we can make a difference in the lives of so many people.”
Carter didn’t begrudge the money he’d bid on the painting. If he won, at least he knew it was going to a good cause. During college, he’d spent his summers working at a horse camp for disabled kids. That’s when he’d developed a love for horses. He’d seen the way they reacted to the children, exhibiting a gentleness that had amazed him.
The director signaled the band for a drumroll, then beamed at the crowd gathered around the stage. “And now it’s the time we’ve all been waiting for—the winners of tonight’s auction.”
Carter tensed, wondering if he should have placed a higher bid. He had no experience with the art world. Perhaps the painting was worth three times the amount he had bid. Maybe he should have kept Noah on the line and asked his opinion.
His brother had taken a couple of art appreciation classes along with some other courses that Carter had considered pretty worthless for an economics major. Not that Noah ever listened to his advice. However, now Carter saw that there might be some value to them.
“The high bid of the evening is for the lovely horse portrait by local up-and-coming artist Gillian Cameron of Robards Farm.”
Gillian?
For some reason, Carter had just assumed the artist was a man, since the sport of horse racing tended to be dominated by men. That was slowly changing and Quest Stables jockey Melanie Preston was proof of it. She could definitely hold her own with any man on the racetrack.
“And the winner is….”
The director paused for dramatic effect and Carter felt as though he might burst out of his skin.
“Dr. Carter Phillips.”
The crowd applauded as he released a deep sigh of relief. He’d bid high enough after all and won the painting.
The director moved onto the next item on his list and Carter forced himself to pay attention until he heard that the Prestons had won the vintage saddlebag.
Shirley approached him, her face wreathed with a smile. She reminded him of his favorite aunt back in Chicago.
“Congratulations, Dr. Phillips,” she gushed. “I could see how much you liked that portrait.”
“Thank you.”
She turned toward the painting and clasped her hands together in delight. “Picture of Perfection is such a beautiful horse. I’ve actually seen him run in some California races this summer. He’s very fast and causing quite a sensation around here.”
Just like Leopold’s Legacy.
Carter shook that thought from his head, not ready to leap to any conclusions. He needed to find the evidence to support his theory.
“Would you like to take the portrait with you now or have it delivered?”
“I’ll take it with me,” Carter replied. “Can you wrap it up?”
“Certainly. What about the saddlebag?”
Carter thought about it for a moment. “I’d like you to mail that to Jenna Preston at Quest Stables in Woodford County, Kentucky.”
“Very good,” she said, then leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “I’m so sorry about all the trouble you folks are having. I hope everything works out for the best.”
“I appreciate it,” Carter said, then broached the subject that really interested him. “I also won the opportunity to meet the artist, right? I’d like to set that up as soon as possible.”
Shirley chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Of course. I’ll just need your contact information.”
Carter took out one of his business cards, then jotted down the name of his hotel and his room number. “My cell phone number is on here, as well, so you can reach me anytime.”
“I’ll get in touch with the artist and let you know what time works best for her,” she replied, taking the card from him.
“The sooner, the better,” he said, hoping she’d be free tomorrow. He’d only be in San Diego a couple of weeks and wanted to make every minute count. He loved this area of the country and looked forward to spending a little time outside of the Del Mar racetrack.
As Carter left the ballroom, he wondered if the artist had been at the charity benefit tonight. She might have been able to tell him something about the horse and its lineage.
Then again, she might only want to talk about her art. He admired people with that kind of talent, but had almost nothing in common with them. He was a man of science and the art world was completely foreign to him.
Thanks to Gillian Cameron, he owned a painting of Picture of Perfection. Now all he wanted was the horse’s DNA and he’d be happy.
With any luck, she just might be able to help him get it.
Two
When Gillian Cameron opened the door to the main house on Robards Farm, Carter forgot everything he was going to say.
The woman in the doorway was not what he expected. Her mane of chestnut hair reached almost to her waist and her eyes were the deep, rich green of Kentucky bluegrass. Her face captivated him, as well, open and expressive. Her creamy skin seemed to glow from within and looked so soft that he had to stifle the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. It was a ridiculous reaction and one that he’d never experienced before.
Carter blamed it on fatigue. He’d been unable to sleep last night, too keyed up by this new lead into finding Leopold’s Legacy’s true sire. He’d spent hours in front of his laptop, studying the DNA test results of Leopold’s Legacy and Apollo’s Ice. He’d even looked up Picture of Perfection’s lineage online and confirmed that he was also reportedly sired by Apollo’s Ice.
Now all he needed was to convince the owner of the horse to let him take a blood sample so he could compare the DNA of all the horses involved. He was fairly certain Picture of Perfection didn’t come from Robards Farm. The only horses he’d seen grazing in a nearby pasture were an eclectic assortment of quarter horses, draft horses and even a few miniature horses.
His meeting with the artist was simply meant to be a starting point in his search for the truth, but now that he’d seen Gillian he found himself faltering at the gate and forgetting the real reason he’d come here.
A smile lifted the corners of her generous pink mouth. “You must be Dr. Phillips.”
He gave a stiff nod, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He’d pictured her as some middle-aged hippie woman with immense talent and an eccentric sense of style.
Gillian looked more like a sexy model for the designer jeans she wore. The low-slung blue denim molded the delicious curve of her hips and hugged a pair of long luscious legs that seemed to go on forever. The tail ends of her white cotton blouse were tied just below her perfect breasts and revealed a golden tan on the generous expanse of bare skin that made it all too east to picture her naked.
“Dr. Phillips?” she said, her brow furrowed.
He
