Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance) (6 page)

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Authors: Carolyn McSparren

BOOK: Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance)
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“The Americans came in second. There was a woman rider named Victoria Jamerson riding for them. On a big gray gelding.”
“Humph.” Hamish was silent for a moment. “Beautiful girl with the devil’s own nerve, the sweetest softest hands I’ve ever seen, and a seat...” He sighed. “I remember wishing I could have that seat on my lap.” He chortled, and Jamey smiled at the telephone. “Married to a big fat brute of a trainer who yelled a lot. Why?”
Jamey explained.
“Terrible!” Hamish said. “A woman like that belongs on a horse.”
“If I have my way about it, Uncle Hamish, that’s where she’s going to be—sitting on top of Roman and showing him to me.”
“You’re mad! Steal the brute if you must and bring him home. Don’t get yourself mixed up with these
gaja
.”
Jamey let out such a burst of laughter that a waitress walking by him jumped and stared at him in alarm. “You sound like Uncle Vlado! Don’t forget, Uncle Hamish, you’re Jock’s brother, not Vlado’s. You’re a
gaja
yourself.”
“Maybe, but I’m too smart to mix myself up in the lives of people who don’t matter to me or to the McLachlans, Jamey.”
“I’m not mixing myself up. I’m doing this because it suits my purposes. I’ll help her out for a couple of weeks, see him work with another rider up, teach him some manners, find out whether or not I can buy the horse myself and then, if I have to, I sneak him into a trailer at two in the morning and head for Texas.”
“Mm-hm.” Hamish did not sound convinced. “And be the first person they look to as a thief.”
“Trust me, Hamish, I’ll do whatever it takes to get Roman home. We will have Jock’s first Scottish sport horse foal on the ground by the millennium, I promise. If they sue me, I’ll deal with that and any other legal unpleasantness I have to. But I’ll deal from Scotland. I owe Jock that and more. Roman will stand as foundation stallion at McLachlan Yard. I promised Jock before he died. I keep my promises.”
CHAPTER FIVE
W
HILE SHE WAITED for Jamey to come back with the pizza, Vic stood under a hot shower and washed her cap of short dark hair. When she’d dried herself, she reached for a violet sweater and a pair of dark gray flannel slacks that she generally only wore when she was going to town. In the mirror she stuck out her tongue at the streak of gray in her hair and wondered whether she should start coloring it.
She had given Jamey the keys to her truck without a moment’s hesitation, but after he drove out to get the pizza, she’d remembered Angie’s comments about con men. Of course, if he did decide to keep driving, she’d have his motorcycle. It—and his stuff upstairs—were probably worth much more than her rattletrap of a truck.
She wanted him to come back with or without the truck. Last night, chatting over that omelette, she’d realized how lonely she’d been and for how long.
Not that she wasn’t surrounded by people. But she felt as though it had been years since she’d talked, really talked, to an attractive man. A man who seemed to care about what she said.
She put a touch of eye shadow on her lids and pulled out her lipstick. She was acting like a young woman on a date. She smiled at her foolishness, doubting that Jamey saw her that way.
By the time the truck rolled in, she had set the kitchen table and poured them each a glass of red wine. The dogs lay on the shabby couch in the living room. The cat lay on top of them.
“Pizza man!” he called from the door. All three animals raced to greet him.
“No pizza for them,” she said. “They throw it up, and besides, I’m starving.”
He set the box on the table, opened it and reached for his wine. “To our first day together. And to many more.”
She felt herself blushing as they touched glasses.
“So, do I suit, lass?”
“Until something better comes along. No, seriously, you’re a godsend and you know it. We need to talk about a decent salary. I was thinking a full groom’s wages plus what I planned to pay Angie Womack to exercise. Plus the free room, of course, if we ever make it habitable.”
He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “You’re a generous woman.”
“You’re doing the work of at least two people, so you should receive the pay. Heck, I’d pay you just to keep Blockhead from yowling his head off all day.”
“Why do you call him Blockhead? He’s got a lovely head.”
