Kitabı oku: «Millions to Spare»

Chapter One

Julia Nash might hang out with the superrich, but she definitely wasn’t one of them. She was only in Dubai because her employer, Equine Earth Magazine, had sent her there on assignment. And she was only staying at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel because her friend Melanie Preston, a jockey and the subject of the article, had insisted they share her room. Otherwise, Julia would have been down at the Crystal Sands, living within her reporter’s travel allowance.

Like regular people, Julia had a condo payment, a crack in the windshield of her four-year-old Honda, and her eye on a limited edition watercolor at the Beauchamp Gallery back in Lexington. So, when Melanie had invited her shopping this afternoon, Julia decided not to subject herself to temptation. She’d claimed she was duty bound to scope out the Nad Al Sheba race course, and the excuse was mostly true. She needed to get a feel for the sights and sounds of the exotic Thoroughbred racecourse.

The Prestons owned Quest Stables outside Louisville, Kentucky, and their horse Something to Talk About would race in the Sandstone Derby on Thursday evening. Any background information Julia could pick up between now and then would make her story that much richer.

It was a fluff piece, something to combat the negative press the Prestons had received lately in connection with their Thoroughbred Leopold’s Legacy. DNA tests had revealed that the stallion was not sired by Apollo’s Ice, as recorded, and therefore could no longer compete in Thoroughbred races until the true sire was found. But she took the job seriously. Not only were the Prestons her friends and in need of positive publicity, Julia knew her way out of the lifestyle section of Equine Earth was to do each and every story to the best of her ability.

Although today’s Thoroughbred races wouldn’t start for a couple of hours, the Arabian and expatriate crowd was beginning to gather. Men in white robes contrasted with women in high fashion. Grooms walked sleek horses, while jockeys chatted amongst themselves, some suited up, some still in street clothes.

In the three years she’d been working for Equine Earth, Julia had developed an appreciation for Thoroughbreds and their breeding. She even imagined she was developing an eye for which horse had potential and which one did not. She’d never be as good at it as Melanie, who’d grown up at her family’s famous racing stables. And she couldn’t touch Melanie’s brother Robbie, Something to Talk About’s trainer.

But, for now, she slowed to watch two horses pass by on the dirt track on the opposite side of the fence from her, judging for herself the Thoroughbred’s potential. It was easy to tell which was the helper and which was the racer. One was a stocky, barrel-bellied chestnut with a scraggly black mane, who looked positively bombproof. The other was a twitchy, long-legged dun, straining at the halter, its tail flicking nervously over its haunches.

Wait a minute.

Julia inched toward the fence, straining for a closer look at the tail. The Thoroughbred was a dun. It had a clover-shaped star and the familiar, dark-brown eyes. It also had that unique flaxen tail that Julia had stared at in dozens of pictures at the Prestons.

The Prestons’ veterinarian, Carter Phillips, had found a stallion in California two months ago that he swore was a twin to Leopold’s Legacy. Julia realized she had now found a triplet.

She paced alongside the animal, trying to keep up without looking conspicuous. She scanned its head, its shoulders, its withers and legs, desperately searching her brain for something definitive, something that would tell her whether this was an animal worth investigating. She wished her eye was as keen as Melanie’s or Robbie’s.

Then, she remembered her cell phone. Perfect. She’d e-mail a picture to Melanie and take it from there.

All but trotting along under the warmth of a waning desert sun, she dug into her small purse, tugging out her cell phone. Then she ran a couple of steps to get the angle right, and held up the phone.

Instantly, a white, brass-buttoned, uniformed chest stepped between her and the fence, blocking her view.

“I am very sorry, madam,” the man said, not looking sorry at all.

Julia had no choice but to stop. She tipped her head to blink into a dark, bearded face, shaded by a peaked cap.

“No pictures,” he informed her, his lips clamped in a stern line.

“I don’t understand,” she lied, glancing around, cursing the fact that the horse was getting away.

The No Photos signs were posted conspicuously around the racetrack in at least six languages—three of which Julia spoke.

“No pictures,” the man repeated. “And this is not a public area.”

She maintained her facade of confusion, still keeping an eye on the retreating dun. “But—”

“I must ask you to return to the stands.” The man gestured back the way she’d come.

