Stable Mates

ZARA STONELEY

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2014

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Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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This one is for you, Mum! xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Tippermere

The Residents of Tippermere

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon From Zara Stoneley …

Zara Stoneley

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Tippermere

Welcome to tranquil Tippermere, set deep in the Cheshire countryside. Home to Lords and Ladies, horsemen and farmers.

Set on the highest hill, keeping a close eye on the village and its inhabitants, lies Tipping House Estate. In pride of place is the grand Elizabethan style mansion, sweeping down in front of her are immaculate gardens, well-kept parkland and rolling acres that spread as far as the eye can see.

Follow the stream down to the flat below, and nestling between copses and lakes, you find Folly Lake Manor and the sprawling grounds of the bustling Equestrian Centre. The country lane in front wends its way between high hedges to the village green, the church and two village pubs. Then fans out into tributaries, follow them further and you find a small eventing yard, a scattering of country cottages and rambling working farms.

Take the road north eastwards, travel on a few short miles and soon the elegant village of Kitterly Heath unfolds before you - a village whose origins were recorded in the Domesday Book. At one end of the ancient high street a solid 14th Century church stands sentry, with an imposing school at the other, and all around sprawl the mansions old and new that house the rich and famous…

The Residents of Tippermere

Marcus James - millionaire businessman owner of Folly Lake Manor and the Equestrian Centre at Tippermere. Recently deceased.

Amanda James – the grieving widow. Elegant and understated, delicate and demure.

Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Brinkley – disorganised but loveable daughter of Billy. Desperately seeking something, if only she knew what.

Rory Steel – devilishly daring and sexy three day eventer, owner of a small eventing yard in Tippermere.

Tilly – head of the terrier trio that accompany Rory everywhere.

Billy Brinkley - Lottie’s father. Former superstar show jumper, based at the equestrian centre.

Victoria ‘Tiggy’ Stafford – dog groomer and some-time groom for Billy. As friendly, shaggy and eternally optimistic as a spaniel.

*

Philippa ‘Pip’ Keelan – headline hunting journalist. Trim, sophisticated and slightly scary. Recently moved to Tippermere, from London, in search of real life and real men.

Mick O’Neal – expert farrier, Irish charmer, dangerously attractive.

Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe – owner of Tipping House estate, lover of strong G&T’s. Meddler and mischief maker. Lottie’s gran, Dominic’s mother.

Bertie & Holmes – Elizabeth’s black Labradors.

Dominic Stanthorpe - dressage rider extraordinaire. Uncle to Lottie, son of Elizabeth, slightly bemused and frustrated by both.

Tom Strachan - sexy ex-underwear model. Divorced, devastated but amazingly dishy. Recently made his ‘escape to the country’ with his goth daughter.

Tabatha Strachan – teenage daughter of Tom. Horse mad, but suitably unimpressed by most other things.

*

David Simcock - England goalkeeper, resident of the neighbouring Kitterly Heath.

Sam – partner of David. Lover of dogs, diamonds and designer delights.

Anthony Simcock – property developer father of David.

*

The horses – too numerous to list

Chapter 1

‘I think he’s dead.’

Rory Steel had been enjoying, in his semi-conscious state, a particularly gratifying dream where he was just about to clear the last cross-country hurdle that stood between him and the gallop down the home straight, when his mobile had started to buzz like an irritated hornet inches from his ear. He’d picked it up automatically, horse suspended mid leap.

‘Shit, you’re kidding.’ The horse dissolved, along with his dream of a perfect round, as he sat bolt upright. Something he instantly regretted as a sledgehammer came into contact with his skull and church bells started ringing in his ears. ‘Fucking hell.’ As he sank back on to a soft pillow, clutching his throbbing head, Rory briefly wondered if the caller had been making a pronouncement of his own demise, then decided that was rubbish. It hurt too much.

And he could see faint outlines in the dark that surrounded him, and surely death was a total blackout? He prodded his temples experimentally and decided his head probably wasn’t about to disintegrate in a bloody mess. But, where the hell was he?

From somewhere in the general direction of his feet came an indignant disembodied voice, which meant he hadn’t flung the phone far. Now all he had to do was find it, without causing himself grievous bodily harm.

Rory put an exploratory hand out. And came into contact with skin; soft, warm skin that definitely wasn’t his own. And it all came flooding back with clarity. He was in a horsebox, crammed into the bulkhead bed, with a tin roof only a foot or so above him. Which explained the ringing in his ears. And he was with Lottie.

‘Bugger off.’ She pushed his hand away, her voice groggy with sleep.

‘I was trying to find the light switch.’

‘Not heard it called that before.’

The phone was squawking, more desperate by the second, from its mystery location.

‘What’s that funny noise?’ The words came out on a yawn as Lottie stretched, groaning as her foot came into contact with the wall.

‘My mobile.’

‘Well bloody answer it.’ She rolled over and buried her head under the pillow, and his hand shifted to the dip in her waist. Drifted down to her hip. He liked Lottie’s hips.

‘Proper child-bearing hips these.’ His fingers tightened, in sympathy with other parts of his body.

‘Huh, you mean big.’ She didn’t sound as drowsy now, as she swatted at his hand again and shifted onto her back. ‘And don’t you dare go back to playing with my boobs. Answer the phone.’

‘I can’t find the bloody thing in the dark, can I?’ He groped further down her body, which earned him a slap, and finally his fingers closed around the lump of hard plastic. Just as Lottie flicked the light on. She was shaking her head at him.

‘You’re hopeless.’

‘And you’re just so fuckable.’ He blew her a kiss and stared openly at her naked body. He’d missed a lot of things about Lottie while she’d been gone, but that glorious body had been his first thought when he’d heard she was heading back.

In fact, Lottie’s uninhibited nakedness had probably been what he had fallen in love with in the first place. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he’d found someone even more disorganised than he was, and he’d found her need to flee the country even more incomprehensible. But when it came to bed, and her body, her complete lack of hang-ups made her irresistible.

‘Who is that? Who’s there?’ The voice in his ear had moved on from hysterics to a mix of suspicion and brittle annoyance and he half wished he’d prolonged his ‘find the phone’ game, who knew what it might have led to?

‘It’s me of course, who the hell do you think it is? Who’s that?’

‘There is a chance, darling…’ Lottie straddled him, which was no mean feat given the headspace, and his cock hardened in anticipation. He could ditch the phone right now, straight out of the window. She reached forward, those perfect breasts bobbing against him; he could already taste her kiss. Except he couldn’t. She’d grabbed the phone and was waggling it in front of his face.

‘Hang on, that isn’t my bloody phone.’

‘Exactly.’ She giggled and fell sideways.

‘Hello? Hello? You’re not—’

‘Pip.’ Rory stared at the bright pink phone in disgust. ‘Hell, I forgotten I’d ended up with bloody Pip’s phone again, why the fuck does she keep walking off with my mobile?’ Pip was lovely, Pip was totally, one hundred per cent organised when it came to work, and a shambling mess when it came to everything else. And this was the third time in a week she’d picked up his mobile by mistake and walked off with it. Which left him with hers.

‘Why don’t you keep it in your pocket, like everyone else?’ Lottie was regarding him through big green eyes, her head cradled in her hand. Mussed up hair in a tangle round her face. A very kissable face, and he just knew that mouth would taste of sex. He leaned forward, just as she put a hand out to his chest. ‘Rory, you’re on the phone remember?’

He sighed. ‘I’d rather be on you.’

‘Shush,’ she giggled, ‘she can hear you.’ He made a move to chuck the phone back down the bed, but she grabbed it from him before he had chance.

‘Hello?’

He trailed a finger over her slightly rounded stomach and was rewarded with a slap. ‘Stop it.’

‘I can’t. You’re irresistible, especially when you’re cross.’

‘You’re not Pip, either.’ He could hear the voice, sharp, on the other end of the line.

‘Nope. It’s Lottie. Pip has got Rory’s mobile, her number—’

‘I know what the number is, thank you.’

‘Hey, is that Amanda? Hello? Amanda?’ Lottie dropped the phone on his chest and flopped back. ‘Well thanks to you too. She’s bloody hung up on me.’

‘I’m hung up on you.’ He stroked a finger down one of the forbidden breasts, over the peak of a nipple. ‘So, fancy a bit of mounting practice?’

‘What time is it?’

Rory sighed and held his wrist up so she could see his watch. ‘I really don’t know why you haven’t got a watch.’

‘I lose them, or drop them in water buckets. And they leave tan lines.’ She stretched perfectly bronzed, unmarked arms out in front of her and squinted again at his watch. ‘You do know your class starts in an hour?’

Oh yeah, that was what he was doing shacked up in the crummiest horsebox that Billy Brinkley owned. With the man’s daughter. They’d got to the showground and hit the whiskey and an uncomfortable, cramped bed with the long-legged shapely Charlotte had, in his drunken haze, seemed a far better bet than the comfort of the hotel that the horse’s owner had booked for him half a mile up the road.

‘And Flashy needs a good half hour work-in unless you want to exit over the judge’s car like she did last time.’

‘Well you better shift your arse hadn’t you gorgeous?’ He gave the bum he quite fancied fondling a shove with his foot. ‘I can’t exit anywhere with you in the way.’

Three minutes later the horsebox door was open and Rory Steel stood in nothing more than breeches and boots, surveying the showground. There was an early morning spring nip in the air that did nothing to clear his head, nor did the sight of already gleaming horses being walked out.

His two least favourite aspects of the world of eventing he competed in were dressage and small events like this. Unfortunately, Flash didn’t approve of dressage either, so he’d been forced to take the sensible route and bring her to a smaller dressage competition. The other competitors would hate him, because they knew who he was, and considered it jolly bad form to compete at a lower level. And he’d hate every minute because there was a good chance the stroppy little mare would play up like the prima donna she was and make him look a prize dick.

Hot Flash had been named well, though as far as he was concerned it was more Hot Flush, she was as temperamental as a menopausal woman. Not that he’d known that many, but the image of his mum at fifty stuck in his mind. She’d developed a temper worse than his dad’s had ever been. Which was going some.

‘Are you going to just stand there showing the world your abs, or let me get past so I can get her ready?’

‘I’d rather have just lain there actually.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and could swear his head was literally throbbing. ‘Christ, was that whiskey you were plying me with last night bootleggers’ stuff?’

‘Probably. You know me, anything to get you into bed.’ She grinned, which made her even more shaggable, and he couldn’t resist kissing those full lips, sliding his hand round onto her firm bum so he could pull her closer.

Lottie wriggled her way past him. ‘Are you going to ride dressed like that? Try distraction techniques so no one notices what a crap test you’ve done? I can see the headlines now,’ she waved her hands in the air ‘Rory Steel, the fearless eventer, beaten by a bunch of Cheshire WAGs.’

‘Piss off.’ His foot missed her bum by inches as she jumped down the steps laughing. It beat him how she managed to get up so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when they’d spent the evening getting slaughtered and the night getting shagged.

***

It wasn’t until Lottie was grooming the laid-back Flash that she remembered the phone call. If Pip had been calling first thing in the morning, it wouldn’t have seemed strange, Pip had been shadowing Rory’s every move lately. But it was Amanda. And that was just weird. Pip did horses, didn’t think anything of getting up before the birds had started tweeting to get a horse ready for a show. But Amanda was a lady of leisure, well at least that’s how the rest of Tippermere saw her. Marcus made the millions, and his beautiful wife spent them. His extravagance had been to buy Folly Lake Equestrian Centre and sponsor one or two of the riders who frequented it, but his lovely wife had zero interest in the centre, the horses or even the riders. Which was a constant source of amazement to Lottie. If she’d been married to the slightly portly and very bossy Marcus, she’d have felt entitled to eye up every single fit horseman at close quarters as a consolation prize, but the only time she’d ever spotted Amanda down at the stables was when she’d been searching out her errant husband – who had no qualms about mentally undressing every groom and female rider on the yard. Lottie reckoned he was totally shameless; he’d have shagged anything with a pulse. Even the podgy dishevelled Tiggy, or the bad-tempered Fliss.

Maybe Amanda was frigid? But she didn’t seem like that; she’d been a bit of a laugh at the parties they’d held in Folly Lake Manor, or Follyfoot funny farm as Rory and his mates often referred to it. To them it was a majestic home for misfits, to others, like Billy, her father, it was a necessary evil in the village.

Either way, Marcus and Amanda were regarded with amused suspicion by some, and as generous benefactors by others. But everyone agreed they threw a bloody good party.

Maybe, Lottie thought, Amanda had married Marcus for his money, and he’d married her for her looks and that was it. A shiver ran down her spine as Flash nibbled at her collar.

‘Now you are going to behave for Rory, aren’t you?’ She knew how much he hated events like this, but Flash desperately needed some smaller venues to persuade her that dressage arenas weren’t inhabited by lions. The mare was a dream in the stable, and had a jump as big and brave as her heart on the cross-country course, with flicking heels that respected the flimsy show jumps, but in the vast emptiness of the dressage arena she was like a firecracker about to go off. Lottie knew how she felt. It was like being dropped on a fashion runway in uncomfortable shoes and being told not to trip up, not that she knew much about fashion shows, but she imagined it was the same. Hushed silence, everyone watching and an acre of space poised to make a fool of you.

But in the few three-day events Rory had entered her, the cricket score of the dressage section had meant any hope of being on the leader board was doomed. Even when the fiery, fearless chestnut jumped out of her skin in the other two phases of the competition.

Lottie dropped the white pad and elegant black saddle onto the mare’s iridescent back just as an out of tune whistle announced Rory’s arrival.

‘Some of those plaits look like a poodle’s topknot.’

‘You’re very lucky you didn’t have to do them yourself, mate.’ She bent down to tighten the girth and took the time to admire his toned thighs on her way back up. ‘I’m only here because there wasn’t anything else to do, and if I’d stayed on dad’s yard for another five minutes I’d have screamed and hightailed it back to Barcelona.’

‘Why go all the way to Spain, when I’m here?’ His lazy gaze drifted over her body as the soft drawl made its way straight between her thighs. Charlotte loved Rory for many reasons, his sense of humour, easy-going nature, fit toned body, but most of all because he didn’t mean a word he said. No expectations. Just fun. Which was exactly what, she’d decided, she needed after leaving her shit of a boyfriend on a Spanish beach and heading reluctantly back to Cheshire, because she had nowhere else to go. When Lottie had left Tippermere, one of the reasons (and there had been several) had been Rory and his complete inability to take anything, including relationships, seriously. But now she was back she’d concluded that it was actually a bonus.

