Each time they’d competed, Whitfield had placed ahead of her.
“Competition brings out the best in a person, Ellie,” Jake told her as she worked in her stall on Friday afternoon, “but it isn’t supposed to eat you up. Or is there more to beating Whitfield than just winning?”
“I just want to be the best. If Whitfield’s number one, then he’s the man I have to beat.” Ellie didn’t add that as usual Jake’s perception wasn’t far off. There was a whole lot more to beating Clay than just the fact he was the top rider in the country.
“You rode well in the open,” Jake told her. “But you misjudged the strides between the fourth and fifth jump in the modified and pushed your mare too hard.”
“I know.” She’d done well enough, but she needed to do better.
“You going to the party?”
“No.”
“Well, if you change your mind and go, remember I expect you to be working that Dutch warm blood, Cookie’s Delight, by six a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Later that afternoon, she was surprised when Clay showed up at her tack room. Sitting on a bale of straw, she was cleaning alfalfa from the bit of Jube’s show bridal when he walked up.
“Did you get the invitation I left with your groom?” Standing in the doorway, he filled the room with his booming voice as well as his imposing presence.
“I got it.” Her fingers tightened around the metal bit. “I won’t be going. I’m working a couple of different horses tomorrow and I want to get plenty of rest.”
“How old did you say you were?” Clay teased.
“I didn’t, but I’m twenty-four.”
“Surely you’ve still got enough stamina to spend a few short hours with friends. Flex and Shep will be there. You’ll know several others.”
“Flex and Shep have more experience than I do, as you so helpfully pointed out. I have to make up for it by working harder.”
“All work and no play make Ellen a dull girl,” he teased.
“What makes you so concerned with my private life? Or did you intend to get me drunk and make the same lewd proposition you made in Aachen?”
A muscle twitched in Clay’s cheek. “Actually, the invitation tonight was my way of apologizing, but right now, I don’t think I regret my actions at all. Good luck on Sunday,” he said coldly. Turning his broad back to her, he stalked out the door.
Ellie felt like a fool. Clayton Whitfield had been trying to apologize, and she had insulted him. She rubbed the snaffle so hard her fingers ached. Damn it!Damn him!
Ellie worked on her equipment till well after dark, then flicked off the lights and left the tack room. Driving a rented Toyota, she drove to the Cross River Motel where she was staying, unlocked the door, checked the closet for intruders as was her habit, and stripped out of her grimy, sweat-stained riding clothes.
It wasn’t till after a long soak in the tub that the idea of attending the party began to take root.
She could apologize to Clay, she rationalized. Tell him she appreciated his invitation and try to encourage his friendship, since they’d be traveling together through Europe. She’d also have a chance to get to know Flex McGrath and Shep Singleton a little better. She’d just have a quick glass of wine and come home.
She blow-dried her hair, leaving it in loose curls down her back, then stepped into a yellow cotton sundress and a pair of white high-heeled sandals that went with everything in the minimal wardrobe she had packed for the trip to North Salem.
With a white knit sweater draped over her shoulders, she grabbed her car keys and a white clutch purse and headed out the door.
The directions to the party, written on the back of the invitation, were a cinch to follow, just a few miles out of town on State Route 124 then turn onto Deveau Rd. The driveway was a quarter mile past the Hammond Museum and Gardens on a hill overlooking the lake.
As she pulled up in front, yellow lights glowed through the windows while laughter and the music of classical guitar drifted across the manicured lawns.
A bit hesitantly, Ellie climbed the steps to the double mahogany front doors. Having paid little attention to the invitation, she assumed this would just be a casual lawn party. It appeared she was wrong.
“Your wrap, madam?” A tuxedo-clad attendant stood in the entry. Ellie removed the sweater and handed it over. Through the opening to her left beneath crystal chandeliers, she could see men in black suits and women in silk cocktail dresses. Some wore sequins.
Horrified to be there ridiculously underdressed, she caught the attendant just as he handed her sweater to the uniformed girl in the cloak room.