She peeked around him one last time, scrambling for a solution before the horse and groom disappeared. “Do you know who owns that horse?” she asked.

“This is not a public area,” the man repeated.

“I just need to know—”

Suddenly, a rugged-looking man in a white head scarf and a flowing, white robe materialized beside them. “Do we have a problem?”

Julia instinctively took a step back, shaking her head in denial that she was causing any kind of a problem. This did not look like the kind of man she wanted to annoy. His beard was scraggly, the tip of his nose was missing, and one eyebrow was markedly shorter than the other. Truly, she had no desire to run afoul of somebody who looked like a bar-fight veteran.

“I was only…” She took another step back, taking note of the primal urge that told her to put some distance between the two of them. “Curious about a horse.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which horse?”

“The dun. I…” She hesitated, then screwed up her courage. If she walked away now, she might never find out about the horse, and she might lose a real opportunity to help the Prestons.

She gave her eyelashes a determined flutter and offered a bright, ingenuous grin. “It’s pretty. When’s it racing?”

His thin lips curved into a cold smile. “You wish to bet?”

“No. No, of course I don’t want to bet.” Betting was illegal in Dubai.

“He is Millions to Spare. The third race.”

A name. She had a name. Julia mentally congratulated herself.

She turned to leave, but the man’s hand closed around her upper arm. She glanced down, spotting a tiny tattoo on his inner wrist. It was square, red and gold, with a diagonal line cut through the center.

“You talk to Al Amine,” the man said.

She struggled not to panic.

But then he released her. “For a bet. You talk to Al Amine.”

She reflexively glanced at the uniformed man. Either his English was weak, or they didn’t take the no-betting law particularly seriously around here.

In either event, Julia had the Thoroughbred’s name. A little more sleuthing, and she’d have the name of the stable. If luck was with her, she could end up with more than a fluff piece from this trip. Imagine if she was able to solve the mystery, identify Leopold’s Legacy’s true sire? The Prestons would be in the clear, and her name would be on a byline.

Since earning her journalism degree at Cal State, she’d dreamed of breaking significant news stories, of bringing insights and information to millions of readers around the world. So far, she’d only managed to bring insights on horse racing to a limited audience through Equine Earth.

Not that Equine Earth was a bad employer; they had brought a lower middle-class Seattle girl all the way to Dubai. And soon she’d have enough experience and credentials to branch out to harder news, maybe with a mainstream publication.

As the crowds closed in behind her, she took one last glance at the mystery stallion.

“Come on, Leopold’s Legacy connection,” she muttered under her breath. For the first time in her career, a racehorse story had the potential to move beyond the business and into the mainstream.

Through the speakers above her, the announcer switched from English to Arabic to Spanish, reciting some of the more prominent horses’ names and the time left to the first parade to the post.

Julia ignored the growing excitement in the audience. Her goal was information on Millions to Spare. If she could find a program, she could look up the name of his stable and potentially be on her way to a significant story.

Cadair Racing.

The lettering on the side of the eight-horse trailer was in both English and Arabic. There was a phone number beneath, but a telephone call was the last thing on Julia’s mind. Millions to Spare was in that trailer. And Julia was in the middle of an honest-to-God covert operation here.

She’d figured out the one thing, the one little thing that would tell her for certain if Millions to Spare was a lead in the Leopold’s Legacy parentage mystery, or just another dead end. And that little thing was his DNA.

She’d watched men load the stallion into the eight-horse trailer just a few minutes ago. Now, the last groom was walking away, leaving it unattended, and providing Julia with her golden chance.

Carter Phillips had run into nothing but resistance when he’d checked out the DNA of the other Leopold’s Legacy look-alike in California. His experience had taught Julia it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Considering her DNA test might result in Millions to Spare being disqualified from the Thoroughbred registry, she wasn’t about to call Cadair in advance. She was going to gather the facts first, then deal with the implications—if there were any—later.

All she needed was a tiny sample. Millions to Spare wouldn’t even miss it. Then Carter Phillips could run the test, and she’d know if she had a live investigation on her hands, or if she was switching back to the straight fluff piece about the Prestons’ two-year-old Something to Talk About racing in Dubai.

