Four

Whitney tapped her foot on the marble floor. The desk clerk of the Hyatt Regency Hotel looked apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, but the conference room is being used until tomorrow. There is no record of your reservation.”

“I see.” Whitney’s blood pressure rose. She checked her watch. “How long does it take to drive to Moorpark?”

“An hour or so, depending on traffic.”

“I need to rent a car.”

Relief lit the young man’s face. “That won’t be a problem. Would you like to see your room first?”

“No. I’m in a hurry.”

Whitney pulled out her cell phone and punched in the phone number of the Mendoza residence. She waited impatiently for the lengthy greeting to end and then left a brief message detailing the changes of their appointment. Neutral territory would have been the optimal setting in which to present the offer, but under the circumstances it couldn’t be helped. A successful outcome was the only outcome. One small glitch wouldn’t derail her.

Twenty minutes later she clutched the steering wheel of her rented Chevy Impala, the knuckles of her hands clearly defined beneath her skin. Her heart pounded and she kept one foot hovering over the brake pedal, the other resting on the gas. Once again, she reduced her speed as yet another driver in a shiny sports car cut across four lanes of traffic to insinuate himself into the nearly negligible gap between her rented car and a very large utility vehicle.

A big rig obstructed the freeway sign. Whitney was too hemmed in and the traffic moving too slowly for her to go around it. Not that she would even think of attempting a lane change on this terrifying death trap of a freeway. She’d never seen such gridlock or such intrepid, foolhardy drivers who harbored a casual disregard for the relationship between speed, momentum and the time it would take for a two-thousand-pound automobile to come to a complete stop.

She’d been on the road, the 101 North, for nearly ninety minutes and the odometer registered an unbelievable fifteen miles. All around her drivers were drinking coffee, talking into cell phones, applying lipstick or mascara and fiddling with buttons on dashboards. Loud music boomed from speakers. Billboards advertised gentlemen’s clubs, whiskey, home loans and auto insurance rates. Neon signs flashed the world’s lowest prices, the most competent realtors, the best value for a night’s sleep or a hot meal. She was lost in a world of concrete without even a hint of green to mitigate the smell of diesel fumes, the din of angry drivers sounding their horns and the frightening yellow-brown haze hovering at the edge of the horizon.

Whitney wrinkled her nose, trying not to breathe too deeply. She’d seen London, Paris, Brussels and New York, but nothing, nothing, had prepared her for Los Angeles, this parking lot of a freeway and the tense, angry hostility emanating from its trapped commuter population. She couldn’t wait to leave. She would conclude this project, go home and take her mother up on whatever long, slow and peaceful singles’ cruise Pryor wanted to plan for her.

The road sign was completely hidden by the rig in front of her. Taking her life in her hands, she maneuvered into the exit lane, noted the unfamiliar street names, and pulled back behind the truck. Immediately a blinking red light appeared in her rearview mirror. Her stomach churned. A police cruiser was bearing down on her. She looked for a spot to pull over, but there was no shoulder and the next exit was nearly a mile away. A loud amplified voice boomed in her ears.

“Pull over immediately.”

Whitney panicked. Mentally, she weighed the merits of pulling over onto the nonexistent shoulder and risking instant death, or facing the officer’s ire at her lack of response to his command. She pulled over. Heart pounding, she waited while the cruiser parked behind her and the officer approached her passenger window.

“The right lane is the exit lane, miss. The law says you need to be in the merge lane three hundred yards before the exit if you’re not going to turn off.”

Whitney reached for her purse, pulled out her license and handed it to him. “Sorry,” she said.

“Registration?”

“It’s a rental.” She opened the glove compartment and handed him the paperwork.

He glanced at it. “Where are you from?”

“Kentucky.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

She nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

Whitney popped an antacid into her mouth, leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, hoping that none of the drivers of the endless river of oncoming cars would be momentarily distracted and sideswipe her vehicle.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only ten minutes on her watch, the officer was once again at her window. He handed back her paperwork and a clipboard with a ticket. She signed it.

He pulled out the yellow copy and grinned. “Welcome to California. By the way, your right rear tire is low on air.”

“Thanks,” replied Whitney, taking her ticket.

“No problem.”

Nearly two hours and several antacids later, the junction leading to Highway 23 loomed ahead. Whitney breathed more easily. Traffic had thinned out and the concrete warren of skyscrapers had turned into beige housing developments, an occasional strip mall and then, as she neared her destination, tilled fields of strawberries, tomatoes, lettuce, corn and, finally, the tiered horse country of Moorpark, nestled between Highway 118 and 23. She followed the signs, noting the different horse properties dotting the hills before turning south on Madera Road and then right on Tierra Rejada. The road was well paved but only two lanes. Finally she saw it, the white sign with black letters indicating the Mendoza Hacienda and Equestrian Center.

