At Long Odds (A Racing Romance) (12 page)

Their table was centrally positioned and with a sharp intake of breath, Ginny recognised a bored-looking Jack Carmichael, champion National Hunt trainer, in conversation with a young blonde woman at their table. After a moment of quick scrutiny and mind-wracking, she recognised her as a television soap actress. Mark offered a chair for her, and she found herself sitting next to a small rotund man in his sixties, with a red bulbous nose, a twitching moustache and a dreadful comb-over.

‘Colonel Morston-Groves. How do you do?’ he said.

His accent was so upper-class, Ginny wondered if his top lip had moved at all when he spoke.

‘Ginny Kennedy,’ she smiled, taking his clammy hand.

‘A pleasure, I’m sure. Any relation to the Kennedys of Derbyshire?’

‘Um, I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘Cambridgeshire, I would think.’

‘Hmm. I have a country pad in Derbyshire, although I spend much of my time down in Cornwall.’ He chuckled to himself, which triggered a small coughing fit. ‘Well, twelve bedrooms and one hundred and twenty acres might be called more than a
pad
but still, one must have somewhere to escape to when the locals get too much. Don’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely,’ she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

‘Do you work?’

‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘As much as I’d like to be a lady of leisure, I have responsibilities.’

‘And what does a beautiful young lady like yourself do?’

Coming from anyone else, this compliment might have made her blush, but from him, it almost repulsed her.

‘I’m a racehorse trainer.’

Across the table, she caught Jack Carmichael giving her a puzzled look. She gave him a brave smile, feeling mildly out of her depth knowing she wasn’t even famous enough to be recognised by those in the same industry as her.

‘Oh, indeed?’ said the colonel. ‘I have a few in training, although more into polo myself. Just had a shipment of Argies arrive a few days ago, you know.’

‘How lovely,’ she replied, trying to appear interested.

‘Did you have anything in the Derby today?’

‘Sadly, no. Maybe next year,’ she said, dreaming of Caspian.

‘Me neither. Had a share in last year’s winner. Sold it to some Arab prince or other for a small fortune. Felt this year, one should let the others have a chance.’

‘How generous of you.’

Colonel Morston-Groves took this sarcastically-made comment as a compliment and beamed at her.

‘Must have a turn around the floor later, my dear. They do seem to have put up a jolly good effort here.’

‘Um, yes, they have.’ Discreetly pulling at Mark’s sleeve to save her, she attempted a genuine smile, but it felt more like a grimace. Mark was talking to a glamorous girl on his left, and he turned away with reluctance to help Ginny.

‘Having a good time?’

‘Help, I’ve got Colonel Mustard sitting next to me,’ she hissed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack Carmichael’s mouth twitch in amusement as he lip-read her plea.

*

The food was delectable, with everything from Alaskan seafood to sushi, traditional roasts to exotic Moroccan dishes. Ginny tried to be as adventurous as she dared, washing down the spicy recipes with chilled champagne. After dinner, the lights were lowered and the orchestra was replaced with a tasteful DJ. In the dark and dusky light, she admired Mark’s profile as he chatted with Jack Carmichael. In comparison, Colonel Whatsit-Groves’ nose seemed to glow more and more with each flute of champagne he put away.

‘Now, young lady – hic – I do insist we have this dance,’ he said, his chest swelling.

‘I – er – not just yet. I have to – I have to go the toi– to the Ladies,’ Ginny panicked. Excusing herself, she left the table and hurried in what she hoped was the right direction to the loos. People were milling about, looking more relaxed than before dinner. Men had shed their jackets and loosened their ties and some women’s hair-dos were beginning to wilt. When Ginny looked in the restroom mirror, her hair was miraculously still in place.

‘Sally G, you’ve missed your calling,’ she murmured, patting her locks of auburn hair which her landlady had fashioned high up onto her head during their preparation. She hadn’t realised how it complimented her bone structure, with just a few long curling tendrils at her temple and neck to soften the style. Refreshing her lipstick and taking the shine off her nose, Ginny left the security of the Ladies, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this dance. Venturing out, she was relieved to see the colonel had also deserted the table. Attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, she slinked back to her table. But just as she was about to give a sigh of relief, a shrill voice, a decibel higher than necessary just as the music ended, stopped her in her high-heeled tracks.

‘Ginny! Ginny darling!’

