hair appeared from
around the corner of the barn.

“Hi, Earl,” Patsy greeted him cheerfully. “I’d like
you to meet a friend of mine. Michael Melville—
Earl Hibbard.”

The ruddy face of the trainer wore a pleasant expression. He held out his hand. “Glad to meet
you.”

“I’ve just been admiring your horse,” Michael
said easily. “He’s very quiet, isn’t he?” Ebony Lad
was once again nuzzling Patsy’s pocket.

“What he is, is greedy,” Patsy said producing
another carrot.

They remained for a few minutes longer, the
three of them chatting in the sun, and then Patsy’s
eye caught an approaching pair of men. “Here
comes Lad’s Daddy,” she remarked to Michael. “Hi,
Frank. Are you here to give him a royal sendoff?”

The man she was addressing was tall, slim, and
dark-haired. He gave her a very white-toothed
smile. “I’m glad to see you, Patsy. How are you?”

“Fine.” She glanced around for Michael, who,
standing beside Ebony Lad’s head, was hidden
from the view of the newcomers. “Frank, I’d like
you to meet a friend of mine,” Patsy began, and
Michael stepped out from behind the shelter of the
horse. Frank and his companion saw him at the
same second and their expressions froze. Patsy’s
voice faltered momentarily and then went on
evenly, “Michael Melville. Michael, this is Frank
Carbone.”

Frank nodded, and so did Michael. Neither man
made a motion to shake hands, nor did Frank offer
to introduce his friend. It was the friend, Patsy
noticed, who was staring hardest at Michael. He did
not look friendly.

“How do you do,” Patsy said graciously to the
unfriendly one. “I’m Patsy Clark.”

The heavy-jowled, well-tanned, mean-looking
face turned briefly in her direction. “Yeah,” he
grunted. “I know.”

Patsy allowed her eyes to widen, and she looked
at Frank. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”

“A business associate,” he replied.

“Oh?” Patsy turned to Michael, who appeared to
be engaged in a staring contest with the business
associate. Michael looked perfectly self-contained
and rather frighteningly tough.

As Patsy watched, the hazel eyes removed them
selves from the baleful dark stare of Frank’s friend
and focused on her. “Shall we move along to the
clubhouse?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she replied. “We might as well take in
some of the races.”

“Mmm.” He put his hands into his pockets. “I
have a feeling that this might be my lucky day.”

The expression on the business associate’s face
hardened from unfriendliness into menace.
Michael looked at Patsy, and she fell into step
beside him immediately.

“Whew!” she said as they moved out of earshot of the men. “Who was
that?”

“That, my dear Patsy, was a man I almost put in jail.”

“In jail!” Patsy echoed in astonishment.

“Yep. He was engaged in some extremely
crooked dealings which I picked up on a tax audit.
But he had a very smart lawyer, and friends in high
places, I also suspect. He got off on a technicality.” Michael’s black hair was blowing over his forehead
in the breeze. “He doesn’t like me.”