Country Rivals. Zara Stoneley

from?’ His voice was soft and he grabbed hold of Lottie’s hand and pulled her towards him. ‘He’s a top-class horse. We’d never get our hands on that kind of money even if things were going well. Besides, as far as the horses go she doesn’t give a shit about the money, she’s just having a go at him. She’ll probably hide them away for a bit then give them away. It’s spite. She wants to wind him up and I reckon she’s succeeded. She knows how much Simon’s success means to him. From what he said, I reckon he’s been stingy over the settlement, so the gloves are off. Come here, you’re cold.’

      ‘I’m fine, honest.’ Lottie, who hadn’t thought to grab a coat, wrapped her arms around herself and concentrated on stopping her teeth chattering. ‘So no more sponsorship money.’

      ‘Nope. He’s not going to pay me if I’m not riding his horses, is he?’

      ‘You don’t think he’ll buy you another one? You know, that she doesn’t know about?’ She was clutching at straws; she knew she was.

      ‘He’s busy trying to look as poor as possible; going out buying horses isn’t going to work in his favour when it comes to agreeing a divorce settlement, is it? I was rather hoping they’d reach some kind of agreement and it wouldn’t get to this. Oh shit, I am so sorry this had to happen right now, Lots.’

      Lottie sighed. ‘It’s not your fault, darling.’ Then she looked up, determined to see the bright side. ‘At least we didn’t sell Minty to him.’

      After a couple of years’ battling with Lottie’s very temperamental mare, Black Gold, Rory and Lottie had realised that despite her huge potential she was never going to be suited to competition. She was just too inconsistent. And Rory was afraid that one day she’d fall too hard, or spook in the wrong place and put Lottie in hospital. Or worse.

      So they’d put her in foal, hoping that it might settle her, and if they were lucky produce an eventer that had talent and temperament to match. And it looked like they’d hit the jackpot.

      Her filly foal, Araminta, had been a hit from the moment she’d struggled to her feet on impossibly long, wobbly legs. She didn’t bite or kick and she moved like an angel – eating up the ground effortlessly with the type of movement and natural carriage that made her stand out. David had wanted to buy her, promising that he’d guarantee Rory the ride, but something had stopped Lottie and Rory from signing on the dotted line. She was the first homebred horse they’d had with that elusive star quality, and despite their seriously diminished bank balance they’d been loath to let her go.

      ‘True, thank God for that. But she’s only two; we’ll be destitute by the time she starts to compete, and I really need to attract another backer now.’ He gave a rueful smile and ruffled Lottie’s hair. ‘And we need a new horsebox or we’ll be hacking to events.’

      ‘So we really haven’t got any choice at all now, have we? Gran was right, we have to let the film crew in or the money will run out long before we get back on our feet.’

      ‘Much as I hate to admit that the old dragon has won again,’ he shrugged and held her tighter, ‘what else can we do? It is pretty quiet round here right now, though, so I can keep an eye on them and we’ve had the contract checked through – it all seems straightforward enough.’

      ‘I don’t like it.’

      ‘Me neither, if I’m honest, but do we have any choice?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Let’s go for it, gorgeous, and come next season I’ll have a new loaded sponsor, and we’ll have a new USP for the wedding business.’

      ‘USP?’ Lottie looked at him blankly.

      ‘Well before, people just wanted to come so they could imagine they were gentry for the day, but after this they’ll be able to boast they’ve been on the film set. USP, unique selling point.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Maybe old Lizzie has done us a massive favour. How bad can it be?’

      * * *

      ‘What is it with fucking scriptwriters who think they’re directors?’ Sebastian Drakelow jabbed irritably at his laptop, adding, no doubt, a sarcastic comment, then ran long, slim fingers through his ash-blond hair before resting thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose. ‘For God’s sake, will somebody answer that bloody phone?’

      ‘It’s your bloody phone, you answer it, darling.’ Pandora’s tone was mild and faintly bored, the voice of a disinterested mother talking to a toddler. She crossed one long, elegant leg over the other and stared at her husband as she took a sip from the champagne flute, and then shifted her gaze so that she could watch the bubbles slowly rise to the top. ‘What did your last servant die of?’

      Seb looked up, cold, grey eyes narrowed, and scowled. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

      ‘It’s Sunday, darling. The terms “intern” and “interned” have different meanings.’

      ‘Ha, bloody, ha. Who’s ringing on a Sunday anyway?’

      ‘Why don’t you answer it if you want to find out? It’s probably your mother demanding you go over and change a light bulb for her.’

      Seb looked at his wife and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d managed to marry somebody who was even more selfish than he was. She was beautiful, in a thin, slightly brittle, contained kind of way, and she was smart. A lethal combination, he’d discovered. What Pandora wanted, Pandora got. She possessed more manipulative instinct in her little finger than most people thought existed, and she used every wile at her disposal in pursuit of her desires. The fact that she had such a striking appearance, with her flame-red hair and feline, green eyes certainly didn’t hamper her. Seb might not always like his wife, but he admired her; he’d always found it impossible to resist pure, unadulterated passion and ambition.

      Pandora might not be an intellectual but she was as streetwise as they came and she was quick. A born improviser. She was also, he deduced, pissed off with him for some reason – or curiosity would have forced her to answer his goddamn phone.

      ‘She has a little man to do that for her these days. A home help.’

      Pandora raised one beautifully arched eyebrow and he laughed.

      ‘Oh I do love you, you miserable cow. What have I done now?’

      ‘I’m bored. We need a change of scene.’

      ‘We’ll be filming again soon.’

      ‘A proper change of scene. This place is so,’ she waved a dismissive hand that took in the luxurious penthouse suite in one gesture, ‘so crass. It has no class, darling. I want class. I want to be somebody.’

      ‘You are somebody.’ He leant back and rested one ankle on his knee, wondering where this was going.

      ‘I want to be in Tatler, not Heat. I need a challenge, Seb. Oh, what’s the point, you will never understand. Answer that fucking phone, it’s giving me a headache.’

      ‘No, you’re right, I don’t understand. Why on earth would you want to be in Tatler