LITMIR.BIZ

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Natalie had to admit the subject wasn’t introduced by him, and he seemed reluctant to discuss them, commenting instead with open wryness on his failure ever to ride a Grand National winner.

      ‘It’s only one race,’ Grantham leaned back in his chair. ‘And that last Gold Cup of yours must have made up for everything.’

      Eliot Lang laughed. He had good teeth, Natalie noticed, white and very even. ‘It was Storm Trooper’s race. All I had to do was sit tight.’

      ‘Don’t denigrate yourself, lad. He nearly went at that last fence, thanks to that damned loose horse. You held him up, and took him on.’ Grantham shook his head. ‘A great win —a truly great win.’

      Natalie stole a covert look at Eliot Lang under her lashes, trying to visualise him sweat-streaked and mud-splashed. In the dark, elegant suit, its waistcoat accentuating his slim waist, the gleam of a silk tie setting off his immaculate white shirt, he looked more like a successful City executive.

      And he was undeniably attractive, she thought resentfully, if you liked that sort of thing, his good looks only slightly marred by the slanting scar that slashed across one cheekbone.

      It was a tough face, the cleft in his chin, and the firm line of his mouth emphasising the ruthlessness and determination which had always been a hallmark of his riding. ‘Fearless’, she recalled unwillingly, had been one of the adjectives most often used by the sports writers.

      With a faint shock, she realised he was watching her in his turn, a faintly cynical smile playing round his lips. Natalie transferred her gaze hastily back to her plate, trying to control her confusion.

      He probably thought she was another potential conquest, she thought scornfully. Well, he would soon discover his mistake.

      Beattie was speaking. ‘After all the success and the excitement, Mr Lang, aren’t you going to find training rather—mundane?’

      He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you please call me Eliot? And the simple answer to your question is—no, I’m sure I won’t. I’m looking forward immensely to joining you here at Wintersgarth.’

      ‘But you’re still quite young to have retired from National Hunt racing,’ persisted Beattie. ‘Grantham says you still had years of winning in front of you.’

      He shrugged ironically, ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘So how could you bear to turn your back on it, when you were still at the peak?’

      He was silent for a moment, the straight dark brows drawn together. ‘I suppose it was a question of motivation,’ he said at last. ‘I had a couple of bad falls last season.’ His hand went up and touched the scar. ‘They rather brought home to me that I was over thirty now, and that letting horses stamp you into the mud was not the way I wanted to spend part of the next decade. I had to start thinking about a new career, and as I want to stay with horses, training seemed the ideal answer.’ He smiled. ‘Once I’d made up my mind, it really wasn’t that hard to walk away.’

      Natalie said, ‘And will you find it just as easy to walk away from us when you’ve had enough?’

      His brows lifted. ‘This isn’t a whim, Miss Slater. It’s strictly business. I’m investing in Wintersgarth.’

      ‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful,’ she said. ‘Not that we need your money—we’ve always made out financially. But it’s natural I should be concerned about your—er—motivation. After all, you don’t exactly have a reputation for fidelity.’

      ‘Natalie!’ It was a bark from her father, his face thunderous. He turned to Eliot. ‘I must apologise for my daughter. Sometimes her tongue runs away with her.’

      ‘On the contrary,’ said Eliot, ‘If she has misgivings, it’s best that they’re aired now.’ He leaned across the table, his hazel eyes boring into Natalie’s. ‘My partnership with your father isn’t just a flash in the pan, Miss Slater. I’m coming to him to learn from his genius, and maybe contribute some skills of my own, and it’s for the rest of my life.’ He added drily, ‘I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit the image you seem to have of me.’

      She was furiously aware she’d been cut down to size by an expert.

      She said, ‘That’s—reassuring. But you live in the South. Your life has been based there, near the bright lights. Aren’t you going to find Yorkshire quiet and dull?’

      ‘Even the brightest lights can pall.’ He looked amused. ‘And I was born here, you know, although admittedly it was more by accident than design. My parents were staying with friends during the hunting season, and had totally misjudged the possible time of my arrival.’

      Everyone was laughing with him, enjoying the slackening of tension, although the glance Grantham bestowed on Natalie was minatory, promising a tongue-lashing later.

      She wished now she’d kept quiet. There was obviously nothing to be gained from confrontation.

      ‘What will you do about your lovely cottage?’ Beattie asked. ‘Keep it for weekends?’

      ‘No.’ Eliot shook his head. ‘I’ve already told one of the local agents to put it on his books.’ He paused. ‘But you’re not going to be lumbered with a lodger, Mrs Slater. I’m quite self-sufficient, I promise you, and your husband mentioned something about a self-contained flat over the garages that might be suitable, at least on a temporary basis.’

      Natalie said sharply, ‘The flat? Dad, you didn’t!’

      Grantham’s florid face adopted a moderately apologetic expression. ‘Maybe I should have talked it over with you, lass, but I’ve had other things on my mind.’ He turned to Eliot. ‘My daughter’s name is Drummond, actually. She was widowed three years ago, but the flat in question was built to accommodate Nat and her husband originally.’

      Eliot’s eyes surveyed Natalie’s bare hands briefly, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Naturally if it’s going to cause Mrs Drummond any distress, I’ll willingly look for an alternative.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ Grantham said robustly. ‘The flat’s there, and it’s empty. Nat never goes near the place. Anyway, have a look at it, and see what you think.’

      Natalie didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I won’t have coffee, Beattie. I have to telephone the feed merchant.’ She sketched some kind of smile round the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me …?’

      The office was a big, cluttered comfortable room, and it seemed like a sanctuary to Natalie as she sank into the chair behind her desk. She had letters to reply to, messages on the answering machine to listen to, as well as the call to the feed merchant, but for a moment she could deal with none of it. The thought of Eliot Lang taking over the home where her marriage to Tony had started out with such high hopes sickened her. Although she might have felt differently if she’d liked him, she admitted, biting her lip. Or would she?

      When she had moved out, to resume life in her old room in her father’s house after the funeral, she’d turned the key in the lock as if she was closing off a part of her life. It had never occurred to her that it might have to be re-opened. They had never needed the flat. The lads had their own block, and Wes had a cottage in the village.

      She supposed she should have seen it coming, but she hadn’t …

      She shivered, then drew the phone towards her and began to dial the feed merchant’s number. In deference to Beattie’s wishes, she would carry on here until Grantham’s health was assured, but then she would be off and running, she told herself grimly. And she would start looking round to see what jobs were available without delay. Grantham would find he was not the only one who could hold his cards close to his chest.

      Her father came into the office half an hour later. She had half expected Andrew and Eliot Lang to be with him, but he was alone. He walked past her into the inner office, which was far smaller, and more luxuriously appointed, and which he kept for entertaining

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