‘Because it’s sunny there and no one gives a damn about Billy bloody Brinkley, and,’ she paused in her list of some of the other reasons as she got to the crux of the matter, ‘there aren’t any horses.’ Which was, she told herself, why she’d run first of all to Australia, then somehow ended up in Barcelona after hooking up with an adventurer who had itchier feet than she had. Todd.

It was slightly ironic that in the search for a soul mate who didn’t want to be tied down, or committed to anyone or anything, she’d managed to end up with a serial adulterer who also happened to be a bigamist. Spreading it around was bad enough, but the arrival of a platoon of police armed to the teeth, on the beach of all places, had been the ultimate in humiliation. It wasn’t like she’d even had her best bikini on. Todd the hunter could, as far as she was concerned, go screw himself. Which might be the only option left if he got deported from Spain and stuck in the slammer.

‘How boring.’ Rory grinned and ran a large, capable hand through his messy curls before checking the girth. ‘What the fuck do you do then, apart from drink?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Now, do I risk working her in and scaring all the other riders out of the warm-up area, or shall I just enter at A?’

Knowing Rory as she did, she guessed it was probably a rhetorical question, but answered it anyway. ‘And exit three seconds later?’ She patted the docile Flash, who was looking like a tired donkey. ‘I suppose it might give you a chance of getting in the top twenty if you manage to scare all the others off.’ She worked on keeping a thoughtful face, but one glance of the sexily frustrated look Rory shot at her tickled her somewhere deep down and brought a grin to her face. It was hard to stay serious with him around, you either laughed with him, or, as he was so funny when he got angry, you had to laugh at him. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, call yourself a horseman, you could put a baby on her.’ She gave the mare a dig in the ribs as the horse was now resting a leg, and leaning half a ton of horseflesh against her. ‘Come on you old nag, let’s go bust some balls.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about, busting mine.’ Rory gave the mare a hearty slap on the rump as they walked out of the stall past him and flicked some shavings out of the long tail. ‘Call yourself a groom.’

‘No, I don’t actually. Remind me not to come to your rescue again you ungrateful sod.’

Lottie watched as he buttoned up his jacket and straightened the cravat. He was the type of man she couldn’t resist coming to the rescue of. One flash of that wicked grin and she came running like a bloody lapdog, well like his army of terriers. Which reminded her… ‘Are the dogs okay in the back of the lorry?’

‘They were trying to dig a hole in the floor when I left them, hope the floorboards are more solid than the rest of that rust bucket.’

‘At least that rust bucket,’ Lottie tried to look haughty and was pretty sure she’d failed, ‘is one up on your posh purple passion wagon, which wouldn’t even start.’ The wagon was nothing like the lorry that had been gifted to Rory by one of his rich owners, who liked only the best for their darling horse. But it was the only thing Billy would lend her. This one didn’t have shiny livery, full kitchen area, shower and double bed. It had space for three horses at the back, a narrow tack room with just enough room to swing a very small cat in the middle, and an ‘almost double bed’ squashed above the cab.

‘I suppose well used and dirty,’ he winked at her, ‘but in full working order, is better than immaculate and good-looking but can’t rise to the occasion.’

She followed his line of sight, straight to the upright and correct figure of her uncle, Dominic Stanthorpe. Dressage rider extraordinaire, or so a certain gushing woman’s mag had once labelled him. ‘Are you having a go at Uncle Dom again? And how do you know he can’t rise to the occasion?’ She raised an eyebrow, then held up a hand as he opened his mouth to answer. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t go there. I don’t want to know what the latest trailer trash gossip is. I like Uncle Dom.’

‘You like everyone, darling. Which is why you call so many shits your friends.’

‘And are you one of those many shits?’ She checked Flash’s bridle as she spoke, straightening the bit, running a finger along the curb. Trying not to be concerned whether he answered or not. ‘Maybe you should try her in a hackamore?’

‘Maybe I should put my name on the suicide watch.’ His tone was dry. ‘And no, Charlott-ie,’ his firm, dry lips came down lightly over hers, ‘I try not to shit on my own doorstep.’ He pulled down the stirrup leathers and Flash, who’d gone back to resting a leg, nearly fell over as he landed lightly in the saddle.

Lottie grinned as they staggered sideways. ‘Never seen a half pass performed half-mounted before. Can you do them when you’re in the saddle too?’

‘Smart-arse.’ Rory gave her the finger and straightened his hat. ‘Maybe you should let the dogs out, might be a good distraction.’

She smiled and dropped a kiss on the mare’s velvet soft nose, breathed in the horsey smell. ‘Try and stay in the ring this time darling.’ Flash snorted in response, not a good sign, her nostrils flaring until she could see the pink lining.

‘What the fuck is he doing here in this backwater, anyway?’ Rory was still staring suspiciously over in Dom’s direction.

Lottie shrugged. ‘Gran probably told him, so he could keep an eye on us.’

‘Oh great, so we trek all the way out here where nobody can witness my death and Elizabeth goes and spreads the word to the whole county. I wondered why it was so bloody busy.’

‘You’re exaggerating, about the whole county and about your death. Stop being such a prima donna.’

***

Rory and Flash were early in the running, which was a bonus as the patch of grass set aside for warming up was quiet. If they were jumping, it didn’t matter how many other horses were around, Flash had the poles to concentrate on and everything else faded into insignificance. Given an obstacle-free area though and the horse seemed to think someone was waiting to plan a surprise, suspicion traced its way through every muscle in her body and anything from another horse to a spectator’s hat was guaranteed to wind her up.

However much she teased him, Lottie knew Rory was a good rider, and so did he. He was strong from eventing, a sport not for the faint-hearted or weak-bodied, but his muscle tone was long and lean rather than the short, compact build that her show-jumping father sported. And he didn’t seek to dominate, which was a saving grace when it came to a horse like Flash. He sat quietly, confidently, long legs wrapped around her – holding her in a safe embrace. When Flash spooked, he didn’t react, his body going with her, his hands giving but firm.

Lottie’s gaze was locked onto him. She couldn’t help but watch him. He might not portray quite the picture of elegance and control that Dom did, but it was almost like he was part of the horse. His body adapted, flowed in response, shifting like he had to do during the wild cross-country rollercoaster of twists and turns, ups and downs. She flicked her gaze from Rory to Dom and back again, so different and yet so the same. And yeah, Dom was so controlled, so distant almost, in contrast to the fiery ball of energy that was Rory, that she could see why each regarded the other with suspicion.

To Dom, Rory was a wild child with no respect for his own safety, and no style. The latter probably being the most injurious to his fine sensibilities. He distrusted the man’s apparent casual attitude to women, was wary of his easy sense of humour and cavalier approach to life. And to Rory, Dom was too prim and proper, totally unbending and most likely gay. Which was quite an accomplishment given his parentage and upbringing.

Lottie grinned as Flash fly-bucked and Rory did a good imitation of a rodeo rider, waving one arm in the air. She could almost feel the waves of disapproval emanating from Dom on the other side of the area. But whatever they said, she was pretty sure they admired each other in some weird, indefinable way.

The judge’s car horn went and Lottie checked the running order. She signalled at Rory, next in, and saw Flash’s ears flicker in what could have been warning or anticipation.

Enter at C, working trot was the official first line of the dressage test. The fact that Flash entered was in fact a bonus, but there was nothing that suggested ‘working’ and only a smattering of ‘trot’ in what followed. She danced in a zigzag combination that involved trot, canter and an amazingly good pirouette. Lottie could have sworn Rory closed his eyes briefly as he silently willed the horse down the centre line.

The next few instructions on the test would have been a mystery to even an experienced onlooker. The ten metre circle resembled a broken egg and the extended trot, which should have been a thing of controlled beauty, would have been brilliant put to music – the type of music that is played as background to firework displays. Lottie realised she was humming the 1812 overture in time to the fly bucks and heel kicks, whilst Rory sat strangely calm on top of Flash, resigned to his fate, like he was hacking out the quiet nag she’d appeared in the stable. They really excelled when they came to the flying change, for a moment they seemed suspended in the air as Flash decided whether to paddle desperately in an attempt to fly into hyperspace, or give up and come back to terra firma.

Lottie covered her eyes and peered through her fingers, half expecting them to come crashing down in a heap of tangled legs, and then, miraculously, as the mare’s hooves hit the ground she seemed to calm down. Maybe it was because she’d had that sensation of jumping, and it had switched her mad chestnut brain on to automatic, but something happened. She flew through the next few movements, finished the test with the kind of perfection that instilled silent awe, and then carried on flying – straight out of the ring, narrowly missing the judge’s car and scattering the onlookers who’d come for a quiet day out to watch the horse world’s answer to ballet.

Rory grinned and dropped the reins as the steward jumped out of the way, clipboard flying straight at the judge’s secretary whose hat went one way and cup of coffee the other, splashing a passing Great Dane, who, with a yelp of surprise, headed off in the opposite direction, towing his surprised teenage owner, baseball cap askew, with him.

Lottie started giggling, then glanced up to find Dom had ridden over and was in front of her, staring disapprovingly down his elegant long nose. Even his horse looked like it took a dim view of the situation. ‘That man really doesn’t do the dressage world any favours at all.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Airs above the ground aren’t normally performed at this level, which even a numbskull eventer like Rory should know.’ He tutted, the horse gave a discreet snort. She tried to keep the laughter in, she really did, but it hurt. Her ribs hurt, her eyes started streaming and suddenly she couldn’t help herself anymore. She let it all out, howling with laughter until she was doubled up and could hardly breathe.

She paused. Aware that Dom and his mount were still stood motionless in front of her. Tiny equine hooves oiled and polished so she could see a whisper of her reflection in them. Took a calming breath and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘He’s not that bad, and you know it.’

Dom shook his head slowly. ‘I think you better go and catch them, don’t you?’

‘They’ll be at the horsebox; Flash always heads for home when she’s upset.’ She blew her nose, which helped a little at calming the hysterics that had been bubbling around in her chest. ‘Christ, I hope she hasn’t actually headed for the main gate, she might really want to get home this time.’

Dom raised an eyebrow even further.

‘Kidding. Honest. They’ll be fine. Oh, good luck.’

‘Thank you, Charlotte.’ She half expected him to add, but there is no luck involved, but he didn’t. He just nodded, although she could have sworn there was a glimmer of a smile chasing across his perfect features as he nudged his horse into a walk. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ he turned in the saddle, almost as an afterthought. ‘Don’t let him break your heart, will you? Men like him are never worth it, believe me.’ Then he gathered his reins and trotted back across the arena.

‘No heart left to break, Uncle Dom.’

***

Flash was, as Lottie had expected, by the horsebox when she got there. Tied to a piece of twine and tugging lazily at a hay net. Happy as an old-age pensioner on a day trip to Brighton.

Rory was sat on the ramp, smoking a cigarette. His jacket had been discarded beside him, the cravat on top of it, his dark curls damp and flattened from the hat. He grinned. ‘What kept you?’

‘Couldn’t keep up.’ She sank down beside him, took a draw on his cigarette and handed it back. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure, but I’d say you were probably eliminated.’

‘I don’t believe in doing things by halves.’

‘Nope. Balls still intact then?’

‘I might have to check on that one, unless you want to do it for me?’

‘It’s a bit public here.’

‘True.’ He took another long draw on the cigarette, blew a smoke ring. ‘I’d sell that horse if she wasn’t such a bloody good jumper.’

‘Maybe next time you should warm her up in the show-jumping ring?’

‘Hmm.’ He stood up, ground out the cigarette butt with his boot and picked up his jacket.

‘Or maybe you should just use her as a showjumper?’

‘And let some idiot like your dad get his heavy-handed mitts on her?’

‘Or maybe you should ask Dom to have a look at her?’

He gave her a look, which she guessed equated to something like, when hell freezes over. Then paused. ‘You can, if you want.’ Which was the closest he was going to get to a yes. He liked the horse, she knew he did. She could be the best on his yard, if she’d do even an average test. And she would be wasted just doing show-jumping. Cross-country was her forte. And the way she’d flown today, even Lottie could see she had paces to die for. Though ‘to die for’ probably weren’t the right words to use where she was concerned.

‘You want to check out these balls then?’

She grinned. ‘Could do, I’m good at medical things like that.’

‘Right, you sort out the Menopausal Madonna and I’ll give the dogs a run before we head back for a full inspection.’

He stepped off the ramp, then held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.

‘Yes sir, Mr Bossy Boots.’

‘Do as you’re told for once.’

‘Hey, don’t forget this.’ She picked up the bright pink mobile phone, which he’d dropped on the ramp next to his packet of fags. ‘You never said, what was Amanda calling about this morning?’

Rory dropped the phone into his pocket, his brow wrinkled as he tried to remember and she fought the impulse to stroke the lines away. ‘Oh, she said he was dead.’ He stared into the distance, still deep in thought. ‘I presume she was talking about Marcus.’

‘Marcus, dead?’

He shrugged, threw open the door of the box and stood back as the three terriers tumbled out.

‘She said Marcus was dead?’

‘Dunno, don’t worry about it, I probably misheard. Be back in a bit, darling. Come on gang.’ And he whistled the dogs up and headed off, surrounded by a whirlwind of white and brown yappiness, leaving a gobsmacked Lottie staring after him, mouth open.

Chapter 2

Philippa Keelan put the brush down and watched as the wagon pulled into the yard. Rory, as male chauvinistic as ever, was behind the steering wheel; Lottie had her long legs stretched out on the dashboard with a terrier balance precariously on her thighs. The second, older terrier was sat sensibly between driver and passenger, and the third one was galloping back and forth along the back of the seat trying to peer out of the windows and barking with excitement at being home.

Pip felt the broad smile spread across her face and knew, deep in her heart, that coming here had been good for her. She’d never thought of herself as a country girl. By the age of fifteen she’d been screaming to get out of the small Welsh village where she’d been unceremoniously ‘dragged up’. But after years of city life, here she was, stuck deep in the Cheshire countryside with a mix of horsey heroes, grumpy farmers and a smattering of WAGs.

From the first day her mother had shoved pencils and crayons in her direction, to keep her out of mischief, she’d been hooked. From the moment she’d learned that the hieroglyphics spread before her made up words, and the words made up a magical mystery story, she’d become an addict. Words and make-believe were far more interesting than the rolling Welsh hills and dirty sheep. Her wellies had been tossed aside in favour of a good book or, as she hit her teens, a girlie magazine. Pip was born to be a journalist, and a damned good one she’d become.

