In the Brazilian's Debt. Susan Stephens
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What was she thinking? She wasn’t a naïve girl now, daydreaming in the stables at Rottingdean. She was a woman with a goal, who had won a scholarship to Brazil, and who couldn’t afford to be distracted. What must she look like to Chico? Hot, sweaty, and grubby— Quite suddenly, she didn’t have confidence in anything—not in herself, or her work, or in her future. This wasn’t the youth she had made a friend of all those years ago. This was Chico Fernandez, acknowledged equine expert—and expert between the sheets too, she had no doubt; a man with testosterone flying off him like white-hot shards that pierced her body with sensation until she couldn’t think. Chico was said to be a man’s man; a lone wolf who ruled his territory like a feudal lord. Was she here to take him on? Was she going to suck him dry?
‘Not a bad job,’ he remarked, glancing up at her.
‘Really?’ The last thing she had been expecting from him was words of praise.
‘But not good enough for the standards we set here. That’s why you’ve come to train at Fazenda Fernandez, isn’t it, Lizzie?’
There was a flash of suspicion in his eyes, and for a moment she had no idea why she was here, only that she was mad to have come. Echoes from the past came back to haunt her—snatches of conversation, that she had barely understood as a young teen.
‘Are you listening, Lizzie? If you don’t pay attention, you’ll learn nothing.’
She shook herself round. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘If you intend to stay on here and complete the training—’
‘I will complete the training.’
Chico’s eyes sparked as he sprang up to confront her. A clash of wills was the last thing she had intended, but she had never learned how to admit defeat, and she was determined to achieve all her goals here, including keeping Chico Fernandez at arm’s length.
She regretted her outburst when she saw Chico’s expression turn cold. She would have to keep her feelings closely guarded in future.
‘You will attend my tutorial here, tomorrow morning, at six a.m. sharp,’ he said without a hint of warmth.
‘Yes. Of course.’
Her best guess was, Chico didn’t think she’d last the course, and he was notorious for failing students who didn’t make the grade. There were no second chances—except for Danny, who had somehow managed to get her heart broken by a polo player, and had been allowed to go home and restart this year.
From confronting him, she was thrown back into pleading her cause. ‘I just want to do my best for every horse.’
‘I would expect nothing less of one of my students.’
He moved at the same time she did. They almost collided in the middle of the stall. He was close enough for her to smell the soap on his skin and the sunshine in his clothes, and the warmth of his impossibly powerful body, which was far, far, far too close for safety. Some of the buttons on his shirt were open, revealing tanned, hard-muscled skin—
‘When you’re ready?’
Chico’s voice was low and strummed her senses as she moved aside. He held her fate in the palm of his hand, yet her body was melting with want, which was insane, and absolutely the last thing she needed. She had to keep a clear head if she was going to achieve anything here, and being reduced to a mass of hormones was hardly going to help her do that.
‘Don’t let me keep you from your supper.’
There was a faint mocking note in his voice as if he knew the effect his brutal masculinity could have on even the most reluctant target.
‘Until tomorrow at six a.m.,’ she confirmed, taking care to keep her voice on the pleasant side of neutral.
She left the stall in a rush, and didn’t stop until she reached the tack room, where she stowed the medical supplies and then leaned back with her eyes closed and her body pressed up hard against the cool wall until finally she could breathe.
On her way from the courtyard to the cookhouse, she wished she could bind her breasts, or become a boy—lose these feelings, anyway. How was she supposed to stay here with so many dangerous fantasies in her head? She’d thought she’d got it all worked out and would be prepared for seeing Chico again. Not even close. Seeing him again had only confused her more. His eyes had assessed her, warmed her and heated her blood to the point where all she could think about was sex. And there was no way on earth she would ever sleep with him. Boss and groom was bad enough, tutor and student was forbidden territory, but everything that had happened in the past—all those rumours—made her thoughts taboo. And even if the past hadn’t stood between them—Chico Fernandez and Lizzie Fane? It could never happen. He was successful, famous, and rich, and she was no one. The only reason she was here was because she’d won a scholarship, and because her grandmother had insisted Lizzie must take up that scholarship, because an endorsement from Chico Fernandez was second to none.
And how did Chico feel about that?
Lizzie’s heart thundered with apprehension. If she didn’t make the grade, or he threw her out, who would save Rottingdean then?
‘Hey—wait up. You forgot something...’
She turned, and her heart went into overdrive when she saw the grubby top she’d discarded in the stall, hanging from the tip of Chico’s finger.
‘Rule one,’ he said, strolling up to her. ‘Never leave anything in a stable that could harm your horse.’
She was mortified. She never did. She never had before. She’d slung the top over the top of the partition between the stalls, meaning to take it with her.
Seeing Chico again had knocked everything out of her head. The sheer force of his personality swamped her as she took the top. Chico Fernandez was one of life’s primal forces, while she must look like the primmest thing on earth to him in her crisp white blouse, with its ironed and starched Peter Pan collar, her fresh-out-of-the-box sneakers, and her neatly pressed jeans. She had loved the outfit when she first put it on, because it was a parting gift from her grandmother. To bring her luck, Lizzie’s grandmother had said. And she still loved the clothes, but she had to admit they were more garden party than gaucho. Almost in defiance of that, her nipples were tightening and her heart was thundering out of control. She grabbed the chance to take a deep, calming breath as he paused to turn and talk to one of his fellow polo players.
‘Black eyes, black colours for his team, and a black heart has never stood in the way for Chico Fernandez when it comes to unparalleled Gaucho Polo success for this world-beater...’ This quote from one of the articles she had read about him seemed so relevant now. If Chico’s opponents on the polo field were subject to this same force field, no wonder they found him formidable. Most sports commentators said there had never been a player like him.
And what did most women say?
She didn’t even want to think about his other women. She guessed Chico accepted what was freely offered and then moved on, and could only thank her lucky stars that fate had decreed she would never be one of his discards.
What a great thought—such a sensible thought—that unfortunately had no influence on her body, and her body still wanted him. She blamed it on the primal imperative to mate with the leader of the pack.
‘Forgive me,’ Chico said brusquely, spinning round. ‘Before you go to supper, I have one or two more questions for you, Lizzie.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Oh?’
‘As a representative of the grooms, could you tell me, are your quarters comfortable?’
Why did he care? Was he trying to trip her up? Was he looking for an excuse to get rid of her? ‘Quite comfortable, thank you.’
He stabbed a glance at the utilitarian block where the students were housed. What could she possibly have to complain about?