A timeless tale of past mistakes and escalating desires from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson.
Tiffany Rhodes’s horse farm was in trouble long before she met Zane Sheridan, a breeder with a shady reputation. Yet she can’t help but feel relieved when Zane offers to buy her out. Though Tiffany doesn’t trust him, she’s drawn to him like a magnet. What does this mysterious man want from her…and can she contain her desire long enough to find out?
“Lisa Jackson takes my breath away.” – New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael MIller
A contemporary romance.
Previously published.
Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author
LISA
JACKSON
“Best-selling Jackson cranks up the suspense to almost unbearable heights in her latest tautly written thriller.”
—Booklist on Malice
“When it comes to providing gritty and sexy stories, Ms. Jackson certainly knows how to deliver.”
—RT Book Reviews on Unspoken
“Provocative prose, an irresistible plot and finely crafted characters make up Jackson’s latest contemporary sizzler.”
—Publishers Weekly on Wishes
“Lisa Jackson takes my breath away.”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller
Books By Lisa Jackson
The McCaffertys: Slade
The McCaffertys: Matt
The McCaffertys: Thorne
The McCaffertys: Randi
Lone Stallion’s Lady
Proof of Innocence
Twist of Fate
The Millionaire and the Cowgirl
Sail Away
Tears of Pride
Secrets and Lies
Million Dollar Baby
Obsession
A Family Kind of Gal
A Family Kind of Guy
A Family Kind of Wedding
Devil’s Gambit
DEVIL’S GAMBIT
Lisa Jackson
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
TIFFANY HEARD THE back door creak open and then shut with a bone-rattling thud. It’s over, she thought and fought against the tears of despair that threatened her eyes.
Hoping to appear as calm as was possible under the circumstances, she set her pen on the letter she had been writing and placed her elbows on the desk. Cold dread slowly crept up her spine.
Mac’s brisk, familiar footsteps slowed a bit as he approached the den, and involuntarily Tiffany’s spine stiffened as she braced herself for the news. Mac paused in the doorway. Tonight he appeared older than his sixty-seven years. His plaid shirt was rumpled and the lines near his sharp eyes were deeper than usual.
Tiffany knew what he was going to say before Mac had a chance to deliver his somber message.
“He didn’t make it, did he?” she asked as her slate-blue eyes held those of the weathered ex-jockey.
There was a terse shake of Mac’s head. His lips tightened over his teeth and he removed his worn hat. “He was a good-lookin’ colt, that one.”
“They all were,” Tiffany muttered, seemingly to herself. “Every last one of them.” The suppressed rage of three sleepless nights began to pound in her veins, and for a moment she lost the tight rein on her self-control. “Damn!” Her fist crashed against the desk before the weighty sadness hit and her shoulders slumped in defeat. A numb feeling took hold of her and she wondered if what was happening was real. Once again her eyes pierced those of the trainer and he read the disbelief in her gaze.
“Charlatan is dead,” he said quietly, as if to settle the doubts in her mind. “It weren’t nobody’s fault. The vet, well, he did all he could.”
“I know.”
He saw the disappointment that kept her full lips drawn into a strained line. She can’t take much more of this, he thought to himself. This might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Everything that was happening to her was a shame—a damned shame.
“And don’t you go blaming yourself,” he admonished as if reading her thoughts. His crowlike features pinched into a scowl before he dropped his wiry frame into one of the winged side chairs positioned near the desk. Thoughtfully he scratched the rough stubble of his beard. He’d been awake for nearly three days, same as she, and he was dog-tired. At sixty-seven it wasn’t getting any easier.
Tiffany tried to manage a smile and failed. What she felt was more than defeat. The pain of witnessing the last struggling breaths of two other foals had drained her. And now Charlatan, the strongest of the lot, was dead.
“It’s just not fair,” she whispered.
“Aye, that it’s not.”
She let out a ragged sigh and leaned back in the uncomfortable desk chair. Her back ached miserably and all thoughts of her letter to Dustin were forgotten. “That makes three,” she remarked, the skin of her flawless forehead wrinkling into an uncomfortable frown.
“And two more mares should be dropping foals within the next couple of weeks.”
Tiffany’s elegant jaw tightened. “Let’s just hope they’re healthy.”
Mac pushed his hands through his thinning red hair. His small eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked out the window at the group of large white buildings comprising Rhodes Breeding Farm. Starkly illuminated by the bluish sheen from security lights, the buildings took on a sinister appearance in the stormy night.
“We’ve sure had a streak of bad luck, that we have.”
“It almost seems as if someone is out to get us,” Tiffany observed and Mac’s sharp gaze returned to the face of his employer.
“That it does.”
“But who and why...and how?” Nothing was making any sense. Tiffany stretched her tired arms before dropping her head forward and releasing the tight clasp holding her hair away from her face. Her long fingers massaged her scalp as she shook the soft brown tresses free of their bond and tried to release the tension in the back of her neck.
