Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (14 page)

He realized belatedly his voice sounded gruff, but no one else seemed to notice. Martin had straightened his beer and now pretended to be studying the small print on the can. Kurt wasn't fooled. He saw the kid peeking at Julie. Didn’t blame him a bit.

Sandra pressed a beer into Julie's hand. “I saved the last can for you. What a night. A second and third. Gary was so surprised when you passed him, he nearly fell off. And did you see Otto’s face when Kurt claimed his horse?”

Sandra did a series of imitations, grimacing and pumping her fists, making everyone laugh, but Kurt was too distracted to pay much attention. His thoughts had already veered back to Sandra’s comments about Julie. She didn’t date much, but Sandra hadn’t said why.

Probably because she didn’t want a demanding relationship. He totally understood that. In fact, Julie’s position suited him perfectly—he was only here for a short time anyway. His gaze kept sliding back to her. She was looking at Sandra but kept glancing at him. When he winked, she flushed and looked away, but he caught the hint of a dimple.

“Okay. Beer's gone.” Sandra abruptly rose, and he suspected she’d caught their glances. Cans clattered as she tossed the empties into the cooler. “Time to get to Champs. If we hurry, we’ll catch happy hour.”

“I’ll meet you over there,” Kurt said, looking at Julie. “I need to stay a bit and settle the new mare. She's still hot.”

“We’ll see you later,” Sandra said, grabbing Julie’s arm and tugging her down the aisle. “Martin can give you directions to the bar,” she called over her shoulder.

Sandra would make an excellent drill sergeant, Kurt thought. Without Julie, the barn had lost some sparkle, but at least he was alone for the next ten minutes. He needed to take some cautionary measures.

He turned to Martin. “I’m moving Lazer to the stallion stall further down the aisle. Please put Ace beside him, and Cisco can go in the stall on the other side of Country Girl.”

Martin grabbed Ace’s halter, his tone apologetic. “Does the new stall have a bigger window? I didn’t notice the mare was hot.”

“She’s fine.” Kurt hesitated, but the kid looked truly concerned. “I want to switch horses in case Otto holds a grudge. He'd recognize Country Girl in a line-up but probably can't pick out my other horses. Not if they're in different stalls.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “You think he’d deliberately hurt them?”

“It's just a precaution,” Kurt said. “Otto was upset when I claimed his mare. He’s probably calmed down now. It’s just a precaution.”

But as he repeated the words, he had the unsettling notion he was really trying to reassure himself.

Chapter Fourteen

A swinging sign with large black letters proclaimed ‘Champs Bar, Where Winners Meet.’ Kurt pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a room swollen with conversation, laughter and the yeasty smell of beer. Clearly a track hangout, racing pictures decorated every inch of wall. A dartboard hung in a mock winner’s circle. It wasn't the type of bar that had a dance floor.

Sandra’s purple shirt was visible at a table on the far side, and he strained to see her companion. Not Julie, a man. Looked like Gary Bixton. Good. He wanted to talk to Julie alone, away from Sandra and her troublesome mother-hen tendencies.

He spotted Julie perched on a bar stool next to a cowboy in a red striped shirt. He moved in, ignoring the man’s resentful frown.

“Hi, Julie.” He kept his voice low, using the background noise as an excuse to dip his head close and absorb her fresh smell of sunshine and flowers. She tilted her head, her smile much wider than it had been in the barn. Obviously she was keen to discuss Lazer. Regret pricked him—her warm welcome was based on his horse.

“I thought maybe you couldn’t find the place,” she said, still gracing him with that big smile. “You must be hungry.”

“Starving. I stopped to talk to Martin’s mother for a minute.” Kurt took the menu she passed him, stared down the cowboy in the striped shirt and further staked his territory by wedging his knee against Julie’s stool. “What’s good here?”

“The pictures.” She shot him a teasing grin. “But if you’re starving, everything tastes good.” Her laugh was throaty, and he automatically leaned closer. She made a half-hearted effort to straighten her stool, but his leg kept it locked. “Maybe we should move to the table with Sandra and Gary.” She pointed across the room. “There’d be more room to eat.”

Her gesture lacked its usual grace, and when her hand brushed his chest, she jerked her fingers back. His gaze narrowed, automatically assessing her condition. Bright cheeks, flushed eyes, somewhat inebriated. Perfect. She was tiny and didn't eat before a race. Naturally, alcohol would have a big effect.

