Читать книгу Courting Disaster - Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 11

Early Tuesday morning, Demetri escaped from his hotel in Louisville to Quest Stables to watch the training of Courting Disaster, Demetri’s one-year-old filly, who was the offspring of Courtin’Cristy. Last night, Team Sterling had a meeting with Jim Sterling, the team’s owner, who commended Demetri on his responsible behavior, chastised Oliver for playing too much and not taking practice seriously and updated everyone on the search for a new team sponsor, at which point, Demetri shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

A visit to see his horses and do some riding seemed the second most perfect way to take the edge off before the racing trials started. Sex was his traditional first most perfect way to take the edge off, but Demetri knew at this point, sex was not in the cards. He only wanted one woman, and unfortunately, with Elizabeth, he knew sex was a long way off. Over the weekend, he’d bought the entire Elizabeth Innis collection, and read up on her between practice laps, scanning the pages of the music magazines like a fan-girl. Thank God he hadn’t been caught.

It was hard to believe that no man had climbed that mountain before and fought for the right to take off that virtual chastity belt she wore with pride, but seeing the pictures of the men she’d dated in the past? Heh. Nothing but boys. No wonder she expected every man to take no with a smile on his face.

Yet good things come to those who wait, even those who were impatient by nature. Like Demetri.

In the interim, he had Disaster. She was a flashy bay with a mean temper, and a way of tossing her mane when she didn’t like what she was being told to do. From the moment he spotted her, Demetri knew that this horse had more in common with him than just a name. He leaned against the fence, watching as Marcus Vasquez, the head trainer at Quest, handled her like a champ, bringing her to heel until she turned and nipped in Marcus’s direction. Demetri had been watching Marcus with the filly, and knew there was talent there, but Marcus was quiet, and didn’t say much, and Demetri wasn’t going to press.

“Looks like there’s still work to do,” Demetri commented.

“She’ll come around,” Marcus said, obviously more patient than Demetri.

For a few minutes he continued to watch them, Marcus talking quietly to the filly, leading her by the reins, using his magic to keep the head tossing to a minimum. Demetri’s cell phone rang, interrupting the quiet. Marcus glared.

Demetri ignored him and answered, but he did walk away from the paddock, because it was his father, and some things were best handled in private.

“Demetri.”

“Hello, Dad.” If his father noted the sarcasm, he surprisingly ignored it. There usually wasn’t much thatAndre Lucas ignored.

“I need to see you.”

“I’m really busy,” answered Demetri. “You know how the racing circuit keeps me on the road most of the year.”

“You’re driving too fast. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Yeah, too bad. I bet you’re all broken up about it.” Demetri rubbed his eyes, not that it did any good. The glare of the morning sun was a little too bright, and a headache was already pounding at his temples. “What do you want?”

“I read you have a race in Vancouver near the end of the month. You’ll be close to Seattle.”

“Yes.” Demetri could feel the walls looming around him. It didn’t matter that he was in the great outdoors, because there were always walls, and his father was the world’s biggest expert at making them compress.

“The Japanese are closing on the deal next week. I’ll have the money I owe you from your loan.”

Demetri sighed, not caring if his father heard or not. “I don’t want it,” he snapped. “I’ve told you that a thousand times.” He knew it had been hard for his father to ask him for the money. Two years ago, Andre Lucas had flown out to see Demetri, which was testament enough to what it cost him. As a rule, Andre didn’t fly anywhere to see Demetri. Sometimes two people weren’t meant to be in the same state at the same time.

“Do you think your money can bring him back? Do you think your money will make me forget?”

Demetri heard the pain in that voice. Always the heartaching pain over Seth. It always came down to his brother. “No, I don’t think anything can bring him back. He’s dead,” he answered, careful to keep the pain out of his own voice. “I still don’t want it. The money was a gift to you for your business. It had nothing to do with him.” At one time, Demetri had thought that money could fix things. That fame could fix things. But no, nothing could fix things. Sometimes things just were.

“I won’t owe you,” his father answered, and then hung up without saying goodbye.

Demetri could take a corner at Nordschleife doing two-hundred and forty, ski down Verbier with black ice caked on his face, dive off the Punch Bowl cliffs in California without blinking once. But a conversation with his father made him sweat with terror.

Theirs had never been a good relationship. Andre Lucas was a disciplined man with an eye for order and stability, and a disdain for chaos, as compared to Demetri, who lived for chaos.

As he walked back toward the normalcy of the exercise ring, he noticed Marcus looking at him curiously. Demetri wiped his brow, waiting a few seconds, and like clockwork, he felt the familiar rage rise up inside him, bitterness tasting like bile in his mouth. Quickly he tamped it down.

