The Glory Game (29 page)

Raul fought off the exhaustion that pushed him toward the chair seat and reached for the wet towel draped over the back. He wiped the sweat from his face and ran it over his damp hair, then let it cool the back of his neck. Blood had dried along a cut on his arm, although he didn't remember how he got it. It wasn't hurting him, so he didn't bother to clean it.

Someone handed him a drink. He lifted it to his parched mouth and downed half of it before pausing to walk again and keep that leg muscle from tightening up on him. The groom came back, leading a saddled horse. He'd saved the black so he could use its lightning speed in the final period. Raul walked to the horse rather than wait for the female groom to bring the animal to him.

As he rechecked the tightness of the saddle girth and the length of the martingale, Hepplewhite rode over, already mounted on a fresh pony. The tiredness in the team captain's face was overshadowed by the gleam of a victory within reach.

“Speed, didn't I tell you that was the key?” he declared. “Every time the tempo picked up we got control. Sherbourne's style of play is steady and deliberate. A fast pace rattles him. This period, you and that black horse have to run their legs off. You do what I say and, by damn, we'll win this trophy.”

Raul nodded, fully aware the pressure was on him more than the others. He was the professional in their midst. He was getting paid to play, so results were expected. And the only result that counted was winning. The invisible pressure was always there, sometimes wearing on him. But polo was his profession and Hepplewhite's avocation. Excellence was expected—demanded—from
him, and little leeway allowed for the bad days everyone had sometimes.

“I will need the longer stick,” he told the groom as he walked to the lawn chair and retrieved his helmet and whip.

After he was in the saddle, she handed him the alternate mallet. The black horse was taller than the brown pony he'd ridden before. To compensate for the difference in their heights, he used a longer stick so he wouldn't have to adjust the reach or rhythm of his swing. Holding the mallet upright, like a warrior's lance, he reined the black horse toward the long, wide field of green.

“Good luck,” the groom called.

From the sidelines, Luz watched the play resume. Last night's champagne had left her with a miserable hangover, and the supposed stimulation contained in the gallons of caffeine-rich coffee she'd consumed this morning hadn't improved her condition. She still felt rotten. Her head felt heavy, in need of support, and there was a dull pounding in her temples. Despite the shade of her hat and dark glasses, the brilliant sunlight hurt her eyes. Everything jarred her senses—sounds, smells, movements.

Part of the dullness came, too, from Drew's telegram informing them of his marriage to Claudia. This morning, she had given it to Trisha and Rob. Typically, Rob had said nothing and walked out of the room. Trisha had been equally subdued, murmuring something about buying them a wedding present.

Luz tried not to think about it and watched the game instead. The action on the playing field happened too fast for her to follow all of it, so Luz concentrated on keeping track of Rob. She wasn't altogether successful at that, frequently losing sight of him amid the flashing sticks and galloping ponies. At the moment, he was racing at the head of a charging line of players, chasing a ball toward the goal line. Luz was fairly certain it was the opponents' goal, although she might have missed a change of ends.

“Go, Rob! Go!” Trisha urged him on.

Luz winced at the encouraging shout, wishing her daughter wouldn't yell so loudly. A black horse came streaking out of the following pack after Rob. The rider leaned way forward over the horse's neck, stretching in his stirrups and reaching
with his mallet. When Rob swung at the ball his mallet head hooked the other man's stick, and he had no chance to hit the ball through the posts.

“Damn him,” Trisha swore.

“Who was it?” With her slowed comprehension, it was all Luz could do to identify her own son.

“Raul Buchanan. Who else?” Trisha muttered while she looked through the binoculars.

“Who else,” Luz agreed dryly—and quietly. The Argentine had been Rob's nemesis the last time they'd played against each other, and today appeared to be a repeat.

“If looks could kill, Rob just buried him. Wanta see?” Trisha offered her the binoculars.

“No.” It was all she could do to hold her head up, and those field glasses were heavy. Besides, she doubted if she'd be able to see any better through them anyway.

