Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (36 page)

She wiped her warm forehead then clutched her hands. At least having other horses in front would let her see how the race was setting up. She wished she were better prepared, wished she’d spent more time watching Lazer’s replays. Usually she was very diligent, but her totally unprofessional feelings for the man sitting beside her had been too distracting.

She stared out the tiny window, watching as a fly struggled to free itself from a web. Warm fingers on her neck made her jump.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just a race.”

She opened her mouth to argue. It wasn’t just a race. Not to her. But his hands felt incredibly good, so she closed her mouth and let him knead her stiff neck.

“You’re so tight, I should give you a full body massage,” he said.

“Yes.” She sighed. “That’d be nice.”

He tilted her chin, studying her intently. “I do give good massages,” he said.

“I’m sure you do.” She remembered how good his hands could feel. Her cheeks warmed, but he kept holding her chin, studying her face as though searching for something.

“Then you’re not upset about last night?” He blew out a breath, and the angles of his jaw softened. “Thank God,” he said.

She blinked, puzzled, but he’d already stretched out on the cot and pulled her down beside him, covering her mouth with a deep kiss, and it was apparent he still wanted her—physically at least. His tongue stroked her mouth, making her senses hum, and his big hands trailed along her back, molding her against him.

When he finally raised his head an inch, his breath was ragged. “Let’s go directly to that massage and forget the damn race.” He nuzzled her neck, his mouth warm and insistent.

His body crackled with so much sexual energy, she suspected he was serious. “We have a few minutes before I have to weigh in,” she jerked upright, “but I'm not missing this race. Lazer and Martin don’t want to miss it either.”

His hot gaze lingered on her mouth. “If we continue like this, sweetie, you won’t make the weigh-in.”

She scrambled to her feet, afraid he spoke the truth. A little kissing and she tingled all over, and when he looked at her with those hot eyes, she just wanted to slide her hands beneath his shirt and explore that hard body.

“I’m not missing this race,” she said. “Don’t even joke about it.” She crossed her arms and backed further from the cot. “And don’t look at me like that,” she added.

He still eyed her through narrowed lids so she stayed out of reach, waiting until they were a safer gray, not that dark color they turned when he was thinking of sex. My God, he was gorgeous, sprawled on the cot, all big surly male, looking as disappointed as Dude when a mare was led past the breeding pen.

His dark hair was slightly rumpled, his collar crooked. She caught a glimpse of chest hair, knew there was a scar about an inch to the right, close to the spot where his chest muscles bunched. Her eyes drifted lower, lingering on the bulge in his jeans. Maybe there was enough time, maybe—

“We have twenty-five minutes before you need to report in.” He sat up and checked his watch. “Are you going to be overweight? Lazer’s only assigned a hundred and fifteen pounds, and with your apprentice bug, we can shave it down to a hundred and ten.”

She made a non-committal sound deep in her throat, hiding her disappointment at the abrupt subject change. Nothing mattered to him very long. Certainly not her. He was all trainer now, composed and businesslike, while she couldn’t quite pull her thoughts off his body and masterful kissing.

“So? What do you weigh?” he asked.

“One hundred and seven pounds,” she said. “I’ll use my light saddle and hit the weight dead on.”

“Don’t use that word. That’s bad luck.”

“What word? What’s bad luck?” She took a curious step forward. He really looked worried, had even winced.

“That phrase, the one you just said.”

“Dead on? Are you superstitious?”

“Not a bit.” But he spoke way too quickly.

She stared at him, such a big, tough hunk of a man—cool, composed, always in control. It didn’t seem possible he’d be ruled by a superstition. A giggle slipped out, then another until she was outright laughing.

It seemed she laughed for minutes and when she finally sobered, all her emotions had drained, and she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks.

The room was ominously quiet though. Firming her mouth, she wiped her wet eyes and peeked at Kurt. He'd lain back on the cot, muscled arms looped beneath his head as he stared at the ceiling.

Oh, no. He had that reserved expression he often wore. Of course, all guys hated to be laughed at. But this was totally unexpected.