Pulling her Impala around to the small parking lot in the back, she turned off the engine and stared at the house in disbelief. She hadn’t expected this. It was unbelievably perfect, so much a part of the landscape, so charming in its genteel disrepair. This was old California, when the Spanish dons ruled from the tip of the Baja to the borders of Canada, a picture-perfect movie set complete with weeping bougainvillea, white stucco walls, a red-tiled roof and long windows that opened onto a circular patio with low chairs and small tables, lush plants and colorful flowers. All this set smack in the middle of what must be at least two acres of gently waving stalks of fragrant lavender. A large woman wearing a flowery yellow dress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and carrying a basket of blooms, was bent over one of the rows.

Opening the window, Whitney sat for a minute, closed her eyes, breathed deeply and opened them again. The pungent, herbal smell of ripe lavender stung the sensitive membranes of her nose. She didn’t know California was capable of nurturing such foliage. Her image of the golden state, west of the mountains and east of the Pacific Ocean, was an irrigated desert where cars, designer clothing and film contracts vied with movie-star politicians, tract houses and an obscene amount of votes, enough to sway elections.

She’d never considered herself a plant person. She wasn’t home enough to cultivate a garden. Her apartment contained a few bedraggled specimens that she forgot to water and would eventually have to be thrown out. But for some reason, the lavender field called to her. Her nail-biting freeway experience seemed far away. She wanted to walk beside the plants, touch the blooms and inhale their perfume. Climbing out of the car, Whitney hitched her briefcase to her shoulder and slowly walked toward the purple sea.

The woman straightened, saw her and shaded her eyes against the sun. She was even larger than Whitney thought, tall with shining black hair and striking features. She smiled as Whitney approached. “What a pretty girl you are,” she said in faintly accented English. “But so tired. Come. Sit down and relax with me.”

Whitney shook her head, startled by the familiarity and the unexpected concern. She hadn’t expected southern manners in Los Angeles. “I—no. No, thank you.” She collected herself. “I’m looking for Gabriel Mendoza.”

“He’ll be around soon. Come.” She walked through the field toward the house and Whitney followed. They came to a vine-covered patio with low chairs and small tables. “Sit down and rest your feet,” said the woman. “I’ll get you something nice to drink.” Her eyes flickered over Whitney’s figure, assessing the sweetly fitting flesh and the small, slender bones underneath. “Maybe something to eat, too.” She tucked a sprig of lavender into Whitney’s lapel. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Please,” Whitney said. “Don’t go to any trouble. If you’ll tell me where I can find Mr. Mendoza, I won’t bother you any longer.”

“I’m Mercedes Mendoza, Gabriel’s mother,” the woman said. “He’s at the dressage ring working with the horses. You look very tired, mijita, as if you’ve been moving for a long time.”

“Actually, I have. I flew into Los Angeles from Kentucky. The traffic here is unbelievable.”

Mercedes eyes widened. “Kentucky. I had no idea they would send people from so far away. Isn’t the Internet amazing?”

Whitney frowned. “I suppose it is.”

Mercedes beamed. “I have a wonderful margarita mix all made up, or maybe you’d like a glass of wine? You look like the wine type to me.”

“A margarita will be fine.” Whitney glanced at her watch. At this rate she wouldn’t get to her hotel until well after dark. Sighing, she set her briefcase on a table, sat down in one of the low chairs, crossed her legs and leaned her head back, grateful for the peace surrounding her. She must have dozed. When she opened her eyes, her head rested against a pillow. A light blanket had been draped over her knees and a foaming margarita sat on the table. It was purple. Mercedes occupied the chair beside her.

The woman smiled and pointed to an artfully arranged platter of grapes, yellow and orange cheeses, breads and crackers. “I thought you could use some food.”

Suddenly Whitney was ravenous. She cut off a slice of cheese, sandwiched it between two crackers, and washed them down with a sip of her drink. She smiled approvingly at Mercedes. “This is wonderful. I’ve never had a purple margarita. What’s in it?”

“I have my own margarita recipe,” the woman confided, “and I use lavender.”

“Will you share it?”

Mercedes appeared to consider the matter. She looked sideways at Whitney. “Possibly.” She nodded. “Quite possibly. Have you ever been married?” she asked abruptly.

