Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (23 page)

They walked half the oval, with Sandra shooting curious looks, before Julie spoke again. “We had sex yesterday. I think I wanted it more than him. But it was a one-time thing. He made that clear. Although obviously I like him.” She sighed, but somehow the admission made her feel better.

Sandra stared up the rail to where Kurt waited beside Gary. “You picked a tough one. Not my first choice for you. Half the girls in the city would be delighted to unbuckle that man’s belt.” She gave a knowing shrug. “But men are like horses. The good ones are worth some aggravation. Play it cool, see what happens.”

“Whatever I do just makes him scowl.” Julie’s temper flared, and she shot a glare in Kurt’s direction. “He’s really cranky.”

“Cranky can be another word for jealous.” Sandra gave a worldly flip of her ponytail. “And there are some guys here who’ll thank him for proving the best part of a man isn’t always his horse. It’s been a long, dry spell for you,” she went on. “I know your mom would be glad you’re finally living a little. So no regrets, okay?”

At Julie’s nod, Sandra relaxed and started whistling.

“Stop it.” Julie said, darting a glance at Kurt, praying he wouldn’t hear. “That song is old, and it’s not funny.”

“Then I’ll sing it instead.” Sandra belted out a few bars of ‘Julie, Do Ya Love Me.’

“Your singing sucks, and it’s scaring my horse.” Julie leaned down and slipped off Okie’s bridle. “Now forget the song or you don’t get this back.” She waved the bridle in the air. “And Okie looks frisky today. Even friskier if I slap him.”

Sandra giggled but stopped singing. “At least you’ve got your gumption back. Now give it back before the outriders see.” She grabbed her bridle, looped the reins over Okie’s neck and together they walked toward the gap.

Kurt listened intently as Gary Bixton spoke about a horse he’d ridden in Montana—a kind, sweet-tempered mare called Country Girl.

“I couldn’t believe it was the same horse.” Gary shook his head. “Poor girl. I don’t know what Otto did, or why, but he turned her into a psycho.”

Why? Probably so no officials at the border would inspect her. It had to be smuggling. Kurt turned as Julie returned on Ace. Sandra walked beside her, riding without a bridle; her horse looked naked with his bare head.

“How was he?” Kurt asked Julie as he attached his lead to Ace.

“Perfect,” she said. “And I’ll be here at five thirty tomorrow in case you want your horses out first.”

“Hurry up, Julie,” Sandra called. “Cody finally got his trainer’s license, so he’s pretty happy. Only took him three tries.” She smacked her lips. “He has a truckload of beer.”

“A bit early to start drinking, isn’t it?” Kurt frowned. Alcohol and drugs were a jockey’s worst enemy. Julie didn’t need the wrong kind of encouragement.

“Maybe it’s early for you,” Sandra said, “but I've been up since four.”

“Julie will be busy with me for a while.” Kurt tightened his grip on Ace’s lead.

“Oh, I’m sure Cody will wait for her. He’s waited this long,” she added with a snicker. “Want a ride over, Gary?”

Bixton lithely swung himself up behind Sandra. Her horse didn’t seem at all perturbed by the second passenger and continued his steady walk.

“See you later, Jules.” Bixton gave a roguish grin. “Beer first, sauna later.”

Kurt’s mouth tightened. Those two jokers were a bad influence. Bixton might be able to handle alcohol, but Kurt already knew Julie couldn't. And if her reactions were a fraction too slow, if her decision making was the least bit faulty... He glanced up, chilled with sudden fear.

“We apprentices don't drink as much as the old guys,” she said quietly.

His apprehension eased, but he blanked his face, wondering how the hell she knew what he was thinking. No need to worry anyway. She valued her career too much to place it in jeopardy.

Already she'd bumped him from ex-lover to trainer. He'd been deliberately cool this morning, guessing anger would help her move their relationship back to an impersonal footing; instead she could give him lessons on how to dump a lover.

He pretended to adjust Ace's lead as he studied her face. She looked good, her cheeks flushed, her lips pink and full. Not as thick and pouty as they’d been after their lovemaking. Not as soft.

He wheeled away and spoke without looking. “You did pretty good with this fellow. I think he’s ready. Want to ride him in his first race?”

“Yes! Yes, of course. Thanks,” she added. The happy bubble in her voice made him feel better than he had the entire morning.

