The Sheikh Doctor's Bride. Meredith Webber
eau de horse.
‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your tour of inspection. I’ll tag along behind in case Mum needs anything.’
She slid past the men, telling herself not to look at faces, but how could she not just sneak a peek now she was closer to Mr Handsome—fine-cut features, a long aquiline nose, cheekbones as sharp as razors, lips—best she didn’t check out the lips …
She couldn’t help glancing up as she passed him, drawn by something more than his expression. Drawn by something she didn’t really understand, though it felt vaguely like attraction. Think about the disdain, she told herself, although perhaps it was disgust, not disdain, probably because of the pervading odour of horse that hung around her?
Could she dash up to the house and shower? So she wouldn’t smell like horse if she was close to the man again? Was she mad? Attracted to a man like that? And, anyway, she couldn’t leave the party now.
Not really, not if Mum might need her.
Or Billy.
Where was Billy?
The ache that rarely went away, tucked into a corner of her heart—the ache that was Billy, gentle, sensitive, slow-to-develop Billy—reminded her of the problems that lay ahead.
Face troubles when they come, girl, she remembered her father telling her, and although he always took the words a little too literally, she felt somehow comforted.
Ibrahim had paused by a half-open door and was talking quietly to the inquisitive gelding who’d poked his head out of his stall. As far as Kate could tell, the visitor wasn’t speaking English but the horse seemed to understand him anyway and was nodding and holding his head sideways for a hard rub.
‘Shamus is Tippy’s—Dancing Tiptoes’s—older brother—full brother, doing well in local two-year-olds’ races.’
The young horse shifted his attention to Kate’s mother and nuzzled her neck as she explained.
‘You’ve tried him in the city?’ asked one of the entourage—the taller one who’d failed to hide his disdain.
Sally Andrews shook her head.
‘Since …’
She faltered and Kate, who knew exactly how huge a strain this meeting was on her mother, stepped in.
‘Since my father died two months ago, my mother hasn’t wanted to travel far,’ she said, speaking directly to the man who’d asked the question, meeting the challenge in his eyes that seemed to peer right into her soul. ‘And logistically it’s difficult. One of our stable hands was killed in the same accident, so we’re short-handed even with me here.’
The questioner’s eyes, dark as obsidian, studied her intently.
Suspiciously?
She shook off the tremor of unease his look had caused and concentrated on the main man—Ibrahim.
‘So, should I purchase Dancing Tiptoes and wish him to run in the best races, I will have to find another trainer?’ Ibrahim asked.
He was standing so close to Sally he must have seen her reaction, and noticed Kate reach out to steady her mother.
Obsidian Eyes certainly had; he missed nothing.
Which might explain, Kate decided, why he, of all the entourage, made her feel so uncomfortable.
‘Come and meet him,’ she said, determined to ignore the stranger. ‘There’s no point in discussing training arrangements if you don’t like the look of him.’
But who wouldn’t? she thought, and her gut clenched as the ramifications of losing Tippy spun in her head.
It was inevitable that Billy would be down in the paddock with Tippy, running alongside him as if they were a pair of the same species.
‘My son, Billy,’ Sally said, and Ibrahim nodded.
Kate, whose eyes had gone to Ibrahim’s face as soon as she saw Billy in the paddock, realised that the man had seen and understood a difference in Billy—seen, understood and accepted! An empathetic man!
Bother the man who was making her uncomfortable, Ibrahim was the boss. It was he who’d decide.
Sally’s whistle had brought Tippy to the fence, Billy following more slowly, his natural caution with strangers holding him back.
Or did he understand more about Tippy’s future than Kate and Sally realised?
Sally had thrust her hand into the capacious pockets of her trousers, but Ibrahim was faster, producing from the pocket in his immaculate pinstriped suit a small, rosy apple.
‘I may?’ he said to Sally, who nodded and tucked the sugar lumps back into her pocket.
Tippy studied the stranger almost as warily as Billy had, then threw his head back and snorted before lowering it to lip the apple delicately off the man’s hand.
‘He likes apples best of all.’ Billy had come gradually closer and now stood beside the horse, his too-thin face radiating the love he felt for the animal.
‘I do, too,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Where I live it is hard to grow apples, so when I come to your country I eat as many as possible.’
‘Where is it that you can’t grow apples?’
‘A place called Amberach, far across the sea. A very small place compared to Australia.’
‘Did you come here in a plane?’
Kate was aware of her mother’s tension returning. Once involved in a conversation, Billy could talk for hours. Should they cut him off?
She glanced at Ibrahim, who showed no sign of impatience—no sign of anything except, she rather thought, simple kindness.
‘Yes, I came on a plane.’
‘Next to horses I like planes best. Dad always said one day I could go on a plane with the horses, but Dad died, you know.’
‘Yes, I did know that,’ Ibrahim said gently, while Kate held her breath.
Please, don’t offer him a plane ride, especially if you don’t mean it.
But Ibrahim’s attention was back on the horse—or was he diverting Billy?
‘Would you run him again for me?’ Ibrahim asked, and Billy whistled to Tippy and the pair took off, Billy understanding what was needed and circling in the middle while Tippy raced around the paddock, his delight in movement lending wings to his feet.
‘A truly beautiful sight,’ Ibrahim murmured. He turned to one of his men—not the tall, disdainful one. ‘He is everything you said he was.’
The man nodded.
‘Would you like a cool drink or a cup of tea or coffee?’ Kate offered, trying to hide the excitement she was feeling, although she knew her mother would be more apprehensive than excited.
Selling Tippy was one thing—the money from the sale would save the stables—but keeping him to train—her mother’s long-held dream—was quite another.
‘First we might walk around a little, see the other horses, the training track and the hill run I’ve heard about. Dancing Tiptoes was bred here—the mare is here?’ Ibrahim replied.
‘In foal again, and with the other mares,’ Sally told him. ‘When they’re pregnant they seem to like the company. We’ll walk this way.’
She led the party, Ibrahim close behind her, Kate and the entourage bringing up the rear.
‘You’d already seen the horse?’ she said to the man beside her—the one to whom Ibrahim had turned earlier.
‘I was at your father’s funeral, then came back here with others,’ he said quietly. ‘I know it is late