Her move to study in London had been the start of a new life, and apart from returning to Wales for the occasional daughterly duties of birthdays and Christmas, she’d never looked, or stepped, back.

Success had not come cheaply, social life was an enigma as she’d kept her head down and chased every lead and story she’d been offered until she hit the top, her dream job. Interviewing the stars, travelling the world. Pip didn’t want a desk job, an editor’s position, she wanted to write. And write she did. Until she met Lottie on a Spanish beach.

She’d finished an assignment and was spending a couple of days ‘chilling’ as her editor had suggested, well, told her to. But it was a foreign concept and after three hours she’d been champing at the bit to get back to what she thought of as real life, until she’d hooked up with Lottie and her boyfriend. Until she’d listened to the self-deprecating stories that Lottie told about her famous father and her frequent spills from the saddles of his top horses. All of a sudden Pip felt jaded, lost in a sea of words. She needed a reality check. A kick up the arse. Some real people, rather than the endless stream of sycophants and stars.

And so, with the promise that Lottie would find her some work ‘no probs as long as you don’t mind some shit shovelling’, she told her editor she was taking a sabbatical. She agreed to work freelance. And now she was here. With a curly-haired loveable rogue called Rory, the madcap, irresponsible Lottie, who she was sure was desperately seeking security, and a bunch of horses that were more than one step up the ladder from the Welsh ponies she’d been brought up on. Although, as she well knew from past bruises, a Section D cob could be just as hot-headed as a thoroughbred, when it could be bothered to put the effort in.

‘Well, is it true?’ Lottie was out of the cab, pushing the gates shut before the lorry had halted, with the dogs tumbling out after her and fanning across the yard like an army patrol on search duty.

‘Hi, to you too.’ Pip waggled the bottom of her polo shirt to let some air in and wished she had shorts on like Lottie, minus the red-wealed thighs from a wobbling terrier. It had been cool when she’d started work, but now it was surprisingly close for an April day.

She cut a striking figure, but didn’t quite realise the impact she’d had on the men or the place since landing in Tippermere a few months previously. Her neat bob of blonde hair was almost permanently pulled back into a severe ponytail, but it showed off her fine cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and to the onlooker she was the picture of London sophistication, not a Welsh country girl. Which was exactly the image she’d set out to project. Pip always achieved what she wanted, even if her soft tone and seemingly laid-back approach belied it. She had an iron will and the determination of one of Rory’s terriers. Which was how she’d got to the top of her career path and how she kept her trim figure and perfect complexion. Pip worked hard at whatever she did. Quietly. Which scared men off. Completely. Until she’d come here and found that the horsemen that Lottie shared her life with were a hundred miles from the city slickers she’d been sharing her bed and brain with for the last God knows how many years. She hadn’t decided yet if that was a good thing or bad. Here, taking a gentle hint was an alien concept, ‘no’ had to be said very loudly, accompanied by something bordering on GBH. And when they got it, they just laughed and moved on. No fragile egos and over-sensitivity here.

‘Pip, you can be so bloody annoying when you want to be.’ Lottie started to lower the ramp of the lorry with the ease of someone who’d done it a billion times.

‘Says the girl who stood me up last night so she could lorry hop.’

Lottie coloured up. ‘I only went with him because you said you couldn’t. You’re the one who grooms for him, not me.’

‘Touché. Yes, then.’

‘Yes, what?’

Pip jumped as Rory grabbed her from behind and landed a loud smacker of a kiss on her bare neck. ‘Yuk. That is so gross, can’t you keep him under control, Lottie?’ Lottie shrugged, with a grin flickering briefly across her worried features. Control wasn’t something she was overly bothered about. Out of control was much more fun. But Pip took a much more serious and regulated view of life. ‘How did the little firecracker go then?’

‘You got it in one.’ He made a gesture like an explosion and grinned. ‘I need consoling, proof that my manhood has not been tarnished.’

‘I don’t do consolation, betcha Lottie does though.’

‘I thought you could both try?’ He tipped his head on one side and Pip laughed.

‘In your dreams, you dirty boy.’

‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

‘PIP.’

They both stared at the explosion from Lottie, who obviously couldn’t wait any longer for an answer to her question.

‘Looks like she’s getting impatient, bit like me.’ Rory pulled her closer, until the sandpaper roughness of his unshaved cheek brushed lightly against hers and the teasing tawny eyes offered an invitation that she’d been tempted by more than once.

Pip nudged him away. ‘You two deserve each other. Anyhow, what were you doing with my bloody phone again?’

‘It was you that picked up mine. Again.’

‘No, Rory. You were the one who left the yard in such a hurry last night to go off on your magical mystery tour with Lottie and the ginger wonder. I mean, how can anyone confuse this,’ she waggled the bright pink phone in front of him, ‘with this?’ And handed over his black one. ‘I’m surprised you even managed to load the right horse.’

He grinned and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I never mix up my horses. Or my women.’

‘For fuck’s sake, will you two stop talking bollocks and tell me if someone has fucking died?’

Pip sighed. ‘What on earth has got in to you?’

‘Please, just answer the question.’

‘Marcus. Amanda woke up in the early hours to find him stone-cold dead next to her. Well I’m not sure if he was actually cold, but—’

‘Pip.’

‘Okay, okay. She panicked and rang the first person she could think of, which was me. Or, in this case, you, Rory.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I take it you weren’t exactly helpful or consolatory.’

‘She woke me up.’

‘Sure.’

‘And then I lost the phone when I sat up and hit my head, and all I could find were Lottie’s boobs.’

‘Stop. You’re not helping your case.’

‘Marcus is dead? He died?’ Lottie was trying not to jump from one foot to the other in agitation.

‘Yes, Lottie. He’s dead, died, the two tend to be linked.’

‘Christ, Dad will go apeshit.’ Lottie sank down on the ramp of the lorry and cradled her head in her hands. Oblivious to the now stamping Flash who had been expecting release from the confines of the horsebox and to be let out to grass. She looked up, a glimmer of hope still stirring. ‘You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?’

‘Well the funeral is in a week, so someone has seriously cocked up if he isn’t.’ Pip strode up the ramp past the dazed Lottie and started to untie the mare who knew that the competition ordeal was over and she was home. ‘I don’t get what the issue is. Your dad didn’t even like him anyway, did he? None of them did, apart from Amanda of course. Shift over or you might get one of Flash’s specials.’

Lottie slid off the ramp and stood up slowly in front of the bemused Rory. ‘She’ll sell up, she hates horses.’

‘She might not actually hate them, poppet.’

‘You’re right, that’s worse. She doesn’t give a monkey’s.’

‘I don’t get you pair at all.’ With a clatter of hooves and an ear-shrieking whinny that threatened to burst Lottie’s eardrums, Flash came down the ramp and headed for her stable, coming to an abrupt halt when she reached the end of the lead rope, which still had Pip attached. A Pip who had stopped by the anguished-looking Lottie. ‘What’s the problem? Neither of you liked him, did you?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘I mean, you hardly knew him.’

‘I did know him. I saw him at the centre all the time, I used to bloody live there, remember?’ Lottie peered through her fingers. Liking him wasn’t the issue.

‘Well, to be fair, I don’t remember, because I wasn’t here then. But you weren’t pals, were you? You hardly even know Amanda, do you? But you look like one of your nearest and dearest has popped their clogs.’

‘But what if she sells up?’

‘So?’ Pip shrugged, and hauled back on the rope as the mare made a new dash for freedom. ‘Someone will buy it, I mean how many places like that come on the market? That equestrian centre must be worth an absolute fortune.’

‘Exactly. To a property developer.’ Rory caught hold of Flash’s headcollar to avoid her spinning round and knocking the already wavering Lottie to the floor. He understood the look on Lottie’s face, even if Pip hadn’t caught on. ‘If she sells to the first person who knocks on the door, then Billy has lost his yard and facilities, the pony club lose their venue, and the winter dressage and show-jumping competitions are gone forever. The place will be bulldozed and turned into a chavvy housing estate or a country theme park.’

‘Very succinct appraisal. You’re such a snob, Rory.’

‘But what about Dad?’ Lottie’s wail got lost as Rory’s defensive streak kicked in. To Tippermere, the Equestrian Centre was the heart of the village, to Billy it was something far more important. It was his life, and always had been, as far as Lottie could gather, since the death of the one person that had mattered most to him. Her mother.

‘This is Cheshire not bloody Essex, we wouldn’t even be able to hack down the lanes because they’d be snarled up with petrol fumes from 4x4s that are only used for the school run, and The Bulls Head would be renamed The Rampant Cow and serve mojitos and turkey twizzlers to the masses.’

Pip laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate, you sound a right nobby nimby. Anyhow, I’m sure Amanda wouldn’t do anything like that. And aren’t you being a bit selfish? Neither of you have asked how she is, or anything.’

‘How is she?’ Lottie looked up from the piece of hay she’d been frantically tying in knots, her mind still on Billy and what he’d do when he found out. If he hadn’t already.

‘That sounds so insincere Lots, she’s in bits, I mean how would you take it if you woke up and found the love of your life stiff at the side of you? And I mean stiff all over, not just where it matters.’

‘You’re calling me for being insincere and say something like that?’ Lottie dropped the wisp of hay and stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘Do you think he was the love of her life?’

‘Well she was very fond of him, it wasn’t just his wallet, though I’m sure that helped. It was a massive heart attack apparently.’

‘They weren’t? I mean, you know, at it? Do you remember that film where they were and the guy had a heart attack?’

‘I’m off if you’re going to talk films. Here, I’ll take her.’ Rory tugged the lead rope from Pip’s hand.

‘Goldie Hawn wasn’t it?’ Pip grinned. ‘On your way to comfort the grieving widow are you Rory, offer your services?’

‘Well neither of you are interested.’ He gave her ponytail a tug. ‘Maybe she needs a manly shoulder to cry on.’

‘You better shower first, you stink of eau de horse.’

‘Oh, God, you don’t think every man in the village will be making up to her now, do you?’ Lottie was gnawing at the inside of her cheek and looking even more worried than ever, her gaze fixed on Rory, who laughed. ‘It’s not bloody funny.’

‘As neither of you think she likes horses, then I think falling for a man who permanently stinks of manure, is covered in horse or dog hair and spends every waking hour either talking about the four-legged wonders or riding them is not on her bucket list. She’d probably prefer a nice, rich city wanker. Sorry to have to say this, but I think every man that I’ve met in this place falls into that smelly category. Well, every single man within a twenty, no make that thirty, mile radius.’ Pip looked from one to the other and wondered what really worried Lottie more, the fact that Rory might go off to woo the stricken widow, or that her dad could find himself without stables and a yard. But, as seriously sexy and fit as Rory was, she couldn’t imagine the immaculate Amanda falling for his charms.

‘Thank you for the ego boost, darling Pippa.’ Rory gave her a smacker straight on the lips. ‘We can rely on you to bring us down to earth. Love the artistic muck heap by the way.’

‘You noticed.’ Despite herself, Pip grinned. It had taken her half the afternoon to coax the spilling muck heap into some kind of order. And climbing on top of it had left her stinking from sweat as well as horseshit.

‘I thought you were going to see your mum?’ Lottie was staring at her, suspicion lacing the normally clear gaze. ‘Which is why you couldn’t go to the dressage with Rory.’

‘Well…’ She paused. ‘She rang to tell me she was too busy and could I make it next week.’ Which was half true, she had been invited next week, but not instead of today. Today she’d wanted to check out the new arrivals in the village, partly for work and partly because she was curious. And it had been worth missing the sight of Rory being carted unceremoniously through a novice dressage test. Just.

‘So, how did it go?’ She looked at Lottie.

‘You know that Morecambe and Wise sketch—’

‘I’m not that old.’

‘Nor am I, but there are repeats. Every Christmas. The one with the piano, where he says he’s playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order? It was like that. Every step, every transition, but not necessarily in the right order. And some of them combined.’ Lottie was fighting to keep her face straight, but gave up the battle when Pip started to giggle. ‘That horse has paces to die for apparently, and Rory nearly did.’ A full giggle attack hit. ‘Honestly, I nearly wet myself, especially when Uncle Dom came up to pass comment.’

‘Shit, wow.’ Pip glanced at Rory and the look on his face set her off again.

‘You pair are so immature, such giggly girls, aren’t you?’

‘Yup.’

He headed across the yard, the docile Flash keeping step as the terriers circled them at a safe distance.

‘Oh, Christ, it wasn’t really that bad was it? Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’ Lottie sobered up. ‘She was a complete cow for the first half, did a brilliant second part and then spotted a hat she didn’t like and left the arena without using the marked exit. Just missed the judge’s car, but nearly annihilated the secretary.’

‘He’s taken it reasonably well though, hasn’t he?’

‘Reasonably, but no way was I going to argue with him over who drove the lorry back. Good job dad didn’t spot him as we drove through the village.’ Lottie grimaced and tried not to think about the fact that they’d had a very close encounter with a large group of ramblers (which Billy wouldn’t have cared about, as he viewed them in a similar light as he did rabbits: destructive and a waste of space), and an even closer shave with a Lycra-clad trio of cyclists who had made a grab for the wing mirror in retaliation (which he would have been bothered about, as it resulted in a swerve that nearly put a scrape down the other side of the lorry).

‘Talking about to die for, I have just got to tell you who I saw today. I mean after I tidied the yard, exercised all the horses and sorted the muck heap, you know in the ten minutes left.’ Lottie just looked at her. ‘Well ask then.’

‘Amaze me, who did you see, Pip?’

‘Tom Strachan.’

‘Tom Strachan?’

‘You know, you do, you have to. Gosh Lottie you really are buried in this place aren’t you? It’s like being on another planet. Tom. He’s a model, and I don’t mean some airy-fairy gay boy, he is hot. Seriously hot. To die for, even by my standards.’

‘And?’

‘He’s moved in, he’s the guy who has rented Blake House. Thomas Strachan is your new neighbour, Lottie, and,’ she put a hand on Lottie’s arm, ‘he’s just got divorced. I’m telling you, while the guys are consoling Amanda, the girls are going to be hot-footing it over to console the man distraught after his wife cleared him out and cleared off. Get your sexy knickers on girl, because we are going to go on a Tom hunt.’

‘But if his wife left him, then he can’t be that hot, can he? Pip?’

But Pip was already heading off across the yard towards her bright pink moped, which was nearly as striking as her mobile phone cover, and with a sigh, Lottie lifted the ramp of the box back up and with a backwards wave clambered up into the cab.

