Born Of The Bluegrass. Darlene Scalera

was known for his ease with Thoroughbred horses and beautiful women. Many would say this was only one more night of many nights providing pleasure and passion. He would have agreed if he’d also been a curious observer or merely a clever participant. He hadn’t. There’d been no room for wiles. He’d taken her in his arms and was no longer the master of his own fate. He’d been shaken, stunned, and, even now, craving more.

      He sat up, fully awake, although his sleep had been little and his drinks had been many. He was content, restless, sated, wanting. Here was the magic they talked about. Who would have thought—a tip of the head, a curve of the neck, a meeting without warning? He would never underestimate life again.

      He gathered his clothes, dressed, left the stone and wooden-beam cabin where his great-grandfather used to escape to drink bourbon, smoke cigars and swap stories with friends. The night was also leaving. The moon was a ghost. Still it would be sometime until the sun tinted pink the dew of the world’s richest grass. The tent was standing, but the tables and the pavilion had been cleared of the remains of last night’s party. Beyond rose the big house, white and old South. Reid saw a light in the kitchen, knew the coffee had been put on. But first he would check the horses. Always the horses.

      It was quiet inside the stallion barn except for a few snorts, the paw of horseshoes against the straw-covered asphalt. In the distance, Reid heard the night guard’s truck leaving one of the other barns, stop at the next, making rounds. Reid walked down the wide center lane, the memory of the night and the woman still washing over him. He moved toward the far end to a stall on the right, the brass nameplate on the bottom half of its Dutch door inscribed Aztec Treasure. A hot-blooded champion who would have been gelded had his genes not been worth gold. Reid was halfway down the corridor when he heard a low moan. He quickened his steps toward the almost human sound, already murmuring, “Easy, champ. What’s the—”

      His calming voice broke off as he met the horse’s eyes, white, wet without tears. His first thought was colic. He went to open the door, frowning when he saw it hadn’t been properly latched. He carefully slid back the solid slab of oak, nicked and deeply indented from the animal’s frequent fits. The horse didn’t rear up to claim his dominance as in the past. He only stared, his flanks heaving, his body trembling. Reid stepped toward the animal, then stopped, seeing the animal’s foreleg held off the ground, dangling at the knee. He stared as if what he saw was not real, only more of the night’s illusion. He felt the sweating horse’s heat, his own heat of shock and fear. Finally he turned. And saw his brother’s crumpled body lying in a bed of softest straw.

      Chapter One

      Saratoga Race Course

      Saratoga Springs, NY

      Dani touched a hard shoulder, a broad chest. Her hands were skilled, their touch delicate, her fingertips already knowing what would come. Softness, hardness, heat.

      She stared into spiraling depths, dark eyes that drew her…frightened others. Such a complicated creature, this one. All male. Pure passion. Born to win.

      She moved, and the eyes followed her. She saw the curve where light and dark met. A roll of white, a confession of what others didn’t see—the colorless vulnerability.

      Her lips touched the thin ridge between the watching eyes. A kiss to calm. Her hand caressed. The eyes watched.

      “You won’t even let ’em smell your sweat, will you, gorgeous?” The voice could have lulled lightning.

      She squatted down, her hands skimming a lean leg. “Tough guy. All day, dreaming only of a fast track, sweet fillies. That’s all you want ’em to see, isn’t it?”

      Her hands cupped a twin leg of muscle and power. The proud male head turned. The eyes watched. “Yessir, they like to talk about you. Say you came out of the womb ready to fight, born bad. I say you never stood a chance. They knew who your father was.” She stood, laid her cheek to silk. “Bloodlines.”

      She stepped back. “All this time we’ve been together, and still, you’re giving me the show. Acting like you don’t care. Breaking my heart.”

      Her hand followed a spine’s curves. “But you’re not fooling me, darlin’. Pretending not to care for nothing except ladies and long shots.” Her hand paused. She leaned in, her voice almost inaudible. “You see I knew another like you.”

      She wrapped her arms around the thick neck of her current charge, felt the tremble beneath her cheek, the tremble in her heart. “Don’t worry,” she whispered into the dark softness. “You’ll always be my favorite.”

      As she turned to leave, she felt the staying touch at the back of her neck, moving down to her hip. “A gullible girl would think you’re returning the compliment.”

      She reached into her front pant pocket for the sought-after peppermint. “I, however, am not so naive.”

      She stepped outside the stall, surveying the shedrow. It was the height of August meet, and anyone who was anyone in the Thoroughbred racing world had brought the best of their stables to Saratoga for the month. Twisting the bill of her baseball cap to the back of her head, Dani looked up past the overhang of the unenclosed barn. The dawn mist had burned off to a bright blue that soothed rather than stunned the eyes, the heat comfortable enough to drink a Saratoga Sunrise and not get dizzy.

      The horses had been walked, bathed, rubbed and brushed. Legs had been carefully checked for swelling, cuts or abrasions, then swabbed with poultices of medicated mud or iced and bandaged, if needed. Manes had been combed, feet painted, clover tossed into the straw bed and liquid vitamins poured over the second feeding of oats. Morning workouts were a mere memory.

      It was past noon, and the air was shifting, becoming keener, closer, a held breath. The Thoroughbreds felt it. The muscles in their impossibly slender legs twitched. Their muzzles reared up, taking deep draughts of the charged air. Post time was coming.

      Her chores done until it was time to fetch the evening feed and prepare the night bedding, Dani surveyed the shedrow, her body always instinctively angled toward the red-and-white striped roofs across the street.

      A few other grooms sat outside the cinder block dorms, sipping beers, shooting the breeze, looking, too, without realizing it to the semicircle of the grandstand and the clubhouse, ever aware of the hundreds of dreams sitting beneath those wooden peaks. Dreams that could die in a split second today, only to be resurrected tomorrow.

      Behind her, Dani heard a voice feminine and falsely drawling.

      “Granddad told me the stink in here would smell sweeter than the South in springtime one day.”

      Dani glanced over her shoulder and saw the stable owner’s granddaughter, Cicely Fox, breathe in, swelling her bosom as if serving it on a platter.

      “But honey, stink is still stink.” The blonde laughed, tossing back her head. It was the movement of purebreds. The jewels in her ears, the gold at her throat and wrists caught the August light as she strutted down the barn’s dirt lane, steadying herself on the arm of her cousin, Prescott.

      “Watch where you step,” Prescott advised as he steered the woman to the right.

      “O-o-o-o-oh!” Cicely squealed, sidestepping a trail of fresh horse droppings.

      Dani’s gaze immediately went to the animals in their stalls. They’d tense at much less than a woman’s whine. She heard rustling as several pawed the straw. One nickered high. Another snorted. It sounded like a laugh.

      “You there. You there, boy.”

      It was a moment before Dani realized Prescott was calling to her.

      “Clean up that mess. This barn’s not fit to walk through.”

      Dani grabbed the shovel leaning against the rail, her fingers curling tight on the handle but her “Yessir” automatic. Once her reply might have been less abiding, but once she’d been young and reckless. No more. She knew her place, knew how dangerous