Darci's Pride. Jenna Mills
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sorry about the mess with Sam,” she said, looking up from the photo to the man. She hadn’t answered her phone. “I know you didn’t do anything wrong.”
But someone didn’t. Someone thought he’d drugged Sam Whittleson’s horse. And someone wanted to make him pay.
“Lightning Chaser is an amazing horse,” she added. “I’m looking forward to the Classic.”
One side of his mouth lifted. With More Than All That sidelined, the field was wide open, and rumors were running rampant that a filly who rarely ran with the boys might give the race a try. A filly owned by none other than the former owner of Warrego Downs…Weston Parnell.
A filly named Darci’s Pride.
Somehow, Tyler thought it fit.
“Well then,” he said, “that makes two of us, sunshine.” Her smile was brief, fleeting, politely formal.
“I’m looking forward to seeing what Darci’s Pride is made of,” he added with a wicked surge of adrenaline. “See if she’s all that she’s made out to be.”
Darci’s chin came up. “She is.”
He shouldn’t have winked. Tyler knew that. But damn it all to hell, he did.
Habit, he told himself. It was just a bloody habit. “I prefer to be my own judge.”
Her smile widened, reminding him for one cruel moment of that girl he’d seen—
He broke the thought, the memory. “I’ll send Peggy in,” he said, and then he was gone, didn’t trust himself to linger, to look, for one second longer. It was well and fine to glance back…but only a glance.
She watched him go. She stood there in his large, Spartan office, not trusting herself to move, barely trusting herself to breathe, and watched Tyler Preston walk out the door.
Again.
She should have been prepared.
The last time, she’d been naked, clutching only a sheet. But somehow, through the years and the miles, the distance she’d injected between them, she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten what it was like to be in the same room as Tyler Preston, to feel the gleam in those dark green eyes, to see how his mouth could curve into those naughty, wicked smiles, smiles that had the simultaneous power to seduce and destroy. She’d forgotten how his voice, that low, irreverent Aussie drawl, could swim through her and touch places she hadn’t been touched in six long years.
She’d forgotten, because she’d had to.
She’d forgotten, because remembering would have made walking away, moving forward, impossible.
And if there was one thing Darci was determined to do, it was move forward. There’d been no future for her in Australia all those years ago, a seventeen-year-old whose face had been splashed on the cover of every tabloid. Everywhere she’d gone, people had looked at her. They’d stared—and they’d known. She was the girl who’d seduced the man, the jailbait who’d gone to bed with the cowboy.
The harlot who’d smeared the reputation of one of Australia’s favorite sons.
The shame had followed her everywhere, until finally she’d stepped onto the big jet that hot March afternoon, and never looked back. England, Oxford, had been a world away, and with the miles and the years, she’d moved forward.
But then she’d run into Andrew Preston at a party in London, and all those hard broken edges she’d pushed deep had shoved their way forward, and she’d known. Finally, after six years, she’d realized how to fix things. How to make things better, to give Tyler back all that she’d taken from him.
That’s what she wanted. To give Tyler back the respectability her recklessness had cost him, to prove to him and her father and everyone who still saw her as frivolous that she was no longer that reckless, irresponsible child. That she was competent, could be trusted. That she was no longer that motherless girl spinning so desperately, horribly out of control. Then she would be free of the past. Then she would walk away, walk forward. Finally, at last, get on with her life.
She’d planned and she’d analyzed, just as she’d learned to do at Oxford. She’d struck up a conversation with Andrew and the two had quickly realized how much they had in common. It had been easy between them. He hadn’t recognized her name, hadn’t recognized her as the girl who’d almost destroyed his cousin.
The invitation to join his campaign had been natural, easy. He needed help in Australia. She was Australian. Her father had served two terms as president of the ITRF. Despite her six-year exile, she knew people. She had friends, influence. She could help Andrew as no one else could. She could help him gain Australian support, despite the popularity of Jacko Bullock.
The opportunity had been all but gift wrapped, the kind of chance she’d been craving since earning her degree in commerce and political science.
She’d wanted to say yes, absolutely, to shout it from the rooftop of her London flat. But she’d realized she couldn’t, not until she’d told Andrew the truth about her and his cousin. She’d learned the consequences of lies, even seemingly harmless little white ones. So she’d talked to Andrew and held her breath, and after a long, unsteady heartbeat, he’d smiled warmly and held out his hand, told her the past was the past.
But then Tyler strode into his office, tall and dusty, damp from his land, in need of a shave and with that battered hat pulled down low on his head, and something inside her, all that determination and resolve maybe, the nice little speech she’d rehearsed, had simply shattered.
The years had been kind to him. Amazing, actually. He was still lanky, but no longer in the way of the brash cowboy half the country had been in love with. He was a man now, with all the confidence and awareness that came with the years. Even the gleam in his eyes was different, still bloody irreverent, but more focused now.
Dangerous.
And in the moment she’d first seen him standing there, she’d realized how wrong she’d been. How badly she’d misjudged the situation. All that she’d forgotten, all she’d refused to remember, had surged back, tightening around her like a shiny new vise.
One glance at the picture in her hands, of Tyler so long ago, and the ache in her chest deepened. He’d been young then, innocent in the way only a child could be. But even then, when he could have been no more than eight or nine, the grit had been in his eyes, the dreams and the determination to make them come true. And the hat…
She smiled at the sight of it sitting crookedly on his head, much like a similar hat he’d worn when she’d first seen him all those years ago. She’d been bored, flipping channels on her television, when she’d landed on a local access cable station, and seen him. She hadn’t known the horseman’s name, had only seen the naughty gleam in his eyes, heard the irreverent drawl, and from that moment forward, she’d been hooked. She’d made it her mission—
Her mission. It always had a way of getting her in trouble.
She set the picture back on the shelf and fished around in the leather satchel that doubled as a briefcase, locating her mobile phone. She pushed the button to see the missed call, braced herself even before her father’s name appeared.
He’d been trying to reach her for several days.
Sighing, she jabbed a few buttons and brought the phone to her ear: “Sweetheart, I do wish you would answer your phone. I have decided to fly into Sydney a few days in advance of the Summit.”
Darci closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. It was one thing to avoid her father with an ocean between them, something entirely different when he was only two hours south. “We can have lunch,” he said in his booming formal voice, the one he always used. The only one, Darci had learned, he knew how to use, even when she’d been a young girl who’d needed something so…different. “I will be at the Observatory, as usual. Barbara will set something up.”
She