He shook his head. “Just a horse lover with a special touch.”
“Does she live in New Mexico?”
A longer glance at her this time. “You been checking my résumé out?”
Heat stained her cheeks. “I like to know who’s working in my stables.”
“So you can see which ‘school of psychobabble’ we come from?”
“Colt—”
He started working on her horse’s back. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the stall. “We had an accident,” she said quietly. “In London last year. Something in the crowd spooked Bacchus as we approached a combination. His takeoff was all wrong—we crashed through the fence.”
She closed her eyes as the sickening thud, still so clear, so horrifically real, reverberated in her head. “I was lucky I didn’t break my neck. I broke my collarbone and arm instead. Bacchus tore tendons—badly. Physically, he’s a hundred percent but mentally he hasn’t been right since then. That’s why I was so frustrated today.”
He turned around and leaned against the wall. The corded muscles in his forearms flexed as he folded them over his chest, a flicker of something she couldn’t read sliding across his cool, even gaze. “That had to have left some emotional dents in you as well.”
She nodded. “I thought I was over it. Maybe I’m not.”
* * *
Alejandro knew he should keep up the brush off signals until Cecily Hargrove walked back out that door—the safest place for her. But there was a fragility that radiated from her tonight, dark emotional bruises in her eyes he couldn’t ignore. Perhaps they were from the accident. He thought they might be from a hell of a lot further back.
His heart tugged. Her undeniably beautiful face, bare of makeup, blue summer dress the same vibrant shade as her eyes, she looked exceedingly young and vulnerable. His grandmother had always said showjumping was a mental game. If you lost your edge, it all fell apart. Maybe Cecily had lost hers.
“Maybe you need to take a step back,” he suggested. “Take some time for you and Bacchus to fully heal—mentally and physically. Figure out what’s missing.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have time. I have a big event in a month. If I don’t perform in the top three there I won’t make the world championship team. Bacchus is the only horse I have that’s at that level.”
“So you make it next year.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Why not?” He frowned. “What are you—mid-twenties? You have all the time in the world to make the team.”
Her mouth twisted. “Not when you’re a Hargrove, you don’t. My grandmother and mother were on the team. I am expected to make it. If I don’t, it will be a huge disappointment.”
“To who?”
“My father. My coach. The team. Everyone who’s backed me. They’ve spent a fortune in time and money to get me here.”
That he understood. He’d spent a lifetime trying to live up to his own legacy—to the destiny that had been handed to him from the first day he could walk. Sent to an elite boarding school in America from his native Brazil when he was six, then on to Harvard, the pressure had been relentless.
When he’d moved to New York to run the Salazar Coffee Company’s global operations as the company’s CEO, that pressure had escalated to a whole other level, driven by a ferociously competitive international marketplace and a father who had never been content with less than a hundred and ten percent from his sons.
He knew how that pressure could rule your life. How it could crush your soul if you let it.
He set his gaze on the woman in front of him. “You know better than anyone what you do is as much psychology as it is sport. Master the course in your head and you’re halfway there. Fail to do so and you’re dead in the water.” He shook his head. “If you push Bacchus before you’re both ready, it could end up in an even worse disaster than the one you’ve already been through.”
Long, golden-tipped lashes shaded her eyes. Chewing on her lip, she studied him for a long moment. “Was your grandmother a show jumper?”
Meu Deus. He gave himself a mental slap for revealing that much. He’d thought it an innocent enough reference at the time with Ms. High and Mighty goading him, but it had clearly been a stupid thing to do. Proof he liked to live close to the edge.
“She competed in small, regional stuff,” he backpedalled. “Nothing at your level. She gave it up to have a family. But she had a way with horses like no one I’ve ever seen.”
Her expressive eyes took on a reflective cast. “My mama was like that. Horses gravitated to her—it was like she spoke their language. They’d do anything for her in the ring.”
Zara Hargrove. Alejandro knew from his grandmother she had died in a riding accident at the height of her career. Which would have made Cecily only a teenager when she’d lost her... Tough.
He ran a palm over the stubble on his jaw, hardening his heart against those dark bruised eyes. “You will figure this out. Bacchus will come around.”
Her lips pursed. “I hope so.”
She fed Bacchus another handful of cereal. He pulled his gaze away from the vulnerable curve of her mouth. Dio. She was the enemy. It might be guilt by association, she might have been trained to be a Hargrove, but she was one nonetheless. He was nuts to be standing here trying to solve her problems.
He knelt beside Bacchus’s hind leg. “Show me where he tore the tendons.”
She squatted beside him and ran her hand down the horse’s leg. “Here.”
“Difficult spot.” He wrapped his fingers around the tendons and very gently worked the leg, massaging the sinewy flesh until it eased beneath his fingers.
“Can I try?” Cecily asked.
He nodded and dropped his hand.
She wrapped her fingers around the horse’s leg, kneading his flesh. But her touch was too tentative, too light to do any good.
“Like this.” He closed his fingers over hers to demonstrate, increasing the pressure. The warmth of her hand bled into his, a fission of electricity passing between them. Heat flared beneath his skin. Her breath grew shallow. He inhaled her delicate floral scent, so soft and seductive as it infiltrated his senses with potent effect. They may have had a rocky start, she might be the enemy, but his body wasn’t registering either of those facts, consumed with a sensual awareness of her that clawed at his skin.
She turned to look at him, eyes darkening. “Have you ever thought of doing this for a living? You’re very good at it.”
“I’ve thought about it.” He responded as Colt Banyon, professional drifter. “But I like to travel too much. Maybe someday I’ll settle down and get my own place.”
She