Taken aback, Ginny turned to see a girl, much the same age as herself, with dark curls bouncing about her smooth round face, waving like a windmill in a hurricane and dragging some long-suffering man behind her as she weaved through the tables.

‘Monica?’Ginny said, a little hesitant.

‘Yes, of course! I thought it was you!’ Monica cried, as she reached Ginny. ‘How’ve you been?
Where
have you been?’

For a moment, Ginny’s attention wavered as she recognised the man at her side. With effort, she turned her full attention to Monica, who was an old school friend.

‘I’m good, thanks. I’ve been in South Africa for a few years – just moved back recently. And you? You look great. I love your dress,’ Ginny admired the cream and gold evening gown laced with pearls and tiny gold rosebuds.

‘Thank you, so do you! Oh! Forgot to introduce you. Ginny, this is Julien. I was just dragging him off for a twirl.’

‘We’ve met before. In fact his yard is next door to mine.’

‘Evening,
mademoiselle
,’ Julien Larocque purred, inclining his head in greeting. His tone was completely charming, but Ginny saw the wariness in his brown eyes.

‘Fabulous! But Ginny, did I just hear you’ve got your own
yard
? A
racing yard
?’ she exclaimed, looking almost too amazed to be flattering. But before she could answer, Monica, glancing towards the entrance, swore and ducked down. Expecting to see a madman brandishing a machinegun, Ginny was curious to see only nonchalant party guests milling around, swirling their champagne as they laughed and chattered.

‘Wha-? Monica?’

‘Sshh!’ she hissed needlessly as the music built to a crescendo. Hunching over and shielding herself behind Julien, she looked even more conspicuous. ‘Hell, it’s my future father-in-law. He’d take it straight back to Henry if he saw me dancing with another man. Here, Ginny! You dance with Julien!’ she said, thrusting their hands together.

‘I don’t think – I mean, maybe not –’

‘Oh God, I think he’s seen me.
Go
!’

Ginny groaned as the first heartbeat notes of Maria McKee’s
Show Me Heaven
throbbed around the room. Julien Larocque, looking just as reluctant, took her hand.

‘Come on, Kennedy. Let’s get this over with.’

*

Leading her to a space away from the tables where other couples swayed in each other’s embraces, Ginny felt very aware of the firm grip of his hand on hers. When he turned and offered his lead, she considered making a run for it.

‘Look, I don’t really like dancing. And my feet are killing me. Maybe I’ll just sit this one out,’ she finished with an awkward wring of her hands.

Julien frowned at her as she tried to sidle away. Giving an apologetic smile, she went to walk away. Then in horror, she caught sight of Colonel Morston-Groves bustling towards her, looking very self-important.

‘Oh, God, no,’ she groaned. Turning back, she grabbed Julien’s right hand and flung it around her waist, and grasped his other hand in a firm grip, as if she was about to do a salsa. Julien looked at her in surprise.

‘The lesser of two evils?’ he drawled.

‘Something like that,’ she muttered in reply.

He looked at her impatiently and shook his head. She let him adjust his hold on her waist, but stiffened when they began to move as it sank in that she was dancing with – touching – the man she saw as her least favourite rival.

‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘It could be worse.’

Ginny shivered as his warm breath tickled her bare neck.

‘How so?’

‘We could be dancing to some Celine Dion ballad. Just relax.’

The forced chuckle she responded with felt tasteless in her mouth and they fell into silence. Ginny wasn’t sure whether she should make small talk or not, pride telling her not to, her common sense saying it would be childish otherwise. She wanted to pass on her congratulations to his father over White Eagle’s monumental victory earlier that day, but it almost seemed like a betrayal to her dignity to do so. However, he made the decision for her.

‘Have you come alone, or do you have some poor date waiting for you at your table?’

‘You probably don’t know him. Mark Rushin.’

‘Hmm,’ Julien mused, not making it clear whether he did or not.

‘Who are you here with? Not Monica, I’m guessing. God, she’s engaged. I wonder if it’s Henry from Cambridge.’

‘More than likely, since there’s probably a few ’enrys living in Cambridge. But no, I did not come with Monica. My date excused herself to have a cigarette outside.’

Can’t blame her, Ginny thought. She didn’t smoke but she could see herself needing one after this number.