Chapter 3

Lottie had decided, as she rifled through her drawers, scattering undergarments, that she hadn’t actually got any sexy knickers. There were the lacy white ones that had looked very sexy, in an untouched kind of way, when she’d bought them. But now they looked thoroughly touched, well, pawed, and a very unfetching shade of pale grey after being thrown in the wash with her jeans. Which left the mum pants or the bright red thong which she didn’t often wear as she was pretty sure you could see it through the clinging cream show jodhpurs that she’d had on for its last outing. Well, at least that was the theory after she’d had her bum ogled by more than the normal quota of randy riders.

Exactly why Pip had insisted she accompany her along on the ‘date’ she’d arranged with the ‘to die for’ Tom, she wasn’t quite sure, until she pushed open the door of the rustic bar/restaurant and spotted the willowy figure, bob of blonde hair now perfectly arranged around her elfin features, smiling beguilingly at a tall man and a teenage girl. Or rather, she was smiling at the man, and the teenager was scowling at both of them.

She really must get that appointment at the opticians for a sight test organised, Lottie thought as she squinted, trying to bring him into sharper focus. At this distance he just looked like a normal man, which was vaguely disappointing when she’d spent ten minutes wriggling about on the floor trying to get the two sides of the flies of her jeans to at least approach each other so she could force the zip up. She’d been promised a demi-god and been delivered a half decent human as far as she could see. And she’d spent another frustrating twenty minutes smothering her hair with anti-frizz products, and more time than she should have, trying to work out which of her tops was sexy but not too tarty. Which, by her reckoning, was an hour wasted that could have been spent on doing something else. Like working out whether it was worth joining in with the exercise DVD she’d been watching or whether it should be consigned to the maybe drawer, or shagging Rory in a proper bed. Shagging in the horsebox could be fun, if you were pissed, or desperate, or both. But after the sixth time of banging an elbow or knee it lost a bit of its shine. She must be getting old or boring, or both.

Pip was waving wildly at her, even with her suspect sight she could work that one out. She took a deep breath and headed over to them, holding her stomach in (just in case Tom was in fact better looking from touching distance) and trying to avoid the teenager’s gimlet stare.

Close up, Tom looked like he had from the door, nice but slightly disappointing after the build-up. And his daughter, Tabatha, sent out waves of disapproval and boredom as she studied Lottie’s hair, make-up and clothes and dismissed her as not worth another glance.

‘Tom, meet Lottie, she knows absolutely everything there is to know about horses. Her dad is Billy Brinkley, the famous showjumper.’

Teenage Tabatha had a slightly more interested look on her face now, which could have been down to the way Lottie was squirming with embarrassment, or the mention of her father. Who’d been known for jumping more than just poles. In fact she could vividly remember one particularly cringeworthy headline that had caused even the mild-mannered Tiggy to explode, and left him with the label Billy ‘the bonk’ Brinkley for quite a while after. ‘Star rider jumps Poles, Germans and Swedes in bid to win gold’ had met her at the breakfast table after someone had posted a picture on Twitter of three naked female riders, and Billy in the middle, celebrating success in a Jacuzzi, wearing nothing more than his birthday suit. And then there had, of course, been a rival rag which had tried to go one better with a ‘Bonko Billy’ cartoon which involved a medal round his neck and Stetson on his head as he straddled what Tiggy had termed (none too fondly) a ‘big boobed babe’.

During her painful adolescence her father’s name had hung heavy round her neck. He was everything you didn’t want in a parent, over the top, in the newspapers and available to any long-legged blonde who wanted a man to drape herself over. In other words, famous…or infamous. Billy believed in the work hard, play hard philosophy. Luckily, her stern grandmother, Elizabeth, had been a stabilising influence, assuring herself, and everyone else in earshot, that it was just a bit of fun and was what athletes did. The word athlete still made Lottie cringe.

‘And,’ Pip paused for effect, ‘her Uncle is Dominic Stanthorpe, the dressage rider.’

Tabatha looked almost impressed.

‘And she helps Rory Steel out.’ Pip finished her triple whammy introduction and sat back, looking very pleased with herself.

‘You know Rory?’ Tabatha couldn’t disguise the sudden interest in her voice. Rory was definitely more poster boy material than the other pair, who were positively ancient in the world of teenagedom. Lottie nodded, raised an eyebrow at Pip and sat down.

‘So she’d be the absolutely perfect person to help you out and give Tabatha some riding lessons. Wouldn’t you, Lots?’

Lottie looked from one to the other and wished, not for the first time in her life, that she’d insisted on some facts before agreeing to something. Or at least listened if there had been any kind of explanation.

‘Can you excuse us?’ She’d only just sat down, and not had a sip of drink or bite of food, but the ladies loos were calling.

***

‘But I am not a riding instructor,’ Lottie hissed, hoping that no one could overhear, and that the word not had been loud enough.

‘You do the pony club camp sessions.’ Pip was flicking her hair and admiring the effect in the mirror, which was most unlike her. Although the way she was doing it looked practised, so Lottie concluded that it was just a side to her that nobody in Tippermere had been treated to before.

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’ Flick, twirl.

‘Will you stop that?’ Lottie was finding it distracting, and funny.

Pip stopped.

‘One, they can all ride.’

‘Tab can ride a bit.’ Pout at her reflection. ‘Tom said so.’

‘Two, I only do it because I did a deal with Dad – I take it off his hands and then I can use the horsebox whenever I want.’

‘And for whatever you want. Does he know you’ve turned it into a passion wagon? Talk about pimp my ride.’

Lottie ignored her. ‘And three, you’ve only done it to get in his good books. What are you up to, Pippa? I mean he’s not really your type is he? I thought you’d done all that, I thought you said you were sick of primping pretty boys and wanted a down-to-earth man. Or else why did you come here?’

‘I have and I am, but he is pretty.’ Pip sounded wistful. ‘And rich, and caring. Do you know he’s involved in this dog rescue thing?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ She sighed and wondered what else she didn’t know. ‘But you seem to know an awful lot about him.’ And you fancy him.

‘I did an interview with him last year, which is why my ed. gave me a nudge when she heard he was moving here. He needs a friend, Lottie, and I have decided to nominate myself. We’ve got common ground, know the same people.’

‘What if he moved here to get away from “common ground”? Like you supposedly did? He might just want to be with his daughter and desperate dogs. Or he might have more in common with Tiggy.’

‘What would a well-groomed model have in common with tatty Tiggy?’

‘You can be so mean, I’m sure she’s got a very attractive side.’ Lottie grinned. ‘Dogs. That’s what they have in common.’

Pip, sure that the grin meant Lottie was weakening, pushed on. ‘Oh, go on, give it a go. I bet she’s a lovely girl underneath all that black eyeliner.’

‘She’s a bored teenager.’

‘She is horse mad, Tom said. Which is partly why he came here. He is so keen to get her into the pony club and all that, he wants to give her some stability, and I think he’s loaded, you know. He’s so successful, and,’ she moved closer so if there had been anyone in the toilet cubicles they couldn’t hear, ‘the rumour is that he comes from a mega-rich family, apparently. He’ll probably buy her a pony and sponsor you as well.’

‘You’re like a hound moving in for the kill.’

‘Thank you.’ Pip grinned. ‘So, it’s agreed?’

‘No, Pip. Nothing is agreed. I’ll think about it. Now, didn’t you promise me champagne and a pizza?’

‘Look, it’s not really for me, it’s not that I’m after him, but he’s a lovely guy and I reckon I can spin a whole load of work out of this.’

‘So, it’s business, not pleasure?’

‘Well, there’s no harm in mixing it a bit, is there?’ Pip linked her elegant, long-fingered hand through Lottie’s arm and more or less dragged her from the safety of the ladies washroom.

‘And he’s too old for you.’

‘He looks very well maintained to me.’

***

Tom loved his daughter with a strength that was a constant cause of amazement. He’d been brought up in a household where a father considered his duty was done when he paid for the food on the table and showed up at weekends to eat it. The fact that he’d been genuinely interested in his daughter since the day she’d whimpered her way into his life was a totally unexpected bonus.

When he’d married the heartbreakingly beautiful Tamara (as the press coined her), there had been a flicker of hope in his life that had outshone everything to date. Someone finally loved him, cared about the same things that he did, he finally had someone to share his life and future with. And then he’d found out that ‘breaking’ was the key word in Tam’s life, not ‘heart’.

The spectacular wedding that she had orchestrated had been bank-breaking, but he’d agreed. After all, whereas for him, constantly in the spotlight, a quiet wedding in an idyllic location would have been perfect, he appreciated that for her the wedding was a highlight, her moment of glory. And how could he refuse? She was like a beautiful pedigree cat, gorgeous, demanding but loving and cajoling to the point of suffocation. Tamara wanted to be pampered and adored, naively he’d thought that was temporary, not an integral part of her make-up.

The wedding was just the start. When Tam had said ‘I do’, she was launching herself into what she’d always desired – a glamorous lifestyle. The unspoiled beauty wanted to be spoiled, big time. After all, Tom was a sought-after model, he was sent designer clothes daily, and tickets for every movie premiere, theatre performance and nightclub opening. He should have been perfect. They were the most attractive, in demand couple of the decade. They would live a jet-set life and have fun. Or so Tamara had assumed.

He couldn’t blame her for getting frustrated by the reclusive bore he longed to be. Whatever his father had failed to give him in terms of time and loving, he couldn’t avoid passing on his genes. He was a banker, he thought things out logically and planned for the future. And that DNA was passed on to his son, along with his wife’s attractive features and willingness to please. Tom wanted to please his adorable wife, but he couldn’t keep up with the demands. Away from his work he needed downtime, needed to slow down and imbue his life with structure. He wasn’t a rich, good-looking playboy, he was a guy who rescued sick animals and liked a long country walk to help him unwind.

No, Tom couldn’t blame Tamara for falling out of love with him, but he could blame her for hitching up with his manager, fleecing him and then disappearing off to Spain. But out of the whole fiasco there had been a divine gift. Their daughter. And the fact that her mother, his ex-wife, was as disinterested in Tab as his father had been disinterested in him was, as far as he could see, a bonus. True, he did believe that a child needed its mother, but Tamara was no more mature than a sixteen-year-old herself, and her lifestyle choices were not ones he’d want inflicted on any daughter, let alone his. He would never stand in their way if they wanted to spend more time together, but at the moment, from his perspective, the fact that they were in different countries was more of an advantage than a disadvantage.

Coming to Tippermere had been a move he had not consulted his daughter about, and so far she had not been impressed, but he knew he could win her over. The village could be good for both of them. No, not could, would. And whilst he had some misgivings about the media-happy Philippa, he was convinced she was the answer to many of the current questions life posed. The main one being, how to convince his daughter that this backwater was a taste of heaven?

He watched the two girls make their way back to the table. The slim, well-groomed, efficient-looking Pippa who would have blended in effortlessly on one of his shoots. Confident of her own abilities, the type who would manage your diary, massage your ego and add an efficient dose of sex into the mix if you both needed some stress-relief. Lottie looked an altogether different cup of tea. She had the toned body of an athlete and the bronze sheen of a sun lover – he found himself wondering about the presence or absence of tan lines. Sex with Lottie, he’d hazard a guess, would be messy and fun, not that he was going to get involved with anyone out here. And the sudden image of her tapping a whip against her strong thigh brought a shudder that he couldn’t quite place. Formidable and fun were not two words he’d ever put together before, but from the look in her eye, Lottie was the type of girl who could take control easier than she could give it away.

‘Are we going to be hanging here much longer, Dad?’

‘That depends on whether you want to meet some world-class riders or just plod along with the pony clubbers I guess, Tabby. Up to you.’

‘She doesn’t look like a world-class rider.’

Tom bit back the response with a smile. She did to him. ‘Everything okay, ladies? I ordered that bottle of champagne, hope you don’t mind?’

‘Mind? I could murder a drink right now. You have got no idea what kind of a day I’ve had.’ Lottie had the glass to her lips and had taken a greedy mouthful before she had even sat down properly. ‘You’re a lifesaver, but if you really want to win my heart, tell me you’ve ordered food as well. Rory was in such a bad mood he wouldn’t even let us stop to get a burger.’

‘You’ve been with Rory today?’ Tabatha uncrossed her arms. ‘What’s he like? I mean, is he really that fit?’

‘This was before the class.’ Lottie knew she probably shouldn’t, but couldn’t resist flashing her mobile in front of Tabatha, a shot of Rory when he’d been posing on the wagon steps with his toned abs on display. ‘I did make him put a shirt and jacket on though.’ She flicked onto the next picture, which was Rory nonchalantly sat astride Flash, long legs stretched at her sides, feet dangling free of the stirrups, one hand on the buckle end of the reins, the other grasping a cigarette. His last request he’d called it. Lottie actually preferred the picture of him with his clothes on, which worried her a bit. The sun was behind him and his hatless head was a mass of curls, he looked a bit like a swashbuckling hero – minus the sword.

‘Can I see the first one again?’

Lottie reluctantly flicked back to the first picture. He was so gorgeous, and although he played to the crowd, she had a feeling that deep down he wanted to be loved. Properly. But it just didn’t seem to be by her. Not that she wanted that now of course. She was independent, wanted fun and freedom. Definitely.

But she was back in Tippermere. And his bed. She tried to supress the sigh.

Lottie had fancied Rory for as long as she could remember. Forever. And he did fancy her (although of course it had taken him a bit longer to realise), but it had been a jokey, easy-going relationship. Not a ‘maybe this could be forever’ type of thing.

After her disastrous ‘world tour’ as her father called it, she had told herself that Rory was the perfect antidote to her humiliation of being conned by a serial adulterer, but looking at the photo now she had a horrible feeling that she’d never actually managed to fall out of lust and love with him. And never would. God, who in their right mind preferred to ogle a picture of a man like Rory more with his clothes on?

She glanced up and Tom was studying her with a very slight disapproving air. He was probably deciding that she wouldn’t be a good influence on his daughter, that she was more likely to be sharing pictures of semi-nude men than teaching how to do a collected trot.

‘Sorry.’ She could feel a blush spread across her cheeks.

‘No problem. Who am I to say anything about looking at men without their clothes on?’ He smiled, the first genuine smile that the Tippermere residents had seen from him, and Pip, Lottie, and every female member of the restaurant staff that was in range were left in no doubt as to why he made a fortune in front of the camera.

Lottie put the phone down. ‘Why have you come here? I mean it’s not exactly commuter belt is it, if you’re working?’ Mild embarrassment made her voice the questions she would have normally kept politely to herself.

