“Very funny.”
“Excuse me, darlings.” Virginia went up her toes to look over his shoulder. “I think I see my devastatingly handsome husband.” She kissed Clay’s cheek. “Thanks again, dearest.” Turning, she blended into the throng of well-dressed partygoers.
“So where did you slip off to with Ms. Untouchable?” Flex asked, the freckles on his nose standing out after his day in the sun. “Or maybe she isn’t so untouchable after all.”
At five-foot-ten, spare to the point of thin, Flex was an attractive man in a G.Q. sort of way. He was two years younger than Clay, but they’d known each other as long as either could recall.
“Little Ms. Fletcher and I went for a ride.”
Flex arched a burnished eyebrow, his flame-red hair cut in a long-on-the-top buzz-cut, a Californian all the way. His favorite restaurant was Spago, he loved Bruce Springsteen, and drove a yellow Sting Ray. “A ride, huh?”
“Not that kind of ride, though I think I would have enjoyed it.”
“That’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress,” Flex said, parroting Clay’s earlier thoughts. “She could be one sexy lady if she learned to relax and enjoy life a little.”
Clay grinned. “I’ve tried to convince her of that very thing on several occasions.”
Just then Shep Singleton walked up. “You must be talking about women. You have the unmistakable signs of lust written across your boyishly handsome faces.”
Shep was a half out-of-the-closet gay. Since his father was Gordon Singleton, the former U.S. Equestrian Team coach, he maintained a low profile when it came to his sexual preferences.
Clay and Shep had come to blows years ago, when Clay had knocked him over a coffee table for a furtive squeeze on the inside of Clay’s thigh. Since Clay had never told anyone the real reason for the argument, the two of them had eventually become friends.
Flex took a sip of his drink. “We were discussing our new teammate, Ellie Fletcher. It seems the mighty Clayton has struck out.”
“I may have been at bat three times,” Clay drawled, “but it’s only the top of the inning.”
Shep rolled his grey eyes, a close match to his platinum hair. He’d turned silver-headed by the time he was thirty. Now at forty-one, he was the oldest member of the team.
“I can’t wait to see the score at the bottom of the fifth,” Shep said. “I’d bet my last hunt cap our beloved Clay will have scored a home run.”
All three men laughed.
Flex took another sip of his drink. “Maybe you ought to give the girl a break, Clay. She’s a hell of a rider, and Jake says being on the team means everything to her. She’s got all she can handle without you trying to screw her every five minutes.”
“What’s life...” Shep said dramatically, “without a little diversion?”
Clay felt a twinge of conscience. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll give it some thought.” In fact, he’d thought of little besides Ellie Fletcher since he let her out of his car. Still, what Flex said made sense. He wanted what was best for the team.
For himself, he wanted to win the gold.
The party was in full swing when Jake approached the group of riders in the game room. Shep was just leaving, returning to the bar for fresh drinks while Clay and Flex continued talking about the Grand Prix on Sunday.
Overhearing part of the conversation, Jake walked up to join them. “Think Zodiak will be ready for Paris?” he asked Clay. Clay’s alternate mount had been diagnosed with an ulcer, ironically, just like his master. But neither horse nor rider would be kept from the competition by the annoying illness.
“He’ll be ready,” Clay said. “Personally, I’m more than ready—there’s no place I’d rather be than Paris.”
“French women are so beautiful they can make a grown man weep,” Flex said.
Jake smiled. “For once, will you two try to think of four-legged beauties instead of the two-legged kind?”
Flex grinned. “Now you’re asking the impossible.”
Jake shook his head, took a sip of his whiskey, and drifted away from the men. Though the house was crowded, he noticed little of what went on around him. His mind was on coming events and the threats he’d been receiving. Somewhere outside, one of the men who’d been following him watched the house. For the ten thousandth time, he wondered what they wanted.
Passing the classical guitar player strumming the chords ofMalagena,he glanced around the room, noting a few late arrivals. Knowing he had a long day tomorrow, he decided to finish his drink and slip away.
Turning toward the patio and the cooler air outside, he stumbled as someone bumped into him from behind, spilling some of his drink on the front of his black suit while some splashed on the white silk skirt of the woman walking past.
