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‘Then perhaps he should have stuck with boots,’ Mason muttered under her breath.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Listen, girly, I know you only got off the boat four months ago—’
‘It was a plane.’
‘And America isn’t Australia, and New York isn’t the hick town in whatever part of New South Wales you’re from, but it’s time to acclimatise to these surroundings.’
Mason bridled at the comment, her shoulders squaring at the slight against her home, softening only when she caught sight of Francesca’s tongue, literally pressed against the inside of her cheek.
But, stealing another glance at the surroundings, Mason felt as if this was a glimpse into a world in which she did not belong. That perhaps if she stared too long, or stayed too long, she might lose herself.
When the bus from the training stables had dropped them off outside one of New York’s most renowned hotels, the Langsford, she had looked up at the huge, sweeping circular driveway, the gilded graphics on the Roman-style pillars that fronted the building, and thought... They’re not going to let me in here.
Between with the heels Francesca had forced her into and the black and white marble foyer, she’d nearly broken her ankle as she’d walked towards the biggest spiral staircase she’d ever seen. And even Francesca had let out a low whistle when she’d seen the ‘reception room’ hired for the night’s event, arranged by America’s richest horse owners.
Smooth, sleek lines of chrome and black dropped away at the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Washington Square Park and the surrounding area. Purple NYU flags hung from buildings and a few brave souls were risking hypothermia out in the snow-covered streets, revelling or hurrying towards whatever party or group they were out to join before midnight.
A smartly dressed waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes, a small piece of strawberry the only adornment to the alcohol. Francesca grabbed two glasses, thrust one into her hands so quickly she nearly dropped it, and Mason watched, shocked, as Francesca took a third before allowing the waiter to move on.
Francesca consumed the entire contents of the first glass in one mouthful before placing it on a side table, and flashed Mason a beaming grin before returning to sip from the second. Her eyes locked on to something over Mason’s shoulder, a whispered excuse trailing behind in the wake of a speedy departure. Mason turned to find Harry, their trainer, making his way towards them...or, well, Mason at least.
‘You doing okay?’
‘I’m...acclimatising,’ she said and smiled at her father’s old friend, before taking a sip of champagne. It was expensive, but not very nice.
‘You’re doing better than Joe would have.’
‘No.’ She smiled ruefully, thinking of how he might have behaved amongst these people. ‘Pops wouldn’t have acclimatised to this very well.’
Harry grinned. He was a large man, who smiled deeply, laughed heartily and trained his jockeys to within an inch of their lives. ‘This is an opportunity for you to meet some of the horse-racing syndicates that may take you on in the future.’
Confusion marred Mason’s brow. ‘I thought you were happy with O’Conner.’
‘I am, and I’m looking forward to the first race of the season, but that doesn’t mean I, or you, will be riding and training for him for the rest of our careers. You never know, you could be riding for one of the people in this room within the year.’
Mason turned to scan the room with different eyes. This time she saw people forging connections, not just small talk, not just flirting, but making investments in their future. As her eyes traversed the room, they caught on one particular figure at the edge of the crowd, his elbow leaning against the bar, at least a head taller than those around him.
Power. Raw and untamed.
It was the first thought she had, the moment her eyes rested on him. Although his body cut a lazy figure, seeming almost bored in the way his head leant to one side, there was something leashed about him. Tension thrummed through his body, vibrating at a pitch she was surprised those about him couldn’t feel. She could. All the way from the other side of the room.
Dark, thick hair fell in slight waves around a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a marble statue of perfect male beauty. Skin smooth over his brow, deeply tanned, the colour of the darkest whisky and just as tempting. High cheekbones perfectly captured her gaze, and for a moment she just stared. A trace of stubble on his firm jaw mad
e the palms of her hands tingle, made her want to reach out and feel the texture beneath her skin, made her want to hear the sound of it rasp against her.
She cursed herself for the foolish thought, but couldn’t pull her gaze away. He seemed to be listening to a group of men, but something told her that he wasn’t really paying attention. It was his eyes. They weren’t focused on the man speaking, but somewhere over the man’s shoulder. Then he turned his head slowly, not scanning the room, not aimlessly wandering, but, deliberate, clear, and directed straight at her. His eyes caught hold of her gaze, and refused to let it go.
The burn of a blush against her cheeks was instantaneous. She dropped her eyes, shocked by the spark of electricity that had hissed and snapped its way up her spine, across her skin and into her chest. She chanced a glance back towards the man who had incited such an extreme reaction, only to feel it all over again as her eyes joined his once more.
A gasp?
Had she really gasped?
She turned to Harry in an attempt to sever the connection, but Harry was gone and she was standing alone. Now the blush was one of pure embarrassment. She must look to him exactly what she was—a country bumpkin, or ‘hick’, as Francesca had remarked earlier.
