But once the fight was over, he tended to help bandage his enemies and buy a round of drinks to show there were no hard feelings. Hotheaded he certainly was, but Maggie had heard a great deal about his kindness and generosity. He was apparently the kind of man children and animals adored, other men sincerely liked, and women could love with disastrous ease.
Disastrous because in roughly ten years of cutting a bachelor swath through all points west of the Mississippi—and, according to rumor, a great deal of Europe the summer after college—Rafe’s roguish fancy had been, to say the least, fickle. Maggie had heard no breath of scandal, but it seemed Rafe had successfully avoided numerous matrimonial snares and several almost compromising situations. She had no doubt he’d been charming; quite likely he’d been genuinely distressed by tearful recriminations. The fact remained, though, that the man was a potential heartache for any woman dumb enough to take him seriously.
Granted, she thought, rumor abounded where the Delaney brothers were concerned, and not all of it was kind. But she had turned her listening ears to the bluntly honest grapevine composed of people in the horse business—breeders, riders, trainers, et cetera—and was reasonably sure she had a clear perspective on Rafe Delaney. In the surprisingly tight-knit community of horsemen and women, he was respected and trusted, his judgment held as expert, and his word concerning horses considered as good as gold.
Maggie knew of three different breeders who sincerely liked Rafe, encouraged and enjoyed his infrequent visits to their farms in pursuit of more stock, and trusted him implicitly. But each man made certain his daughter was out of town whenever Rafe visited. It was not, each insisted, that he didn’t trust the man. It was just that Rafe Delaney could charm the devil out of both his horns and tail—and daughters were sometimes silly….
She glanced aside to see his strong, perhaps even arrogant, profile. But humor curved his mouth and shimmered in the dark eyes. There was, she thought, a raw vitality in his movements, in his very presence. He was like a Thoroughbred: bold and confident and reckless in his strength.
The realization awoke something unfamiliar within Maggie, and she shied away from probing the feeling. But she couldn’t escape the sensation of restless, liquid heat stirring inside her.
Maggie reminded herself she was an employee of Shamrock Ranch and Rafe Delaney. Period. Rafe wanted to expand his operations to include gaited horses and possibly dressage, and he would hardly shell out a small fortune to his new trainer if that was a momentary interest on his part. He’d hired her to train horses, not provide a bit of light romance.
Disgusted with herself, Maggie wondered why she was even thinking about her new employer’s personal life. It was none of her business, after all. She’d struggled for years to gain respect in her profession, and now finally she had been hired as trainer for one of the top three ranches in the country. It was a feather to brighten any horsewoman’s cap, and she was certain to be too busy to think of romance at all.
Especially with the boss.
As they reached the top of the lane, Rafe saw Maggie’s Jeep and horse trailer parked near the house, and he suddenly remembered something. “You were bringing your two horses, weren’t you?” He looked down at the woman walking beside him, strongly aware of delicate features beneath the brim of her cap.
For all his easy charm Rafe tended to hold himself a bit aloof when meeting someone for the first time. He was surprised to realize how attracted he was to this woman. It wasn’t her beauty, he thought, but the strength and wariness in her eyes that intrigued him. That, and the graceful way she moved. As he stared at her, he almost forgot his own question. There was something about her direct violet eyes that had a curious effect on his breathing.
She nodded. “One of your men showed me where I could stable my horses before I went looking for you.” As they passed the trailer she added, “They’re young. Calypso, my mare, is a Tennessee Walking Horse and Dust Devil, my stallion, is an American Saddlebred. Both of them are five-gaited.”
“Champions?” he asked, a gleam in his eyes.
Reading the gleam accurately, Maggie smiled. “Champions. And excellent bloodlines. If your experiment works out and you decide to start breeding—”
“You’ll work out something with me and let yours stand at stud?” he finished hopefully.
Very conscious of the charm in Rafe’s grin, Maggie reminded herself yet again that this man was her boss. “I imagine we could work out something if you wanted to,” she said mildly.
“Great!” Rafe paused at the neat walkway leading to a sprawling Spanish stucco ranch house, a peculiar hesitancy in his expression as he gazed toward the front door. Then he sighed and led the way up the walk. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. We can talk about what I’m hoping to accomplish with this new venture over dinner, all right?”
“Fine.”
He hesitated yet again on the tiled porch, looking down at her a bit uncertainly. “There’s…just one thing I should mention.”
“What?” she asked warily.
“Well, it’s not an intent to ravish, so you can stop looking like that,” he said, his eyes filled with laughter.
Maggie could feel herself flushing wildly, which was a hell of a note, because she wasn’t a blushing kind of woman. “What,” she said evenly, “did you want to mention?”
His smile may have been trying to hide but, if so, it was failing. “As I’m sure you recall, part of your salary is the use of a house in which to live. All my cottages are full except for one nobody’s lived in for years. It’ll be a nice place when the army of workmen I threw into it gets finished, but that may be a week or more. We’re so far away from anything that it’d be ridiculous for you to stay anywhere but here at the ranch. So,” he finished plaintively, “if I provide a lock for your bedroom door, would you mind staying here in the main house until yours is ready? I have a housekeeper for propriety’s sake.”
