Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (85 page)

They watched the young fillies circle the paddock. A few looked calm, but most pranced and jittered and rolled their eyes at the surging crowd. “Poor babies,” she said.

“They’ll be okay once they get on the track,” Dick said. “And if they run well today, they can look forward to a pampered life of freedom, grass and studly visits.”

“Studly visits? How like a man.” She shook her head but her thoughts skipped to Mark. Her breathing sped up, and she wiggled in her hard chair. If she found a job with afternoons off—and if he wasn’t with Cathy—maybe she could still see him. He’d have to leave at four, of course, to return to the barn, and she’d have to leave and go back to her job. She wouldn’t be able to groom horses any more though. And that was truly depressing.

And then it happened as it always did, when it seemed the race would never come, but there they were, loading the horses in the gate. Jessica felt proud as each young filly walked in and stood like a seasoned pro. Just babies really, but they knew their jobs. She prayed each one would break clean and bring their rider home safe. When Dick asked who she liked, she only shook her head blankly.

She did cheer one filly on though, a petite bay who shot from the four hole and grabbed the lead, leading the pack joyously around the track. But she strained down the long stretch, and it was clear she was exhausted. The filly wobbled, and the jockey pushed, but a long-legged chestnut appeared on the outside, strong and eager, looking like she just realized it was a race. The chestnut surged past everyone, running like a champ, but Jessica felt sorry for the little bay who had so bravely led the way.

Do they even know how long the race is, she wondered, realizing now why Mark liked his jockeys to work the horses and familiarize themselves with any quirks. She thought of Steve, Assets’ jockey, who was probably pulling on his shiny leather boots, getting ready to meet Assets in the paddock. Soon Mark would leg him up and off they’d go. She desperately wished she were there.

She wiped her warm forehead, clinked more ice in her drink and looked at Dick who just winked and said, “Soon.”

“Did you ever rub a big horse?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve only worked for claiming barns. But even at the lowest level, I think the trainers worry as much, and the horses want to win as much, and the workers love them every bit as much.”

“I think you’re right,” Jessica said, remembering Buddy and how proudly he pranced after his win, as though saying, “Wasn’t I great!”

The lump that clogged her throat whenever she thought of Buddy remained, but it was a bit smaller, and she could smile when she pictured him. The commercial break ended, and it was time for the Juvenile. Even Dick plucked at his scarf as Cathy introduced the twelve two-year olds. Jessica saw Assets right away, and he looked good. Not scared of the crowd as he strutted with his typical cockiness. But it wasn’t Carlos leading him—it wasn’t anyone Jessica knew.

“Turn the volume up, Dick.” She dragged her chair closer to the screen but already coverage switched. She jerked forward, staring at two familiar faces. Cathy’s perfect eyebrow arched as she turned to the white-haired man beside her, and Gramps nodded and looked grave.

“Yes. We had a fundamental difference of opinion, so it was necessary to switch trainers,” her grandfather said.

“Your original trainer, Mark Russell, selected this unheralded colt from hundreds of prospects and then developed him into a world-class racehorse. Prevailing opinion says it was spiteful to move Ambling Assets to another barn only days before the biggest race of his career. What’s your comment on that, Mr. Boone?”

“Everyone has an opinion. I just want the horse to run his best today, and I feel he’ll do that with Mr. Radcliff.”

Cathy nodded but looked at the camera, frowning in a way that showed her skepticism. “You’ve also elected to change jockeys, despite the fact that Steve Murray has been the colt’s regular rider—in fact, the colt’s
only
rider. Won’t that hamper your horse today, especially when he’ll have to hold off the late-running charge of Desert Bloom?”

Jessica stopped breathing. She stared at the screen, watching her grandfather’s lips clench. He was clearly annoyed, but Cathy nodded and acted so sweet, and Jessica knew he didn’t want to walk away and prove he was a spiteful, manipulative man.

“The blinkers are also a new addition,” Cathy added with a deadly smile. “Records show this horse has never raced or worked in blinkers, and it seems odd—”

“I have to go,” Gramps muttered. He turned and walked away.

Cathy’s disapproving face filled the screen. Her mouth moved, but the roaring in Jessica’s ears was too loud. She pressed her hands to her head and staggered to the bed. Even Dick looked stunned.

***

Mark turned the sound up on his tiny TV, watching as Assets strutted around the paddock and nipped at his handler. Completely unfazed by the crowds, the cameras and the occasion.