And she had already guessed which one he was. Even at a distance he had looked familiar to her, so she had identified him from the start of the game. These last couple of days, Rob had talked about Raul Buchanan incessantly. Supposedly she had met him at last night's party, or so Rob claimed at breakfast this morning, but Luz didn't remember that.

Most of last night was a haze to her, although she had a vague, lingering sense that she'd made a fool of herself. She had seen and talked to a lot of people, mostly English lords and gentry, but no Latins that she recalled. Actually, she was grateful Rob had let the matter of her memory lapse drop. Maybe he knew she'd had too much to drink, but she hadn't wanted to admit that to him.

The game moved swiftly with none of the fouls that had so frequently halted the action in the first half of play. Privately, Luz was glad it wasn't dragging out, although for Rob's sake she was sorry time ran out while his side was still behind.

“Poor Henry.” Fiona sighed. “He won't be fit to live with for a week.”

“I suppose we should go console Rob,” Trisha said.

Luz would have preferred to go straight back to Seven Oak and lie down with an ice pack on her forehead, but she knew Rob would expect her to come by. Before the game, he had said he wanted her to meet Raul Buchanan. Now that the Argentine player had beaten him again, he might have changed
his mind about that. God, she hoped so. She wasn't sure if she was up to meeting the man who was fast becoming Rob's polo idol.

“We'll be back shortly,” she promised Fiona Sherbourne, and carefully pushed out of the chair.

Together, Luz and Trisha proceeded up the sidelines toward the picket area. Luz kept her head down so that the brim of her hat could shield her from as much of the glaring sun as possible. Silently, she wished for some of that notoriously foul English weather—some heavy thick clouds would be nice.

They skirted the spectators, most of them there in hopes of catching a glimpse of some member of the Royal Family, either playing in the game or observing the action. Passing the parked horse trailers, mainly the old-fashioned horse boxes instead of the goose-necked kind so common in the States, they approached the riders' pony lines. They had to watch where they were going and avoid the piles of horse droppings that dotted the rear area.

“There's Rob.” Trisha pointed.

Luz glanced in the direction she indicated. Rob was in the company of another man whose back was to them, the polo helmet tucked under his arm to reveal dark, rumpled hair. The color of his sweat-darkened shirt identified him as a member of the opposing team, obviously being congratulated by Rob on their victory.

“Hey, Luz!” Rob called to her, his expression seeming unusually earnest in the face of his loss. A second later, Luz recognized the black horse standing to one side of the rider, and it all made sense. That was Raul Buchanan with him. “You've met my mother, haven't; you?” he said to him as she walked up, Trisha lagging slightly behind her.

When the man turned, shock rippled through her. That face belonged to the man she had danced with at the party. The clothes were wrong—the dirt-smudged white breeches, the tight-fitting polo shirt, and boots. In black evening suit, she would never have guessed that he played polo for a living—that he was Argentine.

A second thought hit Luz with sickening force. She'd been so drunk. The impression she must have made on him was sobering. She looked at his level blue eyes, deeply lined at the corners. He probably saw her as a bitter, self-pitying divorcee,
afraid of growing old alone. That wasn't really who she was. And she wouldn't have him looking down at her.

“Yes, I've met Mrs. Thomas,” he said.

“You have the advantage on me, Mr. Buchanan,” Luz asserted coolly. “Last evening you only identified yourself as the lord of nothing.' A memorable title—and a curious one under the circumstances.”

“It seemed appropriate at the time. The phrase was once used to describe the gaucho—the cowboy of my country.
Señor de nada
, lord of nothing. As you said, Mrs. Thomas, it's memorable although the humor may be weak.” The explanation was smooth and aloofly made.

“Part of the fault for this mix-up may be mine.” Trisha stepped forward. “You see, the other evening, Luz, I likened Raul to a modern-day gaucho.”

A combination of things registered simultaneously on Luz—Trisha's familiar use of his given name, the way she looked at him, and the memory that her daughter had been with him when Luz first saw him. The nearly twenty-year age difference came last, but Drew had proved to her how irrelevant that was to a man. Luz shuddered inwardly when she recalled how very close she had come to making an utter fool of herself and indulging in absurd fantasies. The dark glasses she wore were a blessing.

