In the Brazilian's Debt(13)
‘I would expect nothing less of one of my students.’
He moved at the same time she did. They almost collided in the middle of the stall. He was close enough for her to smell the soap on his skin and the sunshine in his clothes, and the warmth of his impossibly powerful body, which was far, far, far too close for safety. Some of the buttons on his shirt were open, revealing tanned, hard-muscled skin—
‘When you’re ready?’
Chico’s voice was low and strummed her senses as she moved aside. He held her fate in the palm of his hand, yet her body was melting with want, which was insane, and absolutely the last thing she needed. She had to keep a clear head if she was going to achieve anything here, and being reduced to a mass of hormones was hardly going to help her do that.
‘Don’t let me keep you from your supper.’
There was a faint mocking note in his voice as if he knew the effect his brutal masculinity could have on even the most reluctant target.
‘Until tomorrow at six a.m.,’ she confirmed, taking care to keep her voice on the pleasant side of neutral.
She left the stall in a rush, and didn’t stop until she reached the tack room, where she stowed the medical supplies and then leaned back with her eyes closed and her body pressed up hard against the cool wall until finally she could breathe.
On her way from the courtyard to the cookhouse, she wished she could bind her breasts, or become a boy—lose these feelings, anyway. How was she supposed to stay here with so many dangerous fantasies in her head? She’d thought she’d got it all worked out and would be prepared for seeing Chico again. Not even close. Seeing him again had only confused her more. His eyes had assessed her, warmed her and heated her blood to the point where all she could think about was sex. And there was no way on earth she would ever sleep with him. Boss and groom was bad enough, tutor and student was forbidden territory, but everything that had happened in the past—all those rumours—made her thoughts taboo. And even if the past hadn’t stood between them—Chico Fernandez and Lizzie Fane? It could never happen. He was successful, famous, and rich, and she was no one. The only reason she was here was because she’d won a scholarship, and because her grandmother had insisted Lizzie must take up that scholarship, because an endorsement from Chico Fernandez was second to none.
And how did Chico feel about that?
Lizzie’s heart thundered with apprehension. If she didn’t make the grade, or he threw her out, who would save Rottingdean then?
‘Hey—wait up. You forgot something...’
She turned, and her heart went into overdrive when she saw the grubby top she’d discarded in the stall, hanging from the tip of Chico’s finger.
‘Rule one,’ he said, strolling up to her. ‘Never leave anything in a stable that could harm your horse.’
She was mortified. She never did. She never had before. She’d slung the top over the top of the partition between the stalls, meaning to take it with her.
Seeing Chico again had knocked everything out of her head. The sheer force of his personality swamped her as she took the top. Chico Fernandez was one of life’s primal forces, while she must look like the primmest thing on earth to him in her crisp white blouse, with its ironed and starched Peter Pan collar, her fresh-out-of-the-box sneakers, and her neatly pressed jeans. She had loved the outfit when she first put it on, because it was a parting gift from her grandmother. To bring her luck, Lizzie’s grandmother had said. And she still loved the clothes, but she had to admit they were more garden party than gaucho. Almost in defiance of that, her nipples were tightening and her heart was thundering out of control. She grabbed the chance to take a deep, calming breath as he paused to turn and talk to one of his fellow polo players.