Her shimmery gold gown glittering beneath the conservatory's bright lights, bridesmaid Melanie Preston excused her way through a crush of wedding guests. When she reached the towering French doors that led to the back veranda of the house, she flung one open and rushed out into the cool December night.
"Dammit," she muttered when she saw the man she'd followed there had already reached the far end of the long veranda, her grandfather's Irish wolfhound trotting along beside him.
With moonlight pouring down from the cloudless sky, she watched him descend the flagstone steps two at a time. Veering off, he strode toward the cobblestone walkway leading to the building that housed his office.
His former office, she amended. As of five o'clock that afternoon, Marcus Vasquez was no longer head trainer at her family's Quest Stables, Kentucky's largest Thoroughbred racing facility.
With the world that had once seemed so perfect now in danger of collapsing like the legs of a newborn foal, Melanie couldn't blame him for terminating his employment after only a few months.
Because her gold Jimmy Choo ice-pick heels quashed all hope of catching up with Marcus on the cobblestone walkway, she paused in the center of the veranda. Rubbing her bare arms to ward off the December chill, she studied his retreating form.
He was tall, an inch or two over six feet with that fluid grace certain men were born with. He had coal-black hair, olive skin and deep-set dark eyes guarded by heavy brows. She was used to seeing him in work clothes, not a tuxedo, so when he'd shown up for her cousin's wedding, heat had spread through her in breath-stealing waves. It wasn't every man whose tux fit as though it had been tailored to a god's torso.
The man who hailed from a small town on Spain's Costa del Sol was handsome, distant and maddeningly aloof about all things personal.
Which he had every right to be. But Melanie had learned a devastating lesson about trusting any man so elusively reticent about himself and his past. So when Marcus hired on at Quest Stables and she felt the same damnable dark awareness stirring deep inside her that had once toppled her into emotional quicksand, it had scared her to death.
Five months later, that awareness still vibrated in her nerves whenever she got near him.
Hell, whenever she thought about him. Which was often. So she'd gone to great lengths to avoid him whenever possible.
Problem was, she was Quest's principal jockey and detouring around the head trainer hadn't exactly made for ideal working conditions. Instinct told her Marcus had let her get away with that solely because of the racing ban the Jockey Association had leveled against her parents' stables and every horse majority owned by the Prestons.
A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the crisp night air and everything to do with impending doom. Earlier that year, she'd ridden Leopold's Legacy to victory in the Kentucky Derby and Preakness. But hopes for a Triple Crown sweep had been dashed when a computer snafu at the Jockey Association required a resubmittal of the Thoroughbred's DNA. The resulting discovery that Leopold's Legacy had not been sired by the stallion of record, Apollo's Ice, sent shock waves through the racing world.
After that, things had gone from bad to worse. A cloud of suspicion now hung over the entire Preston family. Owners who'd boarded their horses at Quest for years had pulled them out and lodged them at other stables. And what had first been thought to be a data processing glitch took on a sinister edge when a horse also wrongly believed to have been sired by Apollo's Ice was poisoned to death in Dubai and a computer tech who had worked on the registry records at the Jockey Association disappeared shortly afterward. The chance for any Preston-owned stallions earning stud fees was gone, at least for the time being. And Leopold's Legacy's millions in winnings might have to be surrendered if it was proven he hadn't been sired by a Thoroughbred. A few longtime employees had been laid off due to the financial hit Quest had taken. Now, handsome, irritatingly aloof Marcus Vasquez, their head trainer, was leaving, too.
The first notes of a low, bluesy song drifted on the night air, prompting Melanie to glance over her shoulder. Despite the family's worsening problems, her mother was determined that life at Quest continue as normally as possible. So this December, as all others, the massive, two-story redbrick house shimmered with Christmas lights inside and out. Tonight, the lights were a fitting backdrop for Melanie's Australian cousin's wedding to Quest's female farrier.
Through the conservatory's big bay window, Melanie watched wedding guests chat while sipping champagne. Some headed for the area where furniture and potted plants had been removed to make a temporary dance floor. Others gathered before the huge Christmas tree decorated with silver ornaments that dominated one corner of the room.
The person who interested her most, however, wasn't inside the house.
