than it took to wash her face and braid her hair, she accepted that it was her own fault Diego Ortega had probably mistaken her for a teenager. She did not care about his opinion of her looks, she told herself irritably, but she was proud of her riding skills and she was incensed that he had questioned her ability to control Piran.
She was breathing hard, her chest lifting and falling erratically, and she felt a jolt of shock when Diego’s dark eyes trailed slowly over her body and focused deliberately on her breasts. Rachel swallowed and reminded herself that there was nothing much beneath her shirt to excite him. Riding was more than just her passion—since she was a teenager it had been an obsession that exceeded any vague interest in her appearance, and it had never bothered her that she had failed to develop a big bust. Now, for the first time in her life, she wished she looked more feminine and possessed curves rather than boyishly slender hips and a couple of minuscule bumps that did not require the support of a bra.
Diego’s gaze caused the tiny hairs on Rachel’s body to stand on end. Her legs suddenly felt weak and her breath seemed to be trapped in her chest—the same feeling she’d experienced a few moments ago when Piran had thrown her and she had struggled to her feet—winded and wobbly and strangely light-headed.
During her adolescence she had been so busy with her riding that she’d had no time for boys, and although she’d had a couple of relationships since she had left school they had quickly petered out through a lack of interest on her part. Diego Ortega was nothing like the men she had dated—and he was looking at her in a way that no man had ever done before. Her experience of the opposite sex might be limited, but she sensed Diego’s interest. Some primal instinct inside her recognised the chemistry between them, and she could not restrain the little shiver of awareness that ran down her spine.
Diego’s eyes narrowed. Rachel wasn’t wearing a bra—he could clearly make out the darker flesh of her nipples—and as he watched they hardened into tight little peaks that jutted provocatively towards him. Heat surged through him, shocking him with its intensity. He hadn’t felt this aroused for years. He did not understand why he was so acutely aware of her but, to his intense irritation, his heart was pounding and his jeans suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.
It was time for him to move, to break out of the sensual web that entrapped them both. A glance at his watch warned him that he should return to the Hall and change in time for dinner with the Earl and Lady Hardwick and their attractive but tediously overeager daughter, Felicity. He wondered if the idiot son who had nearly caused a serious accident would be present. He certainly intended to inform the Earl that he would not permit noisy motorbikes to be ridden near to the thoroughbred polo ponies he had been invited to Hardwick Polo Club to train.
His eyes strayed back to Rachel Summers’s face and focused on her soft mouth, his stomach clenching when he imagined crushing those moist lips beneath his and exploring her with his tongue. She would taste as sweet as a light summer wine, and she would respond to him willingly—he noted how her eyes were now the colour of wood-smoke, her pupils dilated with sensual promise.
She could prove an interesting diversion over the next couple of months, he mused idly. He wondered who she was. He knew that the aristocratic Hardwick family had many offshoots, and he assumed that Rachel must be a relative.
‘Are you staying up at the Hall?’ he demanded abruptly, forcing himself to step away from her.
‘Earl Hardwick isn’t in the habit of inviting his stable-hands to live in,’ Rachel replied dryly. ‘Not even his head groom.’
‘So you work here.’ Diego frowned. ‘Do you own Piran?’ He knew that most yards paid low wages, but the stallion was a thoroughbred and must have cost several thousand pounds.
‘No, I have him on loan. His owner is Peter Irving, from the farm adjoining the Hardwick estate. Peter used to be a world-class showjumper, and he’s my sponsor.’
‘Irving—the name is familiar.’
‘Three times Olympic gold medallist and top rider with the British Equestrian team for many years. Peter is my inspiration,’ Rachel explained.
Diego caught the note of fierce determination in her voice and glanced at her curiously. ‘You hope to be selected for the British team?’
‘The next Olympics are my dream,’ Rachel admitted, blushing and wondering why on earth she had revealed her life’s ambition to a man she had never met before. She had never told anyone, apart from Peter Irving, of her hopes of competing at the highest level—not her friends, and certainly not her family. Since her parents had divorced when she was nine, they had both been too wrapped up in their lives with their new partners and children to take much interest in her, and the few times she had mentioned her riding to her mother it had led to the old argument about getting a proper job, somewhere decent to live rather than an old caravan, and a boyfriend.
‘The Olympics are a long way off,’ she murmured. ‘For now I’m working hard in the hope of being picked for the team for the European championships next year. Peter and Earl Hardwick both think I have a good chance. The Earl has been very supportive of my career,’ she added. He allows me to stable Piran here, and he always gives me time off to go to competitions. The facilities at Hardwick are excellent, and working here is a fantastic experience.’
‘But not quite so fantastic when your horse refuses a jump,’ Diego said dryly, his sharp gaze noting how she had crossed her arms over her chest and was surreptitiously rubbing her ribs. ‘I’ll ride Piran back to the stables for you.’
Without giving Rachel time to argue, he deftly adjusted the stirrups and swung into the saddle with a lithe grace and expertise. Piran did not usually take to strangers but, to Rachel’s annoyance, he stood as docile as a lamb while Diego spoke to him in Spanish. The deep-timbred voice was strangely hypnotic; Piran’s ears pricked up and he whinnied—almost as if he were talking back, although that was just fanciful imagination, Rachel told herself irritably. It was a pity that the Argentinian horseman did not have such a soothing effect on her. She felt decidedly rattled, and she knew it was not only because of the fall.
She opened the paddock gate and Diego took Piran through, but then halted and waited for her. ‘I still think I should call a doctor,’ he said, his mouth thinning when he noted how she winced with every step she took. ‘You’re as pale as a ghost and clearly in agony.’
‘I’m just bruised, that’s all,’ Rachel argued stubbornly.
Diego gave her a hard stare. ‘You’re going to be black and blue and you’ll ache tomorrow. To be on the safe side, you shouldn’t ride for the next week.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Rachel looked scandalised. ‘I’ve got a competition coming up and I’m going to take Piran round the course again tomorrow. He’d have managed that last fence fine if he hadn’t been startled by the bike.’
Diego let out a curse, torn between impatience and admiration at her mulish determination. ‘You are the most argumentative woman I have ever met, Miss Summers.’ He moved before Rachel could guess his intention, and she gave a startled cry when he reached down and lifted her effortlessly onto Piran’s back, placing her at the front of the saddle and clicking his tongue so that the horse immediately began to walk. One arm remained around her, holding her against his chest, while he held the reins in his other hand and controlled the stallion with impressive ease.
Attempting to scramble down would be futile, Rachel acknowledged as she stared at Diego’s muscular forearms. She would just have to sit still until they reached the stable block, but she absolutely would not give in to the temptation to relax and lean her head against his chest. He was too close