“Well,
señor de nada
—or should I call you Mr. Buchanan? I don't know which you prefer.” Her brittle, forced laugh, like her smile, had a trace of sarcasm that mocked whatever nobly romantic notions he had about himself.

“Mr. Buchanan—or simply Raul.”

Luz suspected the latter familiarity was offered because he had already given the privilege to her daughter. “My son has spoken at length about you, Mr. Buchanan.” Belatedly, she realized that Rob probably called him by his given name, too, but she preferred to keep this new distance. “Naturally he talked about your polo school.”

“He is a good player. With training, he could improve his handicap rating. I admit I would like to see him enroll in the program. I think he would benefit greatly from it.'

“Before we made a decision of that nature, I would have to know more detailed information about it—the duration of the training, the time frame. And the costs involved—I'm sure
you don't do this for nothing,” she added cynically. “Many things have to be considered.”

“I understand.” Raul's expression had become very remote. “I have supplied your son with my address in Argentina. You may direct your inquiries there for information, or any arrangements you may wish to make. He also has the name of the man to contact regarding the school.”

“I was under the impression it was your school. Do you actually do any instructing, or have you simply lent your name to it?” Luz challenged.

“It is my school,” he stated firmly. “And I will be involved in the instruction of the finer points of the game, but there will be others teaching as well, so the young player will have the benefit of the expertise of others.”

“I hope you don't think I was accusing you of misleading us.” She smiled.

His mouth curved in response, its line containing the same knowing expression as hers. “It never crossed my mind, Mrs. Thomas.”

“Then you will understand when I say that I'm accustomed to dealing with the person in charge, and that appears to be you.” She wasn't about to be shunted to some underling. “It seems only fair that if we are prepared to invest both time and money in your program, you take time to answer our questions personally.”

“I would do so now, Mrs. Thomas, but unfortunately they will be making the trophy presentation shortly. And I have the feeling your discussion would be a lengthy one. Previous commitments will take me out of the country the first of the week, so I cannot be certain how soon I could arrange to meet you. I gave you my associate's name as an alternative. It would be poor business practice—and rude—to indefinitely postpone supplying the information you seek before deciding whether Rob—your son—may wish to attend this year's session.”

“It starts the latter part of August,” Rob volunteered. “That's less than two months away.”

The obvious deadline irritated her. She felt she had to take a firm stand to establish some kind of authority. Her pride insisted on it.

“Raul is going to France,” Trisha supplied.

“Yes, I will be there approximately a month before I fly home to Argentina.”

“Perhaps that's our answer, Mr. Buchanan,” Luz stated. “We—that is, Trisha and I—will be in Paris for the next ten days. Rob will stay on here and join us later. Surely we can arrange to have dinner one evening.”

“I am staying in the country.” He began what sounded like a refusal, then appeared to change his mind. “But I could arrange to come into the city for an evening.”

“We will be staying at the Hotel de Crillon. What day would suit you? Our plans are flexible.” Again, she forced the issue, seeking a firm date rather than leaving it open.

“Shall we say Tuesday, the week next?” he suggested smoothly.

“That will be fine,” Luz agreed. “Dinner at eight.”

“I will leave the choice of restaurant to you,” he replied. “If any conflict arises, I will leave a message at your hotel, but I anticipate none.” A movement on the field distracted his attention. “You will excuse me.” He collected the reins of his horse and swung onto the saddle.

When Luz tipped her head back to look up at his now greater height she looked directly into the sun, its light no longer blocked by her hat brim. Not even the dark lenses of her sunglasses could shield out all the force of its blinding glare. She averted her face and instinctively raised a hand to cover her eyes.

“In Paris, Mrs. Thomas.” The firm tone of his voice promised a future meeting. A second later, she heard the heavy step of the black horse, its shod hooves carrying him away. Wary of the sun, Luz chanced another look at the rider, this time careful to keep her head down, and watched him ride back onto the field to join the other members of his team.