Luke's Promise. Eileen Wilks

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СКАЧАТЬ damned well it is.” Luke paced over to the desk, planted his hands on it, and leaned forward. “I thought you’d be good for her. All this time you’ve been seeing her, I thought—but you let her sonofabitching father put her horse up for sale!”

      “Wait a minute. If you’re talking about Maggie Stewart—”

      “Of course I’m talking about Maggie Stewart!” Luke turned and paced the length of the office in several quick steps. “Are you telling me you didn’t know about Fine Dandy? Maggie didn’t tell you what her father was doing?”

      Jacob shook his head.

      Luke’s breath gusted out. It looked like he’d built up a good head of steam over nothing. It wasn’t the first time. He jammed his hands into his back pockets. “You can buy him off me, then, I guess. My head groom should be picking him up right about now…you can board him with me until Maggie decides what she wants to do.” When Jacob’s eyebrow lifted, he added irritably. “Quit with the Mr. Spock look.”

      “You know my situation. Cash is tight right now with the Steller deal still up in the air, and it will be months before we’re able to dissolve the trust. If Fine Dandy’s purchase puts you in a bind I’ll help as much as I can, but—”

      “I don’t need your help,” Luke snapped. “Dandy should come from you, that’s all. Since you’re her fiancé.” Luke hadn’t said it out loud until that second. The words tasted even more foul than he’d expected.

      “No.”

      “What do you mean, no? Don’t you care what that horse means to her? Or are you more like her father than I thought—determined to mold her in some image of your own?”

      “Luke.” Jacob shook his head. “I won’t ask you to sit. You’re no better at being still now than when you were four. But if you’d stop interrupting, you might learn something. Of course I want Maggie to have her horse, to continue to compete, if that’s what she wants. But I’m not her fiancé.”

      Luke stopped dead, every muscle tense with disbelief. “Two weeks ago, when we met to discuss Ada’s situation, you said you were going to ask Maggie to marry you.”

      “She turned me down.”

      A peculiar tightness squeezed Luke. The acid that had eaten him for the past three months—ever since Jacob started seeing Maggie—dribbled out, burning as it went. Maggie didn’t want Jacob? “That’s hard to believe.”

      “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

      “No.” Luke frowned. The problem wasn’t what he’d thought; therefore, the solution would have to change, too.

      “Why would Maggie’s father sell her horse?” Jacob asked. “I had the impression Malcolm Stewart’s main interest in his daughter lies in how many trophies she can bring home.”

      “Because the man’s a fool. I’ll lay odds it has something to do with that damned trainer he hired. Walt Hitchcock doesn’t think women should be allowed on the Olympic Team—or much of anywhere other than the kitchen and bedroom.”

      “Why would Stewart hire him, then?”

      “He’s got the credentials,” Luke admitted reluctantly. “Former Olympic medalist. Bronze,” he added with a faint sneer that, perhaps, a former Gold Medalist was entitled to. “Eleven years ago.”

      “Maggie’s an excellent rider.”

      “Yeah, she’s damned good. Not ready for the Olympics, though.” As always, Luke made his mind up in a flash. “Listen, Jacob, I’ve got to go.”

      “What about Fine Dandy?”

      “I’ll take care of Dandy. Maggie, too.” He headed for the door.

      “Luke! Dammit, wait a minute.” Jacob was a big man, half a head taller than Luke and thirty pounds heavier, but he could move quickly when he wanted to. When Luke reached the front door, Jacob wasn’t far behind. “What do you mean, you’ll take care of Maggie?”

      But Luke moved fast, too. When he wanted to. He hit the front steps at a run. “You’re not going to marry her,” he called as he climbed into his truck. “So I guess I will.”

      The pickup was already moving when he slammed the door.

      12:10 p.m.

      “Your father will be so upset.”

      “Here’s a news flash. I’m upset.” Maggie crammed a fistful of panties into the corner of the suitcase and sniffed. Other women cried, she thought glumly. Take her cousin Pamela. Pamela cried beautifully, her eyes turning bigger and bluer with every tear. Not Maggie. Her nose got red and runny, but her eyes stayed dry.

      “He isn’t going to like this. You know what he says about your poor impulse control.”

      “At least I won’t be around to hear him say it.” Which was the whole point of making her escape now, while Malcolm Stewart tended to the important things in life—making money, crushing opponents. By the time he returned from his business trip, Maggie would be somewhere else.

      Anywhere other than here, in his house.

      “It’s so unpleasant when you and your father are at odds. Are you—are you angry with me, too?”

      She looked up and sighed. “No.” What would be the point?

      Sharon Stewart was a pastel woman. Eyes, clothes, hair, complexion—all were muted, but not to the icy clarity of sherbets or the welcoming warmth of spring. No, everything about her was tastefully understated to the point of invisibility. Her face was round, like her daughter’s, the skin soft and pale and pampered. Her eyes were uncertain. Always. Even now, those gentle blue eyes admitted no more than a faint, perplexed anxiety, as if all the more vivid emotions had been washed away.

      But her hands clenched and unclenched on each other, the knuckles strong and white. Broad hands, so much like her daughter’s. Peasant hands, according to Maggie’s father.

      “He’ll think I should have stopped you,” Sharon said anxiously.

      “Oh, Mom.” Impulsively Maggie moved closer, laying her hand over one of her mother’s. She caught the faintest whiff of Chanel. For as long as she could remember, her mother had used Chanel—discreetly, just a dab behind her left ear. The scent conjured memories of childhood hugs at bedtime. “Tell you what. Why don’t you run away from home with me? Then neither of us will have to worry about Father’s temper.”

      Sharon looked blank. “If that’s a joke, Margaret, it’s in poor taste.”

      “Maggie, not Margaret.” She sighed and pulled her hand back. “How many times have I asked you to call me Maggie?”

      “Your grandmother considers that a particularly vulgar nickname.”

      “I’m not my grandmother.” Although she bore the old harridan’s given name, for her sins. “Never mind. Pass me my address book, would you?”

      Sharon handed it to her, and she crammed it into the side pocket of her already-stuffed purse.

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