Back In Fortune's Bed. Bronwyn Jameson

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СКАЧАТЬ graceful stride, the more confident she became in her first instinctive call. She tried another angle. “I gather she’s a racehorse?”

      “A retired one.”

      “Was she a fast one?”

      “Fast and strong,” he supplied, and the softened note of respect in his voice drew Diana’s gaze back to his profile. Still the same square jaw that framed his face in steely strength.

      Or, when he wanted his own way, in stubborn determination.

      But the years had sculpted change in the hollowed planes beneath his cheekbones, in the fretted lines radiating from the corners of his narrowed gaze, in the straight set of his unsmiling mouth.

      Diana longed to ask what had turned him so stern and disapproving, and why he was directing that acrimony toward her. But in talking about his horse she sensed the first easing in the tension between them and she wanted to prolong that mood. It wasn’t exactly harmonious but it was a start.

      “I would like to depict her as that fast, strong athlete you described. In motion. With the sun on her coat.” She paused, watching his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “That’s what I see when I look at her, but you’re the client.”

      “And the client is always right?”

      “No, but the client pays the bill so he always has the final say.”

      As if she wanted the final word, the horse extended her neck over the door and whinnied softly. Aware of Max’s watchfulness, of being under his judgment, she forced herself to hold her ground. The horse seemed friendly enough. It was sniffing at her hair. No teeth were visible, which had to be a good thing. Diana took a steadying breath.

      “Hello,” she said softly, and was pleased that her voice didn’t betray her horse-getting-far-too-close jeebies. “What is your name, beautiful?”

      Max might have cleared his throat. Or it could have been a throaty horse noise from a neighboring stable. Diana lifted a hand—it hardly shook at all—and stroked the horse’s face. A brass plate attached to the leather halter she wore was engraved with a single word.

      “Bootylicious,” she read. Brows lifted in surprise and amusement, she turned to Max. “Is that her name?”

      “Don’t blame me.” He held up both hands defensively. “The name came with her.”

      And it was so not a name he would have chosen. Diana couldn’t help smiling. “I think it is a very fitting name. Unique and distinctive,” she said, pleased that the tension had eased enough that she could joke and smile without it feeling like her face might split with the effort. “Perfect for a foundation mare for your new stud farm,” she continued, tongue-in-cheek. “You could name all her offspring Booty-something.”

      He shot her a disgusted look. “Luckily she’s not part of the new operation.”

      “She’s not? From what Sky said, I thought you and Zack were over here buying breeding stock.”

      “We are.” He shifted his position, allowing the bootylicious one room to move off, before he leaned back against the door. Almost relaxed, Diana noted, with rich satisfaction. And finally he’d stopped glowering. “This mare was a champion miler but she’s got too much sprinter’s blood in her pedigree.”

      “Is that a bad thing?”

      “Not for some studs, but we’re looking to breed champion stayers…for long distance races,” he clarified, when she looked askance. “This one’s bloodlines don’t fit the bill.”

      “But you bought her anyway?”

      “A gift for my parents. I’m leaving her here with Sky until she’s safely in foal. That’s why I want the photos, to send them in lieu of the real thing.”

      “Easier to gift wrap.”

      “Much,” he agreed, and a hint of the lopsided grin she loved lurked around the corners of his mouth.

      Loved? Diana gave herself a quick mental shake. What they’d shared was not love, no matter what she’d thought during those blissful months. Mention of his parents whom she had never met acted as the perfect reminder.

      “How is your family?” she asked out of politeness.

      “They’re all well.”

      “And you, Max?” Not out of politeness, but because she couldn’t help herself. She had to know. “How have you been?”

      “Fine.”

      On the surface it sounded liked a stock answer, the kind you pay no heed to. But all traces of that near-smile had vanished from his face and, as he pushed off the door and started toward the horse, Diana detected a stiffening in his posture.

      Alarm fluttered in her chest. “Are you?” she asked, before she could think better of it.

      “Why would you assume otherwise?”

      “Because you seem so different, so—” she let her hands rise and fall as she struggled to describe the vibes he’d been giving off “—uptight.”

      “You said you’re not the same person. Same goes.”

      Okay, but now he sounded downright hostile and Diana couldn’t let it go. Not now that she’d started. “We’ve both changed, as people tend to do, but at Case’s party you were unfriendly to the point of rudeness. I thought you might have been too travel-lagged to recognize me, or that you simply may not have remembered. But that’s not the problem, is it?”

      He clipped a lead rope onto the horse’s halter before he turned. The hat shaded his eyes but the line of his mouth definitely fit her description. Uptight and unfriendly. “You were introduced as Diana Young. Do I know you?”

      “After my husband died it was easier to keep his name. Plus there are advantages to not carrying the Fielding name around…not that it matters. I’m still me.”

      “Well, there’s the thing,” he said in his deep, down-under drawl. “I don’t know that I ever knew you.”

      That shocked a short, astonished laugh from Diana. Never in her thirty-one years had she been as honest, as open, as herself, as in the time she’d spent as Max’s lover. “How can you say that? I shared everything with you!”

      “Yeah, you shared. That’s what I don’t appreciate, Mrs. Young. That’s why I’m not feeling as friendly toward you as I used to.”

      “What do you mean?” Diana shook her head slowly. “What on earth do you think I shared?”

      “Your body, mostly. How did Mr. Young like that?”

      “Are you implying that I was already married?” she asked with rising incredulity.

      “Not married, but you must have been engaged.”

      “I wasn’t.”

      “You expect me to believe you met and married this Young character less than three weeks after leaving СКАЧАТЬ