It would be simple to ply her with another beer before ordering food. Maybe even switch to something more potent. He'd been trained to encourage people to drink, then listen when they blabbed, but that idea seemed repugnant now. It was hard to be a total asshole with someone like her. One thing was certain though; they were
not
going to move to Sandra’s table.

“We can move to a table later,” he said. “Food service will be faster here.” He leaned over the bar and gestured at a waiter, deliberately brushing his arm over Julie’s shoulder, testing her reaction. A shiver of awareness. All good.

“It's good to see you off track,” he said, leaving his arm so close he could feel her heat. “You work both sides of the clock.”

She swiveled on her stool, and he could smell her skin again or maybe it was her hair. Whatever it was, he liked it.

“It’s not work,” she said. “Being paid to ride is a dream. I wanted to do that since I was four.” She brushed her hair back. Like him, she wore no ring.

“It’s probably harder to be a trainer,” she added. “You have to attract owners, just like I'm trying to attract trainers.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “Not that you’re running around trying to attract owners. Or that I’m trying to attract trainers. Well, of course, I suppose I am—”

She bit her bottom lip and looked so flustered he squeezed her hand. “Already done,” he said.

“What?” she asked. “What’s already done?”

“Attracted.”

“Want the usual, Julie?” A waiter with a shaved head and protruding ears appeared, brandishing his order sheet and a stubby brown pencil.

She grabbed the diversion like a lifeline, ignoring Kurt’s comment as she turned her attention to the waiter. He listened to her order, noted her too-careful enunciation. She reminded him of a drunk at a breathalyzer. Obviously she’d had several drinks before he’d arrived, in addition to the beer at the barn.

Convenient, of course. But he didn’t want her wasted. Sometimes witnesses tried so hard to remember that they conjured up things, even padding stories to please their interrogator.

Not that Julie would lie. And he didn’t like to think of himself as an interrogator. This could be as pleasant as she let him make it. But there simply wasn’t much sense in loading her with liquor—relaxed and talkative was all he wanted.

He listened while she talked with the waiter, and it was apparent the guy was smitten, asking if she wanted her fries crisp or her bun toasted. Kurt’s mouth tightened. It shouldn’t take that long to jot down an order, although maybe she was the one prolonging the conversation. Maybe she wanted to avoid being alone with him.

He took a thoughtful sip of beer. There was no way she could have guessed he was a cop. Archer was anal about secrecy, and only close friends and family knew the kind of work Kurt had been doing. The race world thought he’d spent the last nine years working at an obscure breeding farm. Still, the Internet was pesky.

The waiter must have realized he couldn’t linger by Julie any longer and reluctantly moved on to Kurt. “What ’cha want?” he asked. He didn’t mention the three kinds of cole slaw or the sweet potato fries.

Kurt gave his order to the disinterested waiter. “Better hold the onions,” he added with a pointed glance at Julie.

The waiter frowned as he walked away, and Julie elbowed Kurt in the ribs. “Double onions for me,” she called, not missing a beat.

“Ouch.” Kurt gave her his best hurting smile, perfect for skittish women. An old girlfriend once said it made her want to take him home, feed him chicken soup then bonk his brains out.

It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Julie—she rolled her eyes. “Stop teasing the waiter. He’s always a big flirt. Not that it matters.” Her voice trailed off.

“Of course it matters,” Kurt said. “This is the third time I asked you out. I don’t like to share.”

“I don’t remember being asked out. And this is just grabbing something to eat, a meeting to talk about Lazer.” She crossed her arms. “That’s all it can be.”

There was a finality in her voice, and he leaned forward, genuinely puzzled. He liked her, and she may not have realized it, but she’d touched him three times tonight. Dinner, a few drinks, some pleasant company. He didn’t understand why it was such a big deal.

He mentally reviewed her file. Single. Her mother, also a jockey, had been killed in a car accident. Julie had never been married, and the researcher hadn’t dug up a boyfriend. But something made her ball her napkin in agitation.

She tossed the paper wad at his chest, eyes sparkling with such mischief he decided he was over-analyzing. “Good catch,” she said as he grabbed the napkin in midair. “And this is a meeting. And I’m paying for my own food. So don’t lay on the charm or tease about onions. Gosh, you Eastern trainers are cocky.” A smile softened her words, but her back had straightened, and her chin had a challenging tilt.

