There’s a pony I’ve had my eye on for a while—a pure black thoroughbred named Calamity. I was lucky enough to play against her in the Argentine Open last year, followed by the Gold Cup at Cowdray. Taller than the average polo pony, she covers immense ground very quickly with long strides, but with the speed and dexterity of a much smaller horse, she can turn on a dime quicker than you can blink.
When I found out the owner was less of a polo fan and more of a bored, über-rich collector of things, with an equally bored wife, I told him that if he ever wanted to sell her, to give me a call.
That call came yesterday.
Inevitably, the wife decided that polo isn’t on trend this season, and they’ve moved into the Formula One team sponsorship space. So I got the earliest flight up from Argentina, where I’ve spent the last six weeks playing, and came straight from the airport to the ranch where Calamity has spent the winter.
The deal was over in less than ten minutes, because he had to fly to Saudi Arabia for the Grand Prix this weekend.
While my groom is readying Calamity for her vet checks and confirming her documentation is up to date to fly back to Foxleigh, I take a stroll through the stables, because you never know when another unexpected opportunity might present itself. Ignoring the influx of mothers and daughters who appeared not long after I arrived, I grab a handful of carrots from a bucket, make my way down the block, and hand them out.
I’m only done with a couple before I stumble upon something unexpected and much,muchbetter.
I’ve thought about Miss Ruby Lanson an alarming number of times since our last encounter, where she soaked me so thoroughly that I required a full change of clothing.
The polo world is small, and word gets around when grooms move onto new yards. And if you find a good groom, you keep them.
In my research, I discovered Ruby Lanson has done some time on a few, including with Santiago Torres, and while the responses have been mixed, no one could deny she has a special way with the horses.
And in the few minutes I watched her during the match at New Year’s, it’s also my opinion she’s wasted as a groom.
Based on how she’s curled up fast asleep on the hay in front of me, leaning into the big chestnut mare she was hosing downthe last time I came in contact with her, it’s hard to believe she’s in possession of the fiery temper that several yard managers warned me about. If I hadn’t seen it firsthand when she tried to mow me down, I probably wouldn’t believe it either.
What’s more, I had no idea she’d be here.
But it’s clearly my lucky day, in more ways than one, and I do like a challenge.
I scan the pair of them, fast asleep like they haven’t a care in the world. Ruby’s thick auburn hair blends into his deep red coat, and she’s completely devoid of the scowl lines I saw on her last time, making her look much younger than her twenty-five years.
My gaze travels over her silhouette—an arse that rivals a peach, dipping into a narrow waist and up to the swell of her boobs, and the tight point of her nipples. . .
Just like last time I saw her, lust stirs in my groin, and I drag my eyes north.
Freckles cover her nose and cheeks, brought out by the Aspen spring sunshine, and her T-shirt’s ridden up enough on her stomach that I can see the beginnings of a golden tan that isn’t just on her face.
I’m tempted to wake her, but the sound of a shovel clattering against the concrete floor of the stables does the trick, and her eyes fly open to meet mine.
For a second, I wonder if she remembers me, but it’s not likely you forget someone you ran over, then soaked with a hose.
“Hello again.” I grin, and she looks so shocked that I don’t say any more. I just wait and enjoy the silence that I know won’t last.
She scowls, affronted that I caught her in such a vulnerable moment, as she darts to sit up. “Are you just standing there watching me sleep . . . perv?”
I bite down a smile and scratch through my stubble to hide it further, hoping she can’t read my mind. Because she has a point.
“Not intentionally. I was perusing the stables and happened to pass this one, where I found you sleeping?—”
“You were perusing the stables?” she mocks. “Who says peruse?”
“I do. And was that supposed to be an English accent? Because it was terrible.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. La-de-dah, we didn’t all grow up in England.”
“That’s correct. You’re American.”
“I am. And I’m proud of it.”
“Be that as it may, you have drool on your cheek.”
