Unbridled Page 6

  The person hunched over a small desk looks up from a book they’re reading. “You’re awake. Good.” They gesture to my food. “Go ahead and finish your snack. I’ll get everything ready.”

  “Where’s Marsh?” My tone is demanding, but damn it, I don’t care. I’m naked, for God’s sake, and this person is a stranger…mostly. When they face me to answer my question, I recognize the young, androgenous friend Marsh brought to the bookstore. I decide the person is, indeed, female. What’s her name?

  “One of the boarder horses is down with colic, and the vet thinks they should trailer him to a surgery center. Marsh has gone to talk to the vet, then call the horse’s owner. She’ll be tied up for a while, I’m afraid, so she asked me to stand in for her.”

  Stand in for her? What exactly does that mean? Have I come on so strong that she thinks I’ll jump any woman? My appetite has fled, but I grab the bottle of champagne and refill my glass as I silently seethe. Granted, this young butch is extremely attractive. If I met her at an out-of-town book signing or a convention, I wouldn’t hesitate to invite her to my hotel room and my bed. But I’m here for Marsh and incensed that she must think I’m so shallow any attractive woman will be sufficient. Fuck her. And fuck…what is her name?

  The woman’s phone pings while I work through my mental rant, and she picks it up. I drain my glass again and grab the large, thick towel Marsh must have left within reach. “Thanks, but I think I’ll go.”

  Her thumbs dance over the face of her phone as she types a rapid answer to whatever she’s received. I don’t know how people do that. I still type on the tiny phone keyboards with one finger. She glances up at me when she finishes, then back to her phone when it pings again, presumably with an answer to her reply. I take advantage of her distraction and quickly climb out of the whirlpool to wrap the bath sheet around me. I gather my clothes and am about to ask for a bathroom where I can dress when she looks up and springs to her feet.

  “No. Don’t go.”

  “Where’s the bathroom? I’d like to get dressed.” I make no effort to hide my irritation.

  She points to a door behind me and to my left. “Could you just wait a minute?” She starts toward me, but my glare stops her after a few steps. She holds her hands up, palms out in a placating gesture. Her dark bangs have fallen over one eye, and she sweeps them back. I absently note she has sort of an Elvis quality—long, dark eyelashes, smooth skin, and full lips. Her eyes, like Marsh’s, remind me of blue jewels. Jules. Her name pops into my head. I meet so many people on book tours that I often use a crutch to remember names.

  “Look. I think I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m not a stand-in for whatever you have going with Marsh. She’s not like that.” She frowns. “I’m not like that.”

  Shit. Has she read my mind? I bite down on the automatic apology my Southern upbringing wants to offer.

  “She said you need to work some soreness out before a lesson on Monday. In addition to hiring out as a rider, I happen to be a licensed, experienced masseuse. Marsh and I trade services. Wait. That’s doesn’t sound right, does it?” She chuckles. “What I mean is, she’s my riding coach, and I pay her with massages and teach some beginner classes for her.”

  I’m sure my skepticism is evident, even as I take note of her well-muscled arms and shoulders. I can almost feel her hands working the muscles on my lower back. I shift my feet. The warmth of the whirlpool is fading, and my muscles are already tightening.

  She gestures toward a stainless-steel towel warmer. “I have stones warming. They’ll feel really good.”

  I love hot-stone massages. I shift and wince. My thighs and calves are aching, and I can’t blame Marsh for having an emergency at the barn. Still, I’m not ready to give up my peeve.

  Jules’s phone vibrates on the desk. She glances at the screen, then scoops it up and accepts the incoming call. “Hey…no, she says she’s leaving. Okay.” She takes a cautious step toward me and holds out the phone. “Marsh would like to speak with you.”

  I narrow my eyes as my writer brain analyzes the request. Not Marsh wants to talk to you, but Marsh would like to speak with you. The careful wording implies choice and consent. Is the word choice intentional? I put that possibility aside to ponder later and accept the phone. “Yes?”