The thought of going after Marcus had Melanie squaring her shoulders. She had planned to approach him right after her grandfather toasted the bride and groom. But the instant crystal flutes had clinked together, Marcus set his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, and headed out the French doors. Now, his long gait had taken him so far away she could barely make out his tall, moonlit form silhouetted against the security lights rimming the stables, the barn and various outbuildings.
By morning he would be gone.
She was surprised to find herself torn between a sense of relief and a tingle of regret.
In keeping with Marcus's maddening refusal to reveal anything about himself, no one at Quest seemed to know his plans for the future. But he was one of the country's top Thoroughbred trainers, so there were bound to be dozens of job opportunities available for someone with his formidable skills. Not just here in Kentucky, but nationwide. Worldwide.
Melanie flexed her fingers, then curled them into her palms. If she didn't talk to him, her conscience would niggle at her forever. She had no intention of offering an explanation for why she'd spent the majority of her time avoiding him. Or concede that she should have at least consulted him about her decision to work away from the main stables with the colt her younger brother felt sure would be the family's saving grace.
Tonight she simply intended to tell Marcus goodbye. Wish him luck. It was a matter of self-respect. She took her work as a jockey seriously. For reasons she couldn't explain, making sure that Marcus Vasquez understood that had become a priority.
And maybe, just maybe, knowing she'd gone to such lengths to detour around him scraped at her pride. It was too close to cowardice.
She wasn't a coward. Just a woman trying her best to stave off temptation in the form of a gorgeous Spanish hunk.
So, she would speak to Marcus as one professional to another. Keep the conversation businesslike, to the point and short. She just hoped she managed to hide the fact that he made her nervous. Edgy. Stirred up.
Melanie puffed out a breath that turned into a white cloud on the night air. With her pulse pounding and her nerves jittering, she wasn't sure how she was going to pull this off.
"Just get it over with," she muttered.
Hiking the skirt of her gown above her ankles, she headed down the veranda's stairs and went after him.
His gaze focused out the window of what was now his former office, Marcus Vasquez watched Melanie Preston move along the cobblestone walk, the Irish wolfhound, Seamus, loping beside her as he'd done earlier at Marcus's side. The silver moonlight mixed with a pale glow from the small landscape lights dotting the gardens, making the woman and her massive escort seem almost ghostlike.
Since the path veered off in several directions, he wondered where the hell she was headed.
None of his business, he reminded himself. He'd had little say during his tenure at Quest over what the ace jockey did. As of this afternoon Marcus no longer worked for Thomas and Jenna Preston, so whatever had prompted their only daughter to leave her cousin's wedding reception and traipse around in the moonlight was none of his concern.
That didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the view. Leaning a thigh against the desk, Marcus tracked her progress along the walk.
Despite her ankle-wrecking heels and the walkway's uneven surface, Melanie's gait was fluid, like a dancer's. The only other time he'd seen her in a dress was at a gala last summer when he'd first arrived at Quest. Which was a good thing, because the way the gold material slithered against her slim hips was enough to revive a dead man.
He was very much alive.
Watching her, Marcus felt the hunger that he'd kept hidden since the moment they'd met stir inside him.
She was barely five feet tall, lean and agile. For the rest of his life, he would carry a mental picture of her from the video he'd watched uncountable times: Melanie Preston on Derby Day wearing Quest's bright racing silks, urging Leopold's Legacy to leap from the starting gate and hurtle onto the track. Barely fastened to the saddle, her entire body had lifted into the air like a butterfly preparing to take flight. Only her hands on the reins and the tips of both boots wedged in the stirrups still tied her to earth.
Marcus had worked his way up in the racing business on four continents. Without a doubt, she was the best jockey he'd encountered. If the scandal hadn't broken after the Preakness win, she most likely would have raced the stallion in the Belmont to a Triple Crown sweep.
She was also the most annoying jockey he had ever run across.
It wasn't simply that she'd made herself scarce around the main stables since his first day on the job, choosing to work instead with her younger brother Robbie, who'd taken a colt named Something To Talk About to train on his own. The few times Melanie had shown up here in his office, her talk of implementing unproven approaches to stable management techniqu...