What a horse. And he no longer cared about the circumstances or Boone or Radcliff. He just wanted Assets to win.

“Don’t use a hood,” he willed, but of course Radcliff thought he knew best. He stepped up to the colt and buckled on blue blinkers, color coordinated with Boone’s checkered silks. And Mark could see Assets swell with resentment, could see his neck darken with sweat even though they were still in the paddock.

Then Mark couldn’t see Assets because the sheikh’s horse, Desert Bloom, filled the screen, a calm, cool colt with a floating walk, and Mark feared it would be Sheikh Khalif being whisked into the winner’s circle today. The TV flashed an image of a forlorn Steve left in the jock’s room, watching the monitor as a strange jockey was boosted onto Assets’ back. Anger burned Mark. He couldn’t stand to watch any more and snapped off the television.

He yanked Lefty’s phone from Dino’s charger, but his fingers were clumsy with emotion and he couldn’t pull up the directory. Kept hitting the camera feature which was fucking useless. Just dark, blurred pictures of a long box and two men digging up the infield next to the great Ruffian’s grave. Looked a bit like Haddad, except for the gardener’s outfit.

The next picture showed Haddad staring with the same flat eyes Mark had seen in Dick’s picture. Lefty’s last image was a blur of bike spokes and ground.

Mark leaped from his chair so fast it smashed against the wall. “Jesus Christ!” He grabbed his phone and bolted from the office.

He pushed through the backstretch workers who crowded around the gap, applauding the line of horses as they approached the starting gate. Mark shielded his eyes from the sun and frantically scanned the infield. The lake glittered benignly. A flag fluttered close to Ruffian’s grave. He couldn’t see if anyone lingered by the floral horseshoe, only saw confusing masses of people as they swarmed the grandstand.

He pressed Dino’s number and charged toward the clubhouse, grappling with his horrible suspicions and trying to picture the winner’s circle. For Breeders’ Cup, they used an elevated podium on the inner side of the track. Close enough to Ruffian’s grave.

“Is there a clear path from the infield to the winner’s circle?” Mark asked when Dino finally answered his phone.

“Going to charge in and grab the trophy?” Dino gave a nasty chuckle. “Good idea. I’ll help.”

“Lefty’s phone had some pictures.” Urgency sharpened Mark’s voice. “This Middle East thing—the thefts, the poisonings—it could be all about getting the sheikh
into
the winner’s circle so Haddad can take a clean shot. Now the sheikh has a good chance of winning both the Juvenile and the Classic.” Mark waved his credentials, phone pressed to his ear as he rushed past a vigilant ticket lady. “The sheikh always watches from a safe location. So the only reason he’d brave the crowd would be if he won.”

“But he’ll have bodyguards,” Dino said, “and nobody can get a gun onto the track.”

“The bodyguards will face the crowd. But the winner’s circle is against the infield. I think they already hid a weapon by Ruffian’s grave, probably the night Lefty drowned—if the poor guy really did drown. We have to alert security.”

The bell clanged and the crowd roared. Mark wheeled and stared at the big screen above the paddock, watching as Assets burst from the gate and charged to the lead. “Where are you, Dino?” he yelled into the phone.

“Just past the finish line.”

“Go, boy,” Mark murmured to Assets then rushed through the pods of people gathered around screens and monitors and doorways. He heard yells, cheers and the time of the suicidal first quarter. Could see Assets’ blinkered head leading down the lane, saw the jockey flail with his whip, saw the horse’s great courage as he fought to respond.

Mark groaned as the sheikh’s horse edged up, challenging for the lead. The stretch was so fucking long. And then another horse appeared, and another, and Assets’ blue head was lost in a wave of horses. Mark watched as the colt staggered across the finish line, exhausted, beaten, bewildered.

“You still there, Dino?”

“Yeah, broke my heart.”

“Sheikh’s horse get it?” Mark asked.

“Yeah. If the sheikh shows up for the presentation, they’ll escort him out the side gate and up a small flight of stairs to the winner’s circle.”

Mark rushed up the grandstand steps, shrugging off the usher’s prim request to see his wristband. He pressed his binoculars against his face and scanned the infield. Saw a wheelbarrow by the floral grave, but no Haddad.

“Looks like they’ve moved, Dino,” he said into the phone. “They could be with the media people by the inner rail. See anyone with a blanket over their camera?”

