The Glory Game (33 page)

“Please join us, Mr. Buchanan,” Diana invited.

He hesitated as if waiting for Luz to second the invitation, but it was Trisha who spoke up. “Yes, why don't you, Raul?” she urged.

“Gracias,”
he accepted with a polite tip of his head.

They joined the throng strolling from the paddock area toward the viewing stands. As they made their way to the owner's box, Trisha trailed behind to walk with Raul. Luz couldn't hear what they were saying, but she recognized that intimate tone in her daughter's voice, the one used by a woman trying to attract a man's interest. When they reached the private box and settled into their seats, Luz found herself sitting next to Raul with Trisha on his other side.

Luz focused her attention on the racehorses prancing onto the famed oval track. The colorful silks of the jockeys perched in the high-stirruped saddles were bright splashes against the emerald-green turf and the sleek, shining mounts parading past the noisy crowd.

“Did you receive the pamphlets I left at the hotel for you?”

Abruptly, Luz turned her head to look at him and found herself staring into his face, remembering every detail from the angled jawline to the straight-bridged nose—and the sensation of touching him. She wondered if he looked at her and recalled those moments on the dance floor. She glanced away before her expression gave away her thoughts.

“Yes, I did. They were most helpful.” As she determinedly directed her attention to the field of horses, she spied the golden chestnut pacing calmly alongside its lead pony. “There's Vagabond Song, the Number Seven horse.”

“He's a handsome animal,” Raul remarked.

From her seat behind them, Diana Chandler leaned forward to insert, “If he does well in this race, we're considering entering him in the Arc this October.”

The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, commonly known as the Arc in the international racing circle, was the most important and prestigious Thoroughbred racing event in France. The mile-and-a-half contest, open to three-year-olds and older, frequently
decided
the year's international champion. It was also an international event of the breeding world and
haut monde
, rivaled only by the Prix Diane at Chantilly and the Royal Ascot.

“My interest in today's race is more than just cheering on a friend's horse,” she said to Raul. “Vagabond Song was foaled at my father's Thoroughbred farm in Virginia. As a matter of fact, I was there when Jake booked the mare to the Minstrel, his sire. Jake never thought much of the colt, but I always liked him. So my interest is of a very personal nature.”

As he listened to her explanation, his gaze made a more thorough study of her as if he was seeking something that he sensed was behind the sophisticated facade. “You seem to have an eye for horseflesh, Mrs. Thomas.”

“Hopeworth Farm was my home when I was growing up, so I've always been interested in horses.” While she deftly handled his compliment, she felt she gained a degree of respect from him, and that pleased her.

The horses were being led into the starting gate. The mile-and-an-eighth race was only minutes from beginning. The crowd sensed it, and the steady din abated as the voices became subdued by the air of expectancy. Seconds after the last horse was locked in, the bell clanged and the gates sprang open. A roar went up from the crowd as the racers leaped out.

For the first several yards, the field of ten horses appeared to run abreast, a confusing blend of jockeys' bright silk colors and the horses' myriad browns. By the first furlong, the leaders emerged from the close-running pack bunched along the rail. Luz strained for a glimpse of the distinctive blue-and-green silks of the Chandler Stables as the horses began to string out along the oval's backstretch.

“I see him.” Vic Chandler had his binoculars trained on the racers. “He's running fifth and in the clear.”

Glancing at the middle of the pack, Luz located the chestnut horse running easily and close to the leaders. She lost sight of him when the horses made the turn into the final stretch. Then she saw him passing the fourth-place horse. The jockey was making his move, his hands pumping with the stride of the horse, urging it to greater speed. There was no perceptible increase, yet the stallion was effortlessly overtaking horses one by one.

Coming down the final stretch to the finish line, only the race favorite remained ahead of Vagabond Song, and the distance between them closed with each running stride. The crowd was on its feet, cheering the stretch duel. But Luz held her breath, straining with the chestnut the last few yards. Two lengths from the finish line, he caught the favorite, ran neck and neck for a stride, then pulled in front, crossing the line in first place.

