The Royal and The Runaway Bride. Kathryn Jensen
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shrubs formed arches, a maze and screens for the rose garden, interspersed with statues collected by the royal family over generations. Phillip wondered if the American clan was accustomed to such grandeur, then remembered the gossip that the Connellys were one of the wealthiest families in their own country. He caught a glimpse of emerald fabric whipping around a corner of hedgerow that separated the stables and yard from the prettily manicured greenery.
“Hey, you there, wait up!” he called, breaking into a run.
But if she heard, his shout had no effect. When he emerged from the shrubs to stand at the edge of the exercise yard, there was no sign of the less-than-daintily shod damsel in what had appeared to be Doc Martens. He caught the eye of a stable boy who was leading a chestnut mare across the yard.
“Did you see a young woman in a ball gown come this way?” Phillip asked in Italian.
The boy shook his head and kept going.
A low whinny and snort caught Phillip’s attention, and he whipped around, moving toward the sound like a cat stalking its prey. Ducking into the dark interior of the stable at the third doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light, then looked down the long aisle strewn with sweet-smelling straw. She stood on the lowest rail of a stall, reaching over to stroke the nose of a pure white horse. Her attention was so fixed on the animal, she didn’t react to his approach.
“Does the stable master know you’re messing about with one of his most valued mounts?” he asked.
She jumped and snapped her hand back but recovered quickly, tipping her nose into the air. Her green eyes flashed defiantly at him. “Of course. He asked me to look in on him.”
“He did, did he?” Phillip grinned, even more curious about her now. From a distance, she’d been intriguing. Up close she was dazzling, with a delicious hint of recklessness. “And why would he do that?”
“Because I’m…I’m a trainer. He asked me to work with—” Her gaze shifted almost imperceptibly to the bronze plaque on the stall’s half door. “—with King’s Passion.”
“A trainer,” he repeated, thinking that might well account for her mixed attire and uneasiness in a formal setting. His own trainer would do just about anything to avoid socializing with Phillip’s friends. Although why, as a mere employee, she should be included at all in the celebration wasn’t clear. “You’re an American.”
“Yes,” she said, hopping backward off the rail. Her narrow shoulders settled firmly and her long, elegant neck straightened until she was looking him in the eye. “I work for the Connellys but came as a favor to lend a hand at the royal stable for the celebration.”
“I see,” he said. “So you’ve had a lot of experience with horses.”
“Oodles.” She flashed him a cocky grin.
He walked around her, checking out her physique without hiding his intent. Her shoulders and arms looked strong enough for the job, and she was slender, lightweight as a jockey, and seemed to be coordinated. He guessed she’d look damn fine straddling one of his jumpers. The image excited him. He could see her taking a five-foot rail on his favorite gelding.
“It’s hard to find a good trainer these days,” he commented.
She shrugged, still looking more interested in the white horse than in him as she stroked the patch of pink flesh between the animal’s flaring nostrils.
“I have a problem horse in my own stable. Maybe you could break free of your duties here long enough to come over and take a look at him.”
Her brows knit. “Oh, well…I would of course, but I’m terribly busy here. And I expect I won’t be staying all that long.”
“Too bad. I would have paid you well.” No reaction. “And treated you to a fine lunch. My cook makes a bouillabaisse to die for.”
Now her pretty eyes widened. Good, he thought. He’d found a weakness. Food.
“I really don’t think I could—”
“Tell you what—” he stopped suddenly. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Alex—” She seemed to hesitate, then said again, “Alex.”
“Well, Alex, I’ll speak to our king before the end of the evening. Perhaps we can spring you for a few hours tomorrow or the next day. I’m sure he won’t mind. Besides, he owes me a favor.”
“Oh?” Her gaze finally swerved from horse to man.
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he promised with a wink. “So it’s a deal? You give my jumper a quick inspection, and I’ll treat you to the finest seafood concoction in the Mediterranean.”
She sighed, still looking unsure. “Agreed. But all I can spare is an hour or two at most.” She was studying him for the first time, and he felt as if she suddenly had him under a magnifying glass. What was she looking for? he wondered. Or was she afraid of agreeing to take a side job?
“Are you always so serious about accepting work?” He was delighted to see her eyes soften when they at last met his. For once he allowed genuine warmth to enter his own expression. After all, she was safe, not some husband-hunting debutante or social climber. Just a working gal. The more she resisted his invitation, the better he felt about spending time with her.
She blinked at him and the corners of her lips lifted tentatively. “Not always.” She crossed one booted foot over the other, still considering him. “Make it tomorrow. Early afternoon. You don’t have to ask Daniel Connelly for permission. I’m free to make my own decisions where my time is concerned.”
“Good, I’ll send someone for you around one o’clock, if that’s good for you. We’ll make it a late luncheon after you see my problem child. That way you’ll have the whole morning to work here.”
“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes skittering away from his. “I do want to make sure I finish up at the palace first.”
Alexandra kicked herself all the way back to the ballroom. What had possessed her to accept Phillip Kinrowan’s invitation to his estate? Sheer hunkiness, that was it! From the moment he was announced at the ball, she decided he was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on.
And, on top of his looks, he owned a stable full of horses.
From the time she’d been a little girl, she’d adored the creatures. Unfortunately, they didn’t always return her affection—unless you could count as tokens of endearment all those bruises and fractures she’d suffered during lessons when she was a schoolgirl. Among the Connellys’ social set, proper English riding lessons were a must. As crucial an element of her education as knowing how to read the New York Stock Exchange quotes in the Chicago Sun-Times financial section, according to Grant Connelly, her father. She didn’t hold her failures against the horses. Under most circumstances, she hadn’t done badly at all. It was just that once in a while she seemed to develop a slippery bottom, and there she’d be on the ground, studying clouds. She could never be described as a polished horsewoman.
So, what had possessed her to tell Kinrowan that she was a trainer? A childhood fantasy, perhaps? It might have been all right if he hadn’t immediately asked for her help. Then her pride hadn’t let her admit the fib. She’d have to show up at his place and pretend to be knowledgeable. If she kept the visit short, Alexandra reasoned, she should be all right. Surely she knew enough about horses to fake her way through an hour or two of horse-related conversation.
Alexandra shook her head, lifted her skirts and clomped in her favorite boots up the wide marble steps from the garden to the patio. Well, it would be a kick anyway. And a man who obviously had no interest in her other than professionally, and probably had tons more money than Daddy, couldn’t possibly hold the usual threat men had been to her. What the hell… Maybe an afternoon with Phillip Kinrowan would help her forget. Help her start to wash away the terrible pain, and stop thinking about the reason she’d run away