“About twenty of them,” Dino said, his voice edgy. “I’ve grabbed a security guard. He’s with me now.”

A microphone was stuck in Mark’s face. “Mr. Russell, do you think the fast quarter had any bearing on Assets’ meltdown?”

“Not now.” He pushed past the reporter, his gaze on the returning horses. Assets trotted back sound, thank God, and there was the sheikh’s horse being met by his triumphant trainer. Maybe the sheikh wasn’t coming; maybe he knew he’d be vulnerable. Mark scanned the infield, forcing his breathing to steady.

But a huge black limo cruised to a stop in front of the winner’s platform, and out surged a group of men and—oh, Christ, there was the sheikh.

Mark scrutinized the photographers on the inner rail, all bent over their cameras, all surrounded by a confusion of equipment. There was even gear loaded on a golf cart protected by a large sunshield.

His heart jerked as he spotted Haddad’s face, shaven now, but recognizable. “Dino,” he yelled, “Haddad’s in the golf cart!”

He jammed his phone and Dino’s voice into his pocket and leaped over the rail, knowing there wasn’t time to explain. Whipped through the group of milling runners and up the steps to the winner’s circle where Desert Bloom’s connections jubilantly assembled.

A hard-eyed man blocked his way.

“Man with a gun!” Mark gestured, knowing time was running out, but the man grabbed his arm. Mark drove his elbow into his face and charged onto the platform. Saw the trophy, the proud smiles, Sheikh Khalif’s outstretched hands.

“Get down!” He lunged toward the sheikh.

Shouts, curses. Something ripped his shoulder, slamming him into the carpet. He tried to rise, but his arms were stuck and a vise squeezed his neck. Impossible to breathe. He struggled, desperate. His lungs burned. Bodies pressed against him, screaming in a language he didn’t understand. Then everything stopped hurting. His spotting vision faded, and he was sucked into a vortex of black.

***

Jessica watched the race numbly, trying to absorb the fact that Assets was now in another barn, racing for another trainer. Racing well, too. His distinctive blue blinkers led the charge. He looked like a knight’s horse, only Radcliff and her grandfather certainly weren’t chivalrous knights.

“Such a low blow. Hope Assets doesn’t win,” Dick said. “Where’s my Irish horse?”

Bile filled Jessica’s throat. To be so close and have your dream yanked away. Mark didn’t deserve this. There was nothing he could have done to deserve this. She stared at the screen in a nauseous haze as a flood of horses surged to the wire, passing Assets who struggled gamely but finished sixth.

“Ha! No money there,” Dick said. “Who is this Boone prick?”

“My grandfather.” Her voice cracked. “And I need to call him if I can borrow your phone.”

“It’s in the Bible drawer, but please let me see this first. Good grief.” Dick shook his head in disgust. “The sheikh can’t walk across the track. Has to be driven to the winner’s circle. Talk about paranoid.”

She fumbled through Dick’s drawer and pulled out his phone.

“Oh, dear,” Dick said, and the regret in his voice pulled her gaze back to the television. She gripped the phone, watching in disbelief as Mark burst into the winner’s circle and tried to steal the sheikh’s trophy. Faces swarmed, and coverage abruptly switched to the retired jockey and his two cronies.

“Well,” the first man said, staring blankly at his companions. “Well…”

The retired jockey waited a beat then smoothly filled the silence. “They say pace makes the race, and this was a clear example of Ambling Assets being used too early. The fast quarter set up for a closer, and Desert Bloom benefited from the scenario today.” He glanced at his fellow commentators, but they remained silent, staring at something beyond the camera.

“There’s a delay with the trophy presentation, so we’ll return after the commercial break,” the jockey added, obviously conditioned to think much more nimbly than his media cronies.

Dick gave Jessica a comforting hug. “Mark simply had too much pressure. And then to lose Assets. Any man would crack. But he’ll recover.”

She nodded, her voice splitting. “He really wanted to win the Breeder’s Cup. Nothing was more important.”

They sat in silence through the endless truck and airline and beer commercials. Finally Cathy Wright’s strained face filled the screen.

“There was an attempt on Sheikh Khalif’s life,” she said, “bravely thwarted by Mark Russell, a Belmont trainer who’s been removed in an ambulance. Emergency vehicles are behind the finish line where two more men are down. We’ll keep you updated, but there was never any spectator danger. I repeat, there is no danger. Now it’s back to the paddock to meet the horses for the third race.”