Millions to Spare. Barbara Dunlop
clasp of her leather purse “…take a little test of your saliva. It won’t hurt a bit.”
She pawed her way past her wallet, lipstick, comb and a little loose change. The Thoroughbred in front of Millions to Spare twitched. Julia automatically shrank back, her stomach clamping down and her mouth going dry. A kick in here could cause a disaster.
Finally, she located the cosmetic bag and her cotton swabs.
“We can do this,” she crooned to the horse. “You and me, Millions to Spare. Then nice Dr. Phillips will tell us who your father is.”
She carefully inched her fingers along the horse’s cheek, pulling gently on the bottom lip, stroking the cotton along his gums.
Millions to Spare snorted and pulled his head away. But Julia had succeeded.
She carefully wrapped the swab then tucked it back in her purse, giving Millions to Spare a final pat. “Good boy.”
Just then, the truck’s diesel engine rumbled to life.
The horses all shifted, shaking the trailer, and pitching Julia into the wall.
Sucking in a breath, she pushed herself back to standing. She ducked under the barrier, coming abreast of the middle Thoroughbred. Intent on the side door, she was determined to jump out before the truck got rolling. As long as no one happened to be looking in the rearview mirror, she’d be free and clear.
But the middle horse shifted again, canting its hip, knocking Julia sideways and pinning her in a groove of the molded metal wall.
An unladylike swearword burst out of her, and she scrambled to regain her footing.
She gave the horse a firm shove.
It didn’t budge.
She shoved harder.
The trailer lurched and rolled forward.
Julia smacked the horse sharply on the rump.
It shook its head, but its hindquarters stayed planted against the center of her chest.
Panic threatened, but she fought it down.
She could breathe. Sure, they were moving now, but they would have to stop soon. There’d be intersections and red lights between here and Cadair Racing. All she had to do was get free and make her way to the side door.
Then she’d wait for an opportunity, hop out and hail a cab.
She groaned, shoving impatiently at the horse’s rump one more time.
Nothing.
Okay. Deep breath. This wasn’t a disaster. It was just your typical investigative reporter stuff. She’d be laughing about it later tonight with Melanie and Robbie—over a glass of Merlot and a really big lobster tail. Thank goodness alcohol was tolerated in the international hotels in Dubai, because she was going to need it after this experience. The Thoroughbred’s hip bone was leaving a mark.
The bumps and bruises of polo made it a young man’s sport.
Not that Lord Harrison Rochester was old. And at age thirty-five, he wasn’t ready to give up polo just yet. But as he watched from the sidelines, Jamal Fariol galloped fearlessly down the field at Ghantoot, close to the line, bent nearly sideways in his effort to turn the play. Harrison involuntarily cringed. Another inch and the boy would go tumbling under the hooves of his opponent’s horse.
But Jamal didn’t lose his seat. He connected with the ball and pulled up on his reins. There was a cheer of relief from the crowd as the ball bounced its way down the field and the horn sounded.
Harrison watched the young men sit smooth in their saddles—strong and eager as they headed for the sidelines, a new generation full of energy and idealism. His grandmother’s words echoed insistently in his mind.
“Brittany Livingston is the one,” she’d said for the hundredth time. “I know it. What’s more, you know it yourself.” She’d shaken a wrinkled finger in Harrison’s eyes. “Mark my words, young man, you’ll regret it to your dying day if you let someone else swoop in while you dillydally around.”
Harrison had responded that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have children with Brittany or anyone else. He acknowledged that marriage was his duty. But he reminded her that duty came after the fun was over, and Harrison was still having plenty of fun.
Still, as he watched the boys on the field this evening, he couldn’t help thinking about children and fatherhood and his own mortality. If he was going to have children anyway, he might want to do it while he was young enough to enjoy them.
Jamal was fourteen now, his father, Hanif, only a few years older than Harrison. On the sidelines, Hanif’s face shone with pride as he watched his son gallop off the field to switch horses between chukkers. The lad was limping from an earlier fall, but he gamely leaped up on the new mount.
“Impressive,” said Harrison, speculating, probably for the first time, on the pride of fatherhood.
“Kareem is the same,” Hanif offered, his chest puffing as he referred to his twelve-year-old son. “Both of them. Robust like me.”
“That they are,” Harrison agreed, toying with the image of Brittany’s face. There was no denying she was attractive. She had a sweet smile, crystal-blue eyes and a crown of golden hair. She was also kind and gentle, a preschool teacher. There’s wasn’t a single doubt she’d make a wonderful mother.
The match started up again, hooves thudding, divots flying, the crowd shouting encouragement.
Testing the idea further, Harrison conjured up a picture of Brittany in a veil and a white dress, walking the nave at St. Paul’s. He could see his grandmother’s smile and his mother’s joy.
Then he imagined the two of them making babies. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her. Unlike Hanif’s sons, nobody would describe Brittany as robust. It would be sweet, gentle sex, under a lace canopy, beneath billowing white sheets, Brittany’s fresh face smiling up at him—for the rest of his natural life.
Which wouldn’t be so bad.
A man could certainly do worse.
And there was a lot Harrison could teach sons or daughters, not to mention the perfectly good title he had to pass on.
Jamal scored, and Hanif whooped with delight.
Harrison clapped Hanif’s shoulder in congratulations. Making up his mind, he pulled out his cell phone and pressed number one on his speed dial.
“Cadair Racing,” came the immediate answer.
“Darla please.”
“Right away, Lord Rochester.”
A moment later, his assistant Darla’s voice came through the speaker amidst the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to add a couple of names to the guest list.”
“Of course.”
Harrison’s stomach tightened almost imperceptibly. But it was time. And, fundamentally, Brittany was a good choice. “My grandmother and Brittany Livingston. There shouldn’t be any security concerns.”
“Certainly. I’ll send out the invitations right away. By the way, the French ambassador accepted this morning, and so did Colonel Varisco.”
“That’s great. So are they back?”
“The horses are en route now. Ilithyia placed and Millions to Spare won.”
“Not bad,” said Harrison, nodding to himself.
“Brittany Livingston?” asked Darla, the lilt of her voice seeking confirmation, even though she knew full well what the invitation had to mean. In her midthirties, single, yet hopelessly romantic, Darla made no bones about the fact she thought Harrison should find a suitable wife.
“You