Tom shifted in his seat. ‘Well, you’re here for one.’ As the words came out, he could tell that flattery wasn’t going to get him anywhere. ‘You’ve got excellent facilities here for Tabby to really progress; it is what she wants to do. Isn’t it?’ Tab shrugged, like only a teenager can. ‘And it is commuter belt, I can get on a plane in half an hour, or jump in the car and be on the M6 in seconds. And, no one notices me here, I mean the area is plastered with premiership footballers and soap stars, so I’m just another face.’ He gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. There were a hundred reasons he could give for picking this particular area of the country, but one in particular right now he was reluctant to voice.

Chapter 4

Elizabeth Stanthorpe had been born in Tipping House, and fully intended on dying there. After she’d ensured that her family would continue running the estate in the way it deserved to be.

‘I imagine that young Rory thinks Dominic is gay.’ She raised an eyebrow as Lottie spluttered a shower of gin and tonic over one of the black Labradors and then hastily tried to rub it in with the back of her hand.

‘I’m not sure that’s why they don’t like each other, not that I think Uncle Dom is gay, of course.’

‘Well, I did.’ She took another swig of her own drink.

‘Gran, you can’t say that.’

‘Well he can be so bloody prissy at times, not a bit like his father was. If it hadn’t been a home birth I would have thought there had been a mix up at some point. No one would have ever have accused your grandfather of batting for the other side, although those private schools can bring out the worst in boys.’ She focussed back on her only granddaughter, only grandchild, who was going a funny shade of pink. ‘Well, you did bring it up, darling. Pour me another drink whilst you’re up, there’s a good girl.’

Lottie had been about to say she wasn’t actually up, but knew it was useless to argue with her grandmother, who had what she referred to as ‘backbone’.

As she sloshed a good measure of Bombay Sapphire gin into the chipped crystal, she decided that it was a good job they didn’t make them like that anymore. Although the matriarch could be more fun than the rest of the family put together when it suited her. Nothing stopped Elizabeth when she got the bit between her teeth, and Lottie secretly thought that her grandmother wasn’t as batty, forgetful and deaf as she liked to make out.

‘All I said,’ she passed the drink to Elizabeth who sniffed it as though she suspected it might be laced with something, or more likely not strong enough, ‘was that Rory thought it was strange when Uncle Dom turned up at the dressage. Did you have anything to do with that?’

‘I may have mentioned it.’ She tapped a long nail against the side of the glass, piercing blue eyes fixed on Lottie. ‘You could do a lot better than that man, Charlotte.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You are so like your mother in some ways.’

When Elizabeth had borne two children for Charles Stanthorpe, she had, in her usual manner, carried out her duties exactly as could have been expected. Their eldest child, Dominic, was a fair-haired, blue-eyed, easy-going child who was always keen to please, courteous, but precise to the point of obsession. More than once, Elizabeth had been filled with an irrational desire to rearrange his meticulously organised toys, and then Alexandra had arrived and done it for her.

Alexa was as beautiful and wild as Dom was pretty and controlled. Her dark eyes would glint with mischievousness and her long curls bob as she dashed around the large house, causing chaos. With the family Labs in her wake, Alexa would tear like a mini tornado, leaving a trail of destruction behind her. But with her ready grin, infectious giggle and affable nature, remonstrating with her was something that was easier left to others. So everybody did. Everyone forgave and forgot, with the result that, by the time she hit her teens, the fun-loving little girl had turned into an irresistible challenge that scared the living daylights out of many of her chosen suitors.

So Elizabeth found, as her children hit puberty, that she was hit with an unexpected problem. Her son showed no apparent interest in the female form, funnelling all his efforts into the pursuit of equine excellence, and her hitherto perfect daughter Alexa showed too much interest in horsemen. At twenty-two she was smitten with the very dashing, but totally unsuitable William Brinkley, at twenty-three she was pregnant with his child. The day after her twenty-fifth birthday she died in a tragic accident.

Lottie knew with the ‘just like your mother comment’ exactly where this conversation was going and did her best to head it off with the skill of someone who’d had to do it many times before. Her mother, Alexandra, had been destined to marry someone befitting her breeding, until she fell for Billy Brinkley. A sportsman who was as competent in the sack as saddle, if the headlines and stable tittle-tattle was to be believed. Lottie had never known her mother; losing her when she was just a toddler had meant she had never felt the real pang of loving and losing, but as she grew up she felt like there was an element of her life missing. The bossy, but well-meaning, Elizabeth had considered it her duty to support her only granddaughter and give her all the information she could ever need, drip-feeding it to her from the day she was old enough to understand.

‘Grandma, I don’t need watching.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me Grandma, it makes me sound ancient.’

‘And I like Rory. He’s fun.’

‘Hmm, I bet he is.’ The sharp eyes gave her an uncomfortable once-over. ‘Life isn’t just about fun though, is it? I mean it is fine for men to sow their wild oats, but even these days it isn’t good form for a lady. And nor are those plimsolls.’ The slight twitch could have been a supressed smile, Lottie reckoned, or a warning there was more to come.

She groaned inwardly. ‘Converses, Gran.’ She knew she couldn’t win any kind of discussion with Elizabeth. And why were ‘plimsolls’, as she termed them, any worse than the green wellies that her grandmother stomped out in, whatever the weather, along with the ancient, waxed Barbour jacket that must be nearly as old as she was?

‘So, are you going to tell me about that young man?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, Bertie, you really shouldn’t.’ Lottie cringed as her grandmother tugged determinedly at her knickers which, for some strange reason, were visible at the waistband of her tweed skirt, then heaved a sigh of relief as Elizabeth triumphantly pulled out a handkerchief which she wafted in front of her nose. Bertie had stood up at the sound of his name and was now swishing his tail around like only a fat Labrador can, his big brown eyes fixed unerringly on his owner. ‘These bloody dogs know exactly how to get what they want. I’m sure he can pass wind at will. Worse than children. Come on you smelly bugger.’ Lottie shifted back so that the whip-like tail didn’t catch her on the shins. She’d got enough bruises and scratches from Rory’s terriers, any more and she’d be looking like a badly patched quilt in shades of purple.

Whatever Elizabeth said though, there was a definite family resemblance between Dominic and his mother. They were both slim, upright and had the type of striking long noses and piercing gazes that left you feeling like you were being told off by a particularly stern schoolteacher. Lottie hadn’t a clue how old her grandmother actually was, but she didn’t act or look it. And she didn’t move at all like a geriatric when she wanted something. She was already marching out of the room, her words echoing in the cavernous, wood-panelled hallway, Bertie and his half-brother, Holmes, hurtling after her, nails tip-tapping on the hard floor in her wake, as Lottie put her drink down and scrambled after them. She was still trying to catch her breath as a welcome rush of fresh air hit her.

Elizabeth didn’t believe in central heating, it was just for softies who liked to burn money, which meant the house was freezing all year round. Even in summer.

‘You were telling me about this man?’

‘Was I?’

Elizabeth tut-tutted and waved the dogs on in front. ‘You were out with Philippa?’

‘Ah, that man.’ It suddenly simultaneously dawned on her who she was being interrogated about and worried her as to why. Elizabeth never made casual enquiries, there had to be a reason. ‘Tom.’

Her grandmother was waiting for more.

‘Tom Strachan. He’s a model.’ She absentmindedly picked up the stick that Bertie had dropped at her feet and flung it as far as she could across the manicured lawn, which wasn’t far. The bounding Bertie soon came back, his head held high, Labrador smile across his happy face as he stopped in front of them. Dropped his prize, his whole body wagging in wobbly ecstasy.

‘Pretty boy, isn’t he? Bertie NO.’

Just in time, before she grabbed it, Lottie realised that Bertie has deposited a decomposed rabbit at her feet this time, not a stick. She wiped her hand down the front of her top, even though she hadn’t actually touched it.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Charles always did say one should never trust a man with long hair. He’s either an artist and waster or a scoundrel.’

‘He’s a model, Gran, and it’s not that long, his hair.’ Lottie tried to remember exactly how long his hair was, but however much she screwed up her eyes and mouth the image didn’t come.

‘Don’t do that, darling, it will give you frown lines.’

‘Anyway, Gramps only said that because he was in the army. He thought anything that wasn’t a short back and sides was long.’

Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose he will at least dress well, if he’s a model.’

‘I don’t know really. He models underwear, y-fronts, you know, pants.’ Were pristine pants the equivalent of dressing well?

‘I do know what pants are Charlotte, and I know you mean pants not trousers. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’ve lost my marbles. But what’s his proper job? Standing around in your pants isn’t a job for a real man.’ Modelling obviously wasn’t going to cut it.

‘I think.’ Oh, God, why hadn’t she been concentrating on what Pip had said? She should have known the all-seeing Elizabeth would want answers. It suddenly came to her, and she almost shouted it out triumphantly. ‘He runs a rescue home for dogs as well.’ Or something like that. Bertie barked, impatient at the delay, and Elizabeth made a huffing noise.

‘And there’s obviously a huge demand for that type of thing here.’ Elizabeth’s tone was laden heavy with sarcasm.

Okay, dog rescue wasn’t going to cut it either. ‘I think he came here because his wife left him, and his daughter likes horses, so…’ She shrugged and threw the stick, which hit the sunbathing Holmes squarely on the rump, followed closely by the full weight of Bertie who was going too fast to stop and didn’t believe in swerving. Holmes leapt up with a snarl, as his seniority demanded in times of attack.

‘Boys, stop that.’ Even Lottie jumped as the full force of Elizabeth’s bellow stopped them dead. ‘And do you think he’s gay?’

‘Gay? I never said I thought he was gay. Well no I mean he’s married, and then his daughter—’

‘No, not Thomas, Dominic.’

‘Well, I—’

‘He’s not dear.’ Elizabeth patted her arm. ‘I must admit I did wonder, but I’d say he’s just very careful. Right, hadn’t you better be off?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m supposed to be playing golf this afternoon, although why on earth that woman can’t get up early like normal people do and get a round in before breakfast is a mystery. Come along dear, you can give me a lift to Christine’s and I will get Dominic to pick me up later.’

Elizabeth turned on her heel and set off back towards the house, Lottie and the dogs getting tangled up in the scramble to follow her.

***

It was only when Lottie got to her car, luckily in advance of Elizabeth, that it dawned on her that it was even more of a mess than it normally was. Which was down to too much time spent trying to fit visits to Rory in, in between running round after her father.

Lottie sighed as she opened the passenger door of her car and a crisp packet drifted out. She stared at the mess. Brushing the car seat with the old pair of jodhpurs she found in the back of the car didn’t seem to help matters at all, in fact it left a very nasty brown smear on the seat, which just had to be chocolate. And when she opened the glove compartment to shove the empty drink can and sandwich box in, several empty minstrel packets, along with a snickers packet (empty) and a mars wrapper (full), tumbled out. She took a bite of the chocolate bar and then started to stuff things under the seat with her spare hand. Elizabeth had no qualms about climbing into a Land Rover full of muddy boots and dog hair, but plastic wrappers of any kind were worthy of a sniff. One just didn’t buy things in wrappers, well at least Elizabeth didn’t. The housekeeper did, then she unwrapped everything, burned the paper and pretended that everything was cooked from raw ingredients that she’d more or less grown with her own hands. The operative word being less.

Driving her grandmother the handful of miles to her friend’s house was the normal ordeal. Lottie honestly didn’t know anyone who made her quite so nervous. She was more than capable of handling a horsebox, and had been driving her father’s tractor since her legs had been long enough for her feet to reach the pedals, but with Elizabeth in the passenger seat her nerves were shot to bits. It was always the same, she started with a routine inspection of the interior, then she moved onto comments about speed (‘doesn’t this car go any faster?’), cornering (‘do you really need to brake every time?’), overtaking (‘just because the stupid man wants to go at that speed doesn’t mean we all need to dear, in my day he’d have been run off the road’) and ended with parking (where she just opened the door and stared pointedly at the kerb, ‘shall I call a cab dear?’ being the normal comment, if she bothered with one).

‘Maybe your father needs to get you a better car. That might help,’ was always her parting comment before she slammed the door hard enough to check for rust damage, and after dusting herself down, she headed off.

It took most of the drive back, with the window down and the radio turned up full blast, sending the echoes of a defiant Pink into the countryside, before Lottie had relaxed her jaw enough to stop her teeth aching. By the time she drew up outside Rory’s cottage, she could almost, almost see the funny side.

***

Lottie walked on to Rory’s yard just as a man she’d never seen before stripped his t-shirt over his head and displayed a very attractive six-pack. She counted. It was definitely a six-pack. And she was pretty sure that if she had seen it before she would have remembered. Bodies like that tended to make a lasting impression.

Driving back from Tipping House, she’d had two things on her mind. One, what was her grandmother up to? Because she was definitely up to something as far as Tom and Uncle Dom went. And two, why was Tom here, in Tippermere? Why here exactly? There was something he wasn’t saying, and she had a horrible feeling there was something Elizabeth knew. Or why would she have been so interested?

Both thoughts were swiftly delegated to the back of her mind though as the beautiful naked torso, or was that naked beautiful torso, grabbed every inch of her attention. As he had his top fixed firmly over his head, and so couldn’t see, there didn’t seem to be a problem in taking advantage and staring. So she did. Until she realised he’d thrown the clothing to one side and she was staring open-mouthed at a guy who was staring straight back at her. He wasn’t open-mouthed though, he looked slightly concerned, like she might be a deranged mad woman escaped from the nearest loony bin. She shut her mouth.

‘Sorry.’ And went red. ‘I, er, have you seen Rory, or er Pip?’

‘You must be Lottie.’ Now that was the type of deep, dark, sexy voice she thought only existed in her imagination. She’d always had a thing for a nice accent, and Irish just shot straight to the top of the hit parade. Lottie resisted the fleeting urge to shut her eyes and ask him to keep talking. Then it registered that he knew her name. And she didn’t know his; she really would have remembered if she’d met him before. With or without clothes. Definitely.

Rory had a lot of friends, no one she would have ever called close, but lots of drinking buddies, eventing buddies, hunting buddies. Ever since they’d fallen into dating, he’d been surrounded by people, and at every party you could find the entertaining Rory in the thick of things. Which at times could be bloody annoying, like most of the times when she’d had a few drinks and was starting to feel either mildly randy and in need of attention, or well-oiled enough for her chatterbox mode to have kicked in and she just needed to talk. To him. But, even though they’d spent a lot of drunken evenings together (and drunken nights), she was pretty sure she would have spotted this guy, even if she did only have eyes for Rory.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’ Lottie squeaked, cleared her throat and tried again. She had been quite happy ogling him, now the tables were turned she felt more than a little bit uncomfortable. Like an eavesdropper who’d been caught out with a glass to the wall, not that she’d stoop to that kind of thing.

