One

Lexington, Kentucky

Whitney Benedict, only child and sole heir to Whitney Downs, Boone and Pryor Benedict’s Thoroughbred farm, reread her notes and frowned. The involuntary gesture formed a small vee in the space between her eyebrows. It was her third perusal of the draft she’d composed and she was committing it to memory. She always read her drafts three times, the first for content, the second for changes and the third to edit the changes. It was a habit she’d picked up in law school and kept throughout her twelve years of practice. Not much escaped a third read. Not much escaped Whitney.

Carefully she aligned her pencil with the other two on her desk so that the erasers faced up and the points down. Then she stacked her papers, all nine sheets, neatly on top of one another and placed them in the righthand drawer of her desk. She had exactly four minutes before her meeting with Everett Sloane, senior partner of Barnaby & Sloane, and Robert Kincaid, United States senator and chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. She would put those minutes to good use.

Leaving her desk, she strode purposefully across the gleaming hardwood to her private bathroom, soaped her hands for precisely fifteen seconds before rinsing and drying them, sprayed mouthwash on her tongue, massaged her gums and reapplied her lipstick. Her hair, a sophisticated twist at the back of her head, her suit— navy, severe, expensive—and her immaculate pumps needed no adjustment. They were flawless.

It was time. She was ready. Smiling at her secretary, she walked toward the boardroom, her heels clicking sharply on the priceless cherrywood floors. Her gait was confident, her expression serene. What would follow was a challenge she’d prepared for. Whitney welcomed challenges.

Everett Sloane was seated behind his enormous desk. The senator faced the window. Both men rose when she entered the room. Robert Kincaid looked at Whitney and his jaw dropped. She pretended not to notice, but behind her cool smile, annoyance curled into life.

“My, my,” the senator said in the good ol’ boy voice that won him the state of Kentucky in the last election. “Are you sure a pretty thing like you is old enough to practice law?”

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Whitney’s expression change. “I’ll give it my best shot,” she said smoothly, taking the chair across from him. “Please, sit down, gentlemen.”

The two men resumed their seats. “Whitney’s specialty is international law,” Everett Sloane explained. “She’s the best there is. If she can’t get the job done, no one can.”

Kincaid rubbed his fleshy hands together. “Well, then. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Whitney replied smoothly, “is to remind Mr. Mendoza that not only will he become a millionaire many times over, he’ll also be contributing to a timeless legacy.”

“What if that doesn’t work?”

Whitney allowed a small, superior smile. “It will.”

“He didn’t rise to the bait before,” Kincaid said slowly. “What’s different now?”

Whitney’s eyes met those of her colleague. She shook her head slightly.

Everett Sloane leaned forward. “We’re not at liberty to say, Bob. It’s a matter of confidentiality. You’ll have to trust Whitney on this one. If she says Mendoza will take the money, he will.”

“Hell, I say we just confiscate the damn horses,” said Kincaid. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

Sloane stood and walked around his desk to the fully equipped bar. “Care for a splash, Bob?”

The senator grinned. “If it’s bourbon, I won’t say no.”

“Whitney?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a few more hours to put in after this.” She nodded at Robert Kincaid. ‘To answer your question, Senator, the Lipizzaners belong to Mr. Mendoza. He is their legal owner. The last of the stock brought over by Franz Kohnle died long ago. Gabriel Mendoza is under no obligation to sell his horses. The ball is in his court. I’d like to proceed cautiously.”

“Whose side are you on, young lady?”

No one on the receiving end of her charming smile would have guessed that it was calculated. “The winning side, Senator. That is the point, isn’t it?”

Robert Kincaid sampled his bourbon and sighed.

“Mighty good, Everett, mighty good.” He turned his piercing gaze on Whitney. “If Everett chooses his employees the way he chooses his liquor, I’m sold.”

“Whitney is a partner, Bob,” Sloane reminded him gently, “not an employee.”

“I don’t care if she’s Sherman’s granddaughter, as long as she brings us those horses. I need all the positive strokes I can get, if you know what I mean.” He shifted his eyes to the senior partner. “Do we understand each other?”

“We do.”

Kincaid drained his glass and stood. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way. Keep in touch, Everett. I’ll expect updates.”

“You’ll have them.”

