Show where she’d be competing in two showjumping events, the main one giving points towards securing a place in the World Cup team. Training her horses up to peak performance level kept her busy and focused on what was important to her.
On the home front she organised a removalist to take the bedroom furniture her mother wanted stored for future use. Jack’s interior decorator came in, took a lot of measurements, had the red carpet taken up and carted away, brought in a tradesman to repaint the walls and promised to notify Sally when the new carpet, curtains and furniture would be installed.
Jack did not contact her personally, nor did she contact him. He knew about the Maitland Show and she had no qualms about loading up the horse truck and heading off for the weekend with Tim Fogarty, who always helped her with the horses on these excursions, feeding them, grooming them, setting up the exercise pen and generally seeing they were ready for her to ride. Tim was in his fifties, an experienced stable hand who’d once worked for a racehorse trainer. There was nothing he didn’t know about horses, and Sally had a comfortable relationship with him, always respecting whatever advice he gave her.
There was accommodation for him at one end of the horse truck and she stayed at a local motel, usually booked out by other riders wanting a bit of social life in between training and competing. This time she planned to keep to herself, avoiding the gossipy crowd and their inevitable curiosity about the outcome from her father’s death. Most of them would imagine she was an heiress, and they’d be all agog if she had to explain her real situation. It was none of their business and she didn’t need that kind of distraction when she was competing.
As it was she had to deal with expressions of sympathy, but the aloof air she maintained protected her from more personal approaches. Until after she won a third place with her second-string horse and George Ponsonby decided she’d be in a more accessible mood with this success under her belt.
She’d no sooner dismounted and handed the horse over to Tim than George pounced, giving her a playful smack on the backside and flashing his whiter than white smile, designed to curl the toes of any female fool enough to fall for his boyish good looks and Casanova charm. Having competed in two Olympic Games, he was a fixture on the showjumping scene, and at thirty, had already been married and divorced twice to heiresses who’d found him cheating on them. Apparently she was his next target, no longer having a protective father in the picture.
“Great seat, Sally! How about plonking it on me tonight? I’m available. Good time guaranteed. Though since you must now be rolling in scads of money, you can shout for the drinks.”
Before she could draw breath enough to pour scorn on his arrogant confidence, another voice cut in, a hard challenging voice that brooked no opposition.
“Miss Maguire is not available tonight. She will be dining with me.”
Jack!
The shock of seeing him kicked her heart and left her mouth agape. George was stunned, too, not expecting to be challenged on what he considered his stamping ground. They both stared at Jack as he strolled forward to claim her company, taller than George and strongly emitting the dark power Sally associated with him—not a man to be thwarted on anything he aimed for.
Did George feel it, too?
He backed off fast. “Sorry. Didn’t know Sal was spoken for,” he gabbled and shot off to find easier game for a roll in the hay.
Jack paused to watch him flee the scene, surrendering the contest without so much as a backward glance, then cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Sally. “Just trying it on, was he?”
She scooped in a quick breath to relieve the tightness of her chest, which was being pummelled by a wild heartbeat. “George tries it on with every woman he fancies,” she answered dryly. “He’s incapable of keeping his trousers zipped.”
“No serious attachment,” Jack concluded.
“Never has been. Never will be with him,” Sally said, shrugging to show the situation with George was totally unimportant and not worth discussing. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
“Came to watch you compete.” His eyes drilled hers. “Am I in the way of some other attachment you have?”
“No. The riders are a fairly incestuous group. They tend to use sex as a bit of relaxation after the heat of competition. I don’t like that kind of meaningless intimacy so I steer clear of it.”
Why she was pouring out this intimate information she didn’t know. Somehow it seemed important for him to understand she was very discriminating about whom she shared a bed with.
“So you don’t sleep around on the showjumping circuit.”
Sexy satisfaction in his voice.
A wave of heat ran through her. “I’m not an easy lay anywhere, Jack,” she flashed at him, suddenly feeling he might be measuring her for his bed and not wanting him to think she would just fall into it with him at his bidding.
He smiled, not the least bit put out by her aggressive statement, amused by her need to make it. “I can get an easy lay any time I want one, Sally. That’s not what brought me to this show today. I simply wanted to see you doing your thing, and I was about to congratulate you on your third place when George’s familiarity with you distracted my intention.”
Confusion swirled over the sexual tension he raised in her. Most probably his interest was simply … interest. Something new. Something different from the life he usually led. She took a deep breath to feed some clearing oxygen into her muddled mind and managed a smile back at him.
“Well you certainly dealt with that effectively. I’ve never seen George so completely intimidated.”
He laughed. “I was offended on your behalf. Not only was the guy a groper but a freeloader, as well.”
Offended.
She looked at him consideringly. “So that was your protective big-brother act?”
“No.” His grin set her hormones buzzing again. “That was me wanting you to myself.” He waved towards the refreshment van. “I thought we could have a coffee together before your next event.”
“I’d rather have a long cold drink.” She was hot, and not just from competing in the show ring.
“Whatever you like,” he said equably.
She took off her riding helmet and ran her fingers through her hair as they moved towards the van. He watched her fluff out the rioting curls with a sensual little smile on his lips.
“Can’t blame George for finding you sexy,” he remarked admiringly. “Your hair is like a beacon on top of that figure-hugging navy jacket, not to mention the fawn pants fitting the bottom half of you like a second skin.”
Which made her acutely aware of her body and its quivery response to his highly male sex appeal, heightened by the black jeans and black T-shirt he wore, the force of his personality making every other man totally insignificant.
“It’s the official outfit,” she answered defensively. “And let me tell you George’s interest is more in my inheritance than me. Except I haven’t got one. And you butted in before I could correct his assumption.”
“Ah! Tricky business having bags of wealth behind you.” His
