"You didn't go out with the rest of the boys?" Jake's voice
was deep and in some fanciful part of J.D.'s mind, she
imagined it felt like a soft blanket sliding down her bare skin.
"I didn't want to cramp their style." She sent him a smile
over her shoulder, but the wryness of it was mostly for
herself. As the only female in the entire stable crew at
Forrest's Crossing, she'd never been one of "the boys." She
was simply an assistant horse trainer on Jake's sizable
payroll who— according to Miguel—usually had one too many
opinions of her own.
Though this time, her opinion when it came to Latitude had
proved right on the money.
Literally.
From the first burst out of the starting gate to the way the
thoroughbred sailed across the finish line of The San-ford,
the horse had been pure poetry in motion. He'd raced as
brilliantly as J.D. had known he could, so of all the crew
from Forrest's Crossing, she was probably the least surprised.
And except for Latitude Crossing's owner, Jake—who'd
collected the tidy first-place purse he didn't remotely
need— she was probably the happiest.
Satisfaction curved her lips all over again, and it didn't
even matter that Miguel had been the one to claim the glory
of Latitude's unlikely win. He'd been so elated, he'd told
the stable crew that drinks were on him, and they'd all
tumbled out of the barn, looking ready to continue the
celebration that had been going on since they'd touched down
in Georgia from Saratoga.
Even though it was late, J.D. was still celebrating, too;
but she preferred to do it in the company of the real
winner.
She folded her arms over the top rail of the stall, looking
at the gleaming bay contentedly munching his way through
fresh feed as if he had done nothing remarkable at all.
"Look at you acting all modest," she chided the colt. "You
ought to be wearing a crown."
"The Triple Crown," Jake murmured behind her.
That shiver dashed down her spine again. She'd like to blame
it on the prospect of Latitude joining those few elite
horses in history that had attained the coveted achievement,
but she'd never been one to lie to herself.
The shiver came from Jake. Not from the idea of Latitude
finding the elusive Triple Crown glory in the coming year.
"His chance at that is nearly a year away," she said. The
famous races that comprised the Triple Crown were run by
three-year-old thoroughbreds only, beginning in May with the
Kentucky Derby, the Preakness Stakes two weeks later and
capped off with the Belmont Stakes in early June.
Which meant a thoroughbred had one chance in their lifetime
to accomplish the feat. "And who knows what Miguel will want
to do between now and then," she added practically. Miguel
fired people at the drop of a hat. The fact that she'd
survived his mercurial nature for five years was a record
for Forrest's Crossing.
"If he's smart, he'll leave you alone with Latitude.
Miguel's more interested in Platinum Cross, anyway."
Platinum was sired by one of Forrest's Crossing's most
successful horses. But even Metal Cross hadn't brought home
the "crown." He'd won both the Preakness and the Belmont.
But he hadn't won the Derby. Nor had any other horse for Jake.
They still made the trek every year to Churchill Downs. The
only things that changed were the names of the thoroughbreds
running for him, and the names of the glossy women on his
arm who'd revolved through his world since his divorce
shortly after J.D. came to Forrest's Crossing.
He folded his arms over the top rail next to her, holding an
open bottle of Cristal in one hand and a slender champagne
flute in the other.
He held them just as casually as if they were a dime-store
mug and a long-neck beer. But the expensive champagne was
much more in keeping with the off-white silk shirt he wore.
And the crystal flute was probably of the irreplaceable,
antique variety, inherited from his father and
great-grandfather just as he'd inherited Forrest's Crossing.
It wasn't the quality of the champagne or the stemware that
made her nerves jumpy, though. There was wealth in her
upbringing, too. Just not on the scale of Jake's.
His family owned Forco, one of the largest textile firms in
the country. For him, thoroughbreds were merely a personal
passion that he could well afford to indulge. And where his
family was into jets and setting, hers was more
into jeans and settling down.
No, what made her nerves want to dance a jig had one, simple
cause.
Him.
She slid her gaze away from his arms and those long, lean
fingers, focusing again on the oblivious colt as she
discreetly tried to put a little space between their arms.
She needed every inch she could get just to breathe around
the man.
"Miguel will take over again now that he's seen for himself
what kind of heart Latitude has," she predicted, clinging to
the thread with a desperation that she prayed didn't show.
Miguel was the head trainer. J.D., an underling. He had
every right to make whatever decisions he wanted.
"Does that bother you?" Jake shifted slightly and his arm
grazed hers, right across that spare inch she'd managed to gain.
She sucked in a silent breath and made herself remain still.
It was no easy task. "Crossing the finish line first isn't
what I love about horses." Her voice was blithe.
Latitude 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
knock-ing 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—"
"Most of the crew calls me Jake." His fingers finally moved,
sliding down her shoulder, grazing over her bare elbow
beneath the short-sleeved shirt, only coming to a stop when
they reached her wrist. He pressed his thumb against her
frantic pulse. "But not you, not even after all these years.
Why is that?"
"I like to keep things professional." Unfortunately, her
low, husky voice sounded anything but.
"You're the epitome of professionalism."
She couldn't help it. She looked up at him through her
lashes. "Pardon me, but I don't feel that way just now."
His coffee-brown eyes would have looked sleepy if not for
the heat blazing from them. "Your job is secure no matter
what. Miguel is in charge of the stable crew."
"And you're in charge of Miguel."
"Miguel is in charge of Miguel," he corrected wryly. He
upended the rest of the champagne into the flute and lifted
the glass again. "But if you insist on going, take this with
you, at least. You, more than anyone, has earned some very
fine champagne today."
"Latitude did all the work."
"Latitude ran for you. Miguel wanted me to sell him
until you started handling him."
Jake wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.
She took the glass. Felt her head swim as she sipped again
at moonbeams.
And somehow she found the toes of her scuffed boots boldly
brushing the toes of Jake's highly polished ones. She wasn't
even sure if his arm came around her waist first, or if it
was her hand pressing against the solid warmth of his chest.
But the crystal flute was suddenly caught between them, the
glittering liquid spilling as their mouths found one another.
Champagne moonbeams were no comparison at all when it came
to the taste of Jake Forrest.
It made her weak. Deliciously weak.
And there was no earthly way she could convince herself that
one kiss would be enough.
Not when his splayed fingers were hard and hot against her
spine through the thin knit of her shirt. Not when his other
hand slid along her shoulder, cupped her cheek, fingers
threading through her hair, urging her head back. Not when
she felt the murmur of her name in his low, deep voice
whispering along her neck before he pressed his lips against
the pulse at the base of her throat.
Her mind reeled, trying to find reason. Or justification.
Jake was a worldly man. He wouldn't expect anything later
that she wasn't capable of giving.
Her fingers flexed against him, encountering champagne-damp
silk and cool crystal. Then the glass fell, landing with a
soft shatter when Jake lifted her off her feet until her
mouth was level with his again. "Do you still want to run?"
She could feel his heart thudding hard against her. Her
fingers clutched his broad shoulders. Their faces were so
close, she could have counted every one of the dark, spiky
eyelashes that surrounded his gleaming gaze. "Do you
want me to run?"
He pressed her against the paneled wall next to Latitude's
stall and ran his hands along her thighs, drawing them up,
alongside his hips. "What do you think?"
"