The woman was blunt, but Whitney was intrigued rather than offended. “How do you know I’m not?”

Mercedes’s smile faded. “No ring. And you wouldn’t be here if you were married, I hope.”

Whitney thought back over their conversation. Something wasn’t right. “I think we may have a misunderstanding. My name is Whitney Benedict. I’m a lawyer with a firm representing the Austrian government. Mr. Mendoza and I had an appointment. I left a message.” She pulled her business card from the side pocket of her purse and handed it to Mercedes. “I’m here to make your son an offer for his Lipizzaners. Didn’t you get my message?”

“Sometimes I forget to listen. I’m not good with machines. You’re not from Matchmaker.com?”

Whitney’s lips twitched. “I’m afraid not.”

“I was hoping you were. You’re exactly what I asked for.”

“Asked for?”

Mercedes sighed, pushed away her drink and settled back into her chair. “I’ll have to explain everything.”

“Please do,” said Whitney. It was already too late to worry about the time and she was more than a little interested.

“My son lives to work,” began Mercedes. “His wife left him two years ago and since then he’s been unhappy. Mind you, Kristen wasn’t anything to smile about. I didn’t like her much. I never interfere with my children, but I thought Gabriel could do better, and her circumstances certainly weren’t the best. She had two young children whose father couldn’t be bothered with them.” Mercedes waved her hand as if to move on to the next scene. “Gabriel took them in hand. Then he and Kristen had a baby. That was eight years ago. Claire has—” Mercedes hesitated “—problems. They were too much for Kristen. She left him with all three children.” The woman leaned close to Whitney. “I think he needs someone. I sent in his profile to Matchmaker.com. I thought they’d sent you. You’re very nice. Why aren’t you married?”

Whitney laughed. “You sound like my mother.”

Mercedes’s liquid black eyes continued to regard her. “That’s no answer.”

“I don’t know, really. I suppose it’s the usual reason. I never found anyone I wanted to be around that much.” She didn’t mention Wiley Cane. Once, she’d wanted to be around him very much indeed and look how it had turned out. That was a piece of ancient history she didn’t want resurrected.

“That’s not good.”

“It’s not so bad, either.”

“Do you want to grow old alone?”

“There are worse fates.”

“Such as?”

“Growing old with someone you no longer respect and aren’t attracted to. Having someone control your time and your money. Constantly compromising.” Whitney picked up her drink with shaking hands and swallowed a good portion of it. What was the matter with her? She hadn’t meant to divulge so much to a complete stranger.

The older woman shook her head. “My goodness. Where do you get such ideas?”

“I’ve seen it. Can you honestly say that you know of anyone, married more than ten years, who is really happy all the time?”

Mercedes thought a minute. Then she leaned forward. “Are you happy all the time? What has being married got to do with happiness?”

Whitney stared at her. “I’ve never considered it that way, I guess.” She set down her drink, folded the blanket on her lap and stood. “This has been lovely, but I really need to speak with your son. Otherwise, I’ll never stay awake long enough to make it back to my hotel.”

“I’ll point you in the right direction, but please, stay with us. I have five guest rooms and tonight they’re all empty. There’s no sense in battling the traffic during rush hour. Besides, I don’t know anything about you.”

“I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Mendoza, but I really—” She stopped. A dreadful thought occurred to her. “Are you saying that what I just came through wasn’t rush hour?”

“Rush hour is just an expression,” Mercedes explained. “The roads aren’t fit for traveling until after nine o’clock.”

“Good Lord.”

“Think about it,” Mercedes said. “The offer stands. Now, let me direct you to the barns. Claire will be there with Gabriel. It’s just across the field. Normally I would tell you to walk. It’s faster. But you’ll want to drive the back way because of your shoes.”

Five minutes later Whitney was on the road again. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so firmly routed. Her mother could learn from this woman, a terrifying prospect, and one that Whitney was determined to avoid.

For a brief quarter mile, the double-lane highway twisted through dusty, shrub-covered acreage dotted with an occasional giant oak or copse of black-trunked olive trees. Cocoa-brown trails cut into spring grass, winding question marks into sage-covered hills. The wind was up. A flurry of leaves, crackling like parchment, round and brilliant, the size and color of gold coins, eddied around the car. A wrought-iron sign signaled the equestrian center.

