The Untamed Argentinian. Susan Stephens
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The pampas.
This conjured up such fabulous images—terrifyingly wild and impossibly dangerous.
And the sooner he went back there, the sooner she could relax, Bella told herself firmly. They had reached the pony lines where the horses were tethered to wait their turn to enter the match. ‘I’ll never let you go,’ she whispered, throwing her arms around Misty’s firm grey neck. ‘And I’d certainly never sell you on to some blackhearted savage like Nero Caracas. Why, I’d sooner—’
The images that conjured up had to stop there. Burying her face against Misty’s warm hide, Bella tried and failed to blot out the image of her moaning with pleasure in Nero’s arms. Daydreams were one thing, but she’d be sure to lock the stable door in future.
He never listened to gossip. He preferred to make up his own mind about people, places, animals, things—
And Isabella Wheeler.
The Ice Maiden’s eyes had been wary and hostile to begin with, but not by the time he had left her. Why was Bella’s luscious, long red hair cruelly contained beneath a net? It was preternaturally neat, but he had detected a wild streak beneath that icy veneer. He had seen enough ponies standing meekly in the corral, only to kick the daylights out of a groom if they weren’t approached with respect. Control ruled Bella. She had earned the highest respect in equine circles, but still managed to remain an enigma, without a shred of gossip concerning her private life. How could she not present him with a challenge he found impossible to resist?
Mounting up, he gathered his reins and called his team around him for the pep talk. He was unusually wired and the men knew it. They stared at him warily whilst keeping a tight rein on their own restless mounts. ‘No mercy,’ he warned, ‘but don’t risk the horses. And take care of the grey the English captain will be riding. Depending on how the grey does today, I might want to buy her—’
Bella wouldn’t sell her horse to him?
His determination to change that mounted as he remembered Bella would barely speak to him. The thought of unbuttoning that tightly laced exterior and seeing her eyes beg for pleasure instead of challenging him was all the encouragement he needed. He wanted her to relax for him. He wanted to discover who Bella Wheeler really was—
The light of challenge was so fierce in his eyes that his team, mistaking it for the fire of battle, wheeled away.
Bella would be different. Not easy, Nero thought as he took his helmet off to acknowledge the roar of the crowd when he galloped onto the field. Bella would not yield to him as easily as her pretty mare had. There was something else behind that composed stare. Fear. He wondered at it. She feared the loss of her pony—that he could understand, but there was something more. And there was another question: why did such a successful and attractive woman live the life of a celibate in what was a notoriously libidinous society?
Because Bella was different. She was an independent woman, and courageous. She had coped well with her father’s disgrace, supporting Jack Wheeler to the bitter end and salvaging what she could of the business. But where a private life was concerned she seemed to have none, and planned to keep it that way, or why else would she dress so severely?
Bella was all business and no fun, Nero concluded, as if to show the slightest warmth or humour might put her at risk. Yet beneath that Ice Maiden façade he’d heard she was much loved by the children she invited to her stables. She could be useful to him. With that thought in mind, he replaced his helmet and lowered his face guard. Training his restless gaze on the stands he searched for Bella as he cantered up to start the match.
CHAPTER TWO
BELLA hated him. Nero Caracas had almost single-handedly annihilated the home team. Never mind that his three team-mates had played well, she held Nero directly responsible for trouncing the team whose ponies she had trained. She had one bittersweet moment when the prince, who was awarding the prizes that day, had named Misty pony of the match, but even that triumph was quickly smashed by the quick look Nero shot her—the look that said, I’m having her. She’s mine. The look that had prompted Bella to flare back silently, Over my dead body.
Over your body, certainly, had been Nero’s outrageously confident response, which he had laced with a wolfish grin. And now she was being forced into his company in the evening too. The prince had invited all the players and their trainers to dinner at the castle. It was not the type of invitation Bella could easily refuse. And why should she? The opportunity to eat dinner with the prince, to see round the royal castle—was she going to let Nero Caracas stand in the way of that? It was a signal from the prince himself that her father’s yard was back in favour. Jack Wheeler’s name would be spoken again with pride. And, realistically, her chance of being seated next to Nero was zero, Bella reassured herself. Protocol was everything in royal circles and she was sure to be seated with her team.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I put you next to me,’ the prince said, smiling warmly at Bella, ‘and that you’re not sitting with your team…?’
‘Of course not, Sir, it’s an honour,’ Bella replied graciously, trying not to care who was sitting across the table from her on the other side of the prince. Or the fact that Nero seemed unusually chummy with their royal host.
‘The captain of the winning team and the owner and trainer of the pony of the match—it seemed an inevitable pairing to me,’ the prince confided in his usual laid-back manner.
‘Indeed, Sir,’ Bella agreed, coolly meeting Nero’s amused stare. What was going on?
‘Your Royal Highness is, as ever, a most perceptive man,’ Nero drawled, raising one sweeping ebony brow as he connected with Bella’s narrow-eyed stare.
Bella Wheeler in a dinner gown. This was an image he had toyed with on his way to the castle. He had thought she might free her shiny auburn hair from its cruel captivity and reveal the young body that lurked beneath her workmanlike clothes. Instead, she was trussed up in a gown her grandmother would have approved of, and her hair was more tightly dressed than he had ever seen it. Did she have to make a statement every time they met? If it went on like this, he fully expected her to be wearing a sandwich board on the next occasion, proclaiming: Look, Don’t Touch.
‘So, Bella,’ the prince said, distracting him, ‘I’ve been hearing good things about you—and not just as far as training polo ponies goes. I’m thinking more of your work with children,’ he explained.
Bella blushed. She didn’t like to make a song and dance about the work she undertook in her free time.
‘Have you ever thought of expanding your scheme?’ the prince pressed.
Bella noticed Nero appeared to be equally intent on her answer. ‘My polo commitments don’t allow for it, Sir—’
‘But you do what you can, which is more than most people even attempt,’ the prince went on. ‘And I’ve been hearing some very good things about you—’
Bella answered this with a modest smile.
As the meal continued her tension relaxed. She was imagining things, Bella reassured herself. Nero sitting across the table had made her edgy. There was no plan afoot between Nero and the prince. Her royal host was always well briefed, and was not only genuinely interested in the people he met but was an excellent conversationalist. Her father had been invited to the castle in his heyday, but this was Bella’s first time and she wasn’t going to waste it fretting about the prince’s fanciful seating plan that saw spinster-and-contented-with-her-lot Bella Wheeler seated across the table from the world’s most desirable man. She could only hope Nero had got her message—Butt out of my life, Caracas. You’re not wanted here.
But she did want him. She wanted Nero with an ache so bad she could only hope the prince, who was undoubtedly a man of the world, hadn’t picked up on it. Nero was a force of nature, a man who could have any woman in the world. What if he suspected how she felt about him? How professional would Nero think her then?
He’d