Once inside the barn, he called Martin. “Put a sheet on Ace and cool him out. Come with me please, Julie.”

She followed him into his tack room, waiting while he thumbed through his condition book.

“There’s a maiden race for two-year-olds, four furlongs, on Wednesday night. Ace is in shape and should be able to handle the hook. You comfortable with that?”

She nodded, her eyes still sparkling. “Sure. He was balanced on the turns. A bit curious in front of the grandstand, but there shouldn't be a big crowd on Wednesday.”

“Okay.” Kurt tore his gaze off her mouth. “Tomorrow we’ll take him out with Cisco, spend more time in the paddock and by the stands.”

“We're finished then?” she asked.

“Yes.” His hands tightened around the condition book and he kept his head averted, pretending to be absorbed with the fine print. “See you tomorrow, early.”

“All right,” she said and left. He heard her call a cheery goodbye to Martin, then her steps faded to silence. Probably off to party with the others.

Scowling, he tossed the condition book onto the cot. Damn, he liked that girl. However, he wasn’t here to socialize. His goal was to build a case that would convict Connor’s killer.

He strode toward the security gate. Archer was putting a tail on Otto. Julie knew nothing about Otto’s friends. It was time to use other means to track down Otto’s secretive visitor.

The pale, skinny guard was on duty.

“Good to see you again.” Kurt gave the kid his best buddy smile. “I need your help. My cousin is dropping by to look at a horse, and I need to make sure he can get back to the barns.”

“Of course. But he’ll need credentials to go backside.”

Kurt blew out an exaggerated sigh and propped his arm on the front of the ledge. “But that takes so much paperwork. Couldn't you let him through? It would only be for a few minutes.”

The guard gave an emphatic head shake.

“Well then, could I sign him in here?” Kurt asked.

“Sorry, sir. You have to go to the race office and apply for a visitor’s pass.”

“But he’s not staying long.”

The guard shook his head, still polite, but his face was beginning to flush. “We used to let people in, but the office tightened up. Now everyone needs a pass. It's a rule.”

“But this will be late at night. No one needs to know.” Kurt pulled out his wallet and waved some bills. “Let’s work something out.”

“No exceptions,” the guard snapped.

“Come on. Just for five minutes. I'll be with him the whole time.”

“Sir! Get a pass like everyone else.” The guard’s face was now a blotchy red. Color even stained the tips of his ears, and his Adam’s apple jerked spasmodically.

“Okay, okay.” Kurt backed up, raising his hands. “I'll go to the office.” He gave the flustered guard a soothing smile and turned away, satisfied now that sign-in rules were strictly enforced. There would be some record of Otto’s visitor.

Kurt walked into the austere race office. The receptionist was sleek and composed, simultaneously typing and talking on the phone. A spectacular array of rings sparkled as her nails clacked over the keyboard.

“I can mail the group information,” she said, her voice clipped, “but it would be easier if you could check our website. We’re very busy.” She cut the connection and glanced up at Kurt, her frown turning to a welcoming smile.

“Good morning.” She pushed a stack of forms aside and leaned back in her chair and didn’t look at all busy.

“Hello,” he said. “You look like someone who can help.”

She also looked experienced, poised and accustomed to male attention, the type of woman he usually preferred, someone who knew the rules before the game started. And it was always helpful to have a contact in the race office.

“It's so busy in the spring.” Her pretty sigh made her breasts heave. “New trainers, not enough stalls, riders complaining about the track—everyone wants endless attention.” Her skirt had a slight wrinkle, and she smoothed it before crossing long slim legs. “I haven’t seen you before.” She studied him with such blatant approval, he almost squirmed. “You’re obviously new. Too rugged to be an owner, too big to be a rider…must be a trainer?”

“That’s right.” He nodded. “One of those guys who wants endless attention.”

“I see.” She arched a shapely eyebrow. “Well, maybe I can help. What exactly do you need?”

“It’s kind of personal.”

She leaned across the desk and for a second her blouse draped open revealing creamy skin and an intricate lace bra. He pulled his gaze up and locked it on her face. “Why don’t you just sit down and tell me,” she said, her voice turning throaty.

This might be easier then he had thought. He eased into the hard visitor’s chair. “There was a guy at the barn last Tuesday night,” he said, leaning forward. “Wanted me to call if I sold my trailer. But I lost his name and phone number so...” He checked her desk for a nametag.