She tried to be solemn but her words carried a little bounce that was impossible to hide. “Sorry, but you’re the last person I’d ever expect to be superstitious.” Her dad called it
super-stupid
, but she definitely wouldn’t mention that. “It’s just that I’m nervous about the race and everything. I think I have a touch of the giggles.”

“No problem. Laugh away,” he said. “But tell me when ten minutes is up. I have to keep my arms crossed, in total silence, so that any bad karma is blocked. Or there's no way I can run Lazer tonight. It’d be much too risky. That’s not a superstition either,” he added, his voice flat, “but an absolute rule.”

Her mouth dropped, and she stared in disbelief. This was no longer funny. He would actually scratch his horse because his jockey had used an unfortunate phrase? She’d suspected Kurt was too good to be true, guessed he must have a flaw. Well, she’d just found it.

God, it must get complicated, especially at a track where racing luck was so critical. Her empathy welled, and she walked over and sat beside him on the cot, holding his hand and squeezing it in understanding but she remained silent—just as he’d requested. She definitely didn’t want him to scratch Lazer, and if it meant shutting up for ten minutes, she could do that too. She’d also remember to never say ‘dead on.’

A radio blared from the aisle. Someone dropped a shovel, but it was quiet in his tack room, quiet except for his ragged breathing. Ragged? Puzzled, she looked down, scanning his expression.

His lips twitched. A chuckle burst out of him, and he tugged her into his chest.

She stared in disbelief as he laughed—laughed at her.

“You’re not superstitious.” She knocked his arm in exasperation. My God, would she ever understand him? “You’re just a jerk,” she said.

“Sometimes I am.” He sobered then slipped his hand around the back of her neck. “But this jerk adores you.”

Then he kissed her, barely touching her mouth. But so tender and lingering the impact was every bit as powerful as his earlier kisses. Even more so because he’d said he adored her. Her heart tilted as she absorbed his words. He adored her. From a man like Kurt, that was huge.

“I believe I could forget the race after all,” she admitted.

“Just ride safe, Julie,” he said, his voice husky. “I have something for you.” He sat up, leaning her against him as he pulled a blue box from his pocket and flipped it open. “The stone is a zircon set below our mountain. It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits.”

A lump balled in her throat. She stared at the beautiful pendant.
Our mountain
. The stone gleamed, seeming to mark the spot where they’d made love. So that afternoon had been important to him too. He’d obviously gone to a lot of trouble to find the necklace. He didn't seem like a man who enjoyed shopping, and his thoughtfulness moved her as much as the gift.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “This wards off evil spirits?”

He lifted her hair and placed the chain around her neck. “You never know what lurks around a track,” he said. His warm fingers brushed her skin as he fastened the clasp, sending familiar shivers down her spine.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice husky. She looked down, pretending to admire the silver and the way it contrasted against her tan. She didn’t usually wear jewelry when she rode, but she was definitely not taking this off.

He rose, effortlessly lifting her and setting her on her feet. “Come on. I’ll walk over with you and drop off my spare silks.”

She glanced at his owner silks hanging next to a race bridle. “Is that red plaid the MacKinnon tartan?”

“Yeah, the clan that’s credited for Drambuie and the haggis masher.”

She wrinkled her nose, not keen to taste either but not yet ready to leave. She still had to bring up the subject of Sandra’s magnets. “Is this the bridle Lazer will be using?” She picked the gleaming leather off the hook and fingered its crownpiece. The magnet would fit right on top, right over Lazer's brain, if only Kurt would agree. “I brought you something too.” She slid a hand in her pocket and passed him a flat disc, handling it reverently. “Just tape the magnet on the crownpiece. The side with ‘Nikken’ faces up.”

He held it in his palm for inspection and actually chuckled. “This tiny little thing is what you said would help?”

“It helps children and adults focus, so why not horses?” She knew she sounded defensive but prayed he’d try it. Lazer needed all the help he could get. And so did she.

Still grinning, he slipped it into his left pocket. “I'll think about it. Better get you over to the weigh-in. It's almost ninety minutes before post.”

She blew out a sigh, turned and opened the door. At least she’d tried. However, the dismissive way he’d pocketed the magnet didn’t bode well.

They walked along the pathway. As they neared the jockeys’ room, disappointment in his casual reaction to the magnet switched to a jittery buzz. The palms of her hands were moist. Already people drifted around the mezzanine, showing up early for the big race, a race she’d be riding.

