A Moment in Time (19 page)

He looked at her with a sulky expression.
"Shit, Arielle," he said irritatedly, "you know what custom- made
polo gear costs? One pair of new boots over two thousand—"

"Why the hell didn't you get Palmer to cover
those costs?" she snapped angrily. "You're playing for him, for
Christ's sake!"

"You know I can't ask that of him," he
replied, the irritation gone from his voice and a softness
replacing it. "I'm expected to have all of that or get it with my
bonus."

She looked at him, studying his face, his
splendid torso, and those hard-muscled, inviting arms. She knew
that his machismo would prevent him from admitting to Palmer—or any
other man—that he couldn't afford new polo boots, or anything else
for that matter. Hell, she thought, he could hardly afford a polo
shirt, but he would never let on. She also knew that this wasn't
unusual in the rich and rarefied world of polo. Like many South
American players, Lolo was one of those penniless, uneducated guys
who'd learned to play on the
estancias
of the very rich,
then been recruited by wealthy American team owners who brought
them north and kept them on a very tight rein.

"I understand," she finally said, nodding her
head. And she did, too. Lolo wanted it
all
, just like she
did, and he wanted it now, not tomorrow or the next day, also like
her.

She ran her fingers through her disheveled
hair, then reached over and idly began running them through Lolo's.
He was looking at her expectantly, but she was silent, lost in
thought, twirling his damp black curls around her fingers. Then she
leaned in and placed her smeared, collagen-enhanced lips against
his.

"I'm sorry, Lolo," she said. "I really didn't
know. I just assumed—"

"You think I do nothing to contribute," he
said. "That I just use you."

"Oh, no," she cried in a pleading voice.
"That's not true. You make me so happy. Oh, my God, I don't know
what I'd do without you." She leaned over and kissed his lips
again. "Please. Let's don't argue, Lolo. I'm sorry. I just wasn't
thinking. Please forgive me."

Lolo remained silent for a moment, his eyes
averted from hers, then he turned his gaze to her. "Okay," he said,
nodding. "But that still doesn't solve the problem of the
Ferrari."

"No," she said with a sigh, "it doesn't." She
swiveled around and lay back against the pillows, staring at the
ceiling thoughtfully for a minute. "I guess I could pawn some
jewelry," she finally said.

"No!" Lolo said. "I won't let you do that,
Arielle."

"I don't mind," she replied, stroking his
face. "Not for you, Lolo. It'll only be for a little while. Till
that shit Wyn comes through with my money."

"It always goes back to him," Lolo replied.
"The stingy bastard."

"Yes," she said, nodding her head. "It always
goes back to him." Her features suddenly screwed up into an ugly,
angry mask. "God, how I hate him!" she cried furiously. "He's the
cause of all our problems. If it weren't for him—" She slammed a
fist against the bed.

Lolo grabbed her arm and pulled it to him,
kissing her hand, trying to placate her. "Don't worry," he cooed.
"It won't be much longer. Maybe I can hold off the car dealer long
enough." Then he looked into her eyes. "I've been thinking about
something," he said.

She looked at him with curiosity, her eyes
brightening. "What?"

"If you like," Lolo said, "when we go up to
Saratoga, I could go and see Wyn and try to talk some sense to
him."

She jerked up. "I'd forgotten about
Saratoga," she exclaimed. She ignored him for a moment, her eyes
seemingly focused on the Venetian mirror atop her dressing table,
as if its baroque beauty held the answer to all of their
problems.

"What?" Lolo asked, tugging at her arm. "What
is it, Arielle? I can tell you're thinking of something
important."

"I'm just thinking," she replied. Then she
slowly turned to him. "Yes, maybe seeing him in Saratoga is a good
idea," she said.

"I would like that very much," he said. "We
could have a man-to-man talk."

"I'm sure that Bibi and Joe Whitman will fly
up in their jet," she said excitedly. "We could hitch a ride with
them. Or the Connollys. Even if I can't stand that bitch Peggy
Connolly." Her eyes began to brighten even more, and she rubbed her
hands together.