“We won! We won!” Diana clasped her husband's arm in excitement while the jockey stood up in the stirrups and raised
the whip he'd never had to use, in a gesture of victory to the crowd.

“Congratulations.” Luz turned to hug Diana, sharing the ebullience of victory and pride of ownership she saw in their faces.

“I knew he would win.” Trisha joined the glad-handing celebration going on in the owner's box.

The race board flashed the official results, confirming the order of finish. “Come on, Diana.” A buoyant Vic Chandler put an arm around his wife to guide her out of the box. “They'll be wanting us down in the enclosure for the presentation.”

“And I've got winning tickets to cash in!” Trisha laughingly produced them with a flourish. “I told you to bet on him, Luz. Kincaids always win, and Vagabond Song is a Kincaid horse.” As the Chandlers made their way out of the private box, Trisha turned to leave, then paused and touched Raul's arm. “I'll be right back.”

Luz stiffened at the intimacy implied in such an assurance. Her glance flashed to Raul, seeking any indication that he responded in kind, but he merely nodded a brief acknowledgment. After Trisha left them, Luz let the postrace noise and confusion fill the silence in the owner's box and watched the presentation of the winner's purse to the Chandlers in the enclosure below. The chestnut's sweat-slick coat glistened in the sunlight, its neck proudly arched in triumph, and its trainer by its side.

“I wish Jake could have seen this,” she murmured absently, recalling the sense of personal accomplishment he had always felt when one of the horses he'd bred did well in a race.

“I'm certain he would be proud.” His response startled her into recalling she had voiced the thought.

“Yes, he would.” Her glance slid away from his. “After the action of the polo field, horseracing must seem like a tame sport to you. A bunch of horses running around an oval track.”

“Perhaps a little, but I enjoy the noise and excitement of the track.” A faint smile edged his mouth as he looked over the crowd.

It was a mixture of disgruntled bettors with torn losing tickets, winners shoving their way to the pay windows, and optimists picking out the winner of the next race. Those on the field, the horses and the jockeys, the almost-made-its and the
also-rans, were heading back to the stables, the jockeys hoping for a better horse in the next race and the horses wanting the kind hands of a groom and a portion of grain.

“The atmosphere arouses a bit of nostalgia for me.” His attention came idly back to her. “When I was growing up, I worked as a stableboy at the tracks in Buenos Aires, so it is all familiar to me—the anticipation, the letdown, and the rare jubilation.”

His response piqued her curiosity. “Where did you learn polo, then?”

“An owner hired me to work at his stables. He also played polo. I learned the game the long, slow way—and often the wrong way.”

“But you made it to the top.”

“Not to the top,” he corrected her. “I have yet to earn the ten rating.”

“And you aren't willing to settle for less,” she realized intuitively.

“Given a choice, Mrs. Thomas, would you settle for less than the best? I think not.” There was a knowing quality to his lazy smile, but no unkindness. It was almost a sharing of ideals, and it moved her in a strange way.

“You're probably right,” she admitted, responding to that smile.

“I did not expect you ever to admit openly that I might be right about anything.” His smile turned gently mocking, to hint at her previous mistrust.

“I sometimes speak rashly,” Luz admitted, stimulated by this subtle wordplay that had sprung between them. It was an almost forgotten sensation that reminded her of high school and college days. She thought she had forgotten how to play the game, but flirting was obviously like riding a horse—no one ever completely lost the knack.

“Which is not always wisely,” Raul suggested dryly.

“Not always,” she agreed.

Trisha breezed back into the owner's box, her return scattering the faint undercurrents Luz had sensed. She grasped the clutch purse with her winnings tightly in her hand. “It won't buy a Dior original, but it will finance another trip to that divine shop on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré with all the leather and suede,” she declared, then laughed. “Remind me to send
a basket of apples to Vagabond Song when we get back to the hotel. And I'll have them throw in a bunch of carrots, too. It's only fair, since he did all the work.”

