That was one of the great things about Charles’ old place, aside from the views. Its location down near Circular Quay was so darned convenient.
Rico hadn’t exited the underground car park and driven more than a block before realising that having the top down on his car was downright uncomfortable. The day was not a picture-perfect spring day, unlike yesterday, which had been lovely and warm.
As he grudgingly zapped the top up on his car, Rico told himself that the grey skies were not an omen of the day ahead, just typical of Sydney in early September. He still marvelled how the Sydney Olympics—which had been held in that same month—had been blessed with such consistently magnificent weather. Most of the time you never knew what you were going to get in spring in Sydney till you stuck your head out of the window in the morning. Relying on the weather forecast the night before was as silly as thinking Renée was actually going to say yes to his asking her out today.
Rico still could not believe he was actually doing this. Talk about masochistic!
But all the self-lectures in the world were not going to change his mind. Rico had always believed in going after what he wanted, at least till it was irrevocably certain that he could not have what he wanted, such as a career on the stage. Then and only then did he move on from such a goal, putting his energies into something more attainable.
So till Renée looked him straight in the face and said no way, José to going out with him, Rico harboured some small hope that he might succeed in his mission improbable. He even managed to convince himself during the brief drive over to Randwick that he had a reasonable chance of success.
After all, the merry widow had no permanent partner. If she had, such a partner would surely have accompanied her to the races sometimes. Yet she always came alone. Added to that was the interesting fact that, except on the rare occasion she’d gone overseas on a business trip, she always showed up to play poker on a Friday night. What woman involved with, or living with, some man would be so consistent?
Not that Rico imagined for one moment Renée was leading a nun-like lifestyle. She had to have had men friends since becoming a widow. Lovers, in other words. It had been over five years after all, far too long a time for a woman like her to have spent every night alone.
For some reason—possibly self-protection—Rico hadn’t given much thought in the past to whom Renée actually slept with. Suddenly, this subject was the sole focus of his brain. After discarding all sorts of scenarios from secret affairs with married men to one-night stands with commitment-phobic divorcees, he decided she probably enjoyed strictly sexual flings with the toy-boy variety, selected from the huge stable of young male models who were contracted to her modelling agency.
Rico could easily see Renée in that kind of relationship. She would always want to be the boss, to always be on top.
The thought of her being on top of him did things to his body which hadn’t been done so swiftly or so savagely since he was a teenager. He winced then tried to rearrange the bulge in his trousers to ease his discomfort, but it was a lost cause. Nothing was going to solve his problem, nothing except full body contact with Renée.
As Rico turned into the Randwick street where Ward’s home and stables were located, he vowed to succeed in making Renée go out with him—and go to bed with him—even if he had to sell his soul to the devil to do so!
The sight of her blue BMW parked at the kerb right outside Ward’s front gate gave Rico’s black resolve a momentary jolt. She was there, waiting for him to make a fool of himself. No escape now, not unless he wimped out. And Rico was no wimp.
For a split-second the car-lined street almost gave him an excuse to drive on, to forget this insane mission. But then a gap presented itself in between a silver Jag and a dark blue Merc. Ward’s owners were not short of a dollar. With a resigned sigh, Rico expertly angled his Ferrari into the rather tight spot and cut off the engine.
After a glance at his watch—it was getting on for one—he dragged himself out from behind the wheel, slammed the door and zapped the immobiliser. Almost as an afterthought, he checked his appearance in the side-mirror, finger-combing his messy hair back from his face before frowning at the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. He never shaved on the weekend—something Renée had no doubt noticed in the past—so he hadn’t wanted it to seem as if he’d been sprucing himself up specially for her.
Still, given he was planning to ask her out—view full sex at the end of the night—this now seemed a stupid train of thought. Totally…utterly…stupid! Which meant he was running true to form. Once Renée came into the equation in anything he did, off went his head and on went a pumpkin.
But faint heart never won fat turkey, Rico reminded himself doggedly. Or the hand of the fair lady. Not that he wanted to marry the merry widow. He wasn’t that crazy! All he wanted was a few nights in her bed, after which he was sure that this perverse sexual obsession he’d been suffering from these past five years would burn itself out.
He didn’t love her. Lord, no. No way! What was there to love? She was no better than Jasmine, really. Just another hard-nosed, hard-hearted, mercenary madam who specialised in making fools of men, namely him.
With that charming thought in mind, Rico slid his hands into the pockets of his black trousers and walked somewhat reluctantly back up the street to Ward’s establishment, throwing Renée’s BMW a testy look as he passed by. She must have been the first guest to arrive to get such a prize spot.
Rico stood for a moment at Ward’s front gate, staring blankly up at the trainer’s very stylish two-storey home and trying to get his brain into gear. All the owners would have finished visiting their horses by now. They’d all be inside, tucking into the champers and caviare. All except…Renée.
More than likely she’d still be at the stables, fussing over their syndicate’s most expensive purchase to date, a three-year-old black colt which they’d bought from Ali as a yearling but which had gone seriously shin-sore during his first preparation and been turned out to mature. He’d been back in training for a few weeks, and Ward’s PA had told Rico on the phone the other night—the notoriously taciturn trainer rarely spoke to owners in person over the phone—that Ebony Fire had come back a treat and was working the place down. No doubt Lisa had relayed the same news to Renée.
Although Rico knew surprisingly little about Renée on a personal basis, he knew how she felt about the horses she owned and part-owned. She loved them. Loved being around them. Loved touching them and talking to them. On the couple of occasions that he had come to an open Sunday prior to today, Renée had been difficult to pry away from the stables.
‘I don’t come here to eat,’ she’d snapped at him once when he’d suggested going inside for lunch. ‘I come here to visit with my horses.’
Rico smiled wryly at the memory. Oh, yes. She would not have gone inside yet. He was sure of it.
Which was a comfort. The prospect of propositioning the object of his desire in privacy was infinitely preferable to doing so in a roomful of people where others might hear her hysterical laughter. This way, he could keep his humiliation to himself.
Scooping in a deep and hopefully calming breath, he spun on his heels and headed for the side-path, which bypassed Ward’s house and led round to where the stables were located at the rear of the property. At the end of this path was a gate which was always manned by a security guard. Today’s man was called Jed, a big, beefy fellow who knew all of Ward’s owners by sight.
‘Afternoon, Mr Mandretti,’ Jed said as he opened the gate to let Rico in. ‘You’re running a bit late.