The bay looked at Demetri, teeth bared, eyes filled with contempt.

“You mind if I take her for a ride?” asked Demetri, not really caring if Marcus agreed or not.

“She’s your horse.”

“Good answer,” said Demetri. The spirited filly was exactly the rush he needed this morning. Efficiently he mounted the horse, and she reared up with a scream that would have scared a lesser man. For Demetri, it was perfect.

His face grim with determination, Demetri dug his heels in, shouted, and Courting Disaster took off as if the devil was giving chase. Faster and faster they went, hooves thundering against the soft ground. Demetri had bought this horse for her spirit and her strength, knowing that someday he was going to need it. Sadly, he’d thought it would be for a race, not to exorcise old demons. The bay didn’t disappoint.

The paddock fence was approaching, and the filly took it, not once shying away. The powerful hindquarters gathered up beneath Demetri, and he leaned forward until they were sailing through the air, flying without wings.

Demetri’s blood pumped, the rush of adrenaline drowning out everything else inside him. In the distance, he could hear Marcus shout, but it would take more than a shout to stop Demetri at the moment, not when all things, including blessed absolution, seemed possible. The wind whipped against his face, nearly blinding him.

One thing he’d say for the bay, not only was she pretty, but she was fast. Over the pasture they went, farther and farther away from the exercise yard, the filly’s legs pounding with powerful strength. Demetri’s heart stretched tight in his chest, a ticking bomb waiting to explode. The rush of adrenaline did its job, and for a moment, he could stay lost. Unfortunately, the moment was always gone too soon.

Not surprisingly, the horse couldn’t keep up the pace, her speed slowing, the clip easing into a gentle canter. Nothing ever lasted. Demetri abandoned the useless quest, and wheeled the horse back toward the ring.

“What the hell was that about?” Marcus asked as Demetri brought Courting Disaster back through the opened gate.

“My property,” answered Demetri, slipping off the heaving flanks. The horse was winded and exhausted, but the contempt still flared in her eyes.

The anger in Marcus’s face wasn’t much better. “Find another trainer.”

Feeling the well-deserved condemnation in the trainer’s gaze, Demetri felt something else as well, which years ago he would have thought was a conscience. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on the horse.”

“Don’t do it again, Demetri. She’s not a car.”

Demetri patted the bay, a stupid, futile gesture, and handed her off to Marcus, who took a towel and rubbed the sweat from her flanks.

Demetri watched, the headache back, worse than ever. “It won’t happen again.”

Marcus looked up from the horse, seeming to understand. “Thank you for that.”

“I was…” started Demetri, then shrugged. “You know, never mind. I’ve been watching you work with the horses. You’re good.”

“I’ve been watching you race. You’re nuts.”

Demetri laughed. “So they say. You should come to the race on Sunday. I can get you tickets.”

“I’ll stick to the horses, but thank you.”

“If you need anything…” offered Demetri, his hand outstretched.

Marcus shook it. “Thanks.”

Demetri started back toward the driveway, but then stopped. No. He had other things to do here, as well, things more important than his family issues. He looked back at Marcus. “Is Hugh around?”

Marcus jerked his thumb toward the offices behind them. Demetri took off, leaving Marcus and Demetri’s own stupidity behind him. A three-story brick building sat between the stables and the main house, overlooking the exercise yard. Demetri found Hugh at the viewing window, watching two horses on the practice track. The old man never used a stopwatch for his horses; he had an innate knowledge for how fast they ran. Hugh was never wrong.

“Is that the new colt?”

Hugh nodded once, his eyes never leaving the glass. “Yeah. Something to Talk About. He’s fast. Faster than his daddy.”

For a few minutes they watched in silence, and Hugh was right. The colt was fast, blazingly fast, leaving the bigger gelding several furlongs behind. When the jockey pulled him up, the colt wasn’t even winded. It was a crime that as a Quest horse, he couldn’t race because of the ban.

“How’re you doing? Glad to have the wedding behind you?” Demetri added a note of buoyant high spirits to his voice. It wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t feeling particularly chipper, anyway.

Hugh pushed back from the polished brass railing and looked at Demetri with a note of buoyant high spirits in his eyes. It looked fake, too. “The wedding was beautiful. Got another one in a month,” he answered. “Shane and Audrey. This one won’t be nearly as big. Must be something in the water.”

“As long as they keep it away from me.”

“I saw you dancing with Elizabeth at the party.”

“I didn’t go near her at the wedding.”

“Because you weren’t there…” Hugh said neatly.

“You asked me to stay away. I did.”

“Thank you,” replied Hugh, and Demetri wisely avoided telling him that Elizabeth would be singing at the race. Hugh would figure that one out soon enough.