“See you in the paddock,” he said.

She forced a nonchalant wave, knowing he wouldn’t want a fearful jockey on his horse. Yet nausea churned in the pit of her stomach because four weeks ago, she'd only dreamed of riding in a race this big. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and she had the horrible feeling she was going to mess up.

Kurt sat in his truck, listening to Archer’s update.

“Otto hasn’t left the apartment, and we picked up another call confirming his two o’clock meeting with Friedman tomorrow. Three quick-response teams are on alert. It'll be a joint forces op with Calgary, but I’m flying out from Ottawa.” Archer paused a beat. “Our legal people are praying we find something. Evidence is sketchy, but we can’t let Friedman leave the country.”

“Yeah.” Kurt’s mouth tightened. “If only I could figure out how they’re using those horses.”

“Maybe forensics will help. Or maybe Otto or Friedman will cave.”

“Not Friedman,” Kurt said. “He’s a cold bastard, right down to his manicured nails. Bet he’s the fucker who did Connor. A gun is his style.”

“Will he give us any trouble tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” Kurt said slowly. 

“Well,” Archer said with a grunt. “An unmarked car will come by your motel at noon. You should be home by next week. You were quick with this one.”

“Not quick enough.” Frustration clipped Kurt’s words. Both Connor and Nick had found something he couldn't. And both were dead because of it.

He shoved the phone in his pocket and returned to the barn. Stopped in front of Otto’s boarded-up stall and pushed open the door.

The stall was stripped to the floor, but dark streaks marked the side boards. He swallowed, studying the blood spatter as he reconstructed the events of that grim night.

The track’s security log showed Otto and his new horse had arrived late, shipping in when few people were around. But Nick had been working long hours, dealing with an influx of horses. And obviously Kurt had sparked his curiosity when he’d asked the farrier to check Country Girl’s feet.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, fighting his remorse. No doubt about it, he’d set Nick up. The farrier had no idea he was poking around a snake pit. Maybe Nick had asked Otto a question about the gelding’s feet. Or maybe Nick had spotted the diamonds when Otto removed the back shoes.

Otto was violent and hot tempered. He would have panicked. The man was strong enough to have bludgeoned Nick and dragged him into the stall. Otto’s presence would have upset the gelding. A few jabs with a pitchfork, and the terrified horse would have trampled anything in the straw.

Then what? Kurt’s hands tightened around the stall door as he pictured the grim scene.

Otto had a dead man in the stall and a pocketful of stolen rocks. He would have been afraid someone else might wander by. The normal urge would be to dump the evidence and run.

Kurt reached in his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and stalked to the garbage can by the door. Rifled through it but found no horse shoes, only coffee cups and the ubiquitous baler twine.

He stepped outside and scanned the parking lot. Otto’s trailer was still tucked in the left corner; a metal garbage bin sat a scant thirty feet from the end of the lot. Faded white letters on the front read ‘No Manure.’

He stalked to the bin and raised the cumbersome lid. Hinges squeaked and flies buzzed around his face, followed by an overwhelming stench. He sifted through an assortment of beer cans, tip sheets and pizza boxes but found no horseshoes, no blunt instruments.

Only the end of a black rubber pad.

He yanked it out, studying the pad with narrowed eyes. It was the same thickness as the rubber sheet he'd seen in Otto’s lockbox but with a crucial difference. After another minute of rummaging he discovered a second pad. A bleak smile creased his face.

Nick had been right. Otto’s horses had been wearing pads—thick, black pads with hollowed-out centers. Otto must have placed the jewels in the hollow pad, sandwiched it with another flat rubber and nailed them on the horses. He'd probably chosen animals that kicked, realizing no border inspector would be keen to get close. Or perhaps Otto had roughed up the horses until they did kick.

Once he’d established himself as a legitimate trainer, he would have been able to cross into Canada with barely a nod. And if a vet pulled out his animals for a border check, it would have been cursory.

Julie hadn't noticed anything odd about the shoes because they’d been normal. But to Nick, thick pads were notable. Especially since Kurt had triggered his interest by asking him to inspect the mare.