A Weaver Baby. Allison Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ lifted his head, his large, liquid eyes looking into hers. He blew out a noisy breath, as if he were laughing at her nonchalance.

      She stared back into the colt’s eyes. Mind your own business, Lat.

      He snorted again and stretched his long neck over the rail, butting his nose against her shoulder.

      She fell back a step, laughing softly despite herself.

      Jake steadied her and he nudged Latitude’s head away. “Behave.”

      “He just wants this.” J.D. pulled a peppermint out of the pocket of her FC-emblazoned polo shirt. She unwrapped the mint and held it out.

      Latitude eagerly nipped the candy off her palm.

      “Can’t blame him for that.” The corner of Jake’s mouth curled slightly and his gaze seemed to linger on her shirt.

      More specifically, on the pocket above her breast.

      Admittedly, it had been years since she’d even flirted with a man, but she wasn’t so out of practice that she didn’t recognize interest when it—all six-plus feet topped with thick brown hair and hooded eyes—was staring her in the face.

      Her cheeks heated when her nipples pinpointed eagerly beneath the butter-yellow cotton.

      She stepped back to the rail, careful to keep that space between her arm and Jake’s. Squashing her breasts against the hard rail didn’t do a thing, though, to squash the warmth zipping around in her veins.

      If she’d had such an infernally predictable response to Donovan, maybe they wouldn’t have broken up six years ago. But then again, she knew they would have. Donny hadn’t liked coming in second to her beloved horses. And he’d especially not liked coming in second to another man—Troy.

      She’d learned her lesson, though.

      Stick to horses and nobody gets hurt.

      She could feel her face getting hotter by the second and avoided Jake’s gaze. Having the hots for the owner of the horses she loved was so not high on her list of how to succeed in what was commonly perceived as a man’s world.

      She’d always been fine before with her particular affliction where Jake was concerned. Because she was just a lowly soul on his stable crew. One he barely looked twice at, much less looked at the way he was looking now.

      “Something wrong? You’re looking very…flushed.”

      She wanted to bury herself in a pile of straw. “I’m still not used to the humidity here,” she defended with a shrug that even she didn’t buy.

      “It’s just a warm Southern night.” His voice was like molasses. Vaguely amused. Darkly sweet.

      She had another peppermint tucked in her breast pocket and wondered if it could melt because of the heat steaming through her. “With about a gazillion percent humidity.”

      He tipped the champagne bottle over the flute and shimmering, golden liquid bubbled forth. Then he held the glass toward her. “Maybe this will help you cool off.”

      She couldn’t help laughing. “I think I’ve already had too much of that.” The first bottle of bubbly had been opened at the track in New York. And it had been followed by several more on the flight in his personal jet that made the trips to New York and Florida and California easier on the horses.

      “Yeah, but you didn’t have Cristal,” Jake drawled. “Live it up, J.D. It’s just one night.”

      She knew she should decline. But she still closed her fingers around the smooth, delicate crystal, brushing against his warm fingers as she did so.

      Her heart skittered around. She couldn’t manage to look away from his face. “I’m not exactly a champagne kind of girl.” And not at all his kind of girl.

      “What kind of girl are you?”

      The kind who was getting out of her depth fast, and should be old enough to know better. Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Strong coffee when it’s cold and a cold beer when it’s not.”

      A faint smile hovered around his lips. “Not that I’m knocking either one, but this is a special occasion. Latitude’s won his first race. One of many, if all goes well.” He tucked his finger beneath the base of the glass and urged it upward. “Live it up. You might like it.”

      There were a lot of things she was afraid she would like, more than was good for her.

      Champagne was at the bottom of that list.

      Jake Forrest was at the top.

      All of which did not explain why she still lifted the glass to her lips and inhaled the crisp aroma as she slowly took a sip. And once she did, she couldn’t help the humming sigh of appreciation that escaped.

      The fine web of crow’s-feet that arrowed out from his eyes crinkled even more appealingly. “I knew you’d like it.”

      How could she not? It was like swallowing moonbeams.

      Then he lifted the flute out of her fingers and put his lips right where hers had been.

      He might as well have touched her with a live wire. But judging by the flare of his pupils as his gaze stayed locked on hers, he was perfectly aware of that fact.

      She swallowed, hard, and stepped away from the rail again. Some temptations were wiser left untouched. Jake might be divorced, but that didn’t mean he was available.

      So, she swept her hands down her jeans to hide the fact that they were shaking and kept her shoulders square. “It’s getting late. I’d better—”

      “Are you afraid of me, J.D.?”

      Her jaw loosened a little. Fear would be easier to deal with. “Of course not.”

      “Then why are you ready to bolt?”

      She opened her mouth to protest that, but how could she? She was ready to bolt.

      And yet, when he lifted the crystal glass and grazed the cool rim ever so faintly against her lower lip, she seemed frozen in place.

      His voice dropped another notch. “What are you nervous about?”

      If her face got any hotter, her blood was going to steam right out of her ears. “Nothing.” She snatched the glass from him and inelegantly chugged the remainder, then pushed the glass back at him. When he didn’t take it, she reached past his broad shoulder and balanced it on the corner post of Latitude’s stall. “Good night, Mr. Forrest. You should go play with your debutantes.” She turned to go.

      His hand on her shoulder stopped her dead in her tracks. “I’m not interested in any debutantes.”

      She sent up a breathless prayer for her fleeing common sense to get back where it belonged. But the light touch of his fingers on her shoulder didn’t move away, nor did her common sense trot on back to the barn. “Mr. Forrest—”

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