“What’s the latest on the investigation?” asked Demetri, quickly changing the subject.

Hugh locked his hands behind him. “Brent’s working with the Jockey Association to track down a missing computer analyst from there. Hopefully he can tell us why Leopold’s Legacy’s sire was listed as ‘unknown’ in the backup data. But we don’t even know if he’s in the country or not.”

“The analyst lives in Lexington?”

Outside, the jockey was leading the two horses off the track, and when they had disappeared from view, Hugh abandoned his horses again. He ambled over to the conference table and chairs that were situated in the middle of the room, and tiredly settled into one of them. Demetri joined him there, not knowing what else to do.

“He was supposed to be living in Lexington. Brent’s been looking into his finances because his apartment has been cleared out. This fellow recently acquired himself a pretty house in Savannah. Eight thousand square feet with a five-car garage.”

Demetri arched a brow in surprise. “On a computer tech’s salary?”

Hugh frowned. “I’m not thinking he’s from a wealthy family, Demetri. The whole thing smells.”

“Does Brent have any more leads?” Surely there was something to follow up on.

“Not yet,” answered Hugh, the eternal optimist. But there was a time for blind optimism, and there was a time to face reality.

Demetri was tired of sitting still. He jerked out of his chair, needing to move. Something. Anything. “The stables are running out of time.”

“Do you think I don’t know it? Thomas looked beat this morning. I want to help, but there’s nothing.”

“But you bet for the funds for the wedding?”

Old gray brows settled into a solid line over the man’s eyes. “How’d you hear that?”

“I have my sources. Why don’t you bet on my race?”

“Come on, Demetri. I bet on you, and it’s even odds. That’s not interesting.”

“I’m not the favorite this time. Giovanni Marcusi is racing for McLaren. He’s put in a new Mercedes engine, 770 bhp. It’ll burn the paint off anything close. That alone should bring him in first on the pole. And he’ll probably take the podium, too. I want a private bet. You and me.”

Hugh looked at him, a wily glint back in the blue eyes. “For what?”

Demetri braced his hands on the table, feeling the momentary thrill course through him. He knew what drove Hugh. A lot of the same things that drove Demetri.

More. Everything was about more.

“If I win, you’ll take my winnings. Give them to Thomas to put in the stables. An interest-free loan. Payable when the Quest horses are racing again.”

“What if you lose?” asked Hugh.

“Bite your tongue. But if that happens, you sell me Leopold’s Legacy.” Demetri backed away from the conference table and watched the old man, waiting. Demetri knew his limits. He knew his capabilities. On Sunday’s race, Giovanni was going to lose. No matter what it took.

“I think we’re getting the better part of this deal. The horse can’t race.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Hugh.”

Hugh smiled. “You’ve been practicing that line, Demetri, haven’t you?”

“It’s a bet?” asked Demetri, holding his breath.

Hugh nodded once. “You’re on.”

On Wednesday afternoon, Elizabeth moved her things from the Prestons’ into the Seelbach Hilton Hotel in Louisville and began rehearsing with her band at a little bar near the college. The place had not only great acoustics, but the ability to keep a secret, as well. There were times that Elizabeth went gunning for the fame—mainly when she needed something—but most of the time she yearned for a regular life without all the flash-bulbs blinding her, without all the reporters shoving a microphone in her face and without all the gossip columns making up wild-hair stories about her.

Ten years ago, when she was just starting to get noticed, she hadn’t thought much about walking the straight and narrow path, and keeping her nose clean; she didn’t have time for breathing, much less having fun. But then something happened. In a world where absolute fame corrupted absolutely, Elizabeth became the exception, and Tobey, being the smart man he was, had told her that she could milk her virginity all the way to the top, and so she had. As a cautious and prudent person, it hadn’t been hard up to now. As a rule, Elizabeth didn’t take chances. Not with her career, and not with men. She frowned—which she’d been doing a lot recently—because Demetri was making her think hard and long about her principles.

Yeah, her principles were a good bit of Pollyanna idealism,and a lot of wanting to believe that there was only one man for her, but there was also the sexy allure of putting a roof over her head, and food on the table. For Elizabeth, home and security meant everything.

Someday, when the restlessness inside her stilled, she was going to buy a little place in Woodford County, Kentucky, and spend her days watching the sunsets, drinking lemonade and learning to quilt. But for now, every morning she jumped out of bed ready to tackle something new, like next week’s concert, the continuing debate on the album cover with the art department at Five Star and the one thing that she tried to avoid thinking about. Singing at the race on Sunday.