“Very funny,” she managed, feeling herself flush again, but fighting a giggle at his solemn face and laughing eyes.
“You’ve been listening to gossip,” he accused, feigning pain. “I only ravish maidens when the moon’s full, so if you hear me baying, bolt your door.” He sighed. “Condemned and hanged without even a trial.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You did no such thing.”
“Take it as read,” she murmured.
Rafe appeared to consider the matter. “Just this once, then, but next time I’ll demand a full-scale apology. Simply because gossips insist I’ve a tail secreted in one pant leg—”
“All right!”
Deadpan, Rafe swung open one of the big, heavy double doors. “Come into my parlor…”
Mentally berating herself both for listening to gossip and for letting this smooth-talking Irishman charm her, Maggie swept regally past him into the house—and stopped dead.
From the foyer she could see several rooms: a den, what looked like a library, and a formal dining room. A hallway led off to the right to what was most likely the bedroom wing of the large house. But it wasn’t the layout of rooms that held Maggie’s startled attention, it was the incredible clutter. There was nothing dirty about the house, but the profusion of things that should have been put away was amazing.
A tall stack of newspapers graced the foyer table, the bottom layers yellowed by passing time. Riding whips and spurs, along with at least three separate pairs of Western boots, were visible in the den, and magazines had overflowed the coffee table to fall haphazardly onto the floor. Books were scattered here and there, as were pillows rightly belonging on the couch. It was a mess.
Instinct told Maggie that Rafe was not that sloppy and, besides, he’d said he had help. “I thought you said you have a housekeeper.”
He sighed. “For my sins, I do.”
She looked up to see that peculiar hesitancy in his eyes again. “An old girlfriend getting even?” she asked dryly, then winced inwardly. Why couldn’t she get off that part
icular subject? But Rafe was laughing.
“If it were only that! Unfortunately my problem is a bit more complicated. Obviously I have the world’s worst housekeeper.”
“Ever thought of getting another?” Maggie suggested politely.
“Dammit, I can’t.” Raking one hand through his thick hair, he looked down at her dolefully. “Kathleen’s been with the family longer than I have. After our parents were killed, she started keeping house for my oldest brother. Burke put up with her until he couldn’t take it anymore, then passed her on to York. When York couldn’t take her anymore, he passed her on to me. But I didn’t have anybody to pass her on to, so now I’m stuck with her.”
Maggie choked on a laugh.
“I try to keep things neat myself,” he went on, “but with so much work to do outside…Kathleen can’t cook very well, although she hasn’t poisoned me yet. I average losing at least one shirt a week in the laundry. Heaven knows how, exactly, and she certainly doesn’t. And the hell of it is”—he stared around him, bewildered—“she cleans. I mean, I’ve seen her do it. She dusts and polishes and mops and vacuums, but somehow it never looks as if she does.”
“I don’t suppose,” Maggie said unsteadily, “she’d consider retiring?”
“Fifteen years until she’s sixty-five,” Rafe said despairingly, “but she’ll never retire. She’s looking forward to ‘doing for your sons, Mr. Rafe.’ If only I had a third cousin to send her to…”
Maggie leaned against the archway leading off to the right and laughed herself silly. By the time she straightened and wiped her streaming eyes, Rafe had gone outside to the Jeep and returned with her two bags.
“This can’t be all your worldly possessions,” he said, hefting the bags.
“No,” she agreed, “but I was thinking of the thirty-day trial. Most of my things are in storage with friends. When the house is ready, I’ll send for them.” It occurred to Maggie as she followed him to the bedroom wing that Rafe Delaney had quite effortlessly charmed her into his house. She decided to think about that later.
He led her past half a dozen bedrooms, then deposited her bags just inside the door of the room at the end of the hall. It was a light, airy bedroom–sitting room with sliding glass doors opening out onto the veranda at the back of the house. A large bathroom was to the left, and double closets to the right. Decorated in restful shades of blue and green, it was surprisingly neat, and Maggie couldn’t help but look at Rafe questioningly.
Leaning against the doorjamb, he grinned disarmingly. “Yesterday was Kath’s day off, and I hired my foreman’s sixteen-year-old daughter to get this room ready for you.”
Maggie didn’t ask why he hadn’t made a similar arrangement for the remainder of the house. She knew why. It would have hurt Kathleen’s feelings, and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
She smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower and change before dinner.”
Rafe nodded agreeably, straightening away from the jamb. “I’m going to do the same. Then,” he added dryly, “I’ll see what Kath’s taken out of the freezer for our so-called meal. Just come out whenever you’re ready.” He closed the door behind him as he left.
Maggie stared at the closed door for a long moment, lost in thought. Was she being unfair to Rafe by accepting his reputation as truth? He had surprised and disconcerted her with his instant perception and casual references to that reputation. The question was, Had he played truth for laughs, or had he played false gossip for laughs?
Was Rafe Delaney a reckless heartbreaker, or simply an attractive man whose wealth and charm had made him notorious?
