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On the morning of the big race, Jake took a few minutes out on the back porch to simply inhale the spring air while the sun chased away the cool of night. He could imagine things at the track would already be hectic. Nerves would be on edge, and by the end of the day it would all be over.
Back inside he took the stack of tout sheets, race histories, and articles about the horses in the race, and spread them on the kitchen table. There were no Cinderellas in today’s race—all the entries had the kind of breeding that was expected to produce champions—but it wouldn’t hurt to learn something about the participants.
He discovered that a great deal of the press was about the undefeated colt from Britain. Big name handicappers claimed he had no shot because he’d never faced this quality of stock before, while smaller publications gave him the nod as he was proven at the distance. None of the American horses had run a mile and a quarter.
The lone filly in the race also garnered a good amount of press. Some stated she was as big and strong as the colts, so carrying five pounds less than the boys might give her an advantage. And like the Brit, she’d never been outrun.
Sad to think that at least one winning streak would come to an end today.
Angie joined him at ten with her eyes barely open. “Coffee.”
“Plenty and fresh. What time did you get in?” She’d taken the plane and gone home the night before.
“Butt-crack of dawn.” She took the first swallow. “Oh, man.”
“How’s Dhillon?”
“Good. We hung out for a while.”
“Then I bet you took off in the Steed.” It was a great name for the technologically futuristic and ridiculously fast helicopter. Not only did it have a skin that reflected its surroundings and made it nearly invisible, but all engine noise was absorbed into the machine so it could travel almost silently.
“Guilty.”
“How was Quinn with that?”
She heaved a sigh, topped up her cup and dropped onto a chair at the table. “I know my relationship is driving him crazy. But I get to have a life, and he doesn’t get to vet anyone I’m with. That said, if he did, this guy would get a whole row of gold stars.”
“So why the mystery?”
“Not my story to tell, okay?”
Jake shrugged. He had his own sisters to worry about. “You gonna be ready to walk over at noon?” It would take nearly an hour.
“Sure. A pot of coffee, maybe some food, and I’ll be good to go. Gonna be sweating under that wig by the time we get there, dammit.”
He grinned. “We could put a bag of ice under your hat.”
“Ha, ha.”
Churchill Downs was an impressive vision of white columns, tall spires, wide stairways, and ornate woodwork highlighted by a vast sea of brightly colored flowers. And an incredible crush of people gathering for a phenomenal thirty-second rush of excitement as the horses flew down the homestretch. Everything before that was just build-up.
VIP passes got them through the hordes and into an area where the “connected” would be rubbing elbows, eating fancy food, and making sure they were noticed during those important hours of preamble. Faces in the crowd showed an interesting mix of bored, thrilled, studied, and genuinely interested.
“You want a mint julep?” Angie asked.
Jake grimaced. “No, but I’ll get you one.” He tipped his chin toward a group gathered at a long bar. “Want to hang over there for a bit, see what the chatter’s about?”
“Sure.”
Conversations swirled around them, the subjects ranging from gossip to politics, and of course, the big race. There were no familiar faces—none from the lists, at least.
Angie took a tentative sip of her mint julep and grimaced, then reached for his beer and took a long swallow. “You knew they were disgusting, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t want one.”
“Absolutely not my thing.”
“Nor mine, apparently.” She set her glass on the bar. “Let’s go claim our table, and maybe check out the buffet.”
“Sounds good, then we can wander around from there.” He picked up the green drink. “Carry this so you won’t have to turn anyone down.”
“Good idea.”
Once seated, he watched two sales agents work the room. One was a smooth and dignified type who was adept at the nods, handshakes and simple smiles, while the other cornered his targets either literally, or by slinging an arm around their shoulders while obviously trying to sell them something.
Jake was almost disappointed to realize that smarmy guy with the slicked-back hair wasn’t one if their potential targets, but the classy guy was.
Angie pushed back her chair. “I need food and the buffet line isn’t getting any shorter. You coming?”
“Not hungry.” And couldn’t eat with the appliance over his teeth. “But do you want me to come with you?”
“Nah, let’s see what traveling solo nets me.” Angie tossed her big orange purse onto the seat. “Guard that with your life or you’ll be carrying me home.” She’d stuffed her flip-flops in it when putting on her killer heels at the front gates.
He stood. “I’ll throw my body in front of them.” Watching her make her way through the crowd, he purposely made eye contact with the tall, gray-haired agent, then nodded.
The man strolled over and held out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Colin Pearson.”
“Dennis Furlow,” said Jake. “You look very familiar.”
“I’ve done a few interviews over the last week, so that may explain why you think so.”
“Which horse are you connected to?”
“I facilitated the transaction which culminated in the Browns having a filly in the Derby this year.”
“You’re a sales agent.”
The guy’s smile twisted sideways. “Bloodstock agent.”
“Is that what he is?” Jake tipped his head to indicate the man fast-talking someone at the table behind him.
“Yes. Although he and I use different methods and have vastly dissimilar styles, to say the least.”
Jake grinned. “As they say, it takes all kinds. I’m curious, how did you come upon the filly? Was she advertised for sale?”
“I study horses. Watch races from all around the world—thanks to computers—and I approach owners to see if they’re interested in selling.”
“What did you do before live feeds were available?”
“Studied racing charts and pedigrees as I do now, but then frequented betting establishments to watch races.”
“Do you find it much easier to find a good horse now?”
