Summer Games (9 page)

Peeling off dirty clothes as she went, she hurried into the bathroom. The water in the black-tiled shower came out in a thick, hard pulsating spray that rapidly reduced her aches and bones to jelly. With a groan of sheer pleasure, she let hot water knead muscles knotted by impatience and nerves.

It would only get worse. The days and hours and minutes before the beginning of the three-day event unrolled before her like eternity.

Stop thinking about it.

The silent command was automatic. So was the response. She turned her thoughts away from the competition to come. The only way she could make time move faster was to distract herself.

Smiling thinly, she decided that Cord qualified as one hell of a distraction. She wasn’t in the running for an affair. No matter how much he appealed to her, she knew better than to get involved with a man who lived with an electronic leash. But dinner and the chance to flap the unflappable Mr. Elliot were different. They came under the heading of diversion, and she needed one badly.

She dried her hair and set it in big hot rollers. While heat tamed her hair, or tried to, she rubbed a perfumed cream over her body, put on makeup with a sparing hand, and wandered over to the closet wearing little more than fragrance and a competitor’s knife-bright smile.

Without hesitation she bypassed the tailored formality of her dressage clothes—silk hat and starched linen shirt, black coat with tails, clean riding pants with a razor crease—and went directly to the five evening outfits. These were as necessary a part of world-class riding equipment as any dressage uniform.

The Olympic Equestrian Team was supported by private donations. The wealthiest donors often threw stylish parties; riders were urgently “requested” to attend. Raised in an atmosphere of political reality, Raine knew better than to balk at such requests. She had acquired a wardrobe suitable for elegant parties.

After a brief debate with herself, she ignored the floor-length gold-shot bronze dress of Indian silk. She passed over the crimson silk pants and filmy top from Italy. Her fingers settled on the hanger that held a black ankle-length sheath. The clinging cloth was slit to mid-thigh in the front.

Then she remembered Cord’s long-legged stride. Even with the long slit, the dress would be like wearing hobbles. Her hand moved on, to a hanger that supported a rustling mass of jade-green water-color silk. The top of the dress overlapped, making a deep V to her waist. Although the silk rarely revealed more than a hint of her gently curving breasts, the cleverly draped folds always seemed on the point of coming undone. A pleated belt of the same material finished the almost-knee-length dress.

Still humming, Raine pulled on some very sheer, very French pantyhose. The dress’s deep neckline made a bra impossible. Not that it really mattered. She wasn’t built to overflow any bounds of propriety. She stepped into the dress, closed the invisible side zipper, and arranged the neckline so that it concealed a lot more than it revealed.

Though she didn’t notice, the deep, shimmering green of the dress made her skin look like porcelain lit from within by flame. She put on earrings and a long, handmade gold chain that followed the neckline of the dress. The necklace wove light into glimmers of gold that were picked up and repeated in her hazel eyes. Emeralds glowed among the gold links and winked in each earlobe, echoing the green flecks in her eyes.

Balancing on first one foot and then the other, she fastened on a pair of very high evening sandals made of wisps of butter-soft gold leather. She headed for the bathroom, pulling out rollers with both hands, ready to do battle with her hair.

Even after the hot rollers, her hair was as stubborn as any horse she had ever tried to school. She combed out the crackling, silky mass until it was a wild cloud around her shoulders. Then she gathered the slippery chestnut hair in her hands and built a smooth, sophisticated coil on top of her head. As a finishing touch, she pulled free a few curling wisps and let them fall softly around her temples, ears, and the nape of her neck. A few more tendrils escaped on their own, giving a soft contrast to the sleek discipline of the chestnut coils.

When she was finished, she examined the result in the mirror. She wouldn’t stop traffic, but at least she didn’t look like she had just crawled out of a haystack.

With the ingrained neatness of someone who was used to living out of suitcases, she straightened up the motel room. When she was finished, she looked critically at her fingernails. Short, buffed rather than polished, they looked almost childlike next to the elegance of her dress. With a shrug, she dismissed her nails. They were clean and healthy, which was all she asked. Long, brightly painted fingernails were a nuisance around the stable and uncomfortable inside riding gloves.