Mick O’Neal repressed the smile, put his hands on his hips and took the time to drink in the vision that had materialised before his eyes. She wasn’t at all how he’d expected her from the sketchy descriptions Rory had laced into their conversations. For one, he’d translated the ‘plenty to grab hold of’ as fat, whereas Charlotte was as shapely as she was toned.

‘Are they in?’

‘They are indeed. Last I heard, Rory was trying to blame Pip for not entering his horse in some event, and she was giving him a bollocking back. She threw his phone at him, along with a few other things from the sound of it. I’m Mick by the way.’

He held out a hand and she stared at it with suspicion. Then regretted it when he placed it back on his hip. And then decided that the safest place to be was as far away from him as possible. Contact might be a mistake.

‘Great, thanks, so you are.’ Feeling mildly stupid, which was nothing new, Lottie made a dash for the safety of the kitchen and Rory, only to find a battlefield. The small kitchen table was normally piled high with entry forms, schedules, directions, vets bills and every other conceivable bit of information that an eventer might ever need. Today they’d been scattered in all directions. She teased one out of the corner of a terrier’s mouth and then gave it back to the dog when she realised it was only a phone bill. A second terrier lay forlornly in her small basket, sheets of paper still slowly floating down, her chin on her paws and her eyes darting anxiously between her master and the arm-flailing Pip.

‘I pay you to send in the fucking entries on time.’

‘You don’t bloody pay me, and even if you did, what am I supposed to be? A bloody mind reader?’

‘I do pay you.’

‘Not to be your bloody cleaner, housemaid or secretary. I,’ she waved her arms towards the still open door, ‘work out there, you moron. You said you wanted a bloody groom, not a nanny.’

Rory, who was sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, dumped his muddy boots on the chair opposite and crossed his arms rebelliously. Which Lottie was sure was because he just knew his attitude would wind Pip up even more.

‘What are you two arguing about now?’ She pulled out a spare chair and sank back onto it, a dog landing on her lap for reassurance almost before her bum was settled on the seat. When Lottie had suggested Pip come and work for Rory, it had never occurred to her how the sparks might fly. Lottie and Rory thought along the same lines, they were both slightly disorganised, both more interested in play than work and neither of them took much seriously, apart from, of course, horses. Pip was different. Pip took everything seriously and ran her life with military precision when she was on duty. And when she was at the yard, it was business not pleasure. And Rory drove her round the bend. Neither of them would give an inch, one because of his male pride, the other because she was never, ever wrong and wasn’t prepared to pretend she was. The fact that she was quite happy to throw things if it got her point across made life interesting. She’d only been here a matter of months, but already Rory had found out that if he was wrong he was damned well going to be told. Repeatedly. Until he admitted it. The only problem was, Rory was never, in his eyes, wrong.

‘He’s lost his entry for next weekend.’ Pip glanced at her briefly, then fixed an accusing glare back on Rory.

‘I’ve lost?’ He ran his hand through his curls, eyes wide with the injustice of it all.

‘You’ve lost. You did not ask me to send that entry in, Rory Steel, and we both know it.’

‘It’s not the one in the wagon is it? For Rio?’ Lottie tried to sound casual and hide the note of guilt in her voice. She distinctly remembered Rory picking up his post on the way out last weekend, and reading it in the cab as they took Flash to the dressage. And when he’d left it on the seat, she’d glanced briefly then stuffed it all in the glove compartment to stop the terriers chewing it to shreds. Then forgotten all about it. Until now. She kept her gaze fixed on the terrier and rubbed the silky ear between thumb and finger.

‘You are kidding?’ Pip had reached the hands-on-hips stage.

The terrier yelped as she rubbed a bit too hard. Rory frowned. ‘Oh, yeah I remember now. I did enter, that was the confirmation.’ He grinned. ‘Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted.’

‘Sorted? You call that sorted? You bastard, I just knew it was nothing to do with me.’ Pip was almost stamping her foot.

‘So,’ Lottie coughed to get their attention as they were back to a stand-off, ‘who is that guy on the yard?’

‘Oh, shit, I was supposed to be helping him, he said he’d sort Kis for me.’

Rory laughed as Pip shot out of the kitchen. ‘Come here gorgeous, I need some TLC after that battering.’

‘It’s your own fault.’ Lottie stood up, tipping the terrier onto the floor, and moved over to sit on his knee, shivering as his fingers rubbed exactly the right spot between her shoulder blades. ‘You know she’s not going to take it lying down if you blame her for things that aren’t her fault.’

‘Will you take it lying down?’

‘You’re being rude again aren’t you? Anyway, who is he?’

‘Why, do you fancy him?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and unceremoniously dumped her off his knee. ‘Come on, I thought you knew him. Or maybe he arrived when you were off on your world tour.’

For a moment Lottie thought she heard a note of censure in his voice, then dismissed it. He didn’t care that she’d gone off in search of freedom and wide open spaces, he hadn’t even seemed that pleased when she’d got back. After a brief period of awkward side-stepping and enquiries about each other’s health and welfare, they’d just fallen back into step and carried on where they’d left off.

Mick was holding a hoof between his firm, denim-clad thighs and pointing at bits to Pippa, their heads close together, her blonde shiny bob and his unruly dark hair a stark contrast. To Lottie it just looked like a hoof, how could anyone be that interested?

‘He’s into this barefoot trimming crap.’ Rory lit up a cigarette and leaned against the stable door to watch him. ‘Aren’t you, mate?’

Mick ignored him and flicked a large bit of hoof off with his trimming knife, which the smallest and nippiest of the terriers leapt on and carried off like a trophy. When he looked up, his dark gaze met Lottie’s and she didn’t know whether to squirm or melt. Or just feel guilty. ‘You’re a farrier?’ And state the obvious.

‘I am. And for my sins I’m staying here, with that heathen.’ He dropped the hoof, straightened up and waved the knife in Rory’s direction. ‘I had to go back to Ireland for a bit to sort some business, so I missed the homecoming,’ he smiled straight at her, ‘I got back last night.’

Mick had been brought up by a traditional Irish farrier, and was trimming feet by the time he could hold a knife. The fact that it wasn’t safe or probably legal was by the by. He only hit a problem when he started experimenting with something other than traditional shoeing and his father termed him an ‘eejit who should know better’. But it had left one of his terminally lame horses sound enough to compete again, which was good enough to make him consider that maybe his father didn’t know everything. Mick was wise enough though to keep the fact to himself, continue to shoe in the way he’d been taught and to spread the word only to the few that sought him out. He rubbed out the kinks in his spine and watched as Pip trotted the horse up the yard for him.

His move to Cheshire had been totally unplanned. But had stopped him dissolving into a bottle of whiskey and self-pity after Niamh had waved an airline ticket in his face and told him the time for ‘fecking about’ was over, he could put a ring on her finger and fly with her, or rot in Ireland on his own. He’d chosen Ireland and his horses. And then, after a week of drinking too much, and a day out hunting with Rory, he’d booked a one-way ticket of his own and taken the boat over to Liverpool. He’d been fond of his girlfriend, in a way he’d never been fond of anyone before. But ultimatums didn’t do it for him. And the thrill of setting foot on foreign soil could never beat the adrenalin rush of galloping across country on nearly half a ton of barely controlled horseflesh. And Rory had some very attractive horseflesh on his yard.

Mick tore his gaze back from the easy-to-look-at Lottie onto the challenge that was Pip. The girl was attractive enough, except she never stopped asking questions long enough for you to appreciate it, and she was the bossiest female he’d come across in his life, with the possible expectation of his very Irish, very interfering mother. Now she was staring at him expectantly and all but tapping her foot.

‘I’d stop that, unless you want me to nail it to the floor, treasure. She trotted up fine, but no haring about the countryside or we’ll be back to square one. And don’t you go taking her to the last drag hunt meeting of the season.’

‘I don’t believe in hunting. It’s an archaic tradition.’

‘It’s not hunting, it’s drag hunting.’ His tone was mild, as though talking to a child, but Lottie suspected that any minute now Pip was going to launch into a tirade. ‘And it’s a test of courage.’

Pip narrowed her eyes and glared at him, obviously torn between the desire to say something and the need to keep on his good side. She might not have been around horses much, but she already knew that good farriers were few and far between, and good farriers who could be bothered to turn up on time were even rarer. She bit down on her bottom lip and scowled, which brought a lazy, and to Lottie’s eye, very sexy smile to his face.

‘I bet you enjoy a rough ride across country, don’t you Lottie?’ He winked.

Lottie opened and closed her mouth, not wanting the thoughts that he’d conjured up in her head to come tumbling out. She didn’t quite know how to take this sex god that had been dropped in their midst. Did he have some weird kind of Irish sense of humour that she didn’t quite understand?

‘She does, the rougher the better, don’t you?’ Rory pulled her into a bear hug of possession. Observing Mick from a position of safety, Lottie decided he was probably dangerous. He was making her nervous without even doing anything, and he was intent on winding Pip up, as though he needed some kind of stimulation, danger. Which figured, if he was a drag hunt enthusiast. A game player, and it would really have been better if she hadn’t been dying to find out more about him.

‘So, you’ll both be riding out on Sunday then?’ He was swinging the heavy metal file from side to side and the youngest of the terriers stood transfixed, her eyes following its route. A route to being brained if she wasn’t careful. Then abruptly he stopped the motion with a swift toss in the air before he caught it and dropped it in the heavy wooden tool box at his feet. ‘Both of you?’

Lottie nodded nervously and looked up at Rory, wondering why she was asking him. She never did normally. ‘I think so.’

‘Yup, if you’ve not lamed all the horses with your fancy new ideas. Isn’t it beer time yet?’

Lottie glanced at her watch. She’d already had G&T time with her gran, whose idea of a weak drink was a double gin with a waft of tonic, and was feeling slightly off centre. Carrying on drinking, mid-afternoon, with no food in her was probably a bad idea.

‘Well…’ There was a sudden outbreak of ‘Your Sex is on Fire’ from somewhere in the region of Lottie’s knickers, and Mick gave her a smouldering look that nearly ignited other parts of her, or that could just have been because part of her brain had taken off on a fantasy she couldn’t control. ‘Shit, oh, hang on.’ The burn hit her face, he must think she was so immature…or up for it with absolutely anyone. Maybe he thought it was an open invite? ‘It’s my phone.’ State the obvious. Which was firmly stuck deep in a pocket that didn’t really have room for a hand, let alone a phone. Lottie could feel herself slowly incinerating as she fought against the fabric. The phone stopped ringing. Then started again, ‘Sex on Fire’ gradually increasing in volume to match face on fire.

‘Dad?’ She was shocked to see his number; Billy seldom, if ever, rang her.

‘You need to get over here. Now.’ Billy was normally as easy-going as they came, but if he was ever going to be short-tempered it was with his daughter. And he was bossy, and said exactly what was on his mind.

‘But I’m—’

‘It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You sent them here, so you can damned well come and entertain them. What do you think I am, a children’s entertainer?’ He was hissing, his voice low as though he didn’t want to be overheard.

‘Sorry? Dad I—’ But Lottie had been left with a ringtone in her ear, which was less embarrassing than ‘Sex on Fire’. Marginally. They were all staring at her.

‘So, that was Daddy, was it? I take it you’re not allowed out to play?’

God, that Irish burr was having a funny effect on her. She clung on to Rory’s arms, which were still draped round her, with one hand, and her phone with the other.

‘He’s hung up.’ What was it with people hanging up on her while she was in the middle of saying stuff? Was she really getting that boring?

‘So what did old Billy the goat want then?’ Rory rested his chin on her head.

‘I haven’t a clue, he was jabbering on about kids and my fault, and stuff.’ She paused and looked at Pip. ‘Do you think he’s lost it? You know, the whole Amanda thing? I mean, he must be stressed even if he’s not saying anything.’

‘Billy boy, stressed?’ Rory was smiling, she could hear it in his voice. ‘Now that’ll be the day. About as likely as Dom getting his leg over with one of the WAGs from Kitterly, I’d say.’

‘Nah.’ Pip grinned back. ‘He’s made of sterner stuff than that. So what’s with calling him a goat?’

‘Billy goat gruff?’ Mick seemed amused, but still managed to sound like he was issuing an invite to bed.

‘Nothing that deep. Eats anything, shags anything and jumps anything.’ Rory was definitely grinning now, well, pretty much chortling.

‘Don’t talk about my dad like that.’ He knew she didn’t like it. She’d had too many years of jokes about her dad to find them funny, shame everyone else did.

‘So, this Amanda is his latest shag?’

Pip burst out laughing, and Kis, her horse, threw her head up, nearly dragging her arm from its socket. ‘Shit, stop that you stupid mare.’

‘She’s not stupid, that one.’ Mick cast his eye over the horse. He’d seen the mare out with Rory in the past, she was talented but lame more often than she was sound. So she’d been out at grass when Pip had arrived and announced that she would look after her. Looking after her was one thing, but everyone, including Pip, knew that she was seriously outclassed by the horse and was as likely to take her to a drag hunt as she was to take a vow of celibacy.

‘And nor is Amanda. We’ve decided she needs a new man, but I’m not sure she’ll fancy Billy, she thinks horses smell, and Billy spends most of his life on one.’ Kismet bit her shoulder, and Pip, who believed in a non-punishment regime, tried her best not to retaliate.

‘Sex on Fire’ set off again and Lottie stared at it resignedly before jabbing at the answer call button.

‘If you’re not here in five minutes, girl, Marcus won’t be the only one they’ll be burying next week.’

Chapter 5

Lottie spotted the brand new Jaguar F-type the moment she got through the imposing gates that flanked the entrance to Folly Lake Equestrian Centre. It was yellow. As in bright canary yellow. Which in her eyes was a gross travesty of a car that (a) was sleek and gorgeous and (b) was named after a cat. It was the type of car that should have said old money, or at least new money with a modicum of taste, but she’d never particularly liked yellow – unless it was daffodils.

