room’ hired for the night’s event, arranged by America’s richest horse owners.
Smooth, sleek lines of chrome and black dropped away at the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Washington Square Park and the surrounding area. Purple NYU flags hung from buildings and a few brave souls were risking hypothermia out in the snow-covered streets, revelling or hurrying towards whatever party or group they were out to join before midnight.
A smartly dressed waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes, a small piece of strawberry the only adornment to the alcohol. Francesca grabbed two glasses, thrust one into her hands so quickly she nearly dropped it, and Mason watched, shocked, as Francesca took a third before allowing the waiter to move on.
Francesca consumed the entire contents of the first glass in one mouthful before placing it on a side table, and flashed Mason a beaming grin before returning to sip from the second. Her eyes locked on to something over Mason’s shoulder, a whispered excuse trailing behind in the wake of a speedy departure. Mason turned to find Harry, their trainer, making his way towards them...or, well, Mason at least.
‘You doing okay?’
‘I’m...acclimatising,’ she said and smiled at her father’s old friend, before taking a sip of champagne. It was expensive, but not very nice.
‘You’re doing better than Joe would have.’
‘No.’ She smiled ruefully, thinking of how he might have behaved amongst these people. ‘Pops wouldn’t have acclimatised to this very well.’
Harry grinned. He was a large man, who smiled deeply, laughed heartily and trained his jockeys to within an inch of their lives. ‘This is an opportunity for you to meet some of the horse-racing syndicates that may take you on in the future.’
Confusion marred Mason’s brow. ‘I thought you were happy with O’Conner.’
‘I am, and I’m looking forward to the first race of the season, but that doesn’t mean I, or you, will be riding and training for him for the rest of our careers. You never know, you could be riding for one of the people in this room within the year.’
Mason turned to scan the room with different eyes. This time she saw people forging connections, not just small talk, not just flirting, but making investments in their future. As her eyes traversed the room, they caught on one particular figure at the edge of the crowd, his elbow leaning against the bar, at least a head taller than those around him.
Power. Raw and untamed.
It was the first thought she had, the moment her eyes rested on him. Although his body cut a lazy figure, seeming almost bored in the way his head leant to one side, there was something leashed about him. Tension thrummed through his body, vibrating at a pitch she was surprised those about him couldn’t feel. She could. All the way from the other side of the room.
Dark, thick hair fell in slight waves around a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a marble statue of perfect male beauty. Skin smooth over his brow, deeply tanned, the colour of the darkest whisky and just as tempting. High cheekbones perfectly captured her gaze, and for a moment she just stared. A trace of stubble on his firm jaw made the palms of her hands tingle, made her want to reach out and feel the texture beneath her skin, made her want to hear the sound of it rasp against her.
She cursed herself for the foolish thought, but couldn’t pull her gaze away. He seemed to be listening to a group of men, but something told her that he wasn’t really paying attention. It was his eyes. They weren’t focused on the man speaking, but somewhere over the man’s shoulder. Then he turned his head slowly, not scanning the room, not aimlessly wandering, but, deliberate, clear, and directed straight at her. His eyes caught hold of her gaze, and refused to let it go.
The burn of a blush against her cheeks was instantaneous. She dropped her eyes, shocked by the spark of electricity that had hissed and snapped its way up her spine, across her skin and into her chest. She chanced a glance back towards the man who had incited such an extreme reaction, only to feel it all over again as her eyes joined his once more.
A gasp?
Had she really gasped?
She turned to Harry in an attempt to sever the connection, but Harry was gone and she was standing alone. Now the blush was one of pure embarrassment. She must look to him exactly what she was—a country bumpkin, or ‘hick’, as Francesca had remarked earlier.
That was when she heard a uniquely feminine laugh from somewhere near to the man who had run a lightning streak through her. Of course. When she looked back, she saw that Francesca had joined the circle of awe around the figure whose eyes were no longer on Mason, but on her beautiful, laughing friend.
‘Hey.’ A familiar voice called for Mason’s attention.
Scott was making his way towards her on slightly unsteady feet. How had he managed to drink so much already? ‘I hate these things,’ he complained.
Mason let out a huff of air, thankful for the distraction offered by the trainee jockey from whatever had just happened. No, she wasn’t naïve enough not to know what it was, but it was certainly the first time she’d felt anything like what she’d read in the romance books that were the only thing her mother had left behind.
‘Not really my thing either,’ she said, turning the half-drunk glass of champagne around in her hands. She made a face at the thought of the alcohol, probably warm now, and put it on the table next to Francesca’s discarded, empty, glass.
‘Wanna get out of here?’
‘The bus isn’t coming for at least another three and a half hours, Scott.’
‘Fresh air. There’s a balcony that wraps around the back of the building.’
Resisting the pull of one last glance at the man, reluctant to feel that punishing spark once more, she took the arm that Scott had offered and let him lead her from the room.
* * *
The American girl’s laugh was grating on what little nerves Danyl had left. The whole evening had been a bust. He was beginning to think that perhaps he should have returned to Ter’harn, to his parents... Until he’d caught sight of the little brunette over in the corner. He’d felt her gaze on him across the room. It was as if a flame had licked across his cheek. In the three and a half years he’d been in New York for his degree and masters in business and international relations, he’d not felt anything like it. But he knew what it meant. And it usually came with a giant neon sign saying STAY AWAY in capital letters.
But, despite the warning, he hadn’t been able to break the connection. She was petite, tiny even, in comparison to his near six feet and four inches, but every single inch of her spoke of strength. Her skin, sun-kissed and lightly tanned, even in the depths of this New York winter had warmed him all over. And his fingers itched to run and play in the sweeping curls of her long hair the colour of burnt sugar. Sweet, the taste on his tongue imaginary and expectant, but as sure as if he’d just eaten a single caramel.
Within one distracted moment, she’d disappeared and he wondered if it was for the best. Danyl looked at his watch. Perhaps he should head back to the embassy. Surely there would be more life in their end-of-year party than this. A morgue would beat this. At first, the thought of having all of America’s best racing syndicates in one room sounded fantastic. A chance to research what had only been a briefly mentioned idea by Antonio
