Winner Takes All - Book 1 (An Erotic Romance) (2 page)

The walls of her little apartment were the same eggshell
white as when she moved in five years before. Still unadorned. The only truly
personal items was the small shelf of books near her full-sized bed and the
photo of Marshall Taylor, her first trainer who had been like a father to her.
One of the first people to treat her with decency, kindness, and respect.

Naked, Sasha dropped her clothes in the bathroom’s
laundry hamper and turned on the shower. Forty five minutes later, she was
clean and dry. Unscented lotion smoothed into her tanned skin and the barest
amount of make-up on her face. Her hair she wore pinned up into a simple French
twist and diamond studs dotted the lobes of her small ears. She stood in front
of her closet in her bra and panties, a hand on her hip.

“What the hell do you wear to a party with a bunch of
rich muckety mucks?”
A dress, like a real girl?
a sarcastic voice chimed
from the back of her head.

She stared at the endless parade of slacks, jeans,
t-shirts, wondering if she even had a dress in there after her last round of
purging.

Then, she remembered the dress and heels she’d bought for
a funeral nearly eight months before. She grabbed them from the back of her
closet and quickly put them on. As she dressed, she tried not to think about
the reality of where she was going and who had invited her there. If not for
the incredible win at the Derby, she would probably be more nervous about
rubbing elbows with the Richie Riches than she already was. But at least they
wouldn’t kick her out of the party for looking like a peasant. In the mirror,
she looked fine enough; the knee-length, black dress scooped just under her
collar bones and clung slightly to her figure from the few pounds she had
deliberately put on to get back up to a hundred pounds.

She walked across the hardwood floors, feeling the
unfamiliar exaggerated rocking of her hips from the high heels. Sasha grabbed
her keys from the hook, then she paused, looking at the picture of Marshall on
the dresser. Tall and lean, stern looking with his bald head and small scar on
his right cheek. The face of a kind man.

She smiled at the photograph, knowing how proud of her he
would have been today. “Wish me luck,” she said softly.

Then she opened the door and left.

Sasha parked her little white Honda Civic in a lot near
the address where Damien had told her to come. With the traffic passing by in a
steady hush past her, she strolled along the sidewalks of downtown Louisville
looking for the address. She hummed softly beneath her breath with each step.
Happy.

After nearly four years of riding professionally, she was
living her dream of being a Derby winner. At twenty, she now felt she had the
world at her feet. Only one thing would make her triumph even better. But her
mind shied away from that desire. A lover. The beginning to a family of her own
to love. No. That would have to wait until the end of her career. This was just
the beginning of things. Her voice faded away into the night, the happy song
draining away.

Ah, well. Don’t be greedy. You can’t get everything
you want.

She shrugged mentally and kept walking. The high heels
forced her to go slowly, holding her little black purse under her arm as she
searched the buildings she passed for the right set of numbers. The breeze
teased at her upswept hair, blowing kisses against the back of her neck.

I won the Kentucky Derby.
The
memory of her triumph came to her again and a brilliant smile swept over
Sasha’s face. This is who I am today. A winner.

“Is that smile for me?”

The voice startled the smile from her face. She lifted
her head for its source and saw Damien Taylor standing on the steps of a
high-rise building glittering with green glass in the light from the lowering
sun. He stood with a hand in his pants pocket, another on the cell phone he
lowered from his ear. Damien slipped the phone in an inside jacket pocket and
waited for her to come to him.

As he stood bathed in the streetlights, the crisp
illumination from the doorway of the building, Sasha stared. The suit he wore
was obviously tailored to his impressive body, a pin-striped gray that brought
out the paleness in his eyes. He looked like James Bond; confident, sexy, and a
lot dangerous.

Damn.

She forced her heavy tongue to move. “No,” she said in
response to his question. “I was actually thinking about the pile of laundry I
have waiting for me at home.”

He hummed a low noise of disappointment, though his mouth
quirked up in amusement. “Pity.”

As she walked closer to him, she became even more aware
of the movement of her hips under the dress, the shoes elongating her legs and
making her butt sway more than usual. By the way he watched her so carefully,
she knew he saw all these things. Did he look at her and think she was trying
too hard? That she didn’t pull off the girly outfit as well as other women who
wore the same trappings everyday?

“You look lovely,” Damien Taylor said.

Sasha almost tripped over her feet. She felt a blush overtaking
her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He offered his arm to her when she
stood within two feet of him. “Shall we go up?”

She stared at the suited arm, overwhelmed again by the
elegance of the man, his utter sexiness. Butterflies assaulted her stomach.

“Sure.” Sasha took his arm, immediately aware of the
corded strength beneath the expensive suit. His scent, a mixture of sandalwood
and citrus, immediately surrounded her.

He led her into the building, past the concierge who
waved to him with a wide smile, and to the elevator. She released his arm as he
pressed the button for the penthouse, suddenly conscious of the small space.
Conscious of how her pulse raced when she was with him. It was one thing to
fantasize about him while he remained aloof and far from her reach; but to have
him so close, the smell of him teasing her, the recent memory of his strong
warmth under her hand. Sasha drew a single, silent breath.

