He nodded. “It really isn’t a place to share, is it?”
“Only with someone you feel close to. Then it would be lovely.”
Clay looked up, the words drifting over him, touching a place inside. For an instant, he wondered what it might be like to share the gardens with Ellie. He’d been dumbstruck when he’d turned and found her looking over his shoulder—dumbstruck and embarrassed. Nobody in the world knew he wrote poetry. He’d been certain she’d make fun of him, but she hadn’t.
“Keep my secret?” he said to her with a smile. He wondered if she could hear the tension in his voice he tried to hide.
She returned his smile. “Cross my heart.” She drew the sign of a pledge and Clay could see she meant it.
“How about dinner?” For the life of him, he couldn’t believe he’d said the words. “We could just go someplace close.”
Ellie’s smile slid away. “Thank you, but no. You and I are oil and water. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid I’ve learned my lesson.”
“I give you my word I’ll behave like a gentleman.”
Ellie shook her head. “You gave me your word last night.”
Clay shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Why don’t we just work at being friends?”
He didn’t have women friends. Hell, he didn’t have that many people in his life he could actually call a friend and almost no one he could really count on. “Now that you know my darkest secret, I guess I have no choice.”
Her smile returned. Through the branches of the tree, he noticed the different colors in her hair. Warm brown with rich red highlights. Mahogany, he decided. The wind whipped several loose strands across her cheek, and she tucked them primly into the braided knot at the back of her head.
“I like it better loose, the way you wore it last night.”
Her cheeks grew pink, making him smile. “I think I’d better be getting back.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
She didn’t argue as he rose and they strolled the gardens in companionable silence, Clay wishing she had accepted his invitation and grudgingly admitting he might even enjoy her company without the prospect of sex.
Then his eyes slid down her body as she walked a few steps in front of him and came to rest on her perfect little ass.
He sighed.
They reached her car and he held open the driver’s side door. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”
She only shook her head. He caught a whiff of orange blossoms as she slid into the seat.
“White Shoulders,” he said. “One of my favorites.”
She slanted the seat belt between the points of her breasts, which were full and high and intriguing. She snapped the latch and rolled down her window.
“Your poetry,” she said, her pretty green eyes full of sincerity and a hint of kindness. “It was lovely. You should be proud of it.”
Clay felt the warmth returning to his face. It crossed his mind that he hadn’t blushed since he was a boy. “Thank you,” he said softly.
He watched her Toyota speed along the lane until it disappeared. Oddly depressed, he returned to his Ferrari.
Where he carefully tucked his poetry-filled pages down deep between the seats.
Since William Fletcher had business in New York, he rented a car and drove up to North Salem to see his daughter ride in the Grand Prix on Sunday. Ellie and Clayton Whitfield both went clear in the first round, but Clay took first place by completing the jump-off with a slightly faster time.
Will was pleased by his daughter’s near-win and the progress she’d made in the short time she’d been working with Jake Sullivan. Every time he watched her, he marveled at how far she had come since her eye surgery and thanked God for the gift of her vision.
Will and his wife, Maryann, had both been riders. He’d been six years old when he’d sat his first horse out on Grandpa Fletcher’s farm. His family had very little money, so Will mucked out stalls to earn riding privileges from a nearby stable and eventually got good enough to ride the grand prix circuit for them.