Whitney watched him leave. “So much for southern gentlemen.”

Everett chuckled. “He’s one who still believes a woman’s place is in the home.”

“He’s insufferable.”

“He’s not the issue. I don’t have to tell you what it means to the firm to do this one right. I’m sorry about your vacation, Whitney, but I meant what I said to Kincaid. You’re the best we’ve got. We’re counting on you.”

She stood. “You won’t be sorry.

“Has Mendoza gotten back to you?”

“We have an appointment on Tuesday.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Whitney closed the door behind her. Luck had nothing to do with it. Luck wasn’t reliable. Hard work, research and the right price were her preferred negotiating tools. They hadn’t let her down yet.

Whitney Downs Thoroughbred Farm

When, precisely, did Whitney turn difficult? I think back, recalling her formative years, and still it escapes me. I’m her mother. I should have seen the signs. Not in my wildest dreams would I have believed my agreeable child would grow up to be the cause of such frustration.

Pryor Benedict dispassionately studied the words she had written only yesterday on the first page of her journal. It was one of those lovely leather-bound ones with the gilt edges, the kind only the best stationery stores offered. Pryor didn’t believe in using a computer. There was something about the process of actually forming the letters with a black fountain pen and watching the words take shape on thick, cream-colored paper. In her opinion, people used computers far too much. What was wrong with handwriting or books, for heaven’s sake? What could be more satisfying than curling up on the couch, turning pages at one’s own pace, lingering over a particularly fine passage?

Seated on a spindle chair in front of the eighteenth- century secretary that had originally belonged to one of her ancestors, she stared out the window into the blue twilight. Fireflies seeking refuge from a sudden burst of blood-warm rain swam around the smeared gold light of the porch lamps. They were early this year. She loved watching them flit about, awed by the amazing resilience of the little bugs whose lives were spent over the course of a single day. They were indigenous to Kentucky, to home, just as much as the sight of spring foals munching on summer bluegrass, their legs so long and delicate and bone-thin that it didn’t seem possible they could hold their own velvety weight.

Pryor was proud to admit that she was a homebody. Her heart never failed to lurch when, after a day of shopping or volunteering at one of her endless charities, she turned down the long, dirt-packed road bordered with white rail fences and lined with ancient oaks that led first to the house, then to the barns of Whitney Downs. The Thoroughbred stud farm had been her family’s lifeblood for more than a hundred years, ever since the first Whitney crossed the Kentucky state line, smelled the loamy dark earth, rich with lime and carpeted with blue-tinted grass, and dreamed of raising horses.

Pryor didn’t consider herself a horsewoman. Not that she was afraid of horses. No Whitney had ever been afraid of them. Growing up, and in the early years of her marriage to Boone, she spent most of her time helping out in the barns. She still rode, of course. There was nothing like an hour or so in the saddle every day to keep a woman lean-hipped and flat-bellied. But ever since middle age had crept up on her, she no longer had any interest in mucking around the stables, even those that housed Thoroughbreds valued in the millions. She wanted time to relax a bit, lunch with friends, take up golf and spoil her grandchildren, if only Whitney would come up to scratch.

Pryor had put off beginning her memoirs for quite some time now. There was no need for haste. She was only fifty-eight and of sound mind and body. But she’d always believed that one shouldn’t delay something important until the final moment. When better to start a journal than when one had something to say? And Pryor certainly had something to say, although she would rather eat dirt than voice the words she had just written about her much loved daughter. There was no point in hurting the girl’s feelings. After all, Whitney didn’t work at being difficult. But it didn’t seem quite fair to Pryor that her only daughter, a child who’d never caused anyone even a hint of trouble from conception through her eighteenth birthday, should have turned out the way she had. No. It simply wasn’t fair.

Once again, she read the words she’d written. The sentiment was true, but the tone wasn’t completely accurate. She made it sound as if Whitney was a failure or something close to it. Pryor prided herself on accuracy. No one in her right mind would consider Whitney Benedict a failure. Disappointment was a better word. That was it. Whitney had disappointed her, and not for the first time. It was a condition that occurred with more regularity than it should have, considering the fairly typical circumstances of her upbringing. She’d been such a biddable little girl, so sunny and sweet-tempered, with her Alice in Wonderland looks and gracious manners. If only she hadn’t been gifted with such a remarkable intelligence quotient.