The main reason she wanted to avoid thinking about it was that from Mr. Demetri Lucas, car driver extraordinaire, she had heard exactly zero words. Not that she was expecting to. Not that she was sitting by her hotel room phone waiting for his call, or even a bill for the car damages. No sir, Elizabeth wasn’t going to wait for any man, no matter how much he stirred her blood, or no matter how much he affected her songwriting skills.

Pitifully, instead of robbing her of things to sing about, now she had tons of things to sing about. Songs with a brand-new tone. Something sultry, wicked and knee-wobblingly sexy. Of course that had absolutely nothing to do with Demetri, nothing at all.

If she kept telling herself that often enough, eventually she’d start to believe it.

The band, of course, noticed. Her “band” wasn’t really a band in the proper sense of the word. There was Rebecca Townsend, who sang backup. Tobey had found her singing in an old bar in Nashville when she was only seventeen. Calder Jones was the bass guitarist, a big strapping man who was pushing sixty, although he told everyone he was just a more mature-looking twenty-nine. Peter Sanderson was the keyboard magician who had the fastest fingers that Elizabeth had ever seen. The four of them had been playing together for almost five years, and although it was a mostly professional relationship, that didn’t mean that Elizabeth didn’t want to hear about Rebecca’s man troubles, Calder’s grandkids and Peter’s latest man troubles, too.

After rehearsal on Thursday, Rebecca trapped Elizabeth in the tiny ladies’ room, her eyes sly with suspicion. “What’s up with the new song?”

Elizabeth pretended ignorance, because she knew what Rebecca would say if she spilled any of the truth. “Frank gave it to me.”

Rebecca’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Tobey said you wrote it.”

Elizabeth swallowed, but bravely climbed deeper into that hole she had now dug. “Are you calling me a liar?” she asked, hands on hips.

“Yes,” answered Rebecca, not even a little ashamed to be casting such aspersions on Elizabeth’s character.

So Elizabeth promptly changed the subject. “Tell me about this new fellow you’ve been seeing.”

Now, Rebecca was born and bred in Virginia, so there wasn’t much that sailed past her. “Only if you’ll tell me about the inspiration for the new song,” she answered, not budging an inch.

Elizabeth didn’t want to talk about the inspiration for the new song. She didn’t want to think about the inspiration for the new song. She didn’t even like being inspired, which was saying a lot since she made most of her money as a songwriter.

There’d been almost a week of sleepless—or nearly sleepless—nights when she imagined she was still dancing with Demetri around the Prestons’ dance floor. She had memorized that blood-thumping gleam in those warm eyes, and every time her brain fired up the memory—which was often—she felt those deviously persistent tendrils of desire that were curling all through her insides, whipping around and, for all intents and purposes, making mush of her brain.

It was a low moment for a woman who secretly prided herself on her good sense, and quietly laughed at all those people who thought she was a dim bulb who fell off the turnip truck at regular intervals. Not about to confess her deepest shortcomings, Elizabeth prudently kept silent.

Rebecca humphed. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me. Me, the person you work with day in, day out. Me, who has toured the last twelve months with you, sharing after-concert French fries, when Calder and Peter refused because it was bad for their hearts. Me, your friend. You don’t have to say a word, you keep those secrets all to yourself, but I’ll be watching….”

“There’s nothing to tell,” answered Elizabeth, wishing the words from her new song weren’t whirling in her head. So easy to fall into the dark pull of desire, to sell my soul for what I see in your eyes…

“‘…innocence lost can never be found,’” sang Rebecca, in a breathy imitation of a woman on the verge. “That’s a woman ready to leap off the bridge, Bethy.”

“I’m not jumping off any bridge,” she said, sounding just like a woman on the verge.

“It’s a metaphorical bridge, Elizabeth.”

“I’m not jumping, metaphorical or otherwise,” snapped Elizabeth.

“I think it’s high time you did,” said Rebecca, “We’ve been playing together for five years, and I’ve watched you go from one useless boyfriend to another, without a backward glance. Three dates and they’re out, just like in baseball. But you never wrote a song about a single one of them. Ever. Now you think you’re going to escape a full-blown interrogation? Oh, no. Honey, when you do, you have to tell me all about it. I want to hear every single, sordid detail.”

Sordid details ran through Elizabeth’s mind like late-night cable television—scintillating, titillating, late-night cable. Desperate to escape, Elizabeth checked her watch. “Peter is going to shoot you for keeping us late tonight, Rebecca. He’s got plans for this evening.”

Rebecca snickered. “He won’t be mad after I tell him what we were talking about.”

“You can’t!” hollered Elizabeth, a lot louder than she intended.

Rebecca wiggled her brows. “See, I knew there was something to tell. You’re getting a break today, but just remember…I’ll be watching.”