“That one I can’t answer,” Mac replied, watching as she moved her head and the honey-colored strands fell to her shoulders. Tiffany Rhodes was a beautiful woman who had faced more than her share of tragedy. Signs of stress had begun to age her fair complexion, and though Tiffany was still the most regally beautiful and proud woman he knew, Mac McDougal wondered just how much more she could take.
“That’s just the trouble—no one can explain what’s happening.”
“You haven’t got any enemies that I don’t know about?” It was more of a statement than a question.
Tiffany’s frown was pensive. A headache was beginning to nag at her. She shrugged her shoulders. “No one that would want to ruin me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Look, we can’t blame anyone for what’s happened here. Like you said, we’ve just had a string of bad luck.”
“Starting with the loss of Devil’s Gambit four years ago.”
Tiffany’s eyes clouded in pain. “At least we got the insurance money for him,” she whispered, as if it really didn’t matter. “I don’t think any of the foals will be covered, not once the insurance company gets wind of the problems we’re having.”
“The insurance money you got for Devil’s Gambit wasn’t half of what he was worth,” Mac grumbled, not for the first time. Why had Ellery Rhodes been so careless with the most valuable stallion on the farm? The entire incident had never set well with Mac. He shifted
uncomfortably on the chair.
“Maybe not, but I’m afraid it’s all water under the bridge.” She pushed the letter to Dustin aside and managed a weak smile. “It really doesn’t matter anyway. We lost the horse and he’ll never be replaced.” She shuddered as she remembered the night that had taken the life of her husband and his most treasured Thoroughbred. Images of the truck and horse trailer, twisted and charred beyond recognition, filled her mind and caused her to wrap her arms protectively over her abdomen. Sometimes the nightmare never seemed to go away.
Mac saw the sadness shadow her eyes. He could have kicked himself for bringing up the past and reminding her of the god-awful accident that had left her a widow. The last thing Tiffany needed was to be constantly reminded of her troubles. And now there was the problem with the foals!
The wiry ex-jockey stood and held his hat in his hands. He’d delivered his message and somehow Tiffany had managed to take the news in stride. But then she always did. There was a stoic beauty and pride in Ellery Rhodes’s widow that Mac admired. No matter how deep the pain, Tiffany Rhodes always managed to pull herself together. There was proof enough of that in her marriage. Not many women could have stayed married to a bastard the likes of Ellery Rhodes.
Mac started for the door of the den and twisted the brim of his limp fedora in his gnarled hands. He didn’t feel comfortable in the house—at least not since Ellery Rhodes’s death—and he wanted to get back to the foaling shed. There was still unpleasant work to be done.
“I’ll come with you,” Tiffany offered, rising from the desk and pursing her lips together in determination.
“No reason—”
“I want to.”
“He’s dead, just like the others. Nothing you can do.”
Except cry a few wasted tears, Tiffany thought to herself as she pulled her jacket off the wooden hook near the French doors that opened to a flagstone patio.
Bracing herself against the cold wind and rain blowing inland from the coast, Tiffany rammed her fists into the pockets of her jacket and silently followed Mac down the well-worn path toward the foaling shed. She knew that he disapproved of her insistence on being involved with all of the work at the farm. After all, Ellery had preferred to leave the work to the professionals. But Tiffany wanted to learn the business from the ground up, and despite Mac’s obvious thoughts that a woman’s place was in the home or, at the very least, in the office doing book work, Tiffany made herself a part of everything on the small breeding farm.
The door to the shed creaked on rusty hinges as Tiffany entered the brightly lit building. Pungent familiar odors of clean straw, warm horses, antiseptic and oiled leather greeted her. She wiped the rain off her face as her eyes adjusted to the light.
Mac followed her inside, muttering something about this being no place for a woman. Tiffany ignored Mac’s obvious attempt to protect her from the tragic evidence of Charlatan’s death and walked with determination toward the short man near the opposite end of the building. Her boots echoed hollowly on the concrete floor.
Vance Geddes, the veterinarian, was still in the stall, but Felicity, the mare who just two days earlier had given birth to Charlatan, had already been taken away.
Vance’s expression was grim and perplexed. Weary lines creased his white skin and bracketed his mouth with worry. He forced a weak smile when Tiffany approached him and he stepped away from the small, limp form lying in the straw.
“Nothing I could do,” Vance apologized, regret and frustration sharpening his normally bland expression. “I thought with this one we had a chance.”
“Why?” She glanced sadly at the dead colt and a lump formed in her throat. Everything seemed so...pointless.
“He seemed so strong at birth. Stood up and nursed right away, not like the others.”
Tiffany knelt on the straw and touched the soft neck of the still-warm foal. He was a beautiful, perfectly formed colt—a rich chestnut with one white stocking and a small white star on his forehead. At birth his dark eyes had been keenly intelligent and inquisitive with that special spark that distinguished Moon Shadow’s progeny. Tiffany had prayed that he would live and not fall victim to the same baffling disease that had killed the other recently born foals sired by Moon Shadow.
“You’ll perform an autopsy?” she asked, her throat tight from the strain of unshed tears.
“Of course.”