The sudden indigestion-like pain in her chest didn’t have anything to do with the half baguette that she had crammed down in two minutes flat as she drove the short distance from Rory’s, because she was starving and needed to soak up Gran’s gin, it was panic. What if it was someone who’d already heard Marcus was dead? Who was here to buy the place, or sell the place, or… Crumbs, she tried to park her car as far as she could from the other one, knowing it made her old banger look even older. Surely Amanda couldn’t have moved that fast. And her father had said it was her fault. Which was a bit confusing. No way could she have arranged for a developer to visit the place and then forgotten about it.

She made a move out of the car, nearly strangling herself in the process, and realised she still had her seatbelt on. Calm, she had to be calm. It wasn’t her fault Marcus was dead, and she couldn’t be blamed for telling anyone. She hadn’t, had she? What if she’d said something when she was drunk? What if she’d told someone to come round and buy the place when she was at the dressage? Or after that bottle of bubbly with Tom? What if she’d danced on the table and announced it to the whole restaurant?

No, she couldn’t have. Could she? No, no way. Definitely no way. And Billy had been ranting on about not being a children’s entertainer, she definitely wouldn’t have sent someone who wanted to open a kids’ theme park.

The arena doors were wide open, and she raced through and practically fell over… Tom.

‘Hi.’

‘Err, hi.’ She threw an apologetic smile, and an arm out to stop herself falling, and nearly collided with the floppy fringe. ‘Sorry, I just… Dad?’

Billy was sat astride a horse, and had obviously been in the middle of a schooling session when Tom and Tabatha had turned up. The horse had a sheen of sweat on its coat, the bay turned almost to black, the froth around its bit flecked with the deep green of new spring grass. He still had his phone in his hand, no doubt so he could call her again if she didn’t turn up in the allotted five minute window.

‘Here she is. Well, it was nice to meet you, after all I’d heard.’ And he’d launched the horse from stand still into a trot, then within a stride into a canter and straight at the nearest poles.

Here she is. Who? What? Lottie glanced over her shoulder at the bemused Tom, then back the other way to his daughter, who appeared as star-struck as she was dumbstruck.

Tabatha gazed after Billy with the look of adoration that Lottie had grown up with. ‘Gosh, he really is your dad, really your dad, so cool.’

‘And being a model is old hat?’ Tom spoke offhandedly, obviously used to being dismissed as useless by his daughter.

‘Being a model is so gay.’ She threw him an assessing glance. ‘Not that you are, but, you know, when I tell people you’re a model, well, they just assume.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, love you too.’

‘Well, y’know.’ She shrugged. ‘Billy is just SO cool. Do you think he’d let me ride his horse, Charlotte?’

‘Lottie.’ She corrected her automatically, then stared blankly over in Billy’s direction. ‘No, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let you ride that one, and believe me you wouldn’t want to. So?’ She looked from one to the other. It had been a relief to see them here, and not some money-waving developer with a contract and pen in his hand. Not that the equestrian centre was Billy’s to sell of course. But… Billy seemed to think she’d invited Tom and Tabatha here, so what had given him that idea? She folded her arms and frowned, at a complete loss as to why she was there.

‘You said we could pop down and arrange some lessons, for Tab?’

‘Did I?’ It should have been getting clear, but it wasn’t. ‘Sorry, err I did, of course I did. Yes…’ She must have done, at some point over that meal, when he’d been pouring the champagne for her and Pip as though everyone drank it by the magnum.

‘Great place here.’ Obviously he wasn’t going to be put off.

***

Tom gazed around the indoor arena and couldn’t believe his luck. Fate had brought him to exactly the right place. Tabatha actually looked interested for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t quite sure why, as he watched Billy canter around the arena. I mean the man was portly, to put it politely. Or was stout more the word? He was all short arms and legs, though he undoubtedly knew how to stay on a horse. Even if at take-off he looked like he was going to get to the other side before the horse. And he’d been nice enough, but keener on riding than passing pleasantries. When he’d lifted his hat, it was to show off a mop of unruly sandy curls, damp with sweat and flattened to his skull, with the first trace of a thinning patch in the middle. His face was weathered, the crinkle around his eyes had to be from squinting not smiling, and the way he grunted at the horse reminded Tom of a grumpy farmer herding cows. But Tabby had said he was a medal winner, one of the best, so who was he to argue?

‘I’ll err, show you round, shall I?’ Lottie was still looking at them as though she hadn’t got a clue why they were there.

‘Can I stay here?’ Tab looked hopeful and Tom wavered. ‘And watch? That would be cool, wouldn’t it, Lottie?’

‘Lazy cow.’ Billy cantered a tight circle in front of them, scattering rubber as the horse fly-bucked bad-temperedly. He gave her a swift crack behind the saddle, which made Tom flinch. ‘Put that pole back, Lots.’ Lottie clambered over the small wall and put the pole back in its cup. ‘Now you’ll fucking do as I say and pick those feet up, you bloody donkey. Jesus Christ.’

Tom looked slightly alarmed. ‘Maybe not, better if you come with us, darling. I think Billy is busy.’

He felt better when he got his daughter away from the slightly alarming, very sweaty and profusely swearing Billy. And back on a par, when Lottie led the way into the calm and orderly yard. It was a pleasant surprise. After watching the gung-ho Billy, scruffy polo shirt flapping with every jump and saddle soap-stains on his breeches, he’d half imagined that the yard would be in disarray, with startled horses in every corner. But it was an oasis of calm. Which reminded him that, whatever his appearance had suggested to the contrary, the man was a world-beater. A champion. And Tab instantly looked grumpy with boredom, until Lottie started to introduce them to the horses.

‘This is Monty Jack.’ She stroked the velvet nose of a dark bay horse, the soft wicker echoing round the silent yard.

‘Gosh,’ Tab had her mouth open, ‘not the, not, this isn’t Monty as in…?’

Lottie laughed, and Tom felt himself smiling with her. ‘Yup, it’s the Monty.’

‘Wow, awesome. I saw him at Olympia, do you remember, Dad? Wow, when he did that last jump he was so amazing.’

Tom shrugged, trying to avoid saying no, Olympia had just been another day out, but Tab wasn’t listening anyway. ‘He was so brilliant in the Puissance. I mean, I was way back in the stands, but he’s here now. Mega, just, he’s… can I stroke him?’

They’d lost him, but his daughter was back to being interested again, which was good enough for him.

‘And this is Monty’s Mistake.’ Lottie had strode on to the next stable, obviously in tour mode, and got much the same reaction as before from Tabatha.

‘This place is just so cool.’

Who’d have thought anyone could be so interested in something four-legged that had big teeth at one end, hard hooves at the other, and excreted great piles of waste and smelly air constantly? But his daughter was transformed, so mission accomplished, even if it was easier than even he, with a bucketload of optimism, could ever have expected. Lord, if he could only keep her in this mood all the time. His concentration lapsed, a horse was a horse, all the same except they came in a variety of colours and sizes.

Apart from the odd wisp of hay in front of the stables, where horses had stood to chew and watch their neighbours, the concrete was as clean and tidy as if it had been constantly brushed, but there was no one in sight. The soft rays of spring sunshine filtered over the low roofs of the stable blocks, burnishing the old red tiles, dancing over the fading daffodils and the jaunty primroses and pansies. For some strange reason, Tom felt at peace. At home. Like he hadn’t felt since he’d walked out of the house they’d lived in since Tab had been born.

Even Lottie was relaxed here, she wasn’t looking at him like he was some alien that she was expecting to grope her with a third arm at every turn. In cut-off denim shorts, a faded polo shirt that had seen better days and her hair pulled through the back of a baseball cap, she looked the picture of health and a thousand times sexier than any woman he’d seen in a long, long time. She was also young, he reminded himself. And he wasn’t going to get involved with anyone. And definitely not the girl he was courting into taking his daughter in hand. Even if, with horse slobber on her shoulder, she still looked good enough to make him feel the first stirrings in his groin he’d felt in a long time. It must be all this bloody country air, he must have overdosed on oxygen and it was making him light-headed.

‘The thing is.’ The woman in question was staring at him with a clear, and unnerving gaze, and biting the inside of her cheek. ‘Well, I don’t usually give lessons.’ She sounded apologetic, like a doctor forced to give bad news. ‘I don’t know what Pip told you, but all these horses are, well…’

‘Unsuitable?’ Tom spoke gently, sinking down on to the worn bench outside the stable. Crossed his ankles and tried not to stare at her long legs, at the perfect dip of a waist. Which led to softly rounded breasts. ‘I could close my eyes.’

‘Sorry?’

She was staring, wide eyes with a hint of alarm. Shit, he’d said it out loud. ‘Nothing, sorry, just thinking out loud.’ If he’d been smarter he could have thought of something witty that sounded the same, but he’d need a week and a thesaurus.

‘Oh, right. Well. It’s not that I’m not saying Tabatha isn’t a good rider, well I don’t know, but, well, even if she was really good… Well, the thing is, Dad won’t let anyone on his horses unless he’s seen them ride, and I’ve only got the one horse and she’s very green.’

Tom held a hand up. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. We’ve arranged to get a horse on loan for the summer, from the stables that Tab used to go to. It’s arriving tomorrow. Actually, I was wondering if you had a spare stable.’ He glanced around, there seemed lots of empty stables.

‘It’s not a bleeding livery stables.’ The gruff tone announced Billy’s arrival and dispersed that last lingering of Tom’s erotic musings.

Tom had heard, on good authority, well, from Pip, that Billy was as easy-going as they came. ‘He’s a right laugh, everyone loves Billy’ had been her exact words, he remembered. Either, they’d caught the man on an off day, or his idea of a right laugh and Pip’s were on different planets. And he had thought, or hoped, he could trust Pip’s judgement.

‘She is, like, totally amazing.’ Tab was staring at the horse that Billy was perched on, and for a moment Tom thought he saw a softening of the man’s features.

‘She needs taking in hand, like a lot of females.’ There was a hint of a crooked smile, which Tom wasn’t that keen on. ‘So, you’re not here to put in an offer then?’ The question came out abruptly.

‘Sorry?’

Billy took that as a no. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Lottie be a darling and get her untacked, Tiggy seems to have gone AWOL.’

‘Dad, I need—’ But he’d jumped off the horse and strode off, tapping his crop against his boot. Lottie grabbed the horse’s reins, just as she started to wander after Billy, which was an annoying habit most of his horses developed. The need to follow him.

She needed to talk to Tom, then she needed to get home and changed so that she could get to the pub before Rory, Pip and Mick were too drunk to miss her. The last thing she wanted to do was run round after her dad just because the vague and unreliable Tiggy had wandered off again. Why her father had employed the woman, Lottie really didn’t know.

‘You have got spare stables though?’ Tom found that the further away the man was, the more relaxed he became.

‘I err.’ Lottie stared at him. If she didn’t get rid of them soon she wouldn’t have time for a shower before she headed to the pub, and all of a sudden she didn’t want to be smelly.

‘Great, I knew it. How about we just try it for a week or two? I’m happy to pay the going rate, I mean you’ve got everything here.’ He named an amount that made Lottie’s stomach jolt. Was that monthly or weekly? ‘Then, how about a lesson next week so you can assess Tab?’ She felt her head nodding, which it really wasn’t supposed to be doing. Amazing what the need to get rid of someone could do to your common sense.

‘Brilliant, see you tomorrow. Come on Tabby, I can see Lottie’s busy.’

He winked, put a fatherly arm around his daughter and was heading for the eyesore of a car before Lottie got the chance to ask what was supposed to be happening tomorrow.

***

Amanda James stood, a picture of restrained elegance, and stared out of the window at the vast expanse of immaculate lawn and felt a sudden pang for a vision of concrete. It wasn’t that she didn’t like it here, she loved it. But everything was so raw, animal-like. Even Lady Stanthorpe was as sharp, assessing and brusque as they come. These ladies might play golf and have afternoon tea, but their homes were freezing and their furniture passed on down so many years each piece had its own ten generation pedigree.

And an Aga was fine, when it bloody worked. That was the trouble, everything was such damned hard work. Even the talking, unless you had a degree in equine studies. God, how she hated horses sometimes, they were impossible to escape. Totally impossible.

It hadn’t bothered Marcus, he had a totally unshakeable self-belief that carried him through life untouched by the scathing comments and put-downs. He had loved being a part of the ‘country set’, as he termed his neighbours. And he didn’t care that he’d just bought his way in. That he was as much a part of it as a palm tree in a park. He had been there, and that was all that mattered.

Amanda missed him. She missed his confidence, missed the way he bellowed for more sugar in his tea, despite the fact that the sugar bowl had been a matter of inches from his cup, missed the fact that he looked after her in his loud, brash way, like a father.

She was being stupid.

Amanda just sometimes longed for convenience, for a meaningless chat about the latest fashion. She didn’t understand most of the people here, apart from Pippa. She picked up her mobile, paused for a moment with the contact list open. A flash of yellow down by the yard caught her eye, and the tall slim figure caught her attention even more firmly. Whoever had been visiting Billy Brinkley was far different to the normal, scruffy, bow-legged characters, and the car was enough to make her feel her prayers had been answered. She hadn’t realised until now just how much she’d started to loathe the sight of 4X4s and long for leather and sleek. She needed a distraction, and she needed one now. Before she made the biggest mistake of her life.

She pressed the call button. Forget fashion, Pippa knew everything. Pippa would know just who the visitor was. And Pippa would know exactly how to fix the nightmare that the funeral was just about to turn into.

Chapter 6

‘You can’t go like that.’

Rory shrugged, the boyish grin spreading over his features. ‘Why not? It’s my best jacket.’ Infectious, but oh so wrong.

‘It’s a hunting jacket, and we’re going to a funeral. Remember?’ Lottie, who had been under strict instructions (via her invite, if you called it an invite where funerals where concerned) not to wear black, and had been on the verge of rebelling out of a sense of decorum, had found it hard enough to find something suitable for herself. But Rory was going too far. And they were running out of time. And she was about to start giggling, which was so wrong. ‘It’s a bit disrespectful, I know the invite said not to wear black, but…’ She bit down on her lip, to stop the smile that Rory was doing his best to draw out of her.

‘It’s what he wanted, look.’ Rory dug his own card out from the pile of papers on the table and waved it roughly in her direction.

‘I don’t want to look. I know what it says, but it feels wrong.’ One of the dogs, which had taken Rory’s dig through the paperwork as an invite to jump on the table, put her paws up on Lottie’s chest and grinned a terrier grin, tongue lolling. ‘Don’t you dare lick me.’ It sank down on its haunches, paws leaving a snagged trail down her best satin shirt as sharp nails dragged from her boobs down to her stomach. ‘Oh, Christ.’ She already felt a mess. The dog yapped and she was very tempted to pick it up, sit on the sofa and bury herself, not Marcus, for the rest of the day. She rubbed absentmindedly at the scratch mark instead, hoping it would go away. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Maybe he’s having a last laugh at the country yokels. Well, it will be a laugh with your dad as pall-bearer at one end of his bloody coffin, and me and Dom at the other. He’ll be sliding from one end of the other coffin to the other.’ The grin had broadened. ‘Knock some bloody sense into him.’