“Tiffany, Tiffany Gates,” she said.

“Glad to meet you, Tiffany. I'm Kurt.” He shook her hand but deliberately left his arm on her desk and inched his chair closer to her computer. “So, Tiffany, I need someone who can check the visitor passes that were issued that evening.”

Her mouth curved, revealing perfect teeth. “That's easy. Who signed him in?”

“Otto Laing.”

Her nails clicked, and she stared at the computer screen. “Sorry, nothing was requested by Otto Laing. And that's odd, because security is really tight this year.”

Shit. Kurt’s optimism plunged. “But how else could he have got through? Is there anything else on Otto’s file. What about a groom or owner’s license?”

She scanned the data. “No, nothing…wait. There was a license issued last spring for a Marcus Friedman, but it expires at the end of the month. Was that the guy’s name?”

“I think so. But if I saw the picture, I'd know for sure.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give out information like that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the corner office then shot him a coy look. “You don’t want to get a girl in trouble, do you?”

“Not at work. But the man really wants my trailer, and I’d hate to disappoint him. What could it hurt?” He gave her what he considered his most persuasive smile. “I would really appreciate it, Tiffany,” he said.

Her eyes flickered sideways, but she turned and pressed some keys then tilted the monitor toward him. “Is this your friend?” she whispered, shooting another glance down the hall.

Blue eyes, brown hair, patrician features. Possibly a European accent. The name read Marcus Friedman, and his age, forty-seven, fit the voice in the barn.

“That’s him.” Kurt memorized Friedman’s address a full three seconds before she turned the monitor away.

“I can’t give you his address, but I’ll write the phone number down.” She jotted on a business card and handed it to him with a confident flourish. “My home number is on the back as well.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said. “Marcus and I both appreciate this.”

“Betting tips are a nice way to show appreciation.” She leaned toward him, and her silk blouse gaped again. “A drink after work is even nicer.”

“Sure,” he said, already calculating how long it would take to drive to Friedman’s house. “How about tomorrow?”

She checked her calendar and made an exaggerated moue. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

“Some other time then. I have your number.” He stuck her card in his pocket, but he already had what he wanted. “Now who do I see about entering a horse?” he asked.

Chapter Twenty

Kurt slid into his truck and punched in Archer’s number. An automated voice requested he leave a message. He recorded his destination, flipped the phone shut and entered Friedman’s address into his GPS.

Thirty minutes later he was in Elbow Valley, on the west side of the city.

The address matched a luxurious home perched on a rolling hill overlooking the city center. He drove to the bottom of the manicured lawn and parked on the gravel shoulder. A stooped groundskeeper tended a bright garden, and he raised his head as Kurt walked up the drive.

“I’m lost.” Kurt sagged his shoulders.

“Wha’cha looking for?” The man creaked to his feet, peeled off soiled gloves and wiped a liver-spotted forehead.

“Olympic Hill,” Kurt said. “I must have missed the turnoff.”

The gardener shook his head. “Nah, just get back on the highway. Head west another five minutes. You can’t miss it.”

“I was told I wouldn’t miss it earlier, but I ended up here.” Kurt casually inspected the property. No sign of horse ownership. “Nice house,” he added, trying to peer around the back. “You've got a great view of the city.”

“Oh, this isn’t my place. I just look after the flowers. Look good, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they do,” Kurt said with a spike of longing. The fresh spring smell reminded him of mountain meadows, lusty sex and Julie. The old man was staring at him, so he flattened his mouth. “Must be an oil man that lives in that house,” he added.

“No, Mr. Friedman owns a jewelry shop. ‘Pieces of Seven’, I think it’s called. Can’t be doing so good though, because the real estate agent was here last week. Standing right where you are now. She liked my flowers too.”

“Yeah, they’re real nice,” Kurt said. “So the owner is selling?” He bent over and helpfully tossed a weed into the wheelbarrow.

The man stiffened, and Kurt guessed maybe it hadn't been a weed after all. He stepped away from the flowers, and the gardener relaxed.

“Selling out, is he?” Kurt prompted.

“Yeah, the housekeeper said he’s moving back to Europe. Selling his house and cars. His wife don’t like it here. She already left.” He scratched at his thin chest leaving a smear of dirt on his shirt. “Sure hope the new buyer keeps me on.”