girth cinched around her chest considering the sudden pressure on her lungs.
“Dr. Sutherland.” His deep, slightly raspy and seriously sexy voice would be perfect for radio.
He held her hand, extending the contact and making her wish for a split second that she’d taken the time to freshen her makeup, unbraid and brush her hair and splash on some perfume to mask the scent of stables when she’d quickly changed from her soiled work clothes in her office. But she’d been rushing and done only the absolutely necessary repairs.
Stupid girl. He’s a client. And you’re not looking for romance, remember?
She tugged her hand and after a brief resistance he released her. She pressed her prickling palm to her thigh. She’d broken her engagement fifteen months ago and in that time she hadn’t thought about sex even once. Until now. Wyatt Jacobs made her tingle in places that had been dormant for a long time.
Her father offered her a highball glass of amber liquid. “Dad, you know I can’t drink when I’m working. I still have to deal with Commander this morning.”
Her frustration with the stallion she’d left in the stables resurfaced. Commander wanted to kill everyone—especially the vet in charge of collecting his semen. In the arena he’d been a phenomenal competitor, but in the barn he was a bloodthirsty beast. His bloodline and list of championships meant she couldn’t ignore him. His ejaculate was liquid gold. But she, her team and the stubborn stud had needed a cool-down period after an unproductive hour. Her father’s interruption had actually come at a good time.
Her father set the glass on his desk beside her as if he expected her to change her mind, reactivating the warning itch on her nape. Hannah brushed aside her misgivings and returned her focus to their guest. Jacobs watched her with an unwavering, laser-like intensity that stirred a strange, volatile reaction inside her, and try as she might she couldn’t look away.
She’d met movie stars, congressmen and royalty with less charisma. For pity’s sake she’d dated and even kissed a few of them with no effect. So why did Jacobs rattle her cage?
Wait a minute. Was that anger lurking in his eyes?
There was only one way to find out.
“What brings you to our stables, Mr. Jacobs?”
“Luthor, would you care to explain why I’m here?” Jacobs deferred. Funny, she would have sworn on her mother’s earrings that he wasn’t the type to defer anything and doing so now appeared to irritate him.
When the silence stretched, she pried her eyes from Jacobs’s handsome face and discovered her usually unflappable father looking defensive and uncomfortable, his pale features set—totally unlike his usual calm demeanor. He drained his glass in one gulp and set the tumbler on the desk with a thump.
Her anxiety level spiked. “Daddy, what’s going on?”
“I’ve sold the farm, Hannah,” her father stated baldly.
She blinked. Her father had never possessed a sense of humor. Odd time for him to find one. But the idea was too ludicrous to be anything but a bad joke. “Really?”
He glanced at Brinkley’s stoic expression, then back. “I have places to go and things to see—none of which I can do if I’m tied to this business every single day of the year.”
She searched her father’s resolute face. He wasn’t joking. The floor beneath her feet seemed to shift. She clutched the edge of the desk for balance. Her knuckles bumped the cold highball glass, but the chill of the crystal couldn’t compare to the ice spreading through her veins.
She could feel her mouth opening and closing, but couldn’t force out a sound. She shuddered in a breath then stuttered it out again while struggling to gather her shattered thoughts.
“You couldn’t have sold the farm. You wouldn’t have. You live for the stables.” As far as she knew he had no other interests, no hobbies. Nothing except horses, winning and Sutherland Farm. He didn’t even have friends outside the horse biz.
“Not anymore.”
Something had to be wrong. Terribly wrong. Fear splintered through her and cold sweat beaded her lip.
Her neck felt like a rusty hinge as she forced her head to turn to Jacobs. “Would you excuse us a moment, Mr. Jacobs?”
Their visitor didn’t budge. He studied her—as if trying to gauge and anticipate her reaction.
“Please.” She hated the desperate edge of her voice. It verged on begging. And she never begged.
After a moment he nodded, crossed the room in purposeful strides and stepped through the doors out onto the veranda. A fresh-cut grass-scented breeze drifted in the open door, but the familiar aroma failed to do its usual job of soothing her.
“Would you like for me to go?” Brinkley asked.
Her father held up a hand. “Stay, Brink. Hannah might have questions only you can answer.”
“Daddy, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”
He sighed. “No, Hannah. I’m not sick.”
“Then how could you do this? You promised Mom you’d keep the farm forever.”
The lines in her father’s face seemed to deepen. “That was nineteen years ago, Hannah, and she was dying. I said what I had to say to let her pass peacefully.”
“But what about me? I promised Mom, too, and I meant it. I’m supposed to take over Sutherland Farm. I’m supposed to keep Grandma and Papa’s property in the family and pass it on to my children.”
“Children you don’t have.”
“Well, no, not yet, but one day—” She paused as an idea pierced her like a nail. “This is because I didn’t marry Robert, isn’t it?”
Disapproval clamped her father’s mouth into a tight line. “He was perfect for you, and yet you refused to settle down.”
“No, Dad, he was perfect for you. Robert was the son you always wished you’d had. Instead, you got me.”
“Robert knew how to run a stable.”
“So do I.”
“Hannah, you don’t ride. You don’t compete. Your heart is not in this business, and you don’t have the drive to keep Sutherland Farm at the top of the Grand Prix community. Instead you waste your time and money on animals that ought to be euthanized.”
No matter how many times she heard it, the old attacks still chafed. She stuffed down her emotional response and focused on the facts. “Mom believed in rescuing horses, too, and my horse rehabilitation program is a success. If you’d take the time to look at the statistics and read the success stories—”
“Your operation runs in the red every quarter. You’re careless with money because you’ve never had to fight and scratch for a living.”
“I work.”
He grunted in disgust.