After patting the soft neck one last time, Tiffany straightened. She dusted her hands on her jeans, cast one final searching look at the tragic form and walked out of the stall. “What about Felicity?”
“She’s back in the broodmare barn. And not very happy about it. We had a helluva time getting her away from the foal. She kicked at John, but he managed to get her out of here.”
“It’s not easy,” Tiffany whispered, understanding the anxious mare’s pain at the unexplained loss of her foal. Tiffany looked around the well-kept foaling shed. White heat lamps, imported straw, closed-circuit television, all the best equipment money could buy and still she couldn’t prevent the deaths of these last three foals.
Why, she wondered to herself. And why only the offspring of Moon Shadow? He had stood at stud for nearly eight years and had always produced healthy, if slightly temperamental, progeny. Not one foal had died. Until now. Why?
With no answers to her question, and tears beginning to blur her vision, Tiffany reluctantly left the two men to attend to the dead colt.
The rain had decreased to a slight drizzle, but the wind had picked up and the branches of the sequoia trees danced wildly, at times slamming into the nearby buildings. The weather wasn’t unusual for early March in Northern California, but there was something somber and ominous about the black clouds rolling over the hills surrounding the small breeding farm.
“Don’t let it get to you,” Tiffany muttered to herself.
She shivered as she stepped into the broodmare barn and walked without hesitation to Felicity’s stall.
The smell of fresh hay and warm horses greeted her and offered some relief from the cold night. Several mares poked their dark heads out of the stalls to inspect the visitor. Tiffany gently patted each muzzle as she passed, but her eyes were trained on the last stall in the whitewashed barn.
Felicity was still agitated and appeared to be looking for the lost foal. The chestnut mare paced around the small enclosure and snorted restlessly. When Tiffany approached, Felicity’s ears flattened to her head and her dark eyes gleamed maliciously.
“I know, girl,” Tiffany whispered, attempting to comfort the anxious mare. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.”
Felicity stamped angrily and ignored the piece of apple Tiffany offered.
“There will be other foals,” Tiffany said, wondering if she were trying to convince the horse or herself. Rhodes Breeding Farm couldn’t stand to take many more losses. Tears of frustration and anxiety slid down her cheeks and she didn’t bother to brush them aside.
A soft nicker from a nearby stall reminded Tiffany that she was disturbing the other horses. Summoning up her faltering courage, Tiffany stared at Felicity for a moment before slapping the top rail of the stall and walking back to the house.
Somehow she would find the solution to the mystery of the dying foals.
* * *
THE FIRST INQUIRY came by telephone two days later. Word had gotten out about the foals, and a reporter for a local newspaper in Santa Rosa was checking the story.
Tiffany took the call herself and assured the man that though she had lost two newborn colts and one filly, she and the veterinarian were positive that whatever had killed the animals was not contagious.
When the reporter, Rod Crawford, asked if he could come to the farm for an interview, Tiffany was wary, but decided the best course of action was to confront the problem head-on.
“When would it be convenient for you to drive out to the farm?” she asked graciously, her soft voice disguising her anxiety.
“What about next Wednesday?
I’ll have a photographer with me, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” she lied, as if she had done it all her life. “Around ten?”
“I’ll be there,” Rod Crawford agreed.
Tiffany replaced the receiver and said a silent prayer that the two mares who were still carrying Moon Shadow’s unborn foals would successfully deliver healthy horses into the world, hopefully before next Wednesday. A sinking feeling in her heart told her not to get her hopes up.
Somehow, she had to focus Rod Crawford’s attention away from the tragedy in the foaling shed and onto the one bright spot in Rhodes Breeding Farm’s future: Journey’s End. He was a big bay colt, whose career as a two-year-old had been less than formidable. But now, as a three-year-old, he had won his first two starts and promised to be the biggest star Rhodes Farm had put on the racetrack since Devil’s Gambit.
Tiffany only hoped that she could convince the reporter that the story at Rhodes Breeding Farm was not the three dead foals, but the racing future of Journey’s End.
The reputation of the breeding farm was on the line. If the Santa Rosa papers knew about the unexplained deaths of the foals, it wouldn’t be long before reporters from San Francisco and Sacramento would call. And then, all hell was sure to break loose.
* * *
THE DOORBELL CHIMED at nine-thirty on Wednesday morning and Tiffany smiled grimly to herself. Though the reporter for the Santa Rosa Clarion was a good half an hour early, Tiffany was ready for him. In the last four years she had learned to anticipate just about anything and make the most of it, and she wouldn’t allow a little time discrepancy to rattle her. She couldn’t afford the bad press.
Neither of the broodmares pregnant with Moon Shadow’s offspring had gone into labor and Tiffany didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her nerves were stretched as tightly as a piano string and only with effort did her poise remain intact. Cosmetics, for the most part, had covered the shadows below her eyes, which were the result of the past week of sleepless nights.
She hurried down the curved, marble staircase and crossed the tiled foyer to the door. After nervously smoothing her wool skirt, she opened the door and managed a brave smile, which she directed at the gentleman standing on the porch.