“It’s his temperament. At least it was until you got hold of him. My new nephew-in-law, Mike Whitten, had never been around horses or the horse-show business before he met Liz, and he’s sort of ga-ga. And he adores her. He found out quite by accident that the big annual European Sport Horse Sale was taking place so off he went.”
Jamey sat back, laughed gently and shook his head. “And bought the biggest blackest stallion he could. They must have seen him coming. The horse isn’t branded. I’d say he’s what—three, four years old?”
“That’s the thing. Mike refuses to tell even Liz how much he paid, but I suspect it was a bundle. And the horse has no papers—none.”
Jamey sat upright. No papers? That was a bonus. He wouldn’t have to prove forgery.
“Some German farmer brought him to the show, auctioned him and disappeared the moment he signed the bill of sale,” Vic continued. “Without proof of ancestry, Mike can’t even enter him into the American Stallion Provings so that he can be approved as a breeding stallion after he’s trained.”
“It’s high time other countries began to develop their own sport-horse breeds. The Irish do a fair job, but none of their horses are consistent enough to compete with the Europeans. The French are fairly successful, but a new breed registry requires a prepotent foundation stallion that’ll sire a line of horses as fine as he is—” Jamey stopped speaking abruptly and looked at her.
“Well, go on. I agree with you. How do you propose to do that in one lifetime?”
He grinned sheepishly. “It’s all theory. Too much for a saddle burn like me.”
“Still, it’s a good idea. It would be fun to be a part of something like that.” She reached across to the kitchen counter and snagged the wine bottle. “Another glass to go with the last piece of pizza?”
“Thank you. And tonight I clear away.”
“Be my guest. I’ll make us some decaf.” She was aware of his eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen. She found herself holding her stomach in.
As she set his cup before him and slid back into her seat, she said, “Marshall told me you’d had a run of bad luck lately.”
He froze with his good hand halfway to his lips and stared at her over the rim with narrowed eyes. “What else did he tell you?”
His voice was hard and flat.
She stammered, “Th-that’s all, really. Something about losing your brother?”
He set the cup down and closed his eyes. When he opened them a millisecond later, he’d put his pleasant expression back in place. “Killed in an automobile accident a couple of years ago south of Lyons in France while I was in hospital with this.” He held up his gloved hand. “Along with my wife.”
She realized she wanted him to be unencumbered by wives, fiancées or even casual girlfriends. Unlikely.
She said, “I’m so sorry. Both of them? At the same time?”
“They were in the same car. Mine, as it happens.”
“While you were in the hospital? In Scotland?”
“Yes. Let’s drop it, shall we?”
“I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anybody waiting for you now in Scotland?” Vic felt a jolt. Of course he’d have a wife at his age. Did he have a second wife now? Someone waiting patiently for him back in Oban? She’d never asked.
“Indeed there is.”
Her heart fell.
“My father’s brother, Hamish, the stereotypical big braw Scotsman, and my mother’s brother, Vlado, who is about half as big and twice as feisty. They’re keeping up the place while I’m gone. And as many relatives as there are grains of sand on the beach at Dover.”
No wife, then. Or none he planned to tell her about. She sighed in relief.
“So, boss-lass, do you have a deck of cards?”
She laughed. “Sure. You play gin?”
“Two-handed poker. It’s early yet. We could play for matchsticks if you’ve got ’em.”
“We could play for a penny a point if you prefer.”
He shook his head.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I am a veteran of any number of tack-room poker games.”
“Get the cards and the matchsticks.”
An hour later Vic was down to five matchsticks, while Jamey’s pile threatened to roll off the kitchen table onto the floor.
“Full house,” he said, laid his cards down and pulled the small pile of matchsticks onto his side of the table.
She tossed hers down. “Two lousy pairs. Shoot! How do you
do
that?”
He leaned back in his chair, hooked his good hand in his belt, and smiled a lazy smile at her. “I could win this place off you before morning if I had a mind to.”
“You’re cheating. You’ve marked the cards somehow.”
“No. The cards aren’t marked. Do you know what a ‘tell’ is?”
“No idea.”
