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'He probably wouldn't even notice I'd gone—until he wanted his letters

typed, or found the owners weren't paying their bills on time.'

'That isn't true, and you know it,' Beattie said roundly. 'He loves you, Nat,

although I admit he has a very strange way of showing it. He has

this—fixation about women working with horses.' She paused. 'I think one

of the reasons he fell in love with me is that I know nothing about the beasts

except that they bite at one end, and kick at the other.' She smiled at Natalie.

'There were a lot of women after him, you know, who had strong

connections with racing, who'd have been able to talk to him about horses in

an intelligent manner. Coral LeFevre, for one.'

In spite of her wretchedness, Natalie felt her lips curve in the ghost of a

smile. 'The Black Widow? What makes you think that?'

'The way she still looks at him,' said Beattie simply. 'I know that a lot of your

father's friends and colleagues were horrified when he married me, when

there were so many more suitable wives around.' She thought for a minute.

'But my attraction for your father was my
unsuitability,
somehow. We met at

a concert he'd been dragged to, and he didn't mind that I thought the Derby

and the Grand National were the same kind of race. He's never minded it. In

a way, I'm part of the same fixation. I'm happy with my music and my

cooking, and that makes Grantham happy too. I can't explain it.' She gave

Natalie a level look. 'I sympathise with you, every step of the way, but I love

Grantham, and I won't have him upset for any reason, however good. If you

really want to leave, wait a few weeks until he's stronger, and feelings have

cooled. You can't quarrel with him, Nat. I won't allow it.'

There was a long silence, then Natalie said dully, 'Very well. You're right, of

course. I'd never forgive myself if there was a row, and it

caused—problems.' She shook herself, and stood up. 'But I can't sit at that

table with Eliot Lang and eat lunch as if nothing has happened. Make some

excuse for me, Beattie, please. Tell them I've got a headache, or bubonic

plague, or something.'

Beattie groaned. 'I'll do my best—but, Nat, your father won't be pleased.'

Natalie opened the kitchen door. She said, 'I promise you he'd be even less

pleased to hear me tell Eliot Lang to go to hell.'

That, she thought, was relatively mild compared with what she'd really like

to say to him, so why was Beattie sitting-there looking as if she'd been

frozen?

She turned to walk into the hall, and cannoned straight into six foot of bone,

sinew and muscle, standing there on the threshold. As unusually strong arms

steadied her, she thought confusedly, Andrew? and realised in the same

moment that it couldn't be. Andrew was only medium height and distinctly

pudgy. Whereas this man, she thought as she took a hurried step backwards,

hadn't a spare ounce of flesh anywhere.

Her face burning, she looked up to encounter hazel eyes regarding her with

no expression whatever.

'Now, why should you tell me any such thing?' said Eliot Lang.

NATALIE wanted the floor to open and swallow her, but it remained

disappointingly solid, so she rallied her defences.

'I think that's my business,' she retorted, her chin tilted dangerously. 'Perhaps

you should remember what they say about eavesdroppers, Mr Lang,' She

realised his hands were still gripping her upper arms, not too gently, and she

stiffened. 'And will you kindly get your hands off me!'

He released her so promptly it was almost an insult. Then he was walking

past her, the thin, tanned face relaxing into a smile.

'Mrs Slater?' He held out his hand to Beattie. 'I'm sorry for this apparent

intrusion, but your husband thought you might not have heard Mr Bentley's

car arrive, so I volunteered to find you.' He looked round him, his smile

widening. 'Not that it's any hardship,' he added appreciatively. 'Something

smells absolutely fantastic!'

'It's just ordinary home cooking,' said Beattie with modest untruthfulness, as

she shook hands with him. Her candid grey eyes looked him over. 'You look

as if you could do with some.'

He laughed. 'You could be right. I've spent so many years living on

starvation rations to keep my weight down, that it's hard to believe I can now

eat as much as I want.'

There was a pause, then Beattie said with slight awkwardness, 'And this, of

course, is my stepdaughter Natalie.'

He turned back towards Natalie. 'How do you do,' he said with cool civility.

The swift charm which had bowled over Beattie, it seemed, could be

switched on and off at will, Natalie thought with contempt.

She returned a mechanically conventional greeting, then excused herself on

the grounds that she had to see to the drinks.

Her retreat was in good order, but when she was safely alone, she found her

heart was pounding as if she'd taken to her heels and fled from him.

It was infuriating to realise she had been betrayed into such a schoolgirlish

piece of rudeness, but at least Eliot Lang now knew quite unequivocally

where he stood where she was concerned, she thought defiantly.

Andrew's greeting was rather less ebullient then usual, she realised as she

took the drinks into the drawing-room. He knew, none better, how

desperately keen she'd been to join Grantham as his partner, and she thought

she saw a measure of compassion in his gaze, as he swapped genialities with

her about how good it was to have her father back again, and how well he

was looking.

Gradually she recovered her composure, and by the time Eliot Lang

accompanied her stepmother into the room, she was able to meet the rather

searching look he sent her with an appearance, at least, of indifference.

She found, to her annoyance, that she was stationed opposite him at the

dining-table, although the conversation was general enough to enable her to

avoid having to address him directly. Her father was in his most expansive

and relaxed mood, making no secret of his delight at the success of his plans.

Naturally, as the meal wore on, the talk turned to racing, and Eliot Lang's

past triumphs, although in fairness Natalie had to admit the subject wasn't

introduced by him, and he seemed reluctant to discuss them, commenting

instead with open wryness on his failure ever to ride a Grand National

winner.