Whitney maneuvered the car past the business office, past the pipe corrals on one side, the silver-roofed stalls on the other, past a barn stacked with bales of hay, three small meticulously raked training rings, three tack rooms, three trainers’ offices and a dressage arena circled by a white split-rail fence. Narrow strips of grass separated the rings, and tiered stone benches bordered with roses looked out over the performance arenas. In the distance, against the rolling hills, she could see the junction of the two highways from where she’d come, the cars miniature and soundless, a direct contrast to the aura of calm purpose and the breathing, glistening animals all around her. She drew a deep breath and was immediately engulfed in the familiar smells of equestrian country: plowed earth, sweet hay, sage, dry wind and horse dung blended with foliage she’d never encountered before.

Whitney pulled the car close to one of the barns and, stepping carefully through the dirt, made her way over to the training center.

Inside one arena, a young woman sat astride a white warmblood held on a guide rein by a trainer. The gelding trotted in a circle while the woman, using neither stirrups nor reins, sat him as lightly as a leaf. Occasionally, at the bark of the trainer, the rider would rotate her arms in paddle-wheel fashion, fold them across her chest or hold them straight down. No matter what her position, her balance never wavered, nor did her back slump.

Whitney called out. “Can you tell me where I can find Gabriel Mendoza?”

The trainer glanced at her and shrugged.

In the middle of the same arena, a man was schooling a young horse between the posts. From a padded halter, two short straps ran to the wooden pillars; the horse, urged on by his trainer, performed his exercises in place. Whitney recalled her old dressage days when she’d exercised her mare in the same way to strengthen the horse’s haunches and render her muscles more supple. She walked around the ring to where he could see her. The heels of her designer shoes sank down into what she hoped was merely mud.

“Are you Gabriel Mendoza?” Whitney called out.

“Gabe’s in the last ring,” he replied.

Whitney glanced down at her shoes. The expensive taupe leather was irreparably stained, a stone had lodged somewhere in her heel and the beginnings of a headache flickered in her right temple. Her temper flamed. She fought it back and walked to the farthest arena.

Backlit by the late afternoon sun, a man led a spectacular white stallion through a set of complicated maneuvers that Whitney hadn’t seen outside old videotapes. She watched in disbelief as the horse extended his legs in the famous Spanish Walk, found his tempo, leaped into the air and, at the height of elevation, kicked out violently with his hind legs. Whitney gasped in appreciation. The old war moves of the famous Lipizzaners were nearly obsolete in modern dressage.

Anger firmly suppressed, she made her way to where a small girl watched from the side. Nodding at the horse and rider, she breathed deeply. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect.”

The child turned her head, looked at her for a minute and then looked back at the intricate performance.

“I don’t remember what that’s called,” Whitney continued. “I know it’s part of the Airs Above the Ground, but I’m not sure—” She stopped talking to concentrate on the scene in front of her.

“It’s a capriole,” the girl said. “It’s very hard to do. Macbeth just learned it yesterday.”

“Is that your dad?”

The child nodded.

“Did he teach her?”

“It isn’t something you can teach,” the girl said. “The horse already knows how to do it from when his ancestors were fighting horses. Mostly stallions do it, but not all of them. My dad made Macbeth remember.”

The child was remarkably self-possessed. Whitney looked at her, paying more attention this time. She was strikingly lovely with those light eyes, dark hair and olive skin. “What’s your name?” she asked. She’d already guessed, but she wanted to hear the child speak.

“Claire Mendoza.”

“It sounds as if you know something about horses.”

The child shrugged. “What’s your name?”

“Whitney Benedict.”

“That’s a man’s name.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did your dad want a boy?”

Whitney nodded. The admission no longer bothered her.

“You know something about horses, too,” Claire said. “Most people don’t know about Airs Above the Ground.”

Whitney smiled and pulled a strand of hair out of her mouth. “I know about training racehorses and breeding them. I grew up on a breeding farm. Do you know what that is?”

The girl nodded. “We’re a breeding farm, too. We breed Lipizzaners.”

“Do you sell them?”

“Not the purebreds.” She looked at Whitney. “Are you here to take lessons?”

Whitney shook her head. “No. I’m here for another reason.” She nodded at the man in the ring. “Do you think your dad’ll be finished soon?”

“Pretty soon. He doesn’t like to overwork Macbeth. He’s not patient.”

“I see.” Whitney laughed. “It’s a good thing we are, isn’t it?”

Reluctantly, Claire smiled, revealing a gap where her front teeth would grow in. “I don’t mind waiting. I like to watch.”

“Me, too,” said Whitney.