Lolo watched the transformation in her
demeanor, and his eyes began to widen. "What—what do you have in
mind, Arielle?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, I don't know," she replied cagily.

"Arielle," he said. "I know that crazy look."
He tugged at her arm again. "What are you thinking of doing?"

She turned to him and smiled widely. "Me?"
she asked innocently. "Why would you think I would be up to
something?"

"Come on," he cajoled. "What have you got on
your pretty mind? What are you thinking of doing?"

Her eyes glittered with an intense flame that
seemed to Lolo to be a mixture of excitement, wrath, and perhaps a
little madness, and it frightened him, for he knew that Arielle was
capable of doing really crazy things.

"It's not what
I'll
do," she said
evenly, staring into his dark eyes steadily. "It's what
you'll
do, Lolo." She jabbed his muscular chest with a
painted fingernail.

He stared at her curiously for a moment, then
sat up beside her. "Wait a minute," he said. "Tell me what you have
in mind."

She smiled secretively, then lay back on the
pillows and stretched out on the bed. "Let's have another drink,"
she said, her hands reaching down between his thighs to stroke his
much-talked-about equipment. "And have some more fun." She stroked
him gently, pleased to see that her hands could excite him as they
did. "Then we'll talk about it."

Lolo expelled a deep breath, his eyes running
up and down the length of her magnificent body. All thoughts of his
Ferrari and Saratoga were swept out of his mind as if by magic, his
body surging with renewed desire.

He smiled and began stroking her breasts,
slowly and gently, then more urgently as he felt her rise to his
touch. "Ah, what a future we'll have, Arielle," he whispered as he
fell on top of her.

If you only knew,
she thought.
If
you only knew
.

Chapter Twelve

Dusk was settling and Wyn Conrad walked alone
toward Stonelair's stable block.
It's a perfect late summer
evening
, he thought.

He approached a bend in the path and heard
footsteps and soft-pitched voices nearby.
Helmut and Gerda
Reinhardt
, he thought,
taking an evening walk
. He
rounded the corner, and there they were, walking briskly along the
path that led from their cottage to the parking area at the
stables. Gerda had changed out of her customary uniform and was
wearing a big flowery print blouse and shorts. Helmut wore baggy
shorts and a pale short-sleeve shirt. Both of them wore sandals.
They were holding hands like teenagers, he observed, though they
were well into their sixties.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Conrad," Gerda called
to him, her English, like her husband's, heavily accented with the
inflections of her native German.

"Mr. Conrad," Helmut said, nodding
respectfully.

After all these years
, Wyn thought,
they still insist on being so formal, so Old World in
manner
. He'd asked them repeatedly to address him by his first
name, but he'd long since learned it would never happen. They
considered themselves employees, and he was their boss. Apparently,
never the twain would meet.

"Hi, Gerda," Wyn said, "Helmut. Taking a
walk?"

"We're going to a movie," Gerda said.

"Have you got my medication?" Helmut asked
his wife.

"
Ja
, Helmut," she responded. She
lifted an arm. "Right here in my
Beutel
." She held up a
small vinyl bag with drawstrings. It looked almost as old as she
did. "The cell phone, too, Mr. Conrad," she said, nodding at Wyn.
"We always have it with us in case you need us, just like you've
told us."

Wyn smiled. "You two have a good time."

"I'm sure we will," Gerda said.

"We'd better hurry," Helmut added, "or we're
going to miss the beginning."

"See you later," Wyn said.

He watched them hurry on toward the lighted
parking area, feeling a twinge of envy. They were a taciturn,
thrifty, and childless couple with little if any sense of humor,
and they seemed to get little joy from life, at least that he could
see. He was surprised that they were allowing themselves a trip to
the movies. But, he realized, they were also exceedingly
hardworking and loyal to him. They were also devoted to one another
and had been for over forty years, something of a record among the
people he knew.