She took a final glance around the parking lot. Seeing no one who appeared interested in the Cadair Racing trailer, she scooted out in high-heeled sandals, a sleeveless white blouse and a straight, linen skirt. It was hardly the right outfit to go sleuthing around a horse trailer, but she couldn’t let that slow her down.

She tested the handle on the small side door. The silver metal was smooth and warm on her palm. To her relief, the door opened easily.

Heart pounding, she swung it wide and slipped into the cloying dimness, quickly clicking the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath, then sneezed out a gulp of hay dust, startling the closest horse.

There were five of them in the trailer. There were also three empty stalls, and she realized the grooms could be back at any moment with more horses. She couldn’t waste any time. She took shallow breaths to keep from sneezing as she wound her way between oiled saddles, hanging bridles, black water buckets and prickly hay bales.

It was going to be easy, she assured herself. She’d seen this particular test done on television dozens of times. On humans, of course. But the principle was the same.

She had a small cosmetics bag in her purse. All she needed to do was run one of the cotton swabs over Millions to Spare’s gums and wrap it in the plastic she’d obtained from the café. Then she’d slip back out the side door and send the sample by FedEx to Carter Phillips in Kentucky. By Thursday, and the running of the Sandstone Derby, they’d have their answer. And, with luck, she’d be writing a fantastic story.

She squinted at the horses, trying to ignore the sticky sweat dampening her blouse. The horse in the farthest corner whinnied and shuffled, bouncing the trailer. Then there was a clanging of hooves as another horse reacted to the disturbance.

Julia identified Millions to Spare and made her move, murmuring low as she passed the helper mare. She crouched under the barrier, then, moving steadily, she passed another Thoroughbred in the middle stall. She came abreast of Millions to Spare and patted him on the shoulder as she spoke.

“Good horse.” Pat, pat, pat.

“I’m just going to…” her sweaty hands slipped on the clasp of her leather purse “…take a little test of your saliva. It won’t hurt a bit.”

She pawed her way past her wallet, lipstick, comb and a little loose change. The Thoroughbred in front of Millions to Spare twitched. Julia automatically shrank back, her stomach clamping down and her mouth going dry. A kick in here could cause a disaster.

Finally, she located the cosmetic bag and her cotton swabs.

“We can do this,” she crooned to the horse. “You and me, Millions to Spare. Then nice Dr. Phillips will tell us who your father is.”

She carefully inched her fingers along the horse’s cheek, pulling gently on the bottom lip, stroking the cotton along his gums.

Millions to Spare snorted and pulled his head away. But Julia had succeeded.

She carefully wrapped the swab then tucked it back in her purse, giving Millions to Spare a final pat. “Good boy.”

Just then, the truck’s diesel engine rumbled to life.

The horses all shifted, shaking the trailer, and pitching Julia into the wall.

Sucking in a breath, she pushed herself back to standing. She ducked under the barrier, coming abreast of the middle Thoroughbred. Intent on the side door, she was determined to jump out before the truck got rolling. As long as no one happened to be looking in the rearview mirror, she’d be free and clear.

But the middle horse shifted again, canting its hip, knocking Julia sideways and pinning her in a groove of the molded metal wall.

An unladylike swearword burst out of her, and she scrambled to regain her footing.

She gave the horse a firm shove.

It didn’t budge.

She shoved harder.

The trailer lurched and rolled forward.

Julia smacked the horse sharply on the rump.

It shook its head, but its hindquarters stayed planted against the center of her chest.

Panic threatened, but she fought it down.

She could breathe. Sure, they were moving now, but they would have to stop soon. There’d be intersections and red lights between here and Cadair Racing. All she had to do was get free and make her way to the side door.

Then she’d wait for an opportunity, hop out and hail a cab.

She groaned, shoving impatiently at the horse’s rump one more time.

Nothing.

Okay. Deep breath. This wasn’t a disaster. It was just your typical investigative reporter stuff. She’d be laughing about it later tonight with Melanie and Robbie—over a glass of Merlot and a really big lobster tail. Thank goodness alcohol was tolerated in the international hotels in Dubai, because she was going to need it after this experience. The Thoroughbred’s hip bone was leaving a mark.