Deliberately, Gabriel focused on the movement, forcing himself to relax, to ignore the car and the woman who stood beside Claire, watching and occasionally talking. Horses sensed tension and Macbeth was particularly sensitive. If Gabe’s legs didn’t lie like two wet rags against his sides, if his weight wasn’t firmly balanced in the saddle, if his head wasn’t up and his back straight, the stallion would feel it and try to correct, resulting in a poorly executed move. Gabriel wanted the maneuver to be perfect, for Claire’s sake, and for his own. Macbeth was his experiment, a stallion beautifully trained but labeled too touchy for traditional dressage. Gabriel hadn’t agreed. He accepted the challenge.

Once again, Macbeth lifted his head, found his tempo, one, two, three, four steps, leaped into the air, drew his forelegs in and kicked out with his hind legs. Gabe released his breath. Well done. Not perfect, but very well done.

Allowing the stallion to take the bit and stretch out, he circled the arena two more times before dismounting. Patting Macbeth on the neck, he led him out of the gate to where Claire and the woman waited. “What do you think?” he asked his daughter.

“It was really good, Dad. Whitney thinks so, too.”

He looked directly at the woman. Her eyes were the color of rain. For to withstand her look I am not able, yet can I not hide me in no dark place.

“Whitney?”

“Whitney Benedict.”

Her accent surprised him. So did her clothes. Her shoes were ruined. She either had no idea what she was getting into, or she knew nothing about horses. Gabe held out the reins to his daughter. “I’ll walk with you while you take him in. You can help Juan wipe him down. Then the two of you can turn him out until he’s cooled off, twenty minutes or so.”

A rare smile crossed Claire’s lips. She took the reins confidently and led the horse toward the barns.

Gabe nodded at Whitney. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Whitney nodded.

He was back in less than five minutes. “What can I do for you, Ms. Benedict?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Austrian government to make you an offer. We had an appointment today in Los Angeles.”

“We did?”

Mentally, Whitney counted to ten.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it was me you talked to?”

“I’m here, Mr. Mendoza. I’ve crossed three time zones, as well as your infamous Los Angeles freeways, to meet with you.”

His dismay was genuine. “I’m really sorry. The drive must have killed you.”

“That part wasn’t your fault. We were supposed to meet at a hotel near the airport.” She waved her hand. “Never mind. It’s a long story.”

“Are you a government official?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“But not from Austria.”

“From Kentucky.”

Gabe frowned. “Did I miss something?”

Whitney sighed. His apology had disarmed her. “I’m not doing a very good job of this. I’m still in awe over your performance. I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know moves like that were done anymore.”

“They aren’t,” Gabriel said shortly. “Modem dressage doesn’t incorporate the traditional moves anymore.”

“Then why are you training your horses to do them?”

He grinned and something in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a very long time turned over.

“I’m a dinosaur. Do you know anything about horses?”

Directness obviously ran in his family. “Only racehorses. I’ve done some event riding in the past, but that was long ago.”

“A different ball game entirely. These animals play until they’re three and a half. They begin training when they’re four and aren’t completely finished until they’re eight. At twenty-five they’re still star performers.”

She nodded. “Completely different.”

He looked at her, a quick, brief assessment that apparently satisfied him. “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “I’ll get cleaned up. My mother will offer you dinner and a place to sleep. We can discuss your offer tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What’s wrong with tonight?”

“This is a family-owned business. I can’t sell without permission from my mother and sisters. I’ll have to call them tonight.”

Her heart pounded. “But you have power of attorney. I would have contacted all parties otherwise.”

“My family has to agree,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t feel right making a decision like this without their okay.” He stopped and looked at her. “I don’t want to waste your time, so I feel I should warn you that it isn’t going to happen.”

“Because of your mother and sisters?”

“No. I’ll be the one dragging my feet.” He frowned. “I really don’t remember making an appointment with you. I must have been completely focused on something else.”

Whitney refused to feel discouraged. “After I present the offer we can go over the pros and cons.”

Gabe continued to look at her. “Fair enough,” he said after a minute. “We have guest rooms. You’re welcome to stay.”

“Your mother has already offered me food and a bed, even after she found out I wasn’t from Matchmaker.com.”

He winced. “Good God. I hope not.”

Whitney stopped. “That wasn’t very complimentary.”

He looked at her, taking in the woman’s wheat-colored hair, clear eyes and spiky dark lashes, her long, long legs and the finely drawn features sprayed with a light sprinkling of pale freckles across her cheekbones. “Somehow, I don’t believe you’ll be shattered if I don’t compliment you,” he said dryly.

She swallowed. The camaraderie was broken. For a minute she’d almost thought—Whitney straightened her shoulders. It didn’t matter what she thought. She was here for professional reasons, and nothing more.