Three
COLE WATCHED THE YOUNG WOMAN WITH THE WILD red hair and disheveled clothes—and really nice ass—push through the door to the Realtor’s office. Then he continued to watch her—and her ass—as she strode down the front steps without a backward glance. Then he watched her—and her ass—some more as she waited on the sidewalk by the street, again without turning around once, until another young woman in a very disreputable-looking car pulled to a stop to let her in. The redhead did look back at him then, lifting a hand in farewell and smiling in a way that said, “I got the last word, sucker. Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.” Usually, Cole hated it when people looked at him that way. With her, though…
He still hated it.
Man, what an unpleasant, unhappy, unaccommodating harpy. So much for southern hospitality and southern belles. With that riot of unruly red hair, those icy blue eyes, and the battered clothes, she’d looked more like Raggedy Ann’s evil twin. Craggedy Ann. And she’d been about as personable, too.
Though she smelled kind of nice, he thought further, something spicy and exotic that reminded him of horse liniment—which was actually a compliment, because horses smelled damned nice when they were cleaned up and shiny. Patchouli, he realized, recalling the scent from the brand name of a soap they used at one of the stables where he’d trained horses. Except it smelled way nicer on Craggedy than it had on the horses. And that was really a compliment.
Not that Cole cared. About her smell or her eyes or her personality or any of it. The joke was on Craggedy. He didn’t need a pass to get into the clubhouse at Churchill Downs. Hell, he could watch the race from Millionaire’s Row if he wanted. And he would, too, dammit, just to show Craggedy Ann.
He shoved a hand through his dark hair and expelled a cragged…uh, he meant ragged…sigh. His flight from LA had been brutal, and he hadn’t had a decent bite to eat since yesterday. His stomach was churning on black coffee and a couple of breath mints, and he wanted nothing more in the world than a thick steak and pile of steaming potatoes, bookended by a good single-malt Scotch and a snifter of premium brandy. The only thing that stood between him and that at the moment was claiming the house that would be his for the next two weeks.
He thought again about Craggedy Ann. Could be worse, he told himself. He could have to share a house with the likes of her. Turning to the Realtor who had finally greeted him, Cole silently vowed that his last thought about Craggedy Ann would be just that—his last thought about her.
IT COULD BE WORSE, COLE TOLD HIMSELF AGAIN A half hour later as he cut the engine of his rental car and studied the house that would be his home for the next two weeks. Really. It could. The place could be, um…Well, okay, it was pretty small, a squat brick bungalow that didn’t look as if it could possibly contain the three bedrooms the Realtor had assured Cole it did. But the house could be, uh…Well, yeah, it was pretty old, too, he thought, probably dating back to just after the First World War. But at least it wasn’t…Well, actually, it was kind of ramshackle, as well, with paint chipping off the front shutters and concrete steps whose edges were chunky with wear.
Beggars can’t be choosers, he reminded himself. And God knew he’d stayed in worse places in the past.
At least Melissa had been right about the house being located in a good area. Even though Cole wasn’t much for historic neighborhoods and preferred the shininess and cleanliness of freshly built areas, the surrounding houses were all well kept and upscale, many of them large and elegant. And he’d been gratified to see, as Melissa had promised, the wealth of restaurants on Bardstown Road as he’d followed the Realtor’s directions. Not that he intended to walk to any of them. But the drive would be minimal, and there had seemed no end to the variety of selections. Of course, he’d be spending the bulk of his time at the Shelbyville Farm where Susannah was stabling Silk Purse for now, and later at Churchill Downs, but it was nice to know he could pick up something when he did venture home at the end of the day.
Home, he thought again as he pushed open the door of the big Town Car and stepped onto the driveway…immediately noting the crunch and crumble of dissolving concrete beneath his foot. He glanced down with a look of disgust and sent a silent plea skyward that the interior of the house was in better shape than the outside. Because the outside, he noted again, could definitely use some work.
He collected his carry-on and garment bag from the trunk and made his way up the front walk, taking care to sidestep a couple of places where the cobblestones buckled into a tripping hazard. There were two keys on the ring the Realtor had given him, and it went without saying that the first one Cole chose was the wrong one. Balancing his luggage precariously, he finally managed to get the door unlocked, then he kicked it open with his foot—a little harder than was necessary, thanks to his irritation. It bounced against the inside wall, then rebounded with enough force to smack him in the face as he crossed the threshold and stepped inside.
Okay, he supposed he’d asked for that, he thought as his carry-on slipped from his hand on impact and landed on his toe. And maybe that, too, he thought further, automatically lifting his foot from
