The Glory Game Page 4

  A building pressure pounded inside his head. Rob spread a hand across his brow and squeezed at the temples in an effort to check the hammering pain. The problem with always getting whatever he wanted was that it made him want more. Being a Kincaid wasn’t enough. Trisha was right when she said there were Kincaids by the score. He wanted to be special. He wanted it all.

  But that wasn’t something he could put into words; it would sound too greedy. He glanced in the direction his sister had taken; wondering if she ever felt the way he did, and doubting it. All he could see was the muscled rumps of the horses gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as the girl leading them walked at a leisurely pace toward the barns.

  A horse and rider entered his side vision, traveling at an angle that would intersect his sister’s path. Rob immediately recognized the black-shirted rider who had been his nemesis during the game, the Argentine Raul Buchanan. The bitter taste of defeat filled his mouth. Angrily, Rob turned away from the sight, cast aside the scraper, and picked up a chamois to wipe the sorrel dry.

  So much had been riding on today’s game. If he’d won, he could have used the victory to persuade his father to let him postpone college for a year and concentrate on improving his polo skills. He wasn’t worried about persuading Luz. His mother had always been on his side, always willing to listen, and always ready to help even when she didn’t understand.

  His father was another matter. Rob knew he could never please him. A good education, college, that’s all he talked about. He couldn’t see that Trisha was the one with the brains. She breezed through school while Rob had to struggle to keep his grades high enough to play polo on the school team. He loathed the idea of four more years of classrooms. Let Trisha become the lawyer.

  A few spectators who had watched the polo match from the comfort of their cars, some enjoying champagne-and-caviar tailgate parties along the sidelines, were departing. One of the cars blocked Trisha’s path while the driver waited for an opening in the traffic on the club road. She halted the ponies on the shoulder and absently rubbed the forehead of the nudging gray horse.

  There was a pull on the nearside lead rope she was holding as the blaze-faced Thoroughbred turned its head outward. Trisha glanced idly in the same direction to confirm there wasn’t an oncoming vehicle to be concerned about, and saw another horse and rider approaching. She started to look away, then recognized the black-shirted player from the game.

  His horse slow-trotted the last few yards to her position before the rider pulled up on the double reins. The blood-red bay horse halted close to Trisha, its front shoulders slightly ahead of her and the saddle even with her. All she could see of the rider was the polished brown boot in the stirrup ring and a white-breeched thigh and hip. To see the rest of him, she had to tilt her head back.

  Trisha had forgotten how intimidating a man on horseback could appear to someone on foot. She stood barely at eye level with his hip. When the bay horse stirred restively, shifting its weight and chewing on the iron bits, Trisha had an immediate sense of immense power, yet the brute strength of the animal, an animal six times heavier than the man on its back, was under the control of the rider. Its shiny sides heaved, straining the girth as the horse blew loudly, punctuating the creaking sounds of leather.

  Her glance flicked upward, pausing on the polo helmet the right hand held propped against his hip, then traveling up the sun-bronzed arm sinewed with hard muscle. The thin material of his short-sleeved jersey was cut to fit his flatly muscled torso snugly and allow complete freedom of movement. What began as an idle inspection of a man she had watched ride all afternoon shifted to feminine interest when Trisha saw his face.

  Deeply tanned by the sun, it was angular and broad, masculine and strong in its composition of jaw and chin. Dark brows and blunt lashes framed a pair of piercing blue eyes that glanced restlessly about him. Fatigue deepened the grooves around his mouth and the creases near his eyes, but an impression of latent vitality remained. His hair was a dark shade of brown. Its damp thickness showed the furrows made by careless raking fingers. The blue eyes surprised Trisha. She tended to think of Argentines as being of Spanish or Indian descent, although the Buchanan surname should have given her a clue. As if sensing her study, he glanced down at her.

  “Good game,” she said.

  “Thank you.” His reply was distantly polite, with little trace of an accent in the low-pitched voice. A second later, he was looking away, preoccupied and aloof. His apparent lack of interest didn’t discourage her.

  Trisha switched her attention to his horse, the one that had performed so brilliantly in the fifth chukkar. “Your horse is a beauty,” she remarked. “He won Best-Playing Pony, didn’t he?”

  His glance came back to her. “Yes.”

  “He deserved it.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a tired semblance of a smile, acknowledging her praise. The driver in the waiting car gunned the motor, attracting their attention, but the steady trail of slow-moving vehicles gave him no entrance to the road. “It looks like we’re going to be here all afternoon.” Picket lines and a parked horse trailer made it impossible to go around the car. “You’d think someone would let him in.”

  “Someone will.” He dismounted. The bay moved back a step as he bent to run a hand down its near foreleg, checking for any abnormal heat or swelling.

  The horse stood quietly until he had finished the examination, then it turned its head to look at Trisha’s three charges and lifted its nose, blowing softly at their scent. A narrow white streak ran down its face, contrasting with the dark red of its coat. The animal had an intelligent head, Trisha noticed, and large velvet brown eyes with none of the white showing.

