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They were in the shade, but it was hot enough that Saint wanted to unbutton the cream-colored vest he wore with matching trousers over a pale blue shirt and a navy bowtie.
The clubhouse lounge, which his mother bought out every year as a giant flex, was air-conditioned and had an open bar along with the buffet she provided to her carefully curated guest list. It wasn’t enough to have an owner’s box, where a server brought them drinks and snacks on demand and they had a front-row seat to the finish line along with the entertainment between races. He and Fliss also had it to themselves. Norma was currently down at the paddock. Saint’s father wouldn’t turn up until the big race tomorrow.
“That will be nice,” Fliss said with a blank smile, feigning enthusiasm.
He’d been introducing her to people nonstop, first at dinner, then a cocktail party appearance, brunch yesterday, an afternoon garden party and another soiree last night. This was all very rote to him, the faces all slotted into their pigeonholes of usefulness.
Fliss was holding up well. Today she wore yet another perfectly on-point outfit that was sufficiently demure to meet the expected dress code but was also flattering enough to stop traffic. Her pink-and-green floral lace dress hugged her figure and fell to her knees in front, draping longer in the back. The sleeves flared at her elbow, and the neckline plunged enough to make the most of her spectacular chest, which Saint had adorned with a vintage gold necklace he’d chosen for its horseshoe charm. Rather than a hat, she wore her hair in a tight bun wrapped in a pink band. A pair of cats-eye sunglasses and bold fuchsia lipstick completed the look.
Despite the sophistication she projected, she was tense, struggling to smile at each new face. Sometimes he caught her stifling a yawn.
“Dad had an affair with Mrs. Belton-Webster,” he said, leaning closer to confide.
Fliss swung her head around and tipped her sunglasses down to look over them, eyes glimmering with shock.
That woke her up. Saint shrugged.
“They don’t know I know. I figured out that Mom knew about it when they didn’t show up to their daughter’s wedding. It’s all water under the bridge now. I think one of the reasons Mom stayed with Dad was because she was more afraid of losing that friendship than him. Or her place in all of this.” He used his chin to gesture to the racetrack. “You’ll keep all of that to yourself.”
“Of course.” She sipped the straw of her mint-julep mocktail. “Why did you tell me if you thought I would repeat it?”
“You seemed bored.” And he’d never had a confidante to tell. He’d had to let things like that fester inside himself, trying to work out what to do, how to react and when to let it go because his parents had.
“I’m not bored. I’ve just given up on trying to keep it all straight. I mean, I can’t get to know every personandevery horse. You seem to have friends everywhere, though. You came here often growing up? I don’t mean the track. The beach house.”
“We came here in the summer if we were living in the city, but we lived in Texas and California at different times. I felt like a military brat, making friends, then leaving for a few years, adjusting to a new situation, then coming back and trying to fit in with the old crowd.” Eventually, he’d grown tired of trying. “I do know a lot of people. I don’t consider any of them friends.”
Her liquid-honey gaze searched his, making his chest itch.
The bell rang.
“Oh!” Fliss swung her attention to the track. “They’re off.”
At least she was having fun with the betting. She’d been appalled when he had told her he would stake her ten grand. He had threatened to pick her horses himself if she didn’t spend it, so she had sat down with the program and her tarot cards, making her selections before they’d even arrived to glimpse the horses.
She’d won the first race, but her bet had been so small, she’d only come away with eight hundred dollars, which she’d tried to give to him.
“Double down,” he had insisted, so he knew she had at least that much riding on this race. He’d dropped five grand, and things were not looking good.
“Which one is yours?” he asked.
Fliss’s hand came out to grasp his arm. Otherwise, she wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. She was transfixed by the sprinting horses.
“The one in front?” he guessed, starting to grin as her expression began to glow.
“Shh.” Her grip crushed his sleeve.
It was like watching her as she approached climax. Her breath was uneven. Her breasts trembled. Anticipation radiated off her, tightening his own nerves.
It was titillating enough to set hooks into Saint’s libido, but he was also amused in a completely non-carnal way. She was mesmerizing, looking so sexy and cutely rapt at the same time. He was twitching into arousal and wanting this win for her in a way he’d never wanted anything, just so he could see her reaction.
If the race had gone one second longer, he would have been fully hard, but there was a collective roar. Fliss screamed in triumph and leapt into his arms, crashing her curves against him, filling his senses with floral and citrus notes that he was learning were innately her. She was warm and soft beneath the thin layer of crepe, light and lovely. Her wild excitement provoked a rusty scrape of laughter in his throat, one that stalled when he noticed his father had turned up after all. He was watching them.
Saint’s first, most primal instinct was to draw her protectively closer, but another more harshly learned response recognized that he had revealed a weakness.
He set her back a step. “How much did you win?”
“Enough to pay you back your stake.” She was jubilant, smile wide and eyes bright as she straightened the sunglasses that had been knocked askew.