He leaned across the table and gently touched his index finger to the left corner of her mouth. “Every time you bluff or draw to an inside straight or try to fill a flush, you poke the tiniest bit of your tongue out the corner of your mouth.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, yes, you do. And when you think you’ve got a pat hand I cannot possibly beat, you hold the cards straight up like this,” he demonstrated, “and take a single deep breath before you bet.”
She felt the flush start around her toenails.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Those are your tells, sweetheart. I could tell you were lying across a crowded room if you were talking to the Queen of England.”
“Dammit!” She reached over with both hands and scooped up his matchsticks, then bolted out of her chair and into the living room waving her clenched fists above her head. “You cheated! I win!”
He whooped and charged after her. “Come back here with my winnings!”
The dogs began to bark frantically and joined in the chase.
“No fair!” She skittered around the corner and into her bedroom.
He slid after her.
They both fell on the bed howling with laughter.
He grabbed the fists she had clenched over her head and rolled her over. “Never steal from a Gypsy, darling. We’ll cast the evil eye on you.”
She sucked in a breath.
So did he.
She could feel the weight of his body on hers. He was suddenly dead serious, those black eyes boring into hers. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, wanted to drown in his eyes, feel the strength of his hands holding her wrists.
His kiss was hard, demanding, forcing her lips against her teeth. Without her will, her lips parted for his questing tongue, which she met with her own. Her body writhed beneath him as though it had developed a mind separate from her brain. He was hard against her belly, his thighs against hers, his chest against her breasts. She couldn’t breathe.
Her loins ached.
The strength went out of her.
An instant later he rolled off her, stood and turned away. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.”
She raised herself on her elbows. Her breath shuddered in her throat. “You didn’t do it alone.”
He didn’t turn to look at her. “And I’ve wanted to do it since the moment I saw you. I just didn’t realize how much until this minute. Forgive me.”
“For what? Things got a little out of hand. Big deal. Call it the wine.”
“I’ll sleep in the barn.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep upstairs.” She went to him, stood behind him without touching him and said softly, “You’re a gentleman, Jamey McLachlan. And my guest. You’re not the sort of man to betray a hostess.”
He turned to look at her with anguish in his eyes. “Don’t count on that, lass.” He strode to the front door and took his jacket from the coat rack. “I’ll walk down to the barn and check on things. Be back in a few minutes.”
 
THE NIGHT HAD TURNED bitter with a three-quarter moon riding in a sky so full of stars it seemed to pulse. His hands in his pockets for warmth, Jamey loped down the hill to the stable. How could he have been so stupid?
How could she?
It was her fault. She was too damned trusting, too damned sexy, too damned appealing, and she didn’t even have sense enough to know it!
They were both too hungry, that was the problem. His wife had been dead more than two years. Not that she’d been particularly interested in lovemaking—well, not with
him,
at any rate. But then, he’d never been able to turn her on the way little brother Robert apparently had.
And according to Hamish, Vic’s husband had been a loudmouth brute.
Jamey should be shouting for joy. Her vulnerability would make his job a hell of a lot easier. If he took her to bed and did it right, he’d have her climbing on a horse again merely to please him so that he would continue to please
her
. He’d have her lending him a trailer and truck and practically begging him to steal the stallion.
He leaned against a tree. He couldn’t do it. Not that he didn’t want Vic. He did. He wanted her as he had not wanted another woman in years. But he simply could not allow himself to make love to her—assuming she’d let him—and betray her afterward. She deserved better. She deserved a man who valued her. A man who saw what she needed and met those needs. A man who would cosset and protect and adore her. Someone who would give her the respect her first husband had not.
Not a man who intended to force her to conquer her greatest fears, then rob her blind.
He walked into the darkened stable and listened for a moment to the stampings and snufflings of the sleeping horses. He leaned over Roman’s stall door and began to whistle a tune under his breath. The stallion sauntered over to have his forehead scratched. “What am I going to do about you, old son?” he asked.
The stallion wickered softly.
“I owe Jock McLachlan his dream. He left it to me when he left me the yard. And I want it for him—want
you
for him, if you’re all I think you can be.
But does it have to be at the expense of my honor and Vic’s trust?

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