Shrill laughter down the hall awakened him. Clay jerked upright, only to find he had a pounding headache and a raging hard on. With a groan, he rolled to his side.
A woman with sleepy blue eyes stared back at him, her gaze traveling down his body, all the way to his groin.
“Angela,” he said, surprised he remembered her name.
“Good morning, Clay.” Her fingers slipped through the dark hair curling on his chest, down to his navel, then moved lower. A surge of heat went through him, and he hardened even more.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t Angela he wanted.
“Why don’t we shower first?” he suggested hoping he could summon a little more enthusiasm. After all, Angela was sexy and obliging, with long blond hair and a repertoire of sexual tricks.
Instead, he thought of Ellie’s sweet smile, the warm look she’d given him in the Japanese garden.
Angela was persistent and, in the end, he gave in to her skillful machinations. Clay told himself not to think of Ellie Fletcher. She was probably frigid anyway, just like people said. The notion distracted him enough to immerse himself in the moment. It wasn’t until he finished that he saw Ellie’s smiling face again.
An hour later, Clay sent Angela on her way and climbed into the limousine waiting in front of the Plaza Athenee in mid-town Manhattan where, after a night of celebrating his North Salem win, he and his father had taken a suite. Avery was already seated in the back for the ride to the La Guardia Airport. Clay climbed in beside him.
“I can’t wait to get a look at the castle,” Avery said as the limo pulled away. “You sure you can’t leave the team for a couple of days and join me for the hunt?”
His father was headed to Scotland. He and a dozen others had been invited to attend a stag hunt.
“This month in Europe is pretty important,” Clay said. “It gives the team a chance to get to know each other, feel out one another’s strengths and weaknesses. If we work well together, it’ll mean a better chance for the team gold in Seoul.”
Avery nodded. He leaned back in the deep leather seat and grinned. “How about that Angela? Didn’t I tell you she was something? Mouth like a warm silk purse.”
Clay had never liked the idea of bedding one of his father’s paid-for women. But he’d never said so. And he wouldn’t now.
He managed a half-hearted smile. “She was something.” His head still ached and the knot in his stomach had returned.
Damned ulcer. He’d been fighting it off and on for years. He pulled a bottle of Maalox from his inside coat pocket and took a long swallow. In a couple of minutes, he’d be fine.
After dropping his father at the airport, the limo hauled Clay all the way back to his Ferrari, parked where he’d left it in the lot of a small roadside bar not far from the North Salem show grounds.
At least he hadn’t driven drunk. He’d learned that lesson years ago when he’d been picked up and jailed in Palm Beach for drunk driving. At his home in Far Hills, he kept a chauffeur on staff and a Bentley in the garage, but unless he was going into the city, he preferred to drive the Ferrari.
In the bar parking lot, Clay climbed into the car, fired up the big V-12 engine, and pulled out onto the winding, tree-lined road, heading for his Georgian mansion in the quiet New Jersey countryside. There he could change into fresh clothes, check to see that Max and the other horses had been cared for properly, then head out to Gladstone to get any final instructions from Jake.
He brushed aside the voice that said he might also get a chance to talk to Ellie Fletcher.
His senses flared when he spotted her walking toward her rental car, apparently finished grooming and checking on her horses. Thursday, they would be leaving for Paris. The three days in between gave the horses a chance to rest and get ready for the show the following week.
Clay drove up beside her. “Morning, Ellie.” He smiled and kept his voice friendly.
“Hello, Clay.” She just kept on walking, sparing him not even a sideways glance.
“I guess congratulations are in order,” he said, thinking of her second-place win.
Ellie’s jaw tightened.
“Of course, I did beat you, so I guess you should really be congratulating me.”
Ellie turned, her small hands balling into fists. “Congratulations, Clay, for winning the Grand Prix—and for making your usual horse’s ass of yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going.”
Clay slammed on the brakes, shoved the car into park, and threw open the door. So what if he’d been a little drunk and slightly obnoxious. He was celebrating, that’s all.
He caught up with her in three angry strides. “What the hell business is it of yours how I behave?”
“It’s none of my business.”