  Marsh’s smooth voice fills my ear so completely that I can almost feel her breath on it, like before. “I’m sorry I had to leave, but Jules is as qualified to massage the soreness from your legs as I am.”

  I have a mental image of me lying on my back, eyes closed while Marsh’s strong hands work their way up my calf, then the length of my thigh to where I need her desperately. I shift my stance again, this time to relieve the throbbing in my crotch. I turn my back to Jules, even though she’s apparently pretending not to listen as she spreads warmed towels over the padded massage table. “I doubt that.” A short silence follows my mumbled response.

  “Lauren.” Her voice drops an octave. “Monday’s lesson will be a waste of my time, and your time, if you are too sore. You must do everything I ask if I’m going to invest my time with you. Let Jules help.”

  I start to put my fist on my hip and give her an earful Julia Sugarbaker–style, but one hand is filled with my clothes I have yet to put on, and the other is holding the phone. Crap. I sigh. My deepest desire screams to give in to her, while my brain is yelling “oh, hell no” because nobody tells me what to do, and I need to puzzle out why Jules thinks I might see her as a sexual substitute since Marsh is now unavailable. Yellow caution lights blink all around that situation. “I don’t know, Marsh.”

  “It’s your choice, Lauren, but I’ll be disappointed if you decide our agreement isn’t what you want.”

  Our agreement. What exactly are we talking about? Private riding lessons? Things that sound dirty but aren’t? Or what’s happening between us outside the riding ring? There is something, isn’t there? It can’t be my imagination. Can it? My decision clicks into place like a domino laid. Do I want to keep playing when I’m not sure of the game?

  “Lauren?” Her voice is honey, and I’m a fly willing to drown in it. I’ll puzzle out the why and what we’re doing later.

  “My legs are sore.”

  Marsh correctly interprets my confession as concession. “Let Jules help, and then go home,” she said. “No more alcohol. You need to hydrate those muscles, so drink plenty of water, take an anti-inflammatory, and stretch for about twenty minutes before getting into bed.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Good.”

  I imagine her lips curling into a slight smile and shiver. “Should I come down to the barn before I leave?”

  “No. We’re loading the horse on a trailer now. I’m driving him to a veterinary surgery about ninety minutes from here and will probably stay overnight. The owner’s out of the country this week.”

  I inwardly pout. I imagine stopping by the barn after my massage and finding Marsh standing on the edge of a pool of light coming from the poor patient’s stall. I picture myself going to her and finally claiming, completing our earlier near kiss. Then Marsh sweeps me up into her arms and carries me into her office…

  But I’m not going to see her again tonight. “Oh. Well, good luck. With the horse, I mean.” I’m at a loss for what else to say.

  “I’ll see you on Monday,” Marsh says, ending the call and my fantasies for the evening.

  I hand the phone back to Jules, who is leaning against the massage table, waiting for my decision. Hmm. Go home and sulk. Or climb onto that table draped in warm, thick towels and give my sore muscles over to Jules. I pour the last of the champagne into my glass, knock it back like a shot, and head for the massage table.

  Chapter Six

  No. You’ve had a break from writing for the past three months.” My agent, Connie, shuffles some papers on her desk, mumbles something to someone offscreen, then makes a s
hooing motion. The woman is a multitasking queen.

  I roll my eyes at her, hoping she sees me. I’m a drama queen, especially on these dreaded video conference calls. For some reason I feel like I’m on stage and need to talk louder and gesture more grandly.

  “Flying all over the country to sign hundreds of books and getting up in the middle of the night to look awake and perky on all those early morning talk shows is not a break. It’s more work than writing.”

  “Your readers are anticipating your next book, and they’ll only wait so long before they’ll forget your name and chase the next new author on the list.”

  Another window opens on my laptop screen. My editor, Edith, has joined our little meeting. Her mouth is moving, and she waves her reading glasses around as she talks, but we can’t hear her.