Best to lighten things up. The last thing he needed was to stir her stubborn streak. And, of course, he already had something she really wanted. Something she wanted desperately.

“Not cocky at all,” he said mildly, “but there are certain Eastern traditions that must be observed. Especially the one that says a jockey must let her trainer pay for dinner.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding? I’m riding Lazer?”

Something kicked in his chest. Her happiness was infectious, and he didn’t feel quite so battered and chewed up. “I liked the job you did tonight,” he said gruffly. “You held your ground but weren’t dangerously aggressive. You knew when each horse was giving all they had. It was good riding. Smart riding. And, yeah, I want you to be Lazer’s jockey.”

She was almost hopping on her stool now, but her leg was touching his, so he wasn’t going to complain. “It’s nice of you to give me this chance,” she said. “I've never ridden a good horse before.”

“Julie, don’t tell a trainer that. And don’t admit you’re new, like you did with me the first day. Fake it until you make it.” He couldn’t stop grinning. My God, she was sweet. After years of working with creeps and scum and everything in between, it was refreshing to be around someone so utterly honest.

He slipped a hand around her hip and gave an impulsive hug. She didn't pull away, probably still distracted about Lazer, so he left his arm draped around her, wanting to feel her reaction to his next question.

“Speaking of trainers,” he said, watching her face, “I heard a friend of Otto’s was murdered last week. Did you ever meet the guy?”

She nodded, but he felt no telltale stiffening. Nothing she wanted to hide. “Yes. I talked to him in the barn. The police said I was the last one to see him alive.”

Heaping plates were slammed on the counter in front of them. The smell of fried food, after a diet of coffee, bagels and sandwiches, made his mouth water.

“Enjoy,” the waiter said as he plunked salt, ketchup and two kinds of spicy sauce in front of Julie. Kurt received a plastic fork.

Julie looked at Kurt, and her dimples flashed. “Since this has been such an excellent meeting,” she said, “I’ll share my ketchup.”

“A deal,” he said wryly, wishing the food hadn’t come just as she was talking about Connor. Still, they were both hungry. Better to finish this conversation later and let her eat in peace.

She bit into her thick, dripping hamburger without a touch of reservation. He liked that and turned to his own food. The burger was big, delicious and filling. He left half his fries, watching in surprise as she continued to eat.

“Guess you didn’t have lunch,” he said ruefully.

“Or breakfast. Too nervous to eat.” She paused, mid-bite, slanting him with a conspiratorial smile. “Guess I shouldn't admit to nerves either. Fake it until you make it, isn't that what you say?”

“No, Julie,” he said quietly. “Don't change a thing.” He liked everything about her—her honesty, her dedication, even her temper, and he also liked the sensuous way her mouth moved as she enjoyed her food.

“So,” he said impulsively, “we should have another meeting tomorrow. You can show me one of Calgary’s famous steakhouses.”

Her eyes darkened, and he was certain he saw regret. “I’m sorry.” Her voice lowered. “We both know it’s stupid to mix business with pleasure. Even though you’re horribly attractive—” She stopped talking and even under the muted lights, he could see her cheeks flush.

“Don't stop now,” he said. “I like that word.” He also liked her company. All in all, he was very much enjoying the evening.

“What word?” She gave a hopeful smile. “Horribly?”

“No. The other word.”

“Attractive then.” She waved her fork, dangerously close to her eye, not seeming to notice when he gently guided it away from her face. “But men and horses always look better after a few beer, and I really do prefer horses right now. No time for anything else.”

“Maybe you should consider time optimization,” he said, feeling his mouth twitch. “Men and horses, together at the track. You can use me for a test drive, kind of like a morning gallop.”

She laughed and bit the end of a fry. “You like teasing, don’t you. I didn't see that when we first met.” Her nose crinkled in memory, and she tilted her head. “Actually, you were different, harder.”

“Really?” He forced an exaggerated chuckle, somewhat irked she’d picked up on his earlier mindset, back when he’d been suspicious of her involvement. It was odd she could read him so well. She was fresh, unspoiled, but like her dad, rather astute. Something he needed to remember.