on, Demetri. I bet on you, and it’s even odds. That’s not interesting.”
“I’m not the favorite this time. Giovanni Marcusi is racing for McLaren. He’s put in a new Mercedes engine, 770 bhp. It’ll burn the paint off anything close. That alone should bring him in first on the pole. And he’ll probably take the podium, too. I want a private bet. You and me.”
Hugh looked at him, a wily glint back in the blue eyes. “For what?”
Demetri braced his hands on the table, feeling the momentary thrill course through him. He knew what drove Hugh. A lot of the same things that drove Demetri.
More. Everything was about more.
“If I win, you’ll take my winnings. Give them to Thomas to put in the stables. An interest-free loan. Payable when the Quest horses are racing again.”
“What if you lose?” asked Hugh.
“Bite your tongue. But if that happens, you sell me Leopold’s Legacy.” Demetri backed away from the conference table and watched the old man, waiting. Demetri knew his limits. He knew his capabilities. On Sunday’s race, Giovanni was going to lose. No matter what it took.
“I think we’re getting the better part of this deal. The horse can’t race.”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Hugh.”
Hugh smiled. “You’ve been practicing that line, Demetri, haven’t you?”
“It’s a bet?” asked Demetri, holding his breath.
Hugh nodded once. “You’re on.”
On Wednesday afternoon, Elizabeth moved her things from the Prestons’ into the Seelbach Hilton Hotel in Louisville and began rehearsing with her band at a little bar near the college. The place had not only great acoustics, but the ability to keep a secret, as well. There were times that Elizabeth went gunning for the fame—mainly when she needed something—but most of the time she yearned for a regular life without all the flash-bulbs blinding her, without all the reporters shoving a microphone in her face and without all the gossip columns making up wild-hair stories about her.
Ten years ago, when she was just starting to get noticed, she hadn’t thought much about walking the straight and narrow path, and keeping her nose clean; she didn’t have time for breathing, much less having fun. But then something happened. In a world where absolute fame corrupted absolutely, Elizabeth became the exception, and Tobey, being the smart man he was, had told her that she could milk her virginity all the way to the top, and so she had. As a cautious and prudent person, it hadn’t been hard up to now. As a rule, Elizabeth didn’t take chances. Not with her career, and not with men. She frowned—which she’d been doing a lot recently—because Demetri was making her think hard and long about her principles.
Yeah, her principles were a good bit of Pollyanna idealism,and a lot of wanting to believe that there was only one man for her, but there was also the sexy allure of putting a roof over her head, and food on the table. For Elizabeth, home and security meant everything.
Someday, when the restlessness inside her stilled, she was going to buy a little place in Woodford County, Kentucky, and spend her days watching the sunsets, drinking lemonade and learning to quilt. But for now, every morning she jumped out of bed ready to tackle something new, like next week’s concert, the continuing debate on the album cover with the art department at Five Star and the one thing that she tried to avoid thinking about. Singing at the race on Sunday.
The main reason she wanted to avoid thinking about it was that from Mr. Demetri Lucas, car driver extraordinaire, she had heard exactly zero words. Not that she was expecting to. Not that she was sitting by her hotel room phone waiting for his call, or even a bill for the car damages. No sir, Elizabeth wasn’t going to wait for any man, no matter how much he stirred her blood, or no matter how much he affected her songwriting skills.
Pitifully, instead of robbing her of things to sing about, now she had tons of things to sing about. Songs with a brand-new tone. Something sultry, wicked and knee-wobblingly sexy. Of course that had absolutely nothing to do with Demetri, nothing at all.
If she kept telling herself that often enough, eventually she’d start to believe it.
The band, of course, noticed. Her “band” wasn’t really a band in the proper sense of the word. There was Rebecca Townsend, who sang backup. Tobey had found her singing in an old bar in Nashville when she was only seventeen. Calder Jones was the bass guitarist, a big strapping man who was pushing sixty, although he told everyone he was just a more mature-looking twenty-nine. Peter Sanderson was the keyboard magician who had the fastest fingers that Elizabeth had ever seen. The four of them had been playing together for almost five years, and although it was a mostly professional relationship, that didn’t mean that Elizabeth didn’t want to hear about Rebecca’s man troubles, Calder’s grandkids and Peter’s latest man troubles, too.
After rehearsal on Thursday, Rebecca trapped Elizabeth in the tiny ladies’ room, her eyes sly with suspicion. “What’s up with the new song?”
Elizabeth pretended ignorance, because she knew what Rebecca would say if she spilled any of the truth. “Frank gave it to me.”
Rebecca’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Tobey said you wrote it.”
Elizabeth swallowed, but bravely climbed deeper into that hole she had now dug. “Are you calling me a liar?” she asked, hands on hips.
“Yes,” answered Rebecca, not even a little ashamed to be casting such aspersions on Elizabeth’s character.
So Elizabeth promptly changed the subject. “Tell me about this new fellow you’ve been seeing.”
Now, Rebecca was born and bred in Virginia, so there wasn’t much that sailed past her. “Only if you’ll tell me about the inspiration for the new song,” she answered, not budging an inch.
Elizabeth didn’t want to talk about the inspiration for the new song. She didn’t want to think about the inspiration for the new song. She didn’t even like being inspired, which was saying a lot since she made most of her money as a songwriter.
There’d been almost a week of sleepless—or nearly sleepless—nights when she imagined she was still dancing with Demetri around the Prestons’ dance floor. She had memorized that blood-thumping gleam in those warm eyes, and every time her brain fired up the memory—which was often—she felt those deviously persistent tendrils of desire that were curling all through her insides, whipping around and, for all intents and purposes, making mush of her brain.
It was a low moment for a woman who secretly prided herself on her good sense, and quietly laughed at all those people who thought she was a dim bulb who fell off the turnip truck at regular intervals. Not about to confess her deepest shortcomings, Elizabeth prudently kept silent.
Rebecca humphed. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me. Me, the person you work with day in, day out. Me, who has toured the last twelve months with you, sharing after-concert French fries, when Calder and Peter refused because it was bad for their hearts. Me, your friend. You don’t have to say a word, you keep those secrets all to yourself, but I’ll be watching….”
“There’s nothing to tell,” answered Elizabeth, wishing the words from her new song weren’t whirling in her head. So easy to fall into the dark pull of desire, to sell my soul for what I see in your eyes…
