Outsider (10 page)

But if he was genuinely easing up, it could only be for his ultimate benefit,

she told herself decisively. Nor was there any way he would retire altogether

while there was breath in his body.

'And I've told Eliot you'll go to Lassiter Park with him,' Grantham added too

casually.

'You did what?' Natalie shook her head in disbelief.

'What's the problem?' her father rumbled. 'You used to have enough to say

when I didn't let you go. Made me think I'd blighted your life.'

She said, 'That was—different.'

'I'm damned if I see how,' he said. 'Well, you can go, and do the social thing

with the owners and their wives. They like that, and Eliot will have his hands

full with the horses.'

Natalie began to protest, met his fulminating gaze, and subsided. There was

no point in arguing, she thought, and if it was any consolation, Eliot would

be no more pleased to have her foisted on him than she was. And it was only

one day they had to spend together. Eliot rarely came up to the house except

for the odd meal or cup of coffee, and she certainly wouldn't be cooking for

him during Beattie's absence.

Eliot came into the office while she was engrossed in the wages ledger, and

stood looking down at her.

' I hear I'm to have the pleasure of your company at the races,' he remarked

expressionlessly.

Natalie said defensively, 'It wasn't my idea.'

'I never imagined it would be.' He gave her a searching look. 'On the other

hand, a day in the fresh air might do you good. You don't seem to go out

much.'

She put her pen down. 'Please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not a charity case.'

His mouth tightened. 'Nothing was further from my thoughts,' he assured her

shortly. 'And I'm sure you can think of a last-minute excuse to remain here,

if you really put your mind to it.'

As he turned away, she said huskily, 'I'm sorry. I—I'd really like to go. It's

been ages since I saw any racing, except on television.'

He looked down at her. 'Then we'll consider it an arrangement,' he said

quietly. 'There isn't always an ulterior motive in everything I say to you.

You've been looking rather pale in recent days, that's all. You don't always

need to keep your nose quite so firmly fixed to the grindstone. You make me

feel like a slavedriver.'

She said, 'It's probably that whip you carry all the time.'

For a moment he looked astounded, then he burst out laughing and placed

the offending item ceremoniously on her desk. 'I shall have to watch that,' he

said, and disappeared.

Natalie found she was smiling over the PAYE several minutes later, and

rebuked herself hastily.

Just because he chose to exert his charm where she was concerned, it didn't

change a thing, she reminded herself defensively. And it was oddly

disturbing that he'd noticed she was looking peaky, when she'd been

convinced he'd barely spared her a second glance lately.

She opened her desk drawer, took out a small pocket mirror, and studied

herself for a moment. The fact that she hadn't slept well since Ben Watson's

departure had taken its toll of her, she had to admit. There were shadows

under her eyes, and her cheekbones looked more prominent than ever.

She sighed. Perhaps she would see the doctor, get some of the sleeping

tablets he'd prescribed after Tony's accident. And a tonic too, maybe. And

she quelled the un-bidden thought that a day at Lassiter Park with Eliot

might be just what she needed.

The following Saturday was a mild day, with a misty sun gleaming through

the bare branches of the trees. Lassiter Park wasn't a big course, but its

facilities were excellent, and a big crowd had been attracted to watch the

racing.

Grantham had driven off the day before, not without a last-minute struggle.

'It'll be -the first meeting I've missed since 1 broke my shoulder,' he'd

declared belligerently, then glared at Eliot as if it was somehow his fault.

'You've got that list of instructions?'

Eliot nodded impassively. It had, Natalie reflected, with a smothered grin,

been read over to him so many times, he probably knew it by heart.

'And tell Clark Johnson to give La Margarita an easy race over the first half,

or she'll run herself out of steam!' Grantham bellowed from the car window

as Beattie drove him firmly away.

Now, in the parade ring, Eliot was presumably doing just that, she thought,

watching him chat to Clark Johnson, a baby-faced rider just out of his

apprenticeship. And if Clark did what he was told, La Margarita could

provide Wintersgarth with its first win of the afternoon. She hoped it would

happen. The owner was there with his wife and teenage sons, all bubbling

over with excitement.

Eliot himself looked very relaxed, but he must be suffering a certain amount

of tension, Natalie thought. He'd been very quiet on the drive down to the

course, closed up in his own thoughts. Or maybe he just didn't like to chat

while he was driving. Natalie had been well content to sit and admire the

October countryside rather than maintain her half of a potentially awkward

conversation.

Once they arrived at Lassiter Park, she had half expected to be left to her

own devices, but instead Eliot had escorted her to the saddling boxes, so that

they could both see how the horses had settled after their journey. Now,

half-way through the afternoon, she had to admit he'd done his best to make

her feel she was part of the team, instead of an unwanted encumbrance.

Although he would undoubtedly have had a much better time if she'd not

been so constantly at his side, she thought acidly. It had almost seemed at

one point as if every woman at the meeting had made some excuse to come

and speak to him, a number of them with distinctly predatory gleams in their

eyes. And she had to concede an unwilling admiration for the way Eliot had

dealt with all this attention. He had been polite and sufficiently charming not

to dash any lady's hopes, but that was as far as it had gone. And he'd made a

point of introducing Natalie to each and every one of them, without, she'd

realised, mentioning the fact that she was his partner's daughter.

'Am I your chaperon?' she had asked after a while, struggling with her

amusement.

'Perish the thought,' Eliot returned, slanting a wicked grin at her.

'Well, if they decide to award a prize for the most hated female under forty, I

know who'll get it,' she said wryly.