  “Unmute your mic,” Connie shouts.

  Edith and I both grimace at her volume.

  “You don’t have to yell,” Edith says, her mic now unmuted. “I could hear you fine. You just couldn’t hear me.”

  “Hi, Edith.” I’m relieved she has joined in and distracted Connie from lecturing me—at least for a few minutes. I, rather my writing career, is ultimately the sole agenda item for today’s video meeting.

  “Hello, dear. How’s everything?”

  “Peachy. I know Connie works seven days a week, but why are you working on a Sunday?”

  “Darling, I just got back from a four-day publishing conference in Miami. The beaches and ocean there are so amazing. I’m just trying to catch up a bit while I do laundry so tomorrow won’t be so hectic when I go in to the office. Now, let’s talk about you.”

  “I was telling Connie that I’m planning to take a break before I dive into another book.”

  “And I was telling her she needs to churn out another best seller right away,” Connie says.

  “You make it sound as easy as baking cookies. I can’t throw a bunch of characters in a bowl, stir, and bake. Writing is a bit more complicated.” My sarcasm isn’t fair because Connie already knows this. It’s also not swaying her to my cause. I need backup. “Tell her, Edith.”

  “I’m afraid I agree with Connie,” Edith says. “Making the best-seller lists isn’t the hardest part of being a successful writer. Writing the next book is the toughest thing you’ll ever do.”

  Hearing that isn’t helping my writer’s block. “I sense a conspiracy. You two have been meeting in secret so you could gang up on me.”

  Edith has the good grace to look guilty, but Connie is unrepentant.

  “Damn right, we have,” Connie says. “Somebody needs to kick you in the butt. You’ve been back from your book tour for two months. Edith needs to get you on their publishing schedule, and I need to start arranging your next book tour.”

  “How can you book a tour when I haven’t even written the book?” I know I’m being difficult. Planning your life so far in advance is the bane of being a writer. “What if I die before the book is finished? Accidents happen, you know.”

  “It’s easier to cancel than to schedule late,” Connie points out. “But you don’t need me to say what you already know. What you do need is a kick in the butt to get you back to work.” She slaps her hand down on her desk to punctuate her statement.

  I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest to glare at her.

  “I know you, Lauren. You need to write like you need to breathe,” Edith says, coaxing me. “What’s hanging you up? Is there something we can do to help?”

  This question makes me smile. Or I would smile if I wasn’t pretending to be stubborn. Edith approaches life like she edits—cutting out unnecessary verbiage and digging down to the bones of the plot. Her question, though, is one I hoped wouldn’t come up.

  They both wait while I cover my face with my hands for a long minute. I finally mumble my answer into my fingers.

  “What? We can’t hear you.” Connie’s face fills her screen, as if she’s leaning in to detect a whisper.

  “Can you uncover your face and repeat that for us?” Edith, as usual, is precise in her instructions.

  I obey like the child I’m being. “I said, I don’t even have an idea for a book. I’m dry. Completely.”

  Connie stops shuffling papers and gives me her full attention. Edith rests her chin in her hand. They both stare at me. Their jobs are to fix, then sell my work. My job is to come up with story ideas, research, and write. I’m the cash cow lying down on the job.

  “You always have ideas tucked away and usually complain that you wish you could work on more than one book at a time,” Edith says. “Nothing in your idea file is sparking your imagination?”

  I shrug, because I haven’t read through the file. “I haven’t had time, but I will. I need time to research some things.”

  Connie narrows her eyes. “What have you been doing for the past two months?”

  Flashes of my many fantasies about Marsh fill my mind and heat my body. God, I hope the camera on my laptop isn’t good enough to show my red cheeks and ears. I clear my throat. “I’ve been taking riding lessons.”

  “Riding lessons? Is that a euphemism for sex? Because I could understand that distraction.”