Julien didn’t attempt to talk again. Instead, he moved, with the grace of a panther, slowly around the dance floor, supporting Ginny in his capable arm span. She found he was taller than she’d at first thought. Even with heels on, her chin only just touched his shoulder. Not daring to look into his eyes at such close proximity, she stared at a point behind him. But as the song unfurled, Ginny felt herself gradually relax into an almost mesmeric aura. Unable to stop herself, she reasserted her hold on his shoulder. Such a small manoeuvre, but one which compelled Julien to draw her in closer, until she could feel his body heat radiating through the soft fabric of his dinner shirt. Her bare back burned where his hand lay. Beneath her hold, Julien’s shoulder muscles rolled and flexed and she felt an odd sense of curiosity at now becoming knowledgeable of the previously unknown. She hadn’t even realised she had thought about what Julien’s touch would feel like. With the skill of a violin player, he curled his fingers more decisively over her hand. Ginny felt in a daze, and had to stop herself from resting her cheek on his broad shoulder and closing her eyes.

It’s the alcohol getting to me, she told herself unconvincingly. The atmosphere she felt surrounding their embrace blurred the outside world to nothingness, only the song’s hypnotic melody carrying them. Julien’s cheek brushed against her face. It was such a heavenly feeling which enveloped them; she surprised herself wishing the song would not end. Looking up, she met his gaze, so seductive beneath those dark sweeping lashes and determined brow. But she was puzzled to see sadness in his eyes. Or was it regret? As the song faded to its conclusion, she had to tear herself away from his arms.

‘Ginny,’ he said hoarsely, still holding her hand.

‘Yes?’ Her reply was weak and she breathed in, trying to regain some composure but only succeeded in inhaling a lungful of Julien.

‘Be careful –’ he began. He blinked, pulling himself together and dropped her hand. The spell was broken. ‘I’ll walk you back to your table.’

*

Ginny felt a twinge of unease when she saw Mark’s expression as they approached.

‘Been dancing, Ginny?’ he asked, a forced smile on his lips.

‘Yes,’ she nodded brightly. She turned to Julien by her shoulder, standing stiff and tense. ‘Um, Mark, this is Julien Larocque. Julien, Mark Rushin.’

‘Hello,’ Mark said, his face dispassionate.

‘Good evening,’ Julien replied, just as unmoved.

Ginny beamed at the two men to dispel the unsociable atmosphere which had descended.

‘Right, well, thank you, Julien.’

Julien nodded and turned to walk away. Ginny sank back into her chair.

‘Friend of yours?’ Mark asked.

‘No, not really.’

‘Good.’

‘Do you know each other?’ she asked, puzzlement furrowing her brow.

Mark gave a nonchalant flap of his hand.

‘Our paths have crossed. He’s not exactly on my Christmas card list.’

‘Oh.’ Her gaze flickered back to Julien. She was about to probe further when she saw a porcelain doll-like girl join him from the balcony. She watched her hug his arm to her and stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.

‘That must be his date. I wonder who she is?’ she mused.

Mark threw a lazy look towards the couple.

‘That would be the delightful Marianne Cole.’

‘Don’t think I know her.’ Bearing in mind, the amount of famous faces in the room, she hesitated. ‘Should I?’

Mark shook his head.

‘Not really. American. Her father is Clinton Cole, the jewellery tycoon. Larocque must be trying to keep him sweet.’

‘Why?’Ginny asked, her curiosity roused.

‘Cole owns just about half of his stable. I believe Silver Sabre is the new star of the yard.’

Ginny’s spirits dipped, surprising her. She pursed her lips, the magic of their dance blown away through the open balcony door that Marianne Cole had just come through.

‘Ah,’ she said with a mirthless chuckle. ‘Nothing much changing there then.’

Mark leaned forward across the table and lifted a bottle of champagne from its bucket. He refreshed her glass and gave her a wink.

‘Hey, come on. Cheer up. We don’t need to concern ourselves with some stiff-necked French prat. He might have good horses but at least you don’t sell yourself to get owners.’

Ginny’s eyes twinkled and she took a sip of bubbly.

‘Don’t I?’ she teased.

Mark gave her a lazy smile.

‘No, you don’t. If I recall, I approached you,’ he countered.

‘So you did,’ she giggled. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ He lifted his glass to hers and flashed her a dazzling smile. Ginny was glad she was already sitting down.