Eliot turned and looked at her, a slow comprehensive stare which took in all

of her, from the swirl of copper hair piled up on her head to the toes of her

chestnut- coloured boots, including the brand new and very expensive suit

she'd treated herself to in moss green, velvet-soft suede, with its straight

skirt and gently bloused jacket.

He said quietly, 'It isn't the only prize you'd win today.'

She felt swift, embarrassed colour flare in her cheeks, and hurriedly

transferred her attention to her race card, hoping desperately that Eliot

wouldn't think she'd been fishing for some kind of compliment.

Because she hadn't dressed for him, she thought confusedly, but for the

credit of Wintersgarth as a whole.

Now, as he came back to her side, she looked up, forcing a smile.

'Shall we go back to the stand?' He put a hand under her elbow, guiding her

through the throng of people. As he did so, they came face to face with a tall,

pretty girl in a fur coat. As she saw them, all the colour seemed to drain out

of her face. She said, with a little gasp, 'Eliot!'

He said unsmilingly, 'Hello, Michelle,' and kept going.

'Eliot, wait a minute. I must speak to you.'

He sighed, then turned to face her. 'Not now,' he said gently.

'But I want to tell you how sorry I am. All those things in the papers. I was so

humiliated...' Her voice tailed away breathlessly.

'I was sorry too,' he said levelly. 'Now, let's leave it at that. If Kevin sees you

talking to me, there'll probably be a scene we'd both rather avoid.'

Natalie had been listening in bewilderment to this exchange, but suddenly it

all made sense. In the stand, as they awaited the announcement that the

horses had come under starter's orders, she said, 'That was Mrs Laidlaw,

wasn't it?'

'Yes.' The firm mouth was grimly compressed.

It seemed safer not to ask any more questions, even if she'd been able to

think of one, she thought ruefully. 'Are you still in love with each other?' was

the most obvious, and the answer to that seemed equally clear. The

encounter had been unexpected and painful for both of them. And somehow

her own pleasure in the day had been diminished.

Even La Margarita's win by a short head wasn't the totally joyous event it

should have been, although Eliot's relief was almost tangible.

'Is it as nerve-racking as being a jockey?' asked Natalie as they went down to

the unsaddling enclosure.

'It's worse,' he said ruefully. 'When I rode, I had the trainer to blame if the

horse didn't perform well. Now the buck stops here.' He glanced at her. 'I

hoped you backed her?'

'Of course,' she said, and spoiled it by adding, 'Each way.'

'O ye of little faith!' But the teasing note was slightly off-key, as if his

thoughts were elsewhere.

The Besants were overjoyed at their win, fussing La Margarita outrageously,

and insisting that Eliot and Natalie join them in the bar for some champagne.

As they walked into the bar, she heard Eliot mutter, 'Oh hell!' half under his

breath.

Kevin Laidlaw was there, standing a few yards away from them, and

engaged in what was clearly a furious argument with a tall, heavily built man

in a tweed overcoat.

'The joys of training,' Eliot observed laconically as they made their way to

the Besants' table. 'If you win you get champagne. If you lose, you get the

rough edge of the owner's tongue.'

'That was Terence Strang, the newspaper proprietor, wasn't it?' asked

Natalie.

Eliot nodded, his face closed. 'Kevin trains his whole string—for jumping

and the Flat,' he said.

'And you used to ride them?'

'At one time. But I'm glad I wasn't on any of them this afternoon. One fourth

place, which should have been first, one faller, and a disappointing seventh.

Not the kind of results Mr Strang would be looking for.'

^But even the best horses have their off days.' Natalie tried to be fair to

Kevin Laidlaw, who was still having a very trying time, and under a great

deal of public scrutiny.

'Sometimes off days can be habit-forming,' Eliot said meditatively.

The Besants were clearly more interested in celebrating than the rest of the

programme, and after a few minutes Eliot excused himself to supervise the

saddling of Likely Lad in the next race. Natalie hoped he would come back,

but there was no sign of him, not even when the race was over with Likely

Lad a promising second. Natalie thanked the Besants for their hospitality,

and went in search of him. It was the last race of the day, and Wintersgarth

had no runner in it. Natalie went down to the rails and looked around, as the

horses cantered down to the start. Perhaps he'd gone to a put a bet on, she

thought, or was waiting for her in the stand. She turned and was scanning the

stand, shading her eyes with her card, when a hand fell on her arm and she

looked round in surprise to see Kevin Laidlaw glaring at her.

'Where is he?' he demanded aggressively.

Natalie freed herself. 'I'm sorry?'

'Oh, don't play games with me,' he shot at her. 'You came with that bastard

Lang—I saw you. And now you're on your own. So where is he?'

'I don't think that's any of your business.' Natalie began to walk away, but he

grabbed her shoulder.

'On the contrary,' he almost hissed at her, 'it might be very much my bloody

business!'

'Mr Laidlaw!' Natalie shook him off. 'People are looking at us.'

'How do you know who I am? Did he tell you?'

Natalie sighed. 'He didn't have to,' she said patiently. 'We've never met, but

I'm Grantham Slater's daughter.'

'The devil you are!' He stared at her, then smiled offensively. 'Consolidating

his position, is he? Making sure everything's sewn up nicely?'

Natalie winced away from the words, and the whisky fumes on his breath.

She said curtly, 'Think what you like,' and took off through the crowd,

dreading the possibility that he might follow her.

Judging by the state he was in, he'd probably spent the greater part of the

meeting in the bar, she thought with distaste. No wonder Terence Strang had

been so openly furious! She wondered if he'd always been a heavy drinker,

or whether his drinking had been induced by professional stress—or some

more personal problem. Like having an unfaithful wife...

She shut her mind to that. Whatever the reason, he was in an ugly mood, and

maybe she should warn Eliot. She began to search methodically, and after