As she unpacked, Maggie reminded herself yet again that his romantic reputation had nothing to do with her. How weak, how uncomfortably weak that was beginning to seem to her. Dammit, she thought, the man was attractive, and she was having a difficult time keeping him in the neat mental pigeonhole labeled BOSS.
Methodically, she finished unpacking, then took a quick shower. After dressing in fresh clothing she braided her long hair into a single neat plait and tried to define her reaction to Rafe.
The first impression had been of a strong-willed, temperamental man, his face a bit too unconventional for good looks. The devil brows above black eyes had been too sardonic for handsomeness, his unsmiling mouth too grim. But then he had smiled. The deep voice had been amused, the eyes willingly acknowledging he’d been at fault, and Maggie had felt her heart flutter. He had looked at her with respect and admiration, charm, making his unconventional features exude warmth and sincerity.
Maggie gazed unseeingly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. What would Rafe’s personal magnetism do to her plans? She had decided a year ago to quit the gypsy life-style of following the show circuit; she was more than ready for a home. She’d spent the better part of the past ten years on the move. Eventually she wanted to own a ranch or stud farm, and had begun planning carefully for that years ago.
The invitation to work for Shamrock fit perfectly into her plans, and so did Rafe’s obvious delight at the prospect of having her stallion stand at stud for his mares. Shamrock didn’t stint on stud fees, so she could look forward to making good money for her stallion’s services. Maggie had found out that Rafe had recently purchased a very young American Saddlebred stallion and three young mares, as well as a Tennessee Walking stallion and two mares, one of them already in foal to a champion stud.
Shamrock did nothing on a small scale, and she’d heard only recently that Rafe had expressed interest in a score of young mares out of three top Kentucky farms.
Leaving the bathroom, Maggie paced her bedroom restlessly. Professionally she couldn’t have been in a better position. She’d been given the job as trainer for gaited horses at one of the most prestigious horsebreeding operations in the country. If she did well—and she intended to—it could only enhance her reputation. And she would have the distinction of building Shamrock’s reputation for champion gaited horses. It would be her training on display in show rings, which would in turn bring in mares from other establishments to breed with Shamrock stallions.
No, professionally she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Personally, however…
“Personally you’re an idiot,” she told herself aloud, fiercely. “Your work is enough. It’s always been enough.”
Maggie was hardly a starry-eyed girl dreaming of Prince Charming. Virtually on her own since she was sixteen and determined on a demanding, competitive profession, she had learned early to fight for what she wanted. She had friends, both male and female, ranging from the wealthy owners of the horses she showed to the stablehands, who were little more than kids. There had been interested men at various times, but she’d had her gaze fixed on a distant pinnacle of professional achievement and had kept relationships on a friendly basis.
But now Maggie had a curiously hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had reacted to Rafe Delaney more strongly than to any man she’d ever met, far too aware of his charming personality and drawn powerfully to him in spite of distrust. That hardly boded well for her professional goals. Whether or not she discounted his reputation, her own attraction to her boss posed a potential problem.
Absently she halted her pacing and glanced down at her neat jeans and knit top, then swore softly. What did it matter how she looked? The man was her boss and nothing more. Nothing. Feeling grim, Maggie headed for the door.
Chapter 2
The instant Maggie walked into the den, Rafe rose from a deep armchair and asked, “Now what’ve I done?”
Since the men she knew weren’t in the habit of standing when she entered a room, Maggie was unwillingly impressed by his manners. She would find out eventually that all three of the Delaney men were “gentlemen” as far as their manners were concerned.
His question finally sank in, and she asked puzzledly, “What do you mean?”
“You look very fierce,” he explained. “I’m just assuming I’ve done something to upse
t you.”
“Of course not,” she said, feeling herself flush—again, dammit!
“I’m glad,” he said solemnly, clearly amused. “Here, sit down. Dinner, such as it is, will be ready in about an hour. Would you like a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she managed to say, still a little unstrung. She sat down in an armchair across from his.
“Good Irish whiskey, of course,” he said cheerfully, heading for the bar in one corner. He fixed their drinks and carried hers to her before sinking down in his chair. He, too, had showered, his black hair still damp and a bit mussed. He was in jeans, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back to show strong, tanned forearms.
Maggie felt her fingers itching with the desire to tangle in his thick, silky-looking hair, and frowned at her glass irritably. Enough was enough, for Pete’s sake! Why couldn’t she keep Rafe in his pigeonhole, and out of thoughts that could only be termed “personal”?
“You checked out Shamrock before you came, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered honestly, meeting his quizzical gaze.
He nodded. “And I, of course, checked you out, Maggie.”
She’d expected nothing less.
Musingly, he said, “You’ve been showing professionally since you were sixteen—and winning. Gaited, hunt, dressage. Even a few summers in the rodeo circuit. You’ve been able to pick and choose your mounts for the past six years.
“You were born in Richmond, Virginia,” he went on impersonally. “Your mother died when you were a young girl, and your father took you along with him while he worked at various stables and ranches. He’s a name trainer of Grand Prix horses and is currently training in Europe. When you were sixteen, there was—according to various opinions I heard—a falling out between you and your father. I gather it had to do with a certain…competitiveness between the two of you. True?”