“The settlement on the stable would have been at least a quarter million dollars. It would have gone a long way to paying off your debt. But there’s been no record of a settlement in your books. Why?”
“Maybe because there’s been no settlement.”
“You haven’t received a payout?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
She almost felt like laughing. It must be nerves. “Not even a penny.” She saw his incredulity. “We were insured, but it’s all tied up in litigation.”
He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. She could see exactly what he was thinking. The rumors were everywhere —in Lexington, in the neighboring farms, at the track. It was whispered that the fire had been purposely set. The Collingsworths had risked cashing in on their bankrupt farm. They were trying to bail out of the business before they were chased out.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
But Count Galván didn’t care about facts. He’d already formed his own opinion. She saw his horror, felt his disgust. No animal lover could imagine setting one’s stables on fire to enjoy a fat insurance policy, but that was what everyone thought they’d done.
That was what Count Galván thought they’d done.
She left the window and crossed the floor to stand within a foot of him. “The rumors are false.”
“The fire wasn’t deliberately set?”
She’d never forget that night, the heat, the dense, suffocating smoke, the acrid smell. She’d never seen anything like it in her life. The flames had been ungodly. The stable went up in minutes. No time for the fire department to come, no time for anything.
When it looked as though they’d lose the mares still trapped in the stalls, grizzled old Teddy McCaw, their thirty-year-veteran trainer, dashed into the inferno and saved the terrified horses. But he wasn’t able to save himself.
Daisy’s eyes burned, her throat thickening with a grief she couldn’t share. “Who on earth would do such