Lottie shut her eyes against the image of the lopsided coffin and bit the inside of her cheek harder, to stop the hysteria bubbling out. It was true. Rory and Dom had to be at least eight inches taller apiece than Billy. ‘Maybe it was a joke, I mean he didn’t expect to drop dead did he? He must have written it when he was drunk and meant to change it when he was expecting—’

‘To die? He must have been well pissed, well it’s his own bloody fault then. And if this is his last request, well, who are we to deny the man?’

‘You’re enjoying this.’

‘I bloody am. Look, why should we all be in black and miserable as sin just because he’s pegged it?’

‘Well, Dad is.’ She suddenly remembered just what Marcus’s death could mean, did mean. ‘Miserable I mean.’ The equestrian centre had never been like a real family home to her, no more than the place she rented now (which she was never in long enough to add any homely touches to). She had no particular attachment to either place, but it was her father’s livelihood. And it was more. After her mother had died, he’d initially moved out of the farmhouse, which had only been rented, and moved in to the impersonal environment of the groom’s quarters above the stables at Folly Lake equestrian centre, which suited him perfectly. During his waking hours he could shut out the pain and immerse himself in his horses, with every need on tap. But as the nightmares had softened he’d realised that his daughter needed more. They had moved back in to the house that bordered the yard, but his work obsession hadn’t eased. And so Lottie’s early childhood had been spent surrounded by horses and riders, grooms who could keep an eye on her, and on-off nannies who loved horses and dogs. And riders. Not that she had ever thought it unconventional, or herself hard done by. But nor had it given her any roots. Which, Elizabeth was sure, was why she still had the urge to wander. To find what she was missing.

Now, if the centre was sold, Billy could find the refuge he had buried himself in following Alexa’s death dragged from his grasp. And Lottie was old and wise enough to be scared. For both of them. If he lost that, what was left?

‘At least one of us will keep a straight face then. I rely on you, darling.’ Rory blew her a kiss, and raised an eyebrow in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘Do you reckon he’d want me to take the hunting horn?’ He picked up the horn, which she hadn’t spotted, and gave an experimental blow, which sent the terrier, startled, into her arms, scrabbling long red weals down her chest.

‘Shit.’ The muscled-up body of the little dog went over her shoulder and hit the floor running. ‘Don’t you dare, Rory Steel. Go away Tilly, in your bed.’ Instead, the little dog started haring around the kitchen like a minor whirlwind, barking excitedly, sending papers flying from the table in her flight over and under everything that was sat in her way. Lottie knew better than to move. ‘The invite definitely didn’t mention hunting horns.’

‘It did say hunting jacket though, so, like it or not, that’s what I’m wearing.’

‘Without the breeches?’ She looked at his legs pointedly, and wondered, not for the first time, why even the sexiest legs in the world had knobbly knees in the middle.

‘Bugger. It’s your fault for knocking when I was half dressed.’ Rory strode out of the kitchen, all three dogs at his heels, shirt tails sadly covering his well-muscled, but decidedly naked, thighs. ‘Just polish my boots, will you?’

Lottie stared at the boots, still decorated with mud from his last ride out. The smell of leather pricked at her nostrils as she picked one up and wondered whether it would be quicker to drop it in the sink, or scrub it with a brush.

***

It was colder inside the church than out. Lottie wondered if that was a tactical thing to make you feel sad and remorseful. Or just a lack of money. Or stinginess. The church, like her gran, had been around a long time and knew how to spend its pennies on what it wanted and not what the rest of the world might appreciate.

Elizabeth had embraced the theme of the funeral in her normal fashion. Wearing black, because it was what she considered right and proper, and to hell with what the bereaved or deceased might want. ‘Great Expectations’ was the first thought that hit Lottie, followed quickly by ‘Addams Family’ when she saw the dramatic make-up and newly manicured nails. It just wasn’t fair how her gran, who let’s face it didn’t need perfect nails, could have them that length and unchipped when her own looked exactly how nails tended to look when you spent most of your time mucking out stables and moving jump poles.

***

Amanda sat bolt upright, because otherwise she was sure she’d crumple in a heap, and felt strangely detached as she stared at the coffin. So, this was it. It hadn’t been a nightmare when she’d woken up to find his arm pressed cold against her. And it seemed surreal, and somehow wrong, to be sharing his last moments with the group of people he’d wanted here. In life they’d been such different people, and in death they were too. They’d grown apart because they were so different, but stayed together because maybe they were the same, deep down.

For one ghastly moment she imagined the coffin lid coming up and his great guffaw of a laugh ringing out into the silent cavernous exterior of the church. But it didn’t. Just like he hadn’t turned around one day and asked forgiveness for all the women he’d laid and promised to be faithful until the end of his days. No, some things were as improbable as landing on Mars and discovering it actually was inhabited by a race that understood every word you said to them.

The last time she’d sat in a church had been their wedding. Which was bad, maybe she didn’t deserve to be happy? All the trimmings, a horse and carriage, a satin white gown, enough flowers to finish off a hay fever sufferer. The façade of a fairy tale, turning her into the princess he wanted to live with. Well, maybe not live with, the person he wanted to put on a pedestal and use as a symbol of what you could achieve if you worked hard. Which was a bit ironic, as Amanda had worked bloody hard to turn herself into that type of person. From the geeky, unfashionable teenager brought up in the suburbs she’d made a career out of self-improvement. Self being the operative word. If she hadn’t bothered, maybe she’d have found a man who truly loved her, and who was faithful. Maybe not.

‘I’ll be good to you, Mandy. You’ll never want for anything, I promise.’ And he had been, and she hadn’t been left wanting. Whatever everybody thought. Which would have been fine if she’d been a pampered pet poodle.

She’d forgiven his affairs at first, but then she’d realised that he had to shag everything that had a pulse and she knew if she’d thought the tip of the iceberg had been bad enough, the rest that was hidden underwater would end up drowning her. And it was the fact that everyone knew, that was what really hurt her.

He’d been in her bed the night he died for a reason. He’d wanted to explain all the reasons she didn’t want a divorce. Quietly, patiently, like you’d explain to a five-year-old with learning difficulties. Marcus was good, was believable, and was lovable in his own way. He knew how to persuade her, knew every weak spot, and knew that she didn’t really want to go through with it. He wanted to find a compromise that would suit both of them, and she was so close to saying yes to him. So close, because it was next to impossible for her to deny him, whatever he did. But the one thing that any compromise could never give her was what she needed most. Freedom. Freedom and her self-respect back.

The stained-glass window blurred, so she glanced down at the coffin, then down further to her cold hands clasped so tight in her lap that the fingertips had gone from pinkish to white and were heading for blue.

And she fucking missed the stupid bastard. A drop of water splashed down onto her thumb. Shit, she couldn’t cry. She just mustn’t. But tensing her jaw didn’t seem to work, nor did biting her bottom lip. A second, third tear found their way out. Although someone had to mourn his passing, he was, had been, a good man, deep down. That was why she’d married him. He’d spent a whole life changing himself, like she had, into a symbol of success. But she’d recognised that kernel of the original man that still remained, like he’d winkled out the bits of her that hung on from the past. And that was what tied them together. Until the reality of who they’d become had been too heavy to ignore. Why the hell did things have to change? What was wrong with just being happy?

She wiped across her cheek with the back of her hand surreptitiously and glanced around the packed pews. How many of these people knew Marcus? Really knew who he was. Had been. At a guess, none of them knew, and none of them cared. They’d come because he was a success, and even in death some of that might rub off onto them.

If she could just march out now, and tell them all to go to hell, she would. The old Amanda might have done, his Mandy. But she couldn’t. Marcus would have wanted it this way, he had wanted it this way. The circus, that didn’t respect him at all, but did celebrate his achievements. The attendance alone did that. You couldn’t count love by numbers, but you could count respect. Or envy. Now all she needed was the whole fiasco to pass as quickly as possible and then she could go to bed with a bottle of wine and flannelette pyjamas and mourn her own way. He’d have laughed at that, ditching the satin nightwear to mourn him. And he’d have hugged her. Shit, she was going to start blubbing again if she wasn’t careful. She just had to concentrate. On the crowd, on being polite. On forgetting why they were there, like everyone else would soon do. God, she’d kill for a drink right now.

***

‘There was water in the bottom of my boot.’ Rory slid into the pew next to Lottie and hissed in her ear. The warmth of his thigh welcome in more ways than the normal ones.

‘Don’t wriggle dear, sit still.’

Lottie had thought she’d only shifted a small, unnoticeable, amount, and in Rory’s direction. But eagle-eyed Elizabeth had noticed it.

‘I know. Accident with the tap.’ She’d gone for the sink option and the tap had spurted cold water out uncontrollably when she’d turned it the wrong way. ‘It isn’t much.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ He squeezed her own thigh, how the hell was she supposed not to wriggle when he did that? ‘He didn’t roll about too much, think old Billy must have put risers in his heels.’

‘I thought he looked taller.’ Elizabeth’s tone was dry.

And how did her gran hear whispered words, when she played deaf most of the time? Obviously, she decided, there must be a gap between her ears and the words had gone straight through.

***

Mercifully the service was short, sweet and not too sycophantic. And the congregation sighed a collective sigh of relief when they got out of the cold, dark gloom of the ancient church and into the soft warmth of the spring sunshine.

Marcus had opted for cremation, which meant that although he didn’t go out with a bang, nor did he go with a thud. As Pip put it, ‘A ball of fire just has to be better than a clod of earth, doesn’t it?’

‘Sex on fire is even better.’

Lottie would have been pleased if she could have hung onto the urge to stamp on Mick’s foot, or put his own sex on fire, when the Irish burr cut into the conversation. But, annoyingly, the need went quickly when she looked up, straight into those dancing Irish eyes. She just wanted to gaze at him, like an adoring Spaniel might. And wag her tail, except now she was going from the ridiculous to the faintly obscene. ‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ The toe-curling smile made her want to spin the banter out, but Elizabeth was hot on her heels.

‘You and Rupert can come with me.’

‘Rory. You know he’s called Rory, Gran.’

‘Sorry, what was that Roger?’

‘I’ve got my own car here, thanks.’

‘If you have to.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘But don’t park it too close to the others. And do remind me to have a word with your father about that later, dear.’

Lottie followed her line of sight to the array of cars parked on the verge outside the church. An eclectic mix of Rolls Royces, Mercedes and top of the range BMWs, with the odd Porsche thrown in for good measure.

People were heading off towards the crematorium, to say their final goodbyes before Marcus was reduced to ashes, but Lottie, Rory, and in fact most of the residents of Tippermere had been spared the ordeal. The crem simply hadn’t the capacity for that many people, so luckily, from their point of view, family and close friends took precedence and they could head straight to the wake.

The once lush grass verges were cut through with dark slashes of freshly turned mud. Deep grooves, with churned edges that filled Lottie’s mind with endless images of dark damp earth, the final resting place for most people. For her mother.

From what she knew of Alexa, today’s ceremony would have amused her. The lopsided coffin making its way inside, the pall-bearers dressed in their red hunting jackets, incongruous in the dark, dismal, cold confines of the ancient church.

Marcus had been a man who knew what he wanted. Who liked the power that money gave him. Who thrived on the certainty that people would jump to his bidding. Lottie suspected he hadn’t been bothered about being liked. Being important was the thing. And in death he had surpassed himself.

On one side of the aisle, the pews had been filled with a crowd alien to this country environment. Brash designer suits, large handbags, a flash of gold at every turn and enough make-up, perfume and pungent aftershave to make the occupants of the other pews reel in their wake. The church would never smell the same again. On that, the residents of the village and its old vicar agreed.

The Very Reverend Walterson had raised his eyebrows at the crowd at the start of the service, and raised his uncommonly heavy collection tray with disbelief (and trembling hands) at the end. No doubt he would be praising the Lord for sheep in wolves’ clothing, or some such nonsense, as he sipped his sherry that evening, thought Pip, as she turned her attention back to Mick.

‘You going to give me a lift? I came with Amanda, but she’s off to watch her old life burn and be scattered.’

‘Where are they scattering him?’

‘In the indoor arena at the Equestrian Centre.’ Pip had her innocent face fixed into position, which the rest of them understood a second later.

‘He can do a running fuck.’

Rory spun round and somehow managed to keep a straight face as he looked at Billy. ‘I don’t think he’s doing anything anymore to be honest, Billy.’ And for a horrible fleeting moment, Lottie saw a ghastly resemblance between her sometime lover and her father. They both had the curls, the grin, the ‘game for a laugh’ attitude, Rory was just younger, slimmer and taller. And dark haired rather than gingery. A cloud scudded over the sun and she decided she’d imagined it. No way. ‘Maybe it was a running fuck that finished him off, wasn’t exactly sprinting material was he?’ The grin broke out.

‘If they scatter the bugger over the rubber then I’ll never get the bloody horses in there again.’

‘But it was his dying wish.’

Lottie squinted at Pip, who winked back, then turned her angelic face back in Billy’s direction.

‘I think his dying wish was probably, fuck I wish she’d hurry up and come.’

A chorus of ‘Dad’ and ‘Billy’ rang out, and he chuckled.

‘They weren’t? Were they?’ The angel that had briefly invaded Pip had been replaced with the normal mischief-maker.

‘Ejaculation can put quite a strain on a man’s heart, dear.’

Lottie waited for divine intervention, or the ground to swallow her up. Neither of which happened. None of them had heard Elizabeth creep back in their direction. People rarely did, which was why she was so successful at gathering information.

Billy shrugged his ample shoulders. ‘Well they were in bed together, weren’t they Pippa?’

‘That’s what she said when she rang.’

‘Come on, let’s get to this bloody party, crack the champers open, I say a bottle of single malt to the first person who finds out if he was.’ Billy smacked his hands together. ‘Agreed?’

‘But I don’t like single malt, Dad.’

‘We’ll drink it for you, Lots, won’t we Mick?’ Rory wrapped an arm round her shoulders just as she glanced up, straight into the dark eyes of the Irishman. ‘Not that you’re going to be the winner, my bet is on Elizabeth.’

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