  Not yet, but I’m still working on that. I cut her off. “Horseback riding. It’s great exercise but rather time-consuming, what with all the horse care that goes with it. Horses aren’t like golf clubs you just toss into the trunk and forget about when you come off the course.”

  “What type of riding?” Edith asks.

  “Horse riding.” Connie’s tone is incredulous. “Didn’t you hear her?”

  Edith makes a rude noise for Connie’s benefit. “Are you intending to event a horse, join a hunt club, hang out at the racetracks, or just trail ride for pleasure? I took lessons when I was a child and competed in some local shows. It was great fun.”

  “I thought we were talking about work, not playing around.” Connie is shuffling papers again and looking at her watch.

  Edith ignores Connie’s remark. “A lot of money and wealthy people are tied up in the horse business, and a lot of shady stuff goes on behind the scenes. It can be a great setting for a very intriguing novel, especially since this is Lauren’s current interest.”

  She has a point, but my interest is focused on a certain riding instructor, not necessarily the business of equestrians. On the other hand, a little research into the business of horses could give me an excuse to see Marsh somewhere other than the stables. I could invite her to my house for dinner under the pretense of quizzing her about the show circuit.

  “That’s not bad,” I say, warming to the idea. I nod to confirm my decision. “I think I’ll do that. Give me a few weeks, and I’ll give you a story summary.”

  “See? I knew you’d come through,” Connie said. She looks at her watch again. “Gotta go, kids. I’ve got another conference call in five, and I need a bathroom and coffee before that.” Her window blinks out before Edith and I have a chance to say good-bye. Typical of Connie, so we’re used to it.

  “Thanks for the suggestion, Edith. You’re the best.”

  “That’s why I get the best writers assigned to me.” She smiles at our long-standing joke. “Good luck, and don’t hesitate to call if you need to bounce ideas around.”

  “Will do. You take care.”

  “Always,” she said. “Talk to you soon.”

  Her window blinks out, so I also hang up on the meeting. I stare out across the manicured lawn of my backyard to the mountains beyond. They’re right about needing to get my next book out while my name and last book are still on the minds of the readers. The sun has shifted to glare off my screen, so I tuck my laptop under my arm and retreat indoors to start my research.

  * * *

  My research mostly turns up sex scandals—male trainers molesting and sexually assaulting young girls under their supervision. It
’s disgusting but unfortunately not unique to the equestrian world. While parents are constantly on guard against entrusting their daughter to a lesbian coach, they turn them over to male-predator coaches without precautions or second thought to their child’s safety.

  What would my upper-class parents have done if I’d been twelve years old, or even sixteen, and told them a successful male trainer had molested me? The thought sours my stomach, because deep down I believe my parents would side with him. They wouldn’t want their friends to know their daughter was tainted by sexual assault, and they wouldn’t rock their social boat by bringing charges against the offender.

  So, no. No sex-scandal story written by me. I write mystery-slash-intrigue stories with strong women characters—women we all want to be, not the victims or human property that many women are.

  My research isn’t a total downer. I spend hours looking at and reading about hot female equestrians riding gorgeous, powerful horses. I consider writing something that involves wild horses and then am tempted to delve into the polo world. But I keep returning to the most elite among this elite sport—eventing. It’s Olympic, extremely athletic jumping, cross-country jumping, and precision dressage, which is a sort of horse ballet. Combined, it’s the truest test of equestrian skills and training. And it’s what Marsh does. Hmm. I wonder…

  I type “Marsh Langston” into my search engine, and a list of hits appears on my screen. Wow. I spend the next ninety minutes clicking on websites, drooling over photos, watching videos—mostly out-of-focus, amateur-filmed stuff—and reading about my sexy riding instructor.

  She won a spot on the US Equestrian Team but missed the Olympic games because she was injured. Three years later, she was considered the top rider on the US team. Then nothing. About eight months before the 2016 games, she’s no longer mentioned in any articles about the team. What happened?