on earth did she have to laugh about? Luc was distinctly irritated by the faint lyrical sound emanating from his stableyard, which was usually a place of hushed industry in deference to the valuable livestock. It could only be coming from one person, the newest addition to his staff: Nessa O’Sullivan.
Her brother had stolen from him and now she laughed. It sent the very insidious thought into Luc’s head that he’d been a total fool. Of course she was in on it with her brother and now she was inside the camp. It made him think of the Trojan Horse and he didn’t find it amusing.
He cursed and threw down his pen and stood up from his desk, stalking over to the window that looked down over the stables. He couldn’t see her and that irritated him even more when he’d deliberately avoided meeting her since her arrival, not wanting to give her the idea that their extended dialogue the other night would ever be repeated. Now he was distracted. When he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
He’d only just managed to convince Gio Corretti that the slight delay in money arriving to his account was due to a banking glitch.
Luc’s reputation amongst the exclusive thoroughbred racing fraternity had been on trial since he’d exploded onto the scene with a rogue three-year-old who had raced to glory in four consecutive Group One races.
Success didn’t mean respect though. He was an anomaly; he had no lineage to speak of and he’d had the temerity to invest wisely with his winnings and make himself a fortune in the process.
Everyone believed his horses were better bred than he was, and they weren’t far wrong. The rumours about his background merely added colour to every other misconception and untruth heaped against his name.
But, as much as he loved ruffling the elite’s feathers by making no apology for who he was, he did want their respect. He wanted them to respect him for what he had achieved with nothing but an innate talent, hard work and determination.
The last thing he needed was for more rumours to get around, especially one suggesting that Luc Barbier couldn’t control his own staff. That he’d been stupid enough to let one million euros disappear from his account.
Even now he still felt the burn of recrimination for finding Paddy O’Sullivan’s open expression and infectious enthusiasm somehow quaint. He should have spotted a thief a mile away. After all, he’d grown up with them.
Luc tensed when he heard the faint sound of laughing again. Adrenalin mixed with something far more ambiguous and hotter flooded his veins. Nessa O’Sullivan was here under sufferance for her brother—and that was all. The sooner she remembered her place and what was at stake, the better.
* * *
‘Who were you talking to?’
Nessa immediately tensed when she heard the deep voice behind her. She turned around reluctantly, steeling herself to see Barbier for the first time since that night. And she blinked.
The skies were blue and the air was mild but, in that uniquely Irish way, there seemed to be a mist falling from the sky and tiny droplets clung to Barbier’s black hair and shoulders, making him look as if he were...sparkling.
His hands were placed on lean hips. Dark worn jeans clung to powerful thighs and long legs. He was wearing a dark polo shirt. The muscles of his biceps pushed against the short sleeves, and the musculature of his impressive chest was visible under the thin material.
He couldn’t look more virile or vitally masculine if he tried. Nessa’s body hummed in helpless reaction to that very earthy and basic fact.
‘Well?’
Nessa was aghast at how she’d just lost it there for a second, hypnotised by his sheer presence.
She swallowed. ‘I was just talking to one of the grooms.’
‘You do realise you’re not here to socialise, don’t you, O’Sullivan?’
Tendrils of Nessa’s hair escaped the hasty bun she’d piled on her head earlier, and whipped around her face in the breeze. Her skin prickled at her reaction to him and irritation made her voice sharp. ‘It’s hard to forget when I’ve been assigned little more than a cell to sleep in and a pre-dawn wake-up call every day.’
She was very conscious of the unsubtle stench of horse manure clinging to her. And of her worn T-shirt tucked into even more worn jeans. Ancient knee-high boots. She couldn’t be any less his type right now.
A calculating glint turned his eyes to dark pewter. ‘You assured me you were accustomed to hard work and you did offer your services in the place of your brother—if this is too much for you...’ He put out a hand to encompass the yard around them.
Nessa stiffened at the obvious jibe. He was clearly expecting her to flounce out of here in a fit of pique. And yes, the work was menial but it was nothing she hadn’t done since she’d started walking and could hold a broom. That, and riding horses. Not that he’d believe her.
She squared her shoulders and stared him down. ‘If you don’t mind, the yard has to be cleaned by lunchtime.’
Barbier looked at the heavy platinum watch encircling his wrist, and then back to her. ‘You’d better keep going then, and next time don’t distract my employees from their own work. Flirting and gossiping won’t help your brother out of his predicament or make things any easier for you here.’
Flirting? For a second Nessa’s mind was blank with indignation when she thought of the groom she’d been talking to—a man in his sixties. But before she could think of anything to say in her own defence, Barbier had turned his back and was walking away.
In spite of her indignation, Nessa couldn’t stop her gaze following his broad back, seeing how it tapered down to those slim hips and a taut behind, lovingly outlined by the soft worn material of his jeans. He disappeared around a corner and Nessa deflated like a balloon. She turned around in disgust at herself for being so easily distracted, and riled.
Feeling thoroughly prickly and with her nerves still jangling, Nessa turned the power-hose machine back on and imagined Barbier’s too-beautiful and smug face in every scrap of dirt she blasted into the drains.
* * *
‘She’s totally over-qualified, Luc. She’s putting my own staff to shame, doing longer hours. I shouldn’t even be saying this but the yard and stables have never been so clean.’ Luc’s head groom laughed but soon stopped when Luc fixed him with a dark look.
‘No, you shouldn’t. Maybe you need new staff.’
Simon Corrigan swallowed and changed the subject. ‘Can I ask why we’re not paying her? It seems—’
‘No, you can’t.’ Luc cut him off, not liking the way his conscience was stinging. He was many things, but no one had ever faulted him on his sense of fairness and equality. But only he and Pascal Blanc knew what was behind Paddy O’Sullivan’s sudden disappearance, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Nessa had been working at his stables for a week now. She hadn’t turned tail and run or had a tantrum as he’d expected. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—standing in the yard the other day, her back as straight as a dancer, face flushed, amber-green eyes bright and alive. That soft lush mouth compressed. Long tendrils of dark red hair clinging to her hot cheeks as she’d obviously struggled