  “Your horse has kind eyes.” It was a quality a player looked for in a polo pony, Trisha knew. A nervous, high-strung horse rarely made a good game mount. She held out her palm to the animal so it could smell her, mindful of the man walking to its head. “What’s his name?”

  Her persistent effort at conversation finally commanded more than a passing look from him. Raul Buchanan preferred to spend these few minutes alone to replay the game in his mind and isolate his mistakes, but the girl’s chattering kept distracting him. He wondered why all female grooms seemed to be horsecrazy.

  “I call him Criollo.” Stable girls came in all ages, shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, so Raul wasn’t surprised to detect an air of cultured breeding about the girl. But he hadn’t expected to find her looking at him instead of the horse.

  “That’s Spanish for ‘native-born,’ isn’t it? The translation is Creole.” She reached out to stroke its forehead, but her interested glance was slow to leave him.

  Although it was a different twist, he’d seen it before. During his years on the polo circuit, Raul had run across women who transferred whatever sexuality they saw in a horse to the man on its back. This one was young, which wasn’t to say he didn’t appreciate his view of the firm young breasts outlined under the T-shirt, the nipples clearly discernible. Few women wore bras anymore, he’d noticed, especially the chicas who didn’t have to worry about sagging breasts.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” He lifted his glance, taking note of the blue-and-gold sweatband. Her chestnut hair was cut in layers, creating a shaggy mop of loose curls.

  “I only know some words and phrases, mostly from helping one of my girlfriends study for a language test. I took French.” The lack of embellishment or claim to worldly experience indicated a high degree of self-confidence to Raul.

  There was a gap in the traffic, and the waiting car slipped into it. With the way clear, they both started forward, leading their horses. The swish of horses striding through the grass was accompanied by the muffled thud of hooves and the odd rattle of a curb chain or lead shank. They were faint echoes of the game, played at a slower speed, and his thoughts started to wander back.

  “What did you think of the game?” Again her voice intruded on his thoughts.

  He’d already recognized the horses she was leading, especiall
y the gray from Jake Kincaid’s old string. Raul had played against Kincaid many times, but never for him. Kincaid had approached him in the past when he was putting together a team for a particular tournament, but there had always been a conflict of schedules. The old man had been a tough competitor, playing the game well into his sixties, and had continued to sponsor teams after he could no longer play. The string of ponies was testament to the quality of teams he put together, and the grandson had ridden the best of them today, playing the Number One position.

  “It was a good contest.” Politically, there was little else he could say to someone on the losing side.

  “It would have been a good contest if you throw out the fifth chukkar,” she mocked good-naturedly. “You spoiled an awful lot of Rob’s shots. Of course, your horses were better than his.”

  “He has an excellent string of ponies, especially that gray.” The best money could buy or train.

  “I’m afraid the old gray ain’t what he used to be.” She shook her head to reinforce her opinion. “He’s seventeen years old.”

  “Is that why he was afraid to ride him?” Raul wondered absently.

  “Rob? Afraid?” The young girl came to an abrupt stop, a sudden anger flashing in her dark eyes. “What do you mean by that? My brother isn’t afraid to ride anything.”

  Pausing, he arched a brow in surprise. “Your brother? Then you are—”

  “A Kincaid, yes.” There was something more than indignant anger in the decisive snap of her answer, as if she resented the name. “Who did you think I was?”

  “The groom.” Raul smiled dryly at his own mistake.

  She appeared frozen for an instant, then the temper that had flared so quickly dissolved into a laugh as she looked down at her stable clothes. “I guess I do look like a stablehand. I promised Rob I’d help with the horses today. It sounded like more fun than sitting with the family.” She started forward, resuming the walk. “By the way, my name’s Trisha. Trisha Thomas. And yours is Raul Buchanan.” With a half-turn of her head, she eyed him. “Why did you say Rob was afraid?” This time there was more curiosity than demand in her voice.

  Since he had made the critical observation, Raul felt compelled to support it. “Toward the end of every chukkar, I noticed that he let his mount go wide on the turns, and he did not use his spurs or go to the whip. He saved the pony.”

  “Some of them aren’t young horses anymore. They were tired.” She was quick to come to her brother’s defense. “I don’t see that what he did was so wrong.”

  “Games are not won by sparing your pony. It is an athlete. A rider cannot be concerned whether his mount is tired. Whatever the command, the horse must obey, and if he protests, the rider must make him obey. The horse has to push itself the same way a man pushes himself to do more than he thinks he can. At no point should your brother have cared whether his horse was too tired to make a hard run. And if they were too tired to play competently, he should have switched to a fresh horse during that chukkar of play instead of waiting until it was over.” When he’d finished, Raul looked at her. “I am sure I sound very harsh to you.”

  “Yes,” she answered frankly. “But it fits. You were relentless out there this afternoon.” And he sensed she wasn’t sure whether she approved of that. As they neared the barns, there was an increase in activity. Horses were being walked to cool them down; others were being loaded in trailers; some were being rubbed down by their grooms. Trisha seemed to throw off their previous conversation. “What are you doing tonight?”

  At six o’clock, he had an appointment at the health club with the masseuse, but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Chet Martin is having a party tonight to celebrate winning the cup.”

