Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      WHILE SHE WAITED for Jamey to come back with the pizza, Vic stood under a hot shower and washed her cap of short dark hair. When she’d dried herself, she reached for a violet sweater and a pair of dark gray flannel slacks that she generally only wore when she was going to town. In the mirror she stuck out her tongue at the streak of gray in her hair and wondered whether she should start coloring it.

      She had given Jamey the keys to her truck without a moment’s hesitation, but after he drove out to get the pizza, she’d remembered Angie’s comments about con men. Of course, if he did decide to keep driving, she’d have his motorcycle. It—and his stuff upstairs—were probably worth much more than her rattletrap of a truck.

      She wanted him to come back with or without the truck. Last night, chatting over that omelette, she’d realized how lonely she’d been and for how long.

      Not that she wasn’t surrounded by people. But she felt as though it had been years since she’d talked, really talked, to an attractive man. A man who seemed to care about what she said.

      She put a touch of eye shadow on her lids and pulled out her lipstick. She was acting like a young woman on a date. She smiled at her foolishness, doubting that Jamey saw her that way.

      By the time the truck rolled in, she had set the kitchen table and poured them each a glass of red wine. The dogs lay on the shabby couch in the living room. The cat lay on top of them.

      “Pizza man!” he called from the door. All three animals raced to greet him.

      “No pizza for them,” she said. “They throw it up, and besides, I’m starving.”

      He set the box on the table, opened it and reached for his wine. “To our first day together. And to many more.”

      She felt herself blushing as they touched glasses.

      “So, do I suit, lass?”

      “Until something better comes along. No, seriously, you’re a godsend and you know it. We need to talk about a decent salary. I was thinking a full groom’s wages plus what I planned to pay Angie Womack to exercise. Plus the free room, of course, if we ever make it habitable.”

      He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “You’re a generous woman.”

      “You’re doing the work of at least two people, so you should receive the pay. Heck, I’d pay you just to keep Blockhead from yowling his head off all day.”

      “Why do you call him Blockhead? He’s got a lovely head.”

      “It’s his temperament. At least it was until you got hold of him. My new nephew-in-law, Mike Whitten, had never been around horses or the horse-show business before he met Liz, and he’s sort of ga-ga. And he adores her. He found out quite by accident that the big annual European Sport Horse Sale was taking place so off he went.”

      Jamey sat back, laughed gently and shook his head. “And bought the biggest blackest stallion he could. They must have seen him coming. The horse isn’t branded. I’d say he’s what—three, four years old?”

      “That’s the thing. Mike refuses to tell even Liz how much he paid, but I suspect it was a bundle. And the horse has no papers—none.”

      Jamey sat upright. No papers? That was a bonus. He wouldn’t have to prove forgery.

      “Some German farmer brought him to the show, auctioned him and disappeared the moment he signed the bill of sale,” Vic continued. “Without proof of ancestry, Mike can’t even enter him into the American Stallion Provings so that he can be approved as a breeding stallion after he’s trained.”

      “It’s high time other countries began to develop their own sport-horse breeds. The Irish do a fair job, but none of their horses are consistent enough to compete with the Europeans. The French are fairly successful, but a new breed registry requires a prepotent foundation stallion that’ll sire a line of horses as fine as he is—” Jamey stopped speaking abruptly and looked at her.

      “Well, go on. I agree with you. How do you propose to do that in one lifetime?”

      He grinned sheepishly. “It’s all theory. Too much for a saddle burn like me.”

      “Still, it’s a good idea. It would be fun to be a part of something like that.” She reached across to the kitchen counter and snagged the wine bottle. “Another glass to go with the last piece of pizza?”

      “Thank you. And tonight I clear away.”

      “Be my guest. I’ll make us some decaf.” She was aware of his eyes on her as she moved about the kitchen. She found herself holding her stomach in.

      As she set his cup before him and slid back into her seat, she said, “Marshall told me you’d had a run of bad luck СКАЧАТЬ