many an hour with Paul and Andrea, assisting with the daily chores, shoveling manure, unloading feed, watering the remaining two horses that had belonged to Paul and Andrea’s father before his death, and any others that had happened upon the premises, thanks to a young woman who couldn’t say no.
Even then, Andrea would bring home someone’s colt or filly to break, most of the time solely for the thrill of it, not for the pay. Today, out of the dozen or so stalls, only four were occupied, one by Chance’s pony.
This would never do, Sam decided. He needed to help Andrea acquire some horses to train immediately. Most of those he owned belonged to a syndicate, but that did not mean he couldn’t purchase one that belonged solely to him. He had a gift for choosing good prospects, the reason why he had come to Kentucky to attend the sales. In fact, he had been approached at the auction regarding a promising two-year-old filly. One phone call and the mare would be his, though she was priced at half a million U.S. dollars. That didn’t matter. After all, he had paid for Andrea’s training expertise; he might as well put that investment to good use. But first he must repair a few stalls.
After rummaging through the tack room for a hammer and nails, Sam set out to make the barn more serviceable. Unfortunately, he pounded his thumb on more than one occasion, yet he welcomed the pain. For seven years he had done nothing more than paperwork, since manual labor was considered demeaning for royalty. But Sam was in America now, in a barn, not Barak, therefore he could labor to his heart’s delight.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He turned toward the entry to find Andrea staring at him as if he had grown fangs. He had no fangs, only two nails in his mouth. He spoke around them. “I’m repairing these stalls before an injury occurs.” Considering his deplorable skills, an injury could very well occur. To him.
She took a few steps forward and braced her hands on her hips. “In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a horse in that stall, and I doubt there’s going to be one anytime soon.”
Turning away from her, he removed the nails from his mouth and hammered one into the wooden slat.
“You’re wrong, Andrea.”
“What are you talking about?”
He faced her again and swiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm. “I’ve recently purchased a filly.” Or he would by day’s end. “If you recall, I bid an obscene amount of money for your services, and I expect to collect.”
At the moment he would like to collect on several things, none having to do with her training skills. He couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away from the ragged white T-shirt she now wore or the faded jeans that adhered to the bow of her hips like a second skin. His body stirred, calling attention to a need that had been denied far too long. Reminding him that Andrea could still affect him without attempting to do so.
She strolled to his side and leaned a shoulder against the stall, facing him. “You mean to tell me that you actually intend for me to train your horse.”
“That’s precisely what I’m telling you.” He should be telling her that, if she knew what was best for her, for them both, from this point forward she would wear a bra.
She frowned. “And when is this horse supposed to be here?”
“I will arrange for her to arrive in two days. That should give me time to repair the stall.”
Andrea smiled, amusement dancing in her blue eyes. “You intend to do this in your good clothes?”
Sam looked down at his slacks and shirt, then back up again. “I’m afraid this is all I have at the present. I’ll go into town and buy something suitable tomorrow.”
“Can’t you have Mr. Rashid do it for you?”
“I’ve sent him back to the hotel to field calls. I prefer that no one knows where I am.” Then perhaps he could avoid his father’s questions.
“You don’t need his protection?”
Only from his desire for Andrea, and he doubted Rashid could aid him in that regard. “I am relatively safe at the moment.” Yet still in danger of losing his control in her presence.
“You really don’t have to buy anything, at least not today,” she said. “I’m sure I can find you something to wear.”
He let his eyes travel down the length of her—very much at his own peril when he noticed her nipples had hardened beneath the thin shirt. “I doubt that I will fit into your jeans.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, much to his disappointment and relief. “Not mine. Yours. You left some jeans here. They’re in the cedar chest in the attic.”
“And they are still intact?”
“I’m sure they are. Of course, there could be one major problem. You were much skinnier then.”
“Skinnier?”
She sent a long glance down his body, much the same as he had hers. “Yep. You’ve filled out quite a bit.”
He was definitely filling out in some very obvious places. To avoid embarrassment, he turned back to the stall and surveyed his handiwork. “Give me a moment and we can go to the attic.”
“Why can’t we go now?” she asked, sounding confused.
Obviously she was still somewhat naive. He took in a deep draw of air but refused to turn around. “As soon as I’m finished with this board, I will join you. At the moment I prefer not to stop what I’m doing.”
He, as well, preferred to stop his craving for her, but he doubted that would happen soon—if ever.
Chapter Three
Sitting cross-legged on the attic floor, Andi pulled the jeans from the cedar chest where she’d kept them along with other special mementos—Chance’s baby clothes, his first shoes, a few of Paul’s things, treasures that she couldn’t bear to part with. She fought back more tears, already missing her son and he’d only been gone a few hours. Admittedly, already missing Sam even though he wouldn’t leave again for several weeks.
She set the jeans aside and rummaged through the pile in the chest, coming upon Paul’s high school football jersey sporting the number seven. Lucky seven, Paul had said. If only his luck had held out, before he’d been ripped from her life, never having children of his own, never knowing Chance.
How Paul would have loved his nephew, love playing uncle. If he hadn’t died, maybe things would have been different. She probably wouldn’t have made love with Sam. And she wouldn’t have Chance.
She couldn’t imagine not having her son in her life. She also couldn’t turn back time and she couldn’t keep wondering about what might have been. Even if Paul had survived, Sam would have returned to his country, his duty. Hadn’t he all but admitted that to her?
Dropping the jersey back into the chest, she grabbed up Sam’s jeans and held them against her heart. Clung to his old clothes as if they were a replacement for the man.
“You’re so stupid, Andrea Hamilton,” she muttered. “Still pining away over a man you can’t have, so stop
