Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren
But she felt as though it had been years since she’d talked, really talked, to an attractive man. A man who seemed to care about what she said.
She put a touch of eye shadow on her lids and pulled out her lipstick. She was acting like a young woman on a date. She smiled at her foolishness, doubting that Jamey saw her that way.
By the time the truck rolled in, she had set the kitchen table and poured them each a glass of red wine. The dogs lay on the shabby couch in the living room. The cat lay on top of them.
“Pizza man!” he called from the door. All three animals raced to greet him.
“No pizza for them,” she said. “They throw it up, and besides, I’m starving.”
He set the box on the table, opened it and reached for his wine. “To our first day together. And to many more.”
She felt herself blushing as they touched glasses.
“So, do I suit, lass?”
“Until something better comes along. No, seriously, you’re a godsend and you know it. We need to talk about a decent salary. I was thinking a full groom’s wages plus what I planned to pay Angie Womack to exercise. Plus the free room, of course, if we ever make it habitable.”
He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “You’re a generous woman.”
“You’re doing the work of at least two people, so you should receive the pay. Heck, I’d pay you just to keep Blockhead from yowling his head off all day.”
“Why do you call him Blockhead? He’s got a lovely head.”
“It’s his temperament. At least it was until you got hold of him. My new nephew-in-law, Mike Whitten, had never been around horses or the horse-show business before he met Liz, and he’s sort of ga-ga. And he adores her. He found out quite by accident that the big annual European Sport Horse Sale was taking place so off he went.”
Jamey sat back, laughed gently and shook his head. “And bought the biggest blackest stallion he could. They must have seen him coming. The horse isn’t branded. I’d say he’s what—three, four years old?”
“That’s the thing. Mike refuses to tell even Liz how much he paid, but I suspect it was a bundle. And the horse has no papers—none.”
Jamey sat upright. No papers? That was a bonus. He wouldn’t have to prove forgery.
“Some German farmer brought him to the show, auctioned him and disappeared the moment he signed the bill of sale,” Vic continued. “Without proof of ancestry, Mike can’t even enter him into the American Stallion Provings so that he can be approved as a breeding stallion after he’s trained.”
“It’s high time other countries began to develop their own sport-horse breeds. The Irish do a fair job, but none of their horses are consistent enough to compete with the Europeans. The French are fairly successful, but a new breed registry requires a prepotent foundation stallion that’ll sire a line of horses as fine as he is—” Jamey stopped speaking abruptly and looked at her.
“Well, go on. I agree with you. How do you propose to do that in one lifetime?”
He grinned sheepishly. “It’s all theory. Too much for a saddle burn like me.”
“Still, it’s a good idea. It would be fun to be a part of something like that.” She reached across to the kitchen counter and snagged the wine bottle. “Another glass to go with the last piece of pizza?”
“Thank you. And tonight I clear away.”
“Be my guest. I’ll make us some decaf.” She was aware of his eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen. She found herself holding her stomach in.
As she set his cup before him and slid back into her seat, she said, “Marshall told me you’d had a run of bad luck lately.”
He froze with his good hand halfway to his lips and stared at her over the rim with narrowed eyes. “What else did he tell you?”
His voice was hard and flat.
She stammered, “Th-that’s all, really. Something about losing your brother?”
He set the cup down and closed his eyes. When he opened them a millisecond later, he’d put his pleasant expression back in place. “Killed in an automobile accident a couple of years ago south of Lyons in France while I was in hospital with this.” He held up his gloved hand. “Along with my wife.”
She realized she wanted him to be unencumbered by wives, fiancées or even casual girlfriends. Unlikely.
She said, “I’m so sorry. Both of them? At the same time?”
“They were in the same car. Mine, as it happens.”
“While you were in the hospital? In Scotland?”
“Yes. Let’s drop it, shall we?”
“I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anybody waiting for you now in Scotland?” Vic felt a jolt. Of course he’d have a wife at his age. Did he have a second wife now? Someone waiting patiently for him back in Oban? She’d never asked.
“Indeed there is.”
Her heart fell.
“My father’s brother, Hamish, the stereotypical big braw Scotsman, and my mother’s brother, Vlado, who is about half as big and twice as feisty. They’re keeping up the place while I’m gone. And as many relatives as there are grains of sand on the beach at Dover.”
No wife, then. Or none he planned to tell her about. She sighed in relief.
“So, boss-lass, do you have a deck of cards?”
She laughed. “Sure. You play gin?”
“Two-handed poker. It’s early yet. We could play for matchsticks if you’ve got ’em.”
“We could play for a penny a point if you prefer.”
He shook his head.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I am a veteran of any number of tack-room poker games.”
“Get the cards and the matchsticks.”
An hour later Vic was down to five matchsticks, while Jamey’s pile threatened to roll off the kitchen table onto the floor.
“Full house,” he said, laid his cards down and pulled the small pile of matchsticks onto his side of the table.
She tossed hers down. “Two lousy pairs. Shoot! How do you do that?”
He leaned back in his chair, hooked his good hand in his belt, and smiled a lazy smile at her. “I could win this place off you before morning if I had a mind to.”
“You’re cheating. You’ve marked the cards somehow.”
“No. The cards aren’t marked. Do you know what a ‘tell’ is?”
“No idea.”
He leaned across the table and gently touched his index finger to the left corner of her mouth. “Every time you bluff or draw to an inside straight or try to fill a flush, you poke the tiniest bit of your tongue out the corner of your mouth.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, yes, you do. And when you think you’ve got a pat hand I cannot possibly beat, you hold the cards straight up like this,” he demonstrated, “and take a single deep breath before you bet.”
She felt the flush start around her toenails.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Those are your tells, sweetheart. I could tell you were lying across a crowded room if you were talking to the Queen of England.”
“Dammit!” She reached over with both hands and scooped up his matchsticks, then bolted out of her chair and into the living room waving her clenched fists above