He shot a last glance in the direction of the
parking lot, where they were already driving out in their old
Volkswagen, then resumed his walk, trying to shake the sense of
loneliness that had come over him. Gazing out in the direction of
the surrounding forest, toward a clearing to the north, he noticed
that Santo's cottage was in darkness, except for a dim porch light.
He'd probably gone into town to the gym to work out as he sometimes
did, even though there was a well-equipped gym here. Or maybe, Wyn
thought, he'd gone out to a bar in one of the nearby towns. He
wasn't really certain how Santo spent his free time, other than
working out, but he imagined that he went out seeking company.
Santo might appear to be nothing more than a muscle-bound steroid
freak, practically inhuman to strangers, but Wyn knew that he must
grow tired of the monotonous days and nights of virtual
imprisonment at Stonelair. He never discussed it with him—in fact,
he'd never given Santo's personal life much thought—but he trusted
him implicitly. He'd stayed by his side through thick and thin for
the last decade, never asking questions, never making demands, and
always doing as he was told. Loyal, like the Reinhardts, he thought
dismally, but then that was part of what they were all paid for,
wasn't it?

He reached the stable office and flipped on
the lights, then went on through to the tack room. He flipped on
the lights there, revealing all the mementos of polo seasons past,
artfully arranged on the pine-paneled walls: crossed mallets, team
photographs, and trophies. He walked over and looked at an old
framed polo shirt of his, hunter green, the letters and numbers in
white. On the sleeve was his number, 1, and on the chest the TC
logo, for Team Conrad. The shirt was ripped nearly to shreds and
was stained a dull brown all over. Dried blood.

He averted his gaze and looked at some of the
team photographs. A few of the familiar ones from the more recent
years were missing because Santo had carefully edited out those
that had Arielle posing with the team as well as those in which
Lolo appeared with Team Conrad or the opposition. His eyes swept
over some of the photographs briefly: the Paris Open at the Polo
Club of Paris at Bagatelle, the Prince of Wales Trophy at the Royal
County of Berkshire Polo Club, the Royal Windsor Cup, and the
Queen's Cup, all in England, shots from Greenwich, Houston, Sante
Fe, Santa Barbara, Wellington, Saratoga, and on and on. In most of
them he was soaked with sweat, splattered with turf, and smiling
with utter joy.

Those days are over
, he thought
bitterly. The loneliness that had descended on him earlier only
became more acute. Any magic these mementos might have held for him
turned to nothing more than a terrible reminder of the drastic
changes in his life.
There's no one to share the beauty of the
summer night with
, he thought sadly,
but then there's nobody
who could stomach living with what I've become.

He looked longingly at the saddles and tack,
all of it polished and displayed, ready for immediate use. He
remembered the feeling of the air on his face and the exhilarating
sense of freedom when he rode.
Damn
, he thought,
I'm sick
of being bored, sick of being cooped up, sick of all of my
problems. And I'm the only person who can do anything about
it.

With that he turned and strode over to the
dressing room, flung the door open, and flipped on the light. He
sat down and took off his sneakers, then stood up and pulled off
his Levi's.
This is crazy
, he thought giddily,
but
I'm going to ride. It's been far too long.

He quickly slid into riding jodhpurs before
he could change his mind, then grabbed boot hooks and a pair of the
custom-made riding boots that had been gathering dust. He sat down
and slid the boot hooks through their loops and pulled them on,
then stood back up to ease his feet completely into the boots.

Suddenly a woozy feeling overcame him, and he
sat down again for a moment to wait for it to pass.
It must be
that last shot
, he thought. He took several deep breaths and
wiped away the beads of sweat that had popped out on his brow.
I
really must be crazy, he decided. In my condition, with all the
drugs in my system—

He wouldn't think about that now. No, he was
going to do this no matter the consequences. He got back to his
feet and snatched the first helmet he saw, put it on, and went back
out to the tack room, where he grabbed a bridle, reins, and girth
off wall hooks, then took an English saddle and quilted saddle pad
off a rest.

In his weakened condition the saddle was
heavy, but he manhandled it through the door to the horse stalls,
eased it down on the bench there, and flipped on the light. He
would saddle up Demon. It had been too long since he'd been on the
old hellion. He began walking down the length of the stalls,
peering in at the horses, stopping to talk to them and stroke their
necks, some¬thing he used to do on a daily basis, but lately had
neglected.