The Fake Husband. Lynnette Kent
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mother was at that age. And from what Phoebe tells me, she’s really good.”
“I’ve talked to her on the phone. Jacquie and I are supposed to set up some lessons, I believe.” Rhys risked a glance to his left and found Jacquie’s gaze focused on the napkin her fingers were busy folding into a fan. “I’m looking forward to that.”
“Do you have a family, Rhys?” Phoebe Moss had evidently decided to suspend hostilities…or else she planned to come in under his radar.
“I’m divorced. My son Andrew lives with me.”
“How old is Andrew?”
“Going on fifteen.” Beside him, Jacquie stiffened for a moment, then relaxed again.
“Just a little older than Erin. Does he ride?”
“He could hardly help it, given the family business. Our branch of the Lewellyns has trained and sold horses for a couple of centuries, now, in Wales and the U.S. But Andrew does love it, thank God. He’s aiming for the Olympics.”
Phoebe buttered a piece of toast. “Like his father?”
DeVries looked up. “The Olympics?”
“Rhys has been to the Olympics twice,” Jacquie said. “He took a gold medal last time in eventing.”
The other man quirked an eyebrow. “I apologize. I didn’t recognize your name.”
Rhys shook his head. “No reason you should. Equestrian events aren’t as widely publicized as, say, track-and-field.”
“And what is eventing, exactly? I’m still being initiated into the horse world.”
“Eventing—held at what we call horse trials or three-day events—is a competition designed to test the endurance, athleticism, and discipline of horse and rider. The first day’s test is a dressage performance, in which we execute a complicated series of figures on flat ground within a ring of specified length and width.”
The mayor-elect nodded. “Right. I’ve watched dressage.”
“On the second day, horse and rider compete in the speed and endurance section, which includes several elements of fast work. The most impressive is the actual cross-country run, over seven kilometers or so on a course which includes obstacles ranging from simple fences to water hazards, even buildings to ride through. Each ride is timed, and any refusal or fall pretty much eliminates the pair for the entire event.”
“The jumps are massive,” Phoebe added. “Four feet high, or more, and at least that wide. Or in a series, where you make two or three jumps, one right after the other.”
Rhys grinned at her. “Right. And those jumps are fixed in place—they don’t come down if they’re hit.”
“Painful,” Adam DeVries commented.
“Can be.” Rhys cleared his throat, forced his thoughts past that inevitable memory. “On the last day, the horse and rider compete in stadium jumping, another timed event, over painted wooden fences which do come down if knocked hard enough. Cross-country and show-jumping times are combined, and the dressage score figured in to determine the overall winner.”
“And you do this on a regular basis?”
“The season runs spring to late fall. The big four events are Burghley and Badminton, in England, Rolex in Kentucky, and the Adelaide Horse Trials in New Zealand. And the Olympics, every four years.”
“So what brings you and your horses to this part of Carolina?”
“I was looking for a change of pace—and weather.” He grinned and got Adam’s smile in return. “An old friend lives in the area and suggested I try it out for a season. We’re thinking of doing some breeding together, and so I thought I’d take her advice.”
“Horse breeding?” Jacquie asked, with a sidelong glance.
“I don’t breed dogs,” Rhys said, with a wink.
“And are you already looking forward to the next Olympics?”
Rhys chose the polite answer rather than the truthful one. “That’s the ultimate prize. And Imperator is the horse to do it twice, if anyone can. You all should come out to see him one day. He’s quite the show-man.” Realizing that he still held his unopened coffee in his hand, he slid out of the booth. “Just drive out to Fairfield Farm whenever you have the time. I’ll be happy to give you a tour.”
“I’ll do that.” DeVries got to his feet and offered a firm handshake. “It’s good to have you in town, Mr. Lewellyn.”
“Rhys.”
“And I’m Adam. I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon. If there’s anything I can do, feel free to call.”
“Thanks.” Turning to the table, he finally managed to catch Jacquie’s eye. “Call me about those lessons.”
Her serious expression was not encouraging. “I’ll think about it.”
He had to let it go. “Good to meet you, Phoebe. Abby.” Jacquie’s friends unbent enough to nod. As he crossed the diner, he heard the conversation pick up behind him, heard a woman’s laugh and would have sworn it was Jacquie’s. She hadn’t laughed or even smiled since that first grin when he arrived—not a good omen for any future companionship.
After fourteen years, though, whatever had been between them that summer should really remain in the past. They’d been young, and he’d been on the rebound. With hindsight, he could see how doomed the entire relationship was from the beginning. Even if Olivia hadn’t returned and begged him to cancel the divorce, he and Jacquie would surely have burned out their passion and gone their separate ways.
Rhys climbed into his truck, turned on the engine and took a sip of lukewarm coffee. That theory was all well and good. But the fact remained that seeing Jacquie again had jump-started his imagination, his memories…his libido…as nothing else had in fourteen years. She’d brushed him off twice, so far, and would have sent him to hell today if she could have brought herself to be so rude. She hadn’t, though.
And he wouldn’t leave her alone unless she forced him to.
SCHOOL WAS PRETTY MUCH SCHOOL, Andrew thought, wherever you went. These Southern kids he’d been dumped in with weren’t nearly as cool as they thought they were. But by lunchtime, he’d decided they were probably easier to get along with than the nerds and snobs in his last school in New York.
The courses he’d taken at home put him a grade ahead at New Skye High School, and he’d hung around with tenth-graders most of the morning. But all students ate lunch at the same time in the big cafeteria, where there were sections labeled for each class. Andrew figured he’d play it safe and sit at a ninth-grade table. He didn’t want to argue with some territorial freak over being in the wrong place.
So he watched from the empty end of a bench as the usual groups formed—the guy jocks, the cheerleaders, the popular girls who weren’t cheerleaders, the smart kids, the girl jocks, the losers. He found his eye drawn to a girl in the popular group, maybe because, in a bevy of suntanned blondes, her short black hair and pale skin singled her out.
Cute, definitely. Wearing jeans and a sweater under a leather jacket, she was worth a second glance, even a third. He’d think about asking her out, if there was any possibility his old man would let him go on a date.
Since there wasn’t, Andrew went back to his sandwich. Next thing he knew, somebody was standing across the table.
“Hi.”
He looked up to find her standing in front of him and smiling. “Hi, yourself.”
“You’re new to school, right? I’m Erin Archer.”
“Andrew Lewellyn.”
Her pale blue eyes got big. “Lewellyn? As in Rhys Lewellyn?”
“No,