“Somewhat, although the competition has become challenging. As in, it’s easier now for a fellow like the one you just inquired about to stumble across good prospects.”
“What’s your take on Cinderella horses? Are they freaks of nature?”
Colin fussed with the gold cufflinks on his white shirt. “That’s a touchy subject because there have been several Derby winners who’ve worn that banner and become America’s darlings. Personally, I can see worth in all their pedigrees, and I wonder sometimes about the road to their greatness being easier as they didn’t have extraordinary expectations to live up to. Likewise, it strikes me that not enough breeders are concerned with soundness and career longevity, thus conceivably creating a stellar catalogue page—pedigree—yet a weaker individual.”
“But a great catalogue page means lots of black type, doesn’t it? And lots of black type indicates racing success by the mare’s other foals, or the grand-dam’s produce, et cetera.”
“True, but that can be manipulated to show a skewed result.”
“How so?”
“If a mare has six foals, and only one has black type, the others might not even be listed on the page. One must remember that a seller is trying to get the most money he can for his horse. As a comparison, one doesn’t expect a real estate listing to mention roots encroaching on the foundation or a lack of storage space in a kitchen. Bottom line is, buyer beware.”
“Which makes you a successful agent. You spend the time ferreting out all the information instead of relying on the advertising. I get it.”
Colin smiled. “And, over the course of my extensive career, I’ve amassed interesting information about many individuals and bloodlines. Details like a predisposition to breathing problems, or nervous horses prone to ulcers, or lines with attitude issues.” His shrug was barely visible.
“You must believe the Brown’s filly can get the distance.” The man seemed to know what he was talking about, but wasn’t exactly quick to offer information.
“Her owners wanted to win the Derby, so I selected a horse I believed could do the job. She is an exceptional individual and has never been outrun, so she still believes she’s emperor of all.”
“The same could be said of the horse from Britain.”
“Yes, but his interrupted journey may be a detriment he cannot overcome. He arrived two days later than expected and there was not enough time to work him over this surface.”
Jake spotted Angie making a beeline toward them. She didn’t have a plate of food, and was rubbing at her eyes.
“Terrible, that accident,” said Colin.
Jake had obviously missed something in his morning research. “What happened?”
Angie grabbed her bag and then Jake’s arm. “I’m sorry, we have to leave.”
“But the race,” said Colin
“I’m having a reaction. I need to get out of here.”
“Don’t go if you need a doctor. I can get you help here,” said Colin, following as they pushed through the crowd.
Jake wasn’t concerned as this was an exit strategy they had discussed on the flight to Kentucky. There was some reason Angie wanted them out of there, and too much risk of being overheard for her to give him details.
She tapped the bag she’d slung over her shoulder. “I don’t have my meds with me. Need to get back to the hotel. It’s all the perfume and flowers. Migraine escalating at warp speed.”
Colin stepped in front of them. “Follow me. I can get you out quickly and see that there’s a cab waiting for you.” He made a call while he led them toward a bank of elevators where a member of the plainclothes security staff met them.
“I’ll leave you in good hands.” Colin passed his business card to Jake. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Louisville is my home. If you need anything at all, please call me.”
The cab ride to the safe house was tense and silent. Angie stayed busy sending text messages, while Jake still had no idea why she’d hustled them away so quickly. Had to be big. Maybe they were needed on a life-saving op, or at least a time-sensitive one.
“Okay, spill,” he said as soon as they were back at the house.
“Grab your stuff. We’re out of here.” She headed for her room, whipping off the hat and fixing the wig back in place. “Stay in disguise. We have to be off the ground in under thirty-minutes. I’m going to be busy with flight plans and all, so I can’t explain until we’re airborne.”
Not all that unusual, but the energy coming off Angie had him praying this was all about an op and not something wrong on the home front.
Thirty minutes later, at cruising altitude, Angie said, “We’re headed for New York. You’re on a flight to Paris at eighteen hundred. Quinn will have all the paperwork waiting for us. New York to Paris is seven and a half hours.”
“What’s in France?”
“There’s been in an accident.”
Jake’s stomach bottomed out. “Who’s hurt?”
“The Derby horse from Britain was to fly with a horse coming from France last weekend, but there was an accident.”
“Tara.”
Angie nodded. “Something happened right after takeoff and they had to turn back because, somehow, your friend got trapped under the horse.”
“How bad?” Stupid question. They were taking him off an op and sending him across the Atlantic without asking if he wanted to go.
“They didn’t expect her to make it through the first night, but she did. Julia is feeling a connection and wants you to stick with the current appearance, but your documentation is being changed. You’re going in as Canadian clergyman. It will give you a legitimate reason to be visiting a stranger in the hospital.”
He was trying to concentrate on the details, but odd things kept popping into his head as though they were important. “Her father works for an airline, but I don’t know which one.”
Angie plowed on without comment. “Quinn and Julia are handling everything and should have solid information by the time we land. You’re going commercial, direct, and in business class because, with this connection being so tight, it’s faster than anything private we could arrange today.”
Nearly twelve hours. That’s how long he’d have to stew and speculate before he could get to her. Touch her. And why the hell had he left her the first time? Why hadn’t he fought with her, pointed out all the ways he could find to make it work, keep her identity protected?
Because right this minute he knew, clear as a bell, she was The One.
But he’d walked away from her to keep her safe. And look how well that had turned out.