Stephanie Ryder felt a telltale breeze puff against
the skin of her chest. She glanced down to discover
a button had popped on her stretch cotton blouse. The
lace of her white bra and the curve of her breasts were
clearly visible in the gap.
She crossed her arms to block the view, arching a mocking
brow at the man silhouetted in the tack shed door. "You,
Alec Creighton, are no gentleman."
Wearing a dress shirt, charcoal slacks and black loafers
that were at odds with the rustic setting of a working
horse stable, his gaze moved indolently from the wall
of her forearm back to her eyes. "It took you twenty-four
hours to figure that out?"
"Hardly," she scoffed. "But you keep
reinforcing the impression."
He took a step forward. "Are you still mad?"
She swiftly redid the button and smoothed her blouse.
"I was never mad."
Disappointed, yes. Wesley Harrison had been inches
away from kissing her last night when Alec had interrupted
them.
And Wesley was a great guy. He was good looking, smart
and funny, and only a year younger than Stephanie. He'd
been training at Ryder Equestrian Center since June,
and he'd been flirting with her since they met.
"He's too young for you," said Alec.
"We're the same age." Practically.
The jut of Alec's brow questioned her honesty, but
he didn't call her on it.
With his trim hair, square chin, slate gray eyes, and
instructions to go through her equestrian business records
with a fine tooth comb, she should have found his presence
intimidating. But Stephanie had spent most of her life
handling two older brothers and countless unruly jumping
horses. She wasn't about to get rattled by a hired corporate
gun.
"Shouldn't you be working?" she asked.
"I need your help."
It was her turn to quirk a brow. Financial management
was definitely not her forte. "With what?"
"Tour of the place."
She reached for the cordless phone on the workbench
next to Rosi-Jo's tack. "No problem." She
pressed speed dial three.
"What are you doing?"
The numbers bleeped swiftly in her ear. "Calling
the stable manager."
Alec closed the distance between them. "Why?"
"To arrange for a tour."
He lifted the phone from her hand and pressed the off
button. "You can give me a tour."
"I don't have time."
"You are still mad at me."
"No, I'm not."
She wasn't thrilled to have him here. Who would be?
He was staying in her house for several days, while
under orders from her brothers to streamline the family's
corporation, Ryder International. She was a little worried,
okay a lot worried, that he'd find fault with
her management of the Ryder Equestrian Center.
She didn't skimp on quality, which meant she didn't
skimp on cost either. She was training world-class jumpers.
And competing at that level demanded the best in everything,
horses, feed, tack, trainers, vets and facilities. She
was accustomed to defending her choices to her brothers.
She wasn't crazy about defending them to a stranger.
"Are you proud of the place?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she answered without hesitation.
"Then show me," he challenged.
She hesitated, searching her mind for a graceful way
out.
He waited, the barest hint of a smirk twitching him
mouth.
Finally, she squared her shoulders, straightened to
her full five-foot five and meet his gaze head on. "You,
Alec Creighton," she repeated, "are no gentleman."
The smile broadened, and he eased away, stepping to
one side and gesturing to the tack shed door. "After
you."
Stephanie marched past with her head held high.
She might as well get it over with. She'd give him
his tour, answer his questions, send him back to ranch
house office and get back to her regular routine.
She had an intermediate jumping class to teach this
morning, her own training this afternoon, and she needed
to have the vet look at her Hanoverian mare, Rosie-Jo.
Rosie has shied at a jump in practice yesterday, and
Stephanie needed to make sure the horse didn't have
any hidden injuries.
They headed along the dirt road beside a hay barn,
heading in the direction of the main stable and riding
arena. She was tempted to lead him, expensive loafers
and all, through the mud and manure around the treadmill
pool.
It would serve him right.
"So, what exactly is it that you do?" she
asked, resisting temptation.
"I trouble shoot."
She tipped her head to squint at his profile. She'd
privately acknowledged last night that he was an incredibly
good looking man. He also carried himself well, squared
shoulders, long stride, confident gait. "And what
does that mean?"
"It means, that when people have trouble, they
call me." He nodded to the low, white building,
off by itself at the edge of Melody Meadow. "What's
that?"
"Vet clinic. What kind of trouble?"
"Your kind of trouble. You have your own vet?"
"We do. You mean cash flow and too rapid corporate
expansion?" That was the Ryder's corporate issue
in a nutshell.
"Sometimes."
"And the other times?"
He didn't answer. Better she didn't know.
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