'It's only one race,' Grantham leaned back in his chair. 'And that last Gold

Cup of yours must have made up for everything.'

Eliot Lang laughed. He had good teeth, Natalie noticed, white and very

even. 'It was Storm Trooper's race. All I had to do was sit tight.'

'Don't denigrate yourself, lad. He nearly went at that last fence, thanks to that

damned loose horse. You held him up, and took him on.' Grantham shook

his head. 'A great win—a truly great win.'

Natalie stole a covert look at Eliot Lang under her lashes, trying to visualise

him sweat-streaked and mud- splashed. In the dark, elegant suit, its

waistcoat accentuating his slim waist, the gleam of a silk tie setting off his

immaculate white shirt, he looked more like a successful City executive.

And he was undeniably attractive, she thought resentfully, if you liked that

sort of thing, his good looks only slightly marred by the slanting scar that

slashed across one cheekbone.

It was a tough face, the cleft in his chin, and the firm line of his mouth

emphasising the ruthlessness and determination which had always been a

hallmark of his riding. 'Fearless', she recalled unwillingly, had been one of

the adjectives most often used by the sports writers.

With a faint shock, she realised he was watching her in his turn, a faintly

cynical smile playing round his lips. Natalie transferred her gaze hastily

back to her plate, trying to control her confusion.

He probably thought she was another potential conquest, she thought

scornfully. Well, he would soon discover his mistake.

Beattie was speaking. 'After all the success and the excitement, Mr Lang,

aren't you going to find training rather—mundane?'

He smiled at her. 'Won't you please call me Eliot? And the simple answer to

your question is—no, I'm sure I won't. I'm looking forward immensely to

joining you here at Wintersgarth.'

'But you're still quite young to have retired from National Hunt racing,'

persisted Beattie. 'Grantham says you still had years of winning in front of

you.'

He shrugged ironically, 'Perhaps.'

'So how could you bear to turn your back on it, when you were still at the

peak?'

He was silent for a moment, the straight dark brows drawn together. 'I

suppose it was a question of motivation,' he said at last. 'I had a couple of bad

falls last season.' His hand went up and touched the scar. 'They rather

brought home to me that I was over thirty now, and that letting horses stamp

you into the mud was not the way I wanted to spend part of the next decade.

I had to start thinking about a new career, and as I want to stay with horses,

training seemed the ideal answer.' He smiled. 'Once I'd made up my mind, it

really wasn't that hard to walk away.'

Natalie said, 'And will you find it just as easy to walk away from us when

you've had enough?'His brows lifted. 'This isn't a whim, Miss Slater. It's

strictly business. I'm investing in Wintersgarth.'

'I'm sure we're all very grateful,' she said. 'Not that we need your

money—we've always made out financially. But it's natural I should be

concerned about your—er— motivation. After all, you don't exactly have a

reputation for fidelity.'

'Natalie!' It was a bark from her father, his face thunderous. He turned to

Eliot. 'I must apologise for my daughter. Sometimes her tongue runs away

with her.'

'On the contrary,' said Eliot, 'If she has misgivings, it's best that they're aired

now.' He leaned across the table, his hazel eyes boring into Natalie's. 'My

partnership with your father isn't just a flash in the pan, Miss Slater. I'm

coming to him to learn from his genius, and maybe contribute some skills of

my own, and it's for the rest of my life.' He added drily, 'I'm sorry if that

doesn't fit the image you seem to have of me.'

She was furiously aware she'd been cut down to size by an expert.

She said, 'That's—reassuring. But you live in the South. Your life has been

based there, near the bright lights. Aren't you going to find Yorkshire quiet

and dull?'

'Even the brightest lights can pall.' He looked amused. 'And I was born here,

you know, although admittedly it was more by accident than design. My

parents were staying with friends during the hunting season, and had totally

misjudged the possible time of my arrival.'

Everyone was laughing with him, enjoying the slackening of tension,

although the glance Grantham bestowed on Natalie was minatory,

promising a tongue- lashing later.

She wished now she'd kept quiet. There was obviously nothing to be gained

from confrontation.

'What will you do about your lovely cottage?' Beattie asked. 'Keep it for

weekends?'

'No.' Eliot shook his head. 'I've already told one of the local agents to put it

on his books.' He paused. 'But you're not going to be lumbered with a lodger,

Mrs Slater. I'm quite self-sufficient, I promise you, and your husband

mentioned something about a self-contained flat over the garages that might

be suitable, at least on a temporary basis.'

Natalie said sharply, 'The flat? Dad, you didn't!'

Grantham's florid face adopted a moderately apologetic expression. 'Maybe

I should have talked it over with you, lass, but I've had other things on my

mind.' He turned to Eliot. 'My daughter's name is Drummond, actually. She

was widowed three years ago, but the flat in question was built to

accommodate Nat and her husband originally.'

Eliot's eyes surveyed Natalie's bare hands briefly, then he said, 'I'm sorry, I

didn't realise. Naturally if it's going to cause Mrs Drummond any distress,

I'll willingly look for an alternative.'

'Nonsense,' Grantham said robustly. 'The fiat's there, and it's empty. Nat

never goes near the place. Anyway, have a look at it, and see what you

think.'

Natalie didn't want to hear any more. She pushed back her chair and stood

up. 'I won't have coffee, Beattie. I have to telephone the feed merchant.' She

sketched some kind of smile round the table. 'If you'll excuse me... ?'

The office was a big, cluttered comfortable room, and it seemed like a

sanctuary to Natalie as she sank into the chair behind her desk. She had

letters to reply to, messages on the answering machine to listen to, as well as