She sighed, pulled off one riding glove, and ran herfingers through her tangled hair. She didn’t question how he’d found her. The man was a master spy. Hunting her down had no doubt been easy for him. She straightened her spine and took a deep breath. Very well. Today was the day. The day she’d looked forward to and dreaded for the last ten years. Her day of reckoning with Mark Grimaldi.
She turned Atalanta, kicked her heels against the horse’s sides, and raced to a stop at the gate near where Mark stood. Nicole dismounted, tossing her red locks over her shoulder, and strode purposefully toward him. She refused to take her eyes from him. He was not a man who responded well to any sign of weakness, which was why she’d gone straight to him instead of heading to the stables first.
Nicole removed her gloves as she approached. He would simply have to get over the fact that she was wearing riding breeches and a man’s shirt. That was how she preferred to ride.
“Mark Grimaldi, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Her voice was carefully devoid of any emotion, save perhaps for the smallest bit of sarcastic emphasis, particularly on the word “pleasure.”
Mark’s dark gaze swept over her in that bold, possessive way of his, making her feel vulnerable, almost naked. He was the only man who’d ever seen herin flagrante delicto, after all. She was suddenly quite aware of how tight and revealing her riding breeches were. And how low cut the man’s shirt was on her, the first button falling just above her breasts. It revealed a bit too much of her décolletage. Hmm. Too bad.
“Pleasure?” Mark intoned with the same sarcasticemphasis. “That remains to be seen.” His voice was just as deep and rough andarrogantas she remembered it.
“Came to torture me, did you?” She gave him a tight smile and put one fist on her hip. The other hand squeezed the soft leather riding gloves together so tightly her knuckles ached.
“Perhaps.” He nodded toward thecomte. “But first, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Thecomtehad just pulled his horse to a halt behind her. Nicole bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something truly inappropriate and turned her head to the side while thecomtedismounted. “Comte de Roussel, this is Mark Grimaldi.” A note of dry contempt crept into her voice. “The last I knew, he was a corporal. Knowing him, he’s probably the prime minister by now. Monsieur Grimaldi, this is the Comte de Roussel.”
Henri, who didn’t appear to have a blond hair out of place after his ride, nodded and bowed to Mark, tipping his hat.
“GeneralMark Grimaldi.” Mark held out his hand for a proper shake.
Nicole’s eyes flared slightly. She couldn’t help a dig, though. “Not a field marshal?” More sarcastic emphasis.
Mark’s obsidian gaze never left thecomte. “I intend to skip that rank entirely. The wars are over now, or haven’t you heard out here, rusticating in the country?” He waved his hand in a circle.
She didn’t miss the snideness in his tone.
Thecomteglanced back and forth between the two of them, an apprehensive look on his face.
Mark tapped his boot on the ground impatiently. “I’malso her husband, or weren’t you going to tell yourfriendthat, Madame Grimaldi?”
Thecomte’s eyes widened. He turned his head sharply toward Nicole.“Mari?”
“Yes, hermari.” With the tip of one finger, Mark pushed his hat back on his head the slightest bit.
Damn him and his smug tone. “It’s true,” Nicole said, tossing her hair again. She reached up and stroked her horse’s mane. “Come. I must get Atalanta to the stables for the groom to rub her down.” She turned on her booted heel and began walking toward the stables, leading Atalanta by the reins.
Mark’s deep laughter followed her. “Atalanta? Of course you would name your horse after a warrior woman who did nothing but cause her husband trouble.”
Nicole’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t turn her head to look at him. Instead, she lifted her chin high in the air and continued her march toward the stables. “What trouble? She merely did what she liked and was scorned for it.” Nicole quickened her pace, her stride purposeful. The two men followed her. Their boots crunched along the path behind her.
“Seems like Aphrodite would have been a more apt name. The steed of a woman who cuckolded her husband,” came Mark’s next taunt, sure and strong from behind her.
Nicole stopped and whirled around, her hair whipping over one shoulder. “Is your horse named Zeus, after a man who ruined the lives of most of the people around him?”
Mark’s lips quirked. “No, I still have Jupiter. He’s served me well all these years. And Zeus was a god, nota man.” His lips spread open into an unrepentant grin. “Are you comparing me to a god?”
“We’re speaking about your horse, notyou,” she replied before snapping shut her mouth. She might as well stop her barbs. He was clearly enjoying them, and she refused to let him march back into her life and make her angry so quickly. She’d spent too many years getting over him, and she intended to remain over him, no matter how he taunted her.
“Madame, would you like me to go?” thecomteoffered, clearing his throat.
“No, monsieur, please stay,” she said, more to bother Mark than anything else. He clearly wanted Henri to leave. A momentary pang of guilt shot through her. It was wrong of her to put poor blameless Henri in the middle of her barb trading with Mark. Henri didn’t deserve such treatment. She again resolved to stop responding to Mark’s taunts.
The small party reached the stables and Nicole handed Atalanta’s reins to one of the grooms. She turned to face the two men, her arms crossed over her chest, one knee jutted out, her boot tapping the ground in agitation.
“We’ll go in the house and have refreshments, but first…” She forced her gaze to fix on Mark’s hatefully handsome face. “Are you going to tell me why you came? I’m quite certain it’s not for the tea.”
“Of course I am, but I was hoping I could speak with you”—Mark eyed thecomteup and down with obvious distaste—“privately.”
