Chapter 14
Dylan swung his Jeep into The Templar car park. He’d booked in for a few days before the races at Newmarket. Racing was as much a mental sport as it was a physical one and he always followed the same pattern before a big race meeting. He would take time out in a hotel, or somewhere away from home to focus his mind. Although his house was nearby on the edge of Treweham village, it was too much of a distraction, with family and friends popping in and the phone constantly ringing. People knew where he was and felt free to visit any time. Normally that wouldn’t bother him, but before a race it was different.
He knew he had to apply himself and look after his body properly. This included a strict diet and exercise regime. He had private coaching at the gym to maximise the strength in the key muscles in his legs, lower body and core area. He knew how upper strength body was crucial to control his horse better. Regular cardio exercises kept him lean and light, while his stringent, low-fat food intake ensured the ideal weight before weighing in for a race. Dylan was constantly checking the scales before racing; he took it very seriously, almost to the point of paranoia. However, it was this meticulous routine that had put Dylan where he was, Champion Jockey. Racing was a game of starts and probabilities, but in Dylan’s eyes it was also about commitment and the absolute burning desire to win at all costs. Basically, Dylan Delany worked hard and played hard. He was a winner in both disciplines.
Carrying his cases through the pub, he was greeted by Finula. ‘Ah, Finula, you look stunning as ever.’
‘Whatever. Right, you’re in room four as requested, rear of house. Do you want a hand with those?’ She looked at his cases.
‘No. I wouldn’t expect a delicate thing like you to carry my luggage. You could show me to my room, though.’
‘You know where it is, Dylan,’ she replied drily.
‘Well… perhaps keep me company—’
‘Hands off my daughter, Delany,’ that firm, Irish voice of Dermot’s thundered behind him, making Dylan jump.
‘Ah, Dermot, good to see you,’ he tried to smooth the situation over, but Dermot was having none of it as he picked up one of the cases and nodded towards the stairs.
‘This way, Delany.I’llshow you to your room.’
Finula stifled a giggle as she watched Dylan hastily follow behind. He’d never change, she thought, always the same silver-tongued charmer. At first she’d been flattered by his attention, until quickly realising he was like that with all females. Now she just rolled her eyes and let him get on with it. Dermot, however, would not tolerate anyone flirting with his daughter, especially someone like Delany, whom he classed as an overconfident Casanova. Sure, he was a good jockey, which was to his credit, but Dermot knew he used his position unscrupulously with women and didn’t approve, taking particular exception when this included his own daughter. It amused Finula no end the way her dad terrified Dylan, making him act so jumpy and out of character. Moments later Dermot returned to the kitchen where Finula was preparing that evening’s vegetables. Giving her a piece of paper, he spoke with sarcasm.
‘These are his lordship’s requirements.’
Finula took the paper. She’d been expecting this, understanding his routine from previous visits. The list contained the meals he required over the next few days – chicken and vegetable risotto, noodles with beef and green beans and salmon and boiled rice. All low calories. She knew he’d be drinking nothing but water, so had left two bottles in his room, rather than the usual tea, coffee and shortbread. Once you cut through all the shallow flattery and saw past the false bravado, Dylan was actually a nice guy. It was just a case of not taking him too seriously. Finula had got used to the banter between Dylan, Seamus and Tobias as they were regulars at The Templar. All the locals in the pub had wanted to watch Dylan racing, so Finula had organised a large-screen viewing. Dermot had begrudgingly agreed to it, as it was good for business and brought the village together.
Dylan lay on his bed, with his hands behind his head in contemplation. He’d dearly love a crack at that feisty redhead Finula, but there was little chance of that with her father constantly watching over her like a guard dog. He smiled to himself, wondering what kind of father he’d make. Probably more protective than Dermot. He knew what kind of men were out there – he was one of them. What was the saying? You can’t kid a kidder. The thought of him with children was an unfamiliar one. Never once had he considered settling down and starting a family, but why not? Most of the jockeys he knew had wives and children. He puzzled himself with his train of thought. What could have prompted it?
There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ he called.
‘I’ve just come with some more bottled water.’ Dylan looked at the dark-haired beauty and sat up immediately.
‘Thanks. Could you leave them on the table?’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘You’re new here, aren’t you? What’s your name?’
The girl smiled. ‘Yes. I’m Megan.’
Dylan moved towards her, looking her up and down with appreciation. Wasn’t this the girl that had turned Tobias’ head? He could see why.
‘I’m Dylan, pleased to meet you.’ He held his hand out. She shyly shook it.