  “You mean, to gloat over winning the cup,” she corrected, then warned, “You won’t like it. The Martins give dreadful parties. Why don’t you slip away earlier and I’ll meet you somewhere?”

  “How old are you?” It was impossible for him to tell. He’d met some girls that he’d thought were eighteen or older and had learned later they were only fourteen, mere children. And children were not enticement for him.

  After a small hesitation, she shrugged. “Seventeen. I suppose you think I’m too forward.”

  “No. Too young.” And Raul had twenty years on her. There was a degree of flattery in the fact that she found him attractive, but long ago he had learned wisely and well not to get mixed up with pretty young daughters from wealthy families.

  Her steps slowed as they reached the stables and the horses bunched close to her. “Our trailer is parked over there,” she said, indicating that here they parted company. “Would it have made a difference if I’d told you I was eighteen? I will be in two months. I’m attracted to you, and I’d like to see you again.” It was an outright challenge of his decision, not a plea to reconsider.

  “Nothing is wrong with that.”

  “In that case, my parents are having a party next Saturday night. Will you come?” Her head was tipped to the side at a provocative angle, her dark eyes gleaming.

  “I am a professional,” Raul reminded her. “Next week, I will be playing with a team at Boca Raton. I may not be here.”

  “If you are, will you come?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll expect you.” One of the horses nudged her from behind, urging her to continue to the barns.

  “You could be disappointed,” he warned.

  “No, I won’t. You’ll be there.” After that confident statement, she turned and led the horses toward the parked trailers.

  For the last fifteen years, Raul had lived among the rich, and during the last ten, the scope had been international. He had dined at their tables, slept in their houses, played polo with or for them, ridden to hunts with them, driven cattle and sat in bars with them. He’d held clinics to teach them the finer points of polo and sold ponies to them. He’d met their friends, children, grandparents, and hired help. And he had learned they were no different from other people. They had their braggarts and misers, spoiled brats and painfully shy children; some were good and decent and fair, and there were others you didn’t dare trust. So he avoided putting a label on Trisha, not classifying her as spoiled or wild or headstrong. At the moment, he didn’t know if he even wanted to see her again.

  That was the advantage of being among the best polo players in the world. People came to him for the privilege of having him play with them. He didn’t have to be nice to their daughters or sleep with their wives—or the men either. Polo had given him independence and freedom from want. He rode his own horses now and came and went as he pleased.

  It was a far cry from those hungry days on the Pampa when he’d been a scrawny kid too short to climb on the horses he watered at the estancia. From that he’d graduated to mucking out stalls and grooming horses. Later he’d worked as a groom and exercise boy at the Palermo Race Track in Buenos Aires. Then a horsebreeder had hired him—a horsebreeder and weekend polo player. He’d had his first taste of the game as a last-minute substitute for one of the players. He had filled in for others on several occasions after that, practicing in the meantime while he exercised the owner’s horses.

  It had been a long way, Raul realized. Yet the dream was still before him—the ten-goal rating that would make him a master of the game. That had thus far eluded him. He tapped the padded helmet against the side of his leg and headed toward the section where his horses were stabled, the blood-red bay pony in tow.

  Cars and trucks towing horse trailers hummed steadily along the road that bordered one side of the polo field. Some players remained at the picket line, their voices punctuating the drone of vehicles as they talked with family and friends. Here and there a groom led a group of horses to the stables while their snortings and whickerings mingled with the other sounds. All of it combined to prevent Rob from hearing Luz approach.

  She paused a minute to study him as he wiped down the sweat-damp sorrel pony. He appeared absorbed in the task, but Luz noted the f
orceful pressure in his strokes. His thoughts were far from what he was doing. She wished that she knew what she could say to console him that wouldn’t sound banal or preaching. When he’d been a youngster with troubles, she could hold him on her lap and assure him it would all work out all right, and he’d believe her. But not anymore. He had reached the age of reason, and she was no longer the final authority. Being the mother of an adult—or near adult—was so frustrating, because they no longer listened.

  The sorrel Thoroughbred turned its head, pricking its ears in her direction, and whinnied in recognition. Luz saw Rob look up and fixed a quick smile in place as she strode forward.

  “Hi,” she offered warmly and watched his head dip in a mute rejection of any sympathy. Hurt by the unintentional rebuff, Luz lowered her chin slightly so the wide brim of her straw sunhat shaded more of her face. She walked to the front of the horse, transferring her attention to it. “How’s my baby?” she crooned and rubbed its poll. It nuzzled the knotted sleeves of her sweater in front, responding to the caress of her voice and hand. “Sorry, but I don’t have any sugar for you this time, Copper.” Gently, she scratched the top of its satin nose and glanced sideways at Rob. “He played well today.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look at her, his face smooth of any expression.

  “It was a tough game.” Luz eyed him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. It’s over and we lost.”

  But she knew it wasn’t that cut and dried emotionally. “Where’s Trisha?”

  “At the horse trailer. She should be back soon for the rest of the horses.” He cast an absent glance over his shoulder as if expecting to see her.