Lights flashed in the parking lot. A few moments later there was a brisk knock on her door that fairly shouted of Cord Elliot’s male confidence. She glanced at the incredibly thin gold watch that had been her father’s gift to her after he had been forced to leave the Pan-American Games before he could see her event.

Seven o’clock.

“Coming,” she said.

She took off the chain and opened the door without any further checking to see who was on the other side. There was no point. She already knew.

“Are you always so trusting?” he asked grimly.

She was too busy staring at Cord to answer. If it hadn’t been for the pale, brilliant eyes, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The rough looking stranger who had ruthlessly knocked her down and searched her yesterday was gone. Tonight Cord was wearing an expensive navy blazer and claret silk tie, white silk shirt, and fine charcoal wool pants. His shoes were sleek leather, Italian, as soft as a baby’s cheek. The elegant clothes enhanced his male grace and strength, quietly proving that clothes were only as good as the man who wore them.

With a sinking feeling, she realized that he had done it again. She was knocked off-balance while he stayed in complete control. She told herself that it was accidental, he didn’t mean to unnerve her.

She didn’t believe it.

Silently Cord looked down into the face of the woman who had troubled his thoughts even more after he had decided that she wasn’t a terrorist bent on death. The ripped blue blouse and faded riding pants she had worn yesterday were gone. So was the dusty, tear-streaked face.

Tonight there was only elegance and poise. Gold-shot brown hair, eyes alive with intelligence and humor, the tantalizing curve of neck and shoulder, the feminine swell of breasts beneath silk that teased even as it concealed. She stood before him with unconscious pride. Her wealth, position, and poise were pulled around her like medieval armor.

Princess at work. Touch not.

But he had expected her to wear full social armor. He had dressed for it. He was an old hand at getting past barriers, at camouflage and passing unseen in every kind of crowd. He had lived with savages and prime ministers, could talk with barbarians and Ph.D.’s.

So he smiled down at her while his senses quickened with her scent. His eyes memorized the chestnut coils and teasing tendrils of her hair, the subdued glint of emerald against the sensuous lobes of her ears, the sheen of smooth silk against smoother skin, feet arched as delicately as a dancer’s.

Not a princess . . . a queen. Centuries of wealth and power condensed into a deceptively slender form.

Idly Cord wondered whether Raine had dressed to intimidate him. Probably, but not solely. Her clothes were an automatic defense against the rest of the world. Like a fawn freezing at the first hint of a wolf, she let her polished exterior conceal the heat and life inside.

He smiled at the thought, a slow smile that did nothing to conceal the male intensity of his appraisal. She wasn’t beautiful in the usual sense of the word, but she was a woman to tempt any man who had the intelligence to see her and the confidence to pursue what he saw.

Cord had both, in abundance.

He also had a hunger that grew with every breath he took, she took, the heat of their bodies reaching out in silent, sultry invitation.

After a moment Raine smiled at him in return. The tentative curve of her lips was wistful and aloof and so beautiful to him that he couldn’t prevent a sudden, silent intake of breath. He held out his fingers, needing to touch her. When she took his hand, he lifted hers to his mouth. His lips found the warm center of her palm.

Both of them felt her fingers curl slightly in sensual response.

“My compliments to your fairy godmother,” he said, looking at her with eyes that were hooded, their dark centers wide.

“Cinderella was a scullery maid, not a stable hand,” Raine said lightly, dismissing the compliment as she had dismissed so many before, not believing in her own feminine allure.

Yet his response to her changed appearance affected her the same way his lips against her palm did. Frissons of warmth rippled through her, setting off slow fires in the secret places of her body.

She had expected the same combination of surprise and retreat from Cord that she had seen in other men when she dressed with the wealth and elegance that were her heritage. Those other men had been first startled, then uneasy. They had expected a socially awkward rider and instead found themselves with a woman who had graduated from Europe’s finest finishing schools and social circuits.

It wasn’t a life she had particularly enjoyed, but it had its uses, especially as a deterrent. Until now. Cord had been attracted rather than uneasy.

