In the Brazilian's Debt(14)

                ‘Black eyes, black colours for his team, and a black heart has never stood in the way for Chico Fernandez when it comes to unparalleled Gaucho Polo success for this world-beater...’ This quote from one of the articles she had read about him seemed so relevant now. If Chico’s opponents on the polo field were subject to this same force field, no wonder they found him formidable. Most sports commentators said there had never been a player like him.

                And what did most women say?

                She didn’t even want to think about his other women. She guessed Chico accepted what was freely offered and then moved on, and could only thank her lucky stars that fate had decreed she would never be one of his discards.

                What a great thought—such a sensible thought—that unfortunately had no influence on her body, and her body still wanted him. She blamed it on the primal imperative to mate with the leader of the pack.

                ‘Forgive me,’ Chico said brusquely, spinning round. ‘Before you go to supper, I have one or two more questions for you, Lizzie.’

                She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Oh?’

                ‘As a representative of the grooms, could you tell me, are your quarters comfortable?’

                Why did he care? Was he trying to trip her up? Was he looking for an excuse to get rid of her? ‘Quite comfortable, thank you.’

                He stabbed a glance at the utilitarian block where the students were housed. What could she possibly have to complain about? There was running water—possibly glacier melt judging by the temperature—and she shared her room with five other girls. No problem there. Only three of them snored. And thanks to the freezing water they were all quick in the shower.

                ‘Your bed’s comfortable?’

                She frowned. ‘Yes.’

                She would have gladly slept on a bed of nails for the chance to work at Fazenda Fernandez with the best trainer in the world on the best polo ponies in the world, and she really didn’t want to discuss her sleeping arrangements with Chico Fernandez. Was he determined to unsettle her?

                ‘Thank you, Lizzie. I had thought of making some improvements to the grooms’ accommodation, but I can now see that that isn’t necessary.’

                Not necessary? Inwardly, she groaned. Imagine how popular this was going to make her.

                And then Chico stopped dead and she almost crashed into him. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her. ‘Enjoy your supper, Lizzie.’

                ‘I will.’

                ‘Perhaps I’ll see you later—’

                Not if she could help it. She was going to stick to the original plan—keep her head down, work hard, do well, and then go home with her diploma and her pride intact, so she could set up a viable business. What was so attractive about a snarl and a swagger, anyway?

                * * *

                He couldn’t rest. The past wasn’t just back, it had punched him in the face, and he wasn’t in the mood for the raucous good humour of the cookhouse. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, especially Lizzie Fane, and so he paced the vast, polished oak floor on the ground floor of his home as he tried to make sense of his feelings. He paused by the window where he could see across the yard to the cookhouse. What was she doing? Who was she with? He wasn’t fooled by her circumspect manner. Lizzie had turned her back on him once. When he was of no further use to her, would she do so again?