“That's true.” Luz smiled, but she felt oppressed by Trisha's vivacious humor, its youthful vigor more than she could match.

She welcomed the arrival of the Chandlers, both of them still glowing from their horse's victory. “Remember that drink we were going to have to the winner?” Vic said. “Well, I think it's in order now. What do you say?”

There were more races on the afternoon's program, but they would be anticlimactic after this one, so Luz agreed with Vic's suggestion. They left the owner's box and retraced their route to the inner paddocks while Vic related the jockey's account of the running, naturally filled with praise for the horse.

He was still talking when they reached the champagne bar under the trees, but paused in his story long enough to ask, “Champagne all around?” His glance singled out Raul, who nodded affirmatively; he took the ladies' answers for granted. Once the order was placed with the bartender, he went back to his story, hardly skipping a beat. “Ewan wants to try the Song in a mile-and-a-quarter race to see how he fares before committing to the Arc. I say the breeding is there and we should go for it, but he likes to play it cautious. He's brought the Song along this far, so I have to go along with him. As Jake always said, you can't argue with success.” The bartender set the filled glasses in front of him, and Vic handed them to Raul to distribute. Luz was conscious of the brush of his fingers when he passed one to her. “To the winner, Vagabond Song.” Vic raised his glass in a repeat of his prerace toast.

“To the winner,” they all echoed.

The race remained the topic of conversation, the race and its winner. Through it all, Luz caught herself watching Raul, especially when Vic questioned him about Thoroughbred racing in Argentina and the caliber of the horses compared to the American and European horses. Then she could study him without being obvious.

The conversation came around to a discussion of fillies competing with colts in their same age group. “I have a two-year-old filly that I picked up last year at the yearling sale in Deauville for next to nothing. She has been doing exceptionally well in her races. She won the last two going away. I've been
talking to Ewan about running her against some colts. I think she could beat the ones I've seen.”

“You're better off waiting until the fall,” Luz said. “It's been my experience—through Jake—that fillies always fare better against the colts in the fall than they do in the spring when they're in season.”

“A good point. I hadn't considered that.” Vic nodded thoughtfully, while Luz caught a glimmer of respect in Raul's look and experienced an odd rush of pleasure.

Then his glance shot past her. A split second later, his right hand gripped her arm above the elbow and pulled her closer to him, out of the path of a man shouldering his way to the bar before she was jostled by him. She looked up to thank him and saw the pain in his expression. She realized he had used his injured arm.

“Your wrist—” she began.

“De nada.”
He brushed aside her concern, insisting it was nothing, but there was something warm in his look.

It unsettled her, though, just as her growing fascination with him unsettled her. Maybe it was as simple as being in the company of a man who was a stranger to her compared to Drew, whose every gesture and expression she knew so well she could almost anticipate what he was going to say next. But she didn't know Raul well enough to guess what he was thinking or what a particular look or movement meant.

That unknown always spiced a relationship, never allowing a person to be sure of her footing until the time came when everything was learned and disenchantment or boredom set in. That's obviously what had happened to her marriage. She and Drew had grown apart, and he had become bored with her. That level of interest necessary to make a relationship last had to be based on more than just caring or wanting something to be so. Maybe it required common interests such as Drew shared with Claudia.

The weight of her depressing thoughts began to crush her. Luz took a drink of champagne to throw them off. She was enjoying this afternoon, and she wasn't going to let herself be buried by endless wonderings of what she'd done wrong. Paris was a place to have fun—to enjoy being a woman.

“I have the most perfect idea,” Diana declared. “Let's all go out to dinner this evening and celebrate in style.”

“I think it's wonderful,” Luz seconded it and turned to Raul. “You will come, won't you?” It was less a question than a statement.

“I have no wish to intrude on a private celebration among friends,” he declined politely.