And she was off-center again, feeling as though she had to cling to him for balance. Again.

“Ready?” he asked.

She didn’t know. But she knew she was going to find out. She scooped her purse off the coffee table. “Ready.”

He put his hand behind her elbow, guiding her out of the room. He shut the door, checked that it was locked, and ushered her toward a black Pantera that crouched like a big cat in the parking lot. He handed her into the low-slung sports car, fastened her seatbelt, closed her door firmly, and got in the driver’s side.

From the corner of her eye, Raine watched while he folded himself into the low seat. He should have looked awkward. He didn’t. He slid into place with the easy coordination that marked all his movements.

“Anything you can’t eat?” he asked, as he brought the car’s engine to life.

“Curry.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, I love the taste. It just doesn’t love me.”

He gave her a sympathetic look and eased the Pantera out into traffic. “How about Asian food?”

“Love it. Chinese, Japanese, Korean.”

“Vietnamese?”

“Never tried it,” she admitted.

“If you don’t like the appetizers, I’ll take you somewhere else.”

She relaxed into the leather seat as the car accelerated with an eagerness that reminded her of Dev. The engine’s sound rose an octave, sending discreet messages of raw power into the passenger compartment. She watched while he controlled the car with small, easy movements of his hands, an economy of motion that spoke of skill and confidence.

“You must have been a good rider,” she said, as he downshifted coming into a curve.

He gave her a brief sideways look before returning his attention to the heavy traffic. “Why do you say that?”

“Your hands. Quick. Sure. Calm. Sensitive.”

As she spoke, she remembered the feeling of his hands framing her face. She was glad that the light in the car was too dim to show the pulse beating too rapidly in her throat and the heat climbing her cheeks.

“Legacy of a misspent youth,” he said dryly. “And a family tradition. My great-grandfather and grandfather were mustangers—wild-horse hunters. They followed the mustangs on foot, always keeping the horses on the move, never letting them eat more than a few bites of food or drink more than a few cups of water at a time. They would literally walk those mustangs into the ground.”

“Why?” she asked, startled.

“Poor man’s round-up. No corrals, fences, extra riders, nothing but dogged determination.”

“Why didn’t the mustangs just run away?”

“They’re territorial. They move in a broad circle, keeping to the water holes and grazing lands they know. Two men could work a herd, leapfrogging each other as they cut across the country from water hole to water hole, arriving ahead of the mustangs and stampeding them off toward the next water hole before their thirst was slaked.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Until the horses got so hungry and thirsty and sore footed that you could walk right up and put a rope on them. They would follow you anywhere for a hat full of water.”

Raine turned toward Cord, caught by the quality of his voice; darkness and textures of emotion, very masculine, oddly soothing. It was the kind of voice she could listen to endlessly, like music.

Unaware of her intent eyes, he kept talking as he drove. It had been a long time since he had thought about the people and places and scents of his childhood. For some reason he found the memories almost unbearably sharp tonight.

“Dad went on the last of the hunts when he was only nine,” Cord said quietly. “The good mustangs were gone by then. Nothing was left but slab-sided scrub beasts as mean as the rock desert that men had crowded them into.”

“I’ll bet they were tough little ponies.”

“Hardest hooves in the world. Hardest heads, too.”

Memories shot through him. Old photos that were faded and curling, taped to his father’s bedroom wall, pictures of mustangs and mustangers long since dead.

“What did your father do when the good mustangs were gone?” she asked.

“Granddad and Dad took to breaking the rough string, other men’s horses that were either too green or too mean to be ridden by most hands. Granddad was a regular shaman. He had a voice that would mesmerize the meanest stud.”

She smiled to herself. The grandson had definitely inherited his grandfather’s gift. Listening to Cord’s voice was like being wrapped in warm, dark velvet.

“What did you do as a kid?” she asked.

“I learned to ride on horses that no one but my dad would touch. I learned to move confidently, cleanly, and never to turn my back. I also learned that even the most savage horse can be gentled, given time, patience, and,” he grinned, “enough apples.”