“You were wonderful out there today,” he said after a
long moment. “It was truly a magnificent ride.”

“Thank you,” she said, desperately grabbing at inane
piece of conversation. “High Impact is a champion. He was born to win. It
didn’t matter if it’s with me or someone else.”

“I doubt that very much. That horse loves you. He’d fly
to the moon for you. I understand now what he sees in those honey-colored eyes
of yours.”

Another blush claimed Sasha’s cheeks. She hadn’t turned
red this much since her sunburn two summers ago. What was this man doing to
her? She drew a quick breath of relief when the elevator bell sounded and the
doors parted. Sounds of the party flooded into the small elevator—classical
music, conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses. Her mouth literally
dropped open as she saw the penthouse.

The elevator door had opened into a gleaming palace.
Signs of extravagant wealth surrounded the elegantly dressed people parading
through the posh space. Gleaming hardwood floors. Marble busts arranged on
pedestals and facing the guests with their scowling, aristocratic faces. Two
glass walls made into an L-shape which allowed in the blazing sunset, a
gorgeous spectacle that everyone at the party mostly ignored. And why should
they care that nature was doing what she did every night when so much was happening
in here?

Waiters in black trousers and white, long-sleeved shirts
walked between the guests with silver trays held aloft in their capable hands.
The trays the waiters carried held champagne, mint juleps, tumblers of whiskey.

Among the beauty and opulence, she felt suddenly out of
place, a black-eyed susan in a field of orchids. She felt herself wanting to
shrink up against Damien. But he belonged here too among these glorious beings.
She did not. Just as she was contemplating making her excuses to Damien and
running away like a coward from the big bad rich people, a woman sauntered
toward them from a nearby entryway.

She was flawless. Five-inch black heels, an orange dress
that looked like it had been painted on her tall, fashion model’s body. Her
black eyes were hawk-like under a swoop of frosted blond hair that looked
shocking against her teak skin.

“Damien! You made it.” She kissed his cheek a moment
before she was looking down from her over six foot height at Sasha. “And who is
this?”

She opened her mouth to introduce herself, sure that he
didn’t remember her first name.

“This is Sasha. She is the one who handled High Impact so
well this evening.”

The woman’s glance grew even more interested. “Oh, a
female jockey. How delicious.” She offered her hand. “I’m Amelia, my dear. You
must let me take you around the room and introduce you.”

Without waiting for Sasha to accept or decline her
invitation, the tall woman—Amelia—curled her long fingers around Sasha’s arm
and drew her deeper into the penthouse. The woman introduced her to what Sasha
felt was nearly everyone in the cavernous and beautiful place. Surprisingly,
Damien kept pace with them, offering tidbit about her that she did not think he
knew—“Yes, she became a jockey at sixteen. Sasha was a very precocious young
lady,” while continuously fetching her champagne, and making sure she never ran
out.

His presence soothed her. It pushed the nervousness to
the back of her consciousness until she could almost fool herself into
believing she wasn’t nervous anymore. She laughed when someone made a joke; she
answered questions; smiled for the camera when someone asked for a photograph.

“I didn’t know there were women jockeys,” one man
exclaimed, cooing over her like some exotic pet. He fingered his mint julep,
looking like he wanted to take her home.

But he was the only one who treated her that way.
Everyone asked her about the race or about High Impact or how it was working
for such a task-master as Damien. Most of the questions were firmly on the
business of horses despite the looks of speculation moving from her to Damien
as he stood at her side. Thankfully, he showed no signs of being ready to leave
her on her own.

It wasn’t long before her head was spinning from all the
champagne she’d consumed. Giggly and relaxed, she allowed Amelia  to take her
still from group to group, introduced her as Damien’s “brilliant young jockey”
even though the woman had no idea how old she was. Everyone was friendly and
inquisitive, complimentary. But crowds had never been Sasha’s favorite thing.

Talking with a pair of elegant matrons who wanted to know
if she planned on going for the Derby again next year, Sasha suddenly realized
that Damien was no longer at her side. The thought of it unsettled her, being
strewn among strangers like so much kibble to hungry dogs. She bit the inside
of her cheek to stop herself from giggling.

As soon as was polite, she excused herself from the women
and fled to the balcony. She closed the sliding glass door behind her with a sigh
of relief. Outside, the quiet was almost sensual in its perfection. No
clattering voices. No one asking for a photograph. No eyes picking her outfit
apart. Sasha’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as she enjoyed the breeze
moving over her face and throat. She leaned back against the closed glass door,
her head thrown back. Her hands resting lightly on the door handle behind her.

“This is a sight I can get used to,” a masculine voice
said.

Without opening her eyes, she knew it was Damien. Slowly,
she opened them to get the full effect of him, surprised to see him on the
balcony away from the people inside who seemed to be alternately in awe and
afraid of him. The wine bubbled in her veins as she looked at him. Had she
known a more perfect man? She quietly sighed.

“I thought for sure you’d be still in there somewhere,”
Sasha said.

He shook faintly shook his head. “I just needed to get
away from the crowd for a moment.”

She nodded. “I know what you mean. Everyone is so nice,
but I just don’t feel like being in there with them right now.”