Pryor wasn’t one of those old-fashioned mothers who thought that a smart girl would never catch a man. On the contrary. It was essential that a young lady be properly educated. How else would she meet the right man? Heaven forbid that her daughter should marry someone unacceptable. Pryor shuddered. They’d been down that road before, and she would rather Whitney stay single for the rest of her days than have her subject to the likes of Wiley Cane. She remembered to thank God every day of her life that the Whitney name still meant something in Lexington, Kentucky, enough to have her daughter’s brief, terrible marriage annulled before it went on too long.

Thankfully, Whitney had never given her that kind of trouble again. In fact, it was just the opposite. The girl was so discriminating in her tastes that she couldn’t seem to find a man to suit her. If only she wasn’t so— Pryor searched for the right word. Rigid came to mind. Whitney was rigid to a degree that caused Pryor to lie awake at night and worry. Could it be healthy for a young woman to be so consumed with order?

She was beginning to wonder if she would ever cradle a grandchild of her own on her lap. Her daughter was thirty-seven years old. If she didn’t get busy quickly, it would be too late. Pryor pushed away the terrifying thought that thirty-seven might already be too late.

Boone was no help, either. “Leave her alone,” he always said. She couldn’t count on Boone when it came to Whitney. All he thought about were his precious horses. They were actually Pryor’s horses, but after she married him, he fell into the family business so seamlessly that no one remembered how far up he’d married.

That suited her just fine. Horses weren’t her first priority. What she was concerned about was her daughter, her only child, who’d turned her back on the family business to become a lawyer with the killer instincts of a piranha, one of those fish who could strip the flesh from a hundred-and-fifty-pound manatee in less than sixty seconds, and then refused to settle down and produce a family. And now this final insult, after Pryor had gone to such trouble to arrange the getaway cruise, and Whitney had promised. To have it all come to nothing was enough to make a grown woman cry, or at least begin venting in her journal.

The phone rang. Pryor glanced at the caller ID window. It was Whitney. Her heartbeat accelerated. She composed herself and answered on the second ring. “How are you, sugar?”

“Hi, Mama. I’m fine. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind collecting my mail while I’m gone?”

“Of course, dear. How long do you think you’ll be away?”

“I’m not sure. No more than a few days.”

Pryor sighed. “Whitney, are you sure you have to go on this business trip? Isn’t there anyone else the firm can send? The cruise would be so good for you. Besides,” she reminded her, “you promised.”

The silence on the other end of the phone meant Whitney was annoyed and that she was taking a second or two to collect herself and compose a rational argument. The Benedicts did a lot of that—collecting themselves, that is-—but no one would ever call them rational, except for Whitney, and she was only part Benedict.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Whitney replied, “but if you recall, I didn’t actually promise. I said I would try. I appreciate your concern, but in all fairness, you have to remember that I didn’t plan on this trip. I didn’t even know about it until last week. Sometimes it isn’t possible to rearrange my schedule. We’ve already gone over this. I’ve been given the case because of my background. There’s no one else.”

Pryor took this to mean Whitney’s specialty in international law and her experience with horses. She knew all along that it was pointless to try, but she couldn’t resist a final argument. “What would they do if you had an accident, God forbid, or if you didn’t exist at all?”

“But that isn’t the case,” Whitney said slowly and patiently. “A singles’ cruise isn’t exactly in the same league as a debilitating accident, is it?”

Pryor didn’t answer. Sometimes she felt as if she were the child and Whitney the mother.

“C’mon, Mama,” Whitney prodded her. “Is it?”

“No,” Pryor conceded. “I guess it isn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you at least come for dinner?”

“Tonight? It’s late already.”

“Why not? You have to eat.”

Another silence and then a slow, deep breath. “All right, Mama. I’ll be there for dinner.”

Immediately Pryor felt better. “See you at eight, sugar. Wear something pretty.”

It wasn’t until after she hung up and thought about her mother’s parting words, did Whitney suspect an ulterior motive. Who was her mother inviting this time? Could she have found another eligible man, one Whitney hadn’t already met, who was available for dinner on short notice?

