Ellie just shook her head. Clay popped the cork, took a long draw, passed the bottle to his father, who repeated the performance, then Clay rounded the car to the driver’s side to climb back in. The blonde on his side of the car giggled and hugged his neck.
Avery Whitfield grinned as if to say, “That’s my boy!” and got back in the car. Ignoring his seat belt, Clay turned the key and the powerful engine roared to life.
“See you in Paris!” he called out as he shifted the Ferrari into gear and roared away, throwing up another cloud of dust.
“What was that all about?” Jake walked up as the convertible rounded the corner out of sight.
Her father’s gaze swung in Jake’s direction. “Just Clay’s usual obnoxious show of victory for his father.”
“What do you mean?” Ellie asked.
“I hate to say it,” her dad replied, “but Avery Whitfield is probably the biggest horse’s ass who ever lived. He was the world’s worst parent. He drove poor Elizabeth, Clay’s mother, to an early grave with his whoring and drinking. Now he’s doing his best to ruin Clay.”
“Clay never really had a family,” Jake added. “His mother died when he was five years old. Clay was raised by a string of nannies, moved from one estate to another while his father traveled the world, cavorting with glamorous women. I think Clay’s love for riding was all that kept him sane.”
“I think Clay is basically a decent sort,” her dad said, surprising her. “But he wants Avery’s approval and he’ll do anything to get it. He’s thirty-one years old, and half the time he acts like a schoolboy—but then Avery is in his fifties, and he acts just the same.”
“I think they’re both jerks,” Ellie said.
The words snagged Jake’s attention. He hadn’t missed Ellie’s expression when she’d watched Clay with the blonde.
Sonofabitch! On top of everything else, the last thing Jake needed was for naïve Ellie to get involved with Clay.
She kicked a clod with the toe of her riding boot and watched it sail off in the distance. Her father was watching her with an odd expression and Jake wondered if Will’s thoughts mirrored his own.
“I’m starving,” Ellie said, trying for a smile that looked a little too bright. “Come on, Dad. I bet Jake’s hungry, too. Be a sport and buy us some dinner.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Jake said. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”
“Next time.” Will turned to his daughter. “Come on, honey. I know a place that has the best steak in North Salem.”
Jake waved at them as they walked away. In the arena, workmen were tearing down fences, loading the potted shrubs onto a trailer, getting ready for the next show, which would be starting in another town on Tuesday.
The tough regimen never let up. The riders traveled on Sunday night and Monday. The show began on Tuesday and ran through the weekend. Then the contestants packed up their horses and equipment and headed off for another grueling week.
Jake spotted Flex McGrath, who was loading up his gear, and stopped to give him a few last-minute instructions about the flight to Paris scheduled for Thursday. He spoke to Shep Singleton about Sebastian’s performance, then headed for the parking lot.
Firing up his Mercedes, Jake drove off down the road, grateful for a few minutes to himself. Little by little, the ride through the countryside toward his rental house in Peapack began to relax him. He loved the rolling green hills, the hundreds of small lakes and ponds that reminded him of his home in the Charleston. Pleasant Oaks.
He had loved the farm from the moment he’d laid eyes on it twenty years ago. He’d been riding for Thurston Brock, the man who had given him his first job in 1960 after he’d arrived in the States. By then, he had graduated from language school, where he’d studied English and gotten rid of his accent, then gone to Charleston to work as a trainer and rider for Brock at his equestrian center.
He’d never forgotten the feeling of driving through the impressive, white-washed gates of Pleasant Oaks that first day. Bright pink azaleas draped majestically over the fences along the lane leading up to the mansion, a big white plantation style house, high-ceilinged and elegant, with balconies around both floors.
He’d arrived wearing denims and boots. Brock had come out to greet him in an expensive suit and tie, and Jake had been embarrassed. He’d vowed one day he’d make enough money to dress as he pleased and feel comfortable in any man’s presence.
By the time he was twenty-five, he spoke like a native and was competing on the American circuit. Brock provided the horses. Jake provided the wins. He’d saved his money and rarely gone out, so the dollars began to stack up. On a whim, he invested in a machine that turned culled carrots into dried pellets, feed for horses. The company grew, went public, and Jake had made a small fortune. Years later, when the property had come on the market, Jake had bought it.
He glanced up, saw his Peapack rented colonial ahead. Pulling into the garage, he stepped out of the car and started for the back door. The telephone rang as he walked into the kitchen. Hurrying across the room, he grabbed the receiver and pressed it against his ear.
“Sullivan.”
“Ah, so you are home at last,Tovarich.”
The once familiar voice calling himcomradesent an icy chill down his spine. “I just got in. But you must know that.”
“How was North Salem?” Nikolai Popov’s voice came through in heavily accented Russian. When the man had phoned eight months ago, Jake had tried to speak the language, but twenty-eight years was a long time. Popov was forced to speak English, which only made him angry.
“The show was fine,” Jake said.What the hell do you want? But he knew the Russian would come to the point in his own good time. The KGB man had always enjoyed toying with his prey, keeping them guessing. Apparently, that hadn’t changed.