The bumps and bruises of polo made it a young man’s sport.

Not that Lord Harrison Rochester was old. And at age thirty-five, he wasn’t ready to give up polo just yet. But as he watched from the sidelines, Jamal Fariol galloped fearlessly down the field at Ghantoot, close to the line, bent nearly sideways in his effort to turn the play. Harrison involuntarily cringed. Another inch and the boy would go tumbling under the hooves of his opponent’s horse.

But Jamal didn’t lose his seat. He connected with the ball and pulled up on his reins. There was a cheer of relief from the crowd as the ball bounced its way down the field and the horn sounded.

Harrison watched the young men sit smooth in their saddles—strong and eager as they headed for the sidelines, a new generation full of energy and idealism. His grandmother’s words echoed insistently in his mind.

“Brittany Livingston is the one,” she’d said for the hundredth time. “I know it. What’s more, you know it yourself.” She’d shaken a wrinkled finger in Harrison’s eyes. “Mark my words, young man, you’ll regret it to your dying day if you let someone else swoop in while you dillydally around.”

Harrison had responded that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have children with Brittany or anyone else. He acknowledged that marriage was his duty. But he reminded her that duty came after the fun was over, and Harrison was still having plenty of fun.

Still, as he watched the boys on the field this evening, he couldn’t help thinking about children and fatherhood and his own mortality. If he was going to have children anyway, he might want to do it while he was young enough to enjoy them.

Jamal was fourteen now, his father, Hanif, only a few years older than Harrison. On the sidelines, Hanif’s face shone with pride as he watched his son gallop off the field to switch horses between chukkers. The lad was limping from an earlier fall, but he gamely leaped up on the new mount.

“Impressive,” said Harrison, speculating, probably for the first time, on the pride of fatherhood.

“Kareem is the same,” Hanif offered, his chest puffing as he referred to his twelve-year-old son. “Both of them. Robust like me.”

“That they are,” Harrison agreed, toying with the image of Brittany’s face. There was no denying she was attractive. She had a sweet smile, crystal-blue eyes and a crown of golden hair. She was also kind and gentle, a preschool teacher. There’s wasn’t a single doubt she’d make a wonderful mother.

The match started up again, hooves thudding, divots flying, the crowd shouting encouragement.

Testing the idea further, Harrison conjured up a picture of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.

Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him—for the rest of his natural life.

Which wouldn’t be so bad.

A man could certainly do worse.

And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.

Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.

Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.

“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.

“Darla please.”

“Right away, Lord Rochester.”

A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”

“Of course.”

Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”

“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”

“That’s great. So are they back?”

“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”

“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.

“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asked, remembering Darla singing the praises of Yvette Gaston from the French embassy only last week.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Darla with clear enthusiasm.

“Yes. Well. So will Grandmother.”

“And you?” Darla probed.

“How could I go wrong?”

“How, indeed. A beautiful hostess improves any party.”

Harrison’s stomach protested once again. But he supposed being his hostess was exactly what he was asking Brittany to do. “Millions to Spare won, you say?” He redirected Darla.

There was a trace of laughter in her voice when she answered. “The purse was six figures.”

“Tell Nuri to give that boy some oats.”

“Mr. Nuri!” The teenager’s round dark eyes fixed disbelievingly on Julia where she stood frozen in the corner of the horse trailer.

Sweat prickled her skin, and her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. With her back pressed against the warm metal wall, she attempted to swallow her fear, telling herself she should have made a run for it when they first arrived.

“Quiet down,” came a harsh, heavily accented voice from outside the near-empty horse trailer. Stern footsteps clomped up the ramp.

A tall, brawny, dark-haired man appeared. He wore a turban and a black robe, and he carried a riding crop. His piercing eyes took in Julia, and then shifted to the teenager. Then he was back to Julia before rattling something off in Arabic.

The teenage boy scuttled from the trailer.

“I’m sorry,” Julia rasped, straightening away from the wall, moving toward him, frantically scrambling for a cover story. “It’s just. Well. I was—”

The butt of his crop landed square in her chest, forcing a cry from her lips and sending her stumbling back. “Save it for the authorities,” he grated.