She decided against changing. Her navy-blue suit with the skirt that hit the top of her knee was exactly what the occasion warranted. If she was wrong, and it was only family, she would shuck the jacket. If not, the severe blue tailoring was enough to send her mother’s latest candidate running for the hills.

Whitney tapped her nails on her desk blotter. Her mother was certainly tenacious. Whitney’s single status was like a red flag being waved in front of a bull.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get married. It just wasn’t an impending need. Occasionally, on her birthday or when someone asked her age and then raised a dubious eyebrow, she would feel a slight twinge. But the truth was, it didn’t bother her as much as it did everyone else. Whitney was quite happy with her single state, especially after the devastating consequences of her brief and only foray into married life. She had a challenging job, plenty of money, the independence to spend it any way she pleased, intellectual stimulation, too many invitations on her social calendar, a luxury apartment with a view of the river and, when she wanted it, male companionship. What she didn’t have, as her mother pointed out in nearly every conversation, was a child.

Pryor wanted to be a grandmother, but Whitney wasn’t really sure that she wanted to be a mother. Children were an enormous responsibility. It wasn’t the money or even the effort that Whitney begrudged, it was the mess. Children meant frequenting restaurants with high chairs, and high chairs meant crumbs under the table and gummy fingers and embarrassing scenes where waitresses with thin, disapproving lips pretended it didn’t matter that your little darling had overturned her spaghetti for the third time. Whitney shuddered. Raising a child, hers or anyone else’s, meant that she would never be completely alone again, not for another twenty years. For a person who valued her solitude, the idea of someone always there, needing her, was terrifying. She was responsible enough, far-sighted enough and selfless enough to understand that a child needed parents who were fully, unwaveringly committed. Children, in Whitney’s world, should come first.

She checked her watch. It was after seven, barely enough time to sew things up here in her office and make the drive out of the city to Whitney Downs, her namesake, the Thoroughbred farm where she was born and raised and which she couldn’t seem to put behind her, no matter how hard she tried.

She pulled into the driveway at the same time her father emerged from the foaling barn. Whitney leaned against the car and waited until Boone caught up with her.

He slung an arm around her shoulder, pulled her against him and kissed her forehead. “What a nice treat. I didn’t expect you tonight. How’s my girl?”

“I’m fine, Daddy. Mama invited me at the last minute. She’s stressing over my not going on the singles’ cruise she planned for me.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “She’ll get over it. All she wants is the best for you, honey. We both do.”

Whitney changed the subject. “How’s Cinnamon Stride? Is he still Derby material?”

“You betcha,” her father said emphatically. “We’re clocking him regularly now and he keeps gettin’ better and better.”

“Will you enter him at Saratoga?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Whitney frowned. “He’s closing in on three years old. If you don’t give him some running experience, he won’t be ready.”

Boone hesitated.

“C’mon, Daddy. If you can’t trust your own daughter, who can you trust?”

“Promise you won’t say a word, not even to your mother. When she gets involved in the running of the place, everybody tenses up.”

“I promise.”

“He’s skittish coming out of the starting gate. I don’t want to push him. We haven’t had a Derby winner in a long time. I think this one has what it takes, but if he gets spooked early on, we’ve lost him. He needs gentle handling.” Boone glanced at his daughter. “Are you interested?”

She shook her head. “You know that isn’t possible.”

“Just checkin’, honey. It doesn’t hurt to ask.” He opened the front door and stepped back, allowing her to precede him. “Shall we?”

She stopped before walking inside. “Are you worried, Daddy? Is everything going all right with the business?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said heartily. “But it wouldn’t hurt for us to have a winner. You know how it is.”

Whitney knew exactly how it was, which was why she wanted no part of a profession in which too much was out of her control. Whitney Downs wasn’t one of those fancy stud farms where horses had e-mail addresses and barns had mahogany doors and stained- glass windows. It was a working farm where one good virus, a plague of caterpillars or a few slipped foals could run it into bankruptcy.

Pryor’s high-pitched, breathy voice called out from the living room, asking questions and issuing orders in that fist-behind-the-velvet-glove way she had of getting what she wanted. “Is that you, Boone, honey? Where have you been? Hurry and clean up, we have guests for dinner. Whitney’s coming and Drew Curtis dropped in, so I invited him, too.”

Boone chuckled. “Give me a few minutes,” he called out. He lowered his voice. “She never gives up.” Then he glanced at his daughter’s face. “Don’t be upset, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. “It’s only Drew. You can talk circles around him.”

“That’s not the point,” she retorted. “Why should I have to entertain Drew Curtis? I’ve worked all day. I leave tomorrow on a business trip. I want to relax, watch the news, read a good book and finish packing. Mama knows that, and she also knows I haven’t been the least bit interested in Drew since the junior prom, even if he hadn’t taken up with Teri Cooper and had two kids with her before she dropped him.” She would have continued but she was out of breath. Inhaling deeply, she asked, “Why does she keep doing this to me?”

Boone dropped a light kiss on his daughter’s nose. “You know it isn’t as bad as all that. You’re so independent we hardly see you anymore. Cut your mother some slack. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll shower and shave and be back to rescue you before you’re into your second bourbon and branch.”

Whitney watched him climb the stairs two at a time, refraining from reminding him that she didn’t drink bourbon and branch. Then she looked into the beveled mirror that took up most of the long wall leading to the rest of the house, buttoned the top button of her severely tailored jacket and walked into the living room.

Drew and her mother were seated across from each other on identical cream-colored sofas. They both stood when she entered the room. Pryor, elegant as usual in tailored pants, pearls and a cashmere sweater, held out her arms.

“Whitney, honey, isn’t it nice that Drew could be here? He stopped in unexpectedly, and since he hasn’t eaten, I invited him.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Whitney raised one skeptical eyebrow. “Really?” She looked at Drew and noted the wave of color rising from his neck. He was one of those unfortunate redheads who blushed easily and never tanned, definitely not her type. “Were you in the area?”

“Well, I—”

“Now, Whitney,” her mother chided her. “You’re not in the courtroom anymore. There’s no need to interrogate a dear friend.” She sat down and patted the seat beside her. “Sit down.”

Whitney sat. “How are the kids, Drew?”

He grinned, obviously grateful for the change of subject. “They’re just fine. Tommy’s the star of his Little League team and Sammy is the terror of her kindergarten class. I only wish I saw more of them. Now that Teri’s remarried and moved to Louisville, I’m odd man out.”

Whitney nodded sympathetically. “It must be hard.”

Pryor shook her head. “How long has it been since your divorce?”

“Two years.”

“Two years.” She fluffed out her artfully streaked hair with a manicured finger. “My, my. Where does the time go? It seems like only yesterday that we attended your wedding. Do you ever wish for a crystal ball?” Whitney struggled against the acerbic comment hanging on the edge of her tongue. Had her mother always been this obvious? “Mama,” she interrupted. “You haven’t offered me a cocktail.”

“Since when do you need an invitation to help yourself to the bar in your own house?”

“Cocktail?” Boone’s voice cut in. “Did I hear someone say cocktail?”

Whitney released her breath. Her father was here. There would be no more talk of soured marriages and crystal balls. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” she said.

“How about you, Drew?” her father asked. “Does your drink need freshening?”

“No, thanks. I’m doing all right with this one.”

“Pryor? How about you?”

“No, darling.”

Boone handed Whitney her drink and seated himself beside Drew. “So, buddy, long time no see. How’s the foaling going?”

“We’re okay this year,” Drew said slowly, “but most of our mares haven’t delivered yet and you know what happened last time.”

Boone nodded. “It’s heartbreaking to lose ’em when they’re full term. I’d cut off my right arm to stop it from happening again.”

Pryor cleared her throat. “Drew was telling us about his children.”

“Is that so?” Boone pretended a polite interest.

“It must be so lovely for your parents to have grandchildren,” Pryor began.

Drew nodded. “They don’t see as much of mine anymore.”

“Drew is one of four children, Mama,” Whitney reminded her. “The Curtises have several grandchildren.”

Boone’s thick eyebrows knitted together. “I wouldn’t mind a grandchild or two, Whitney. Maybe one of ’em would join me in the business. It gives a man something to work for when he thinks he’s leaving a legacy.”

Whitney drained her drink and surreptitiously checked her watch again. Twenty minutes had passed since she’d walked through the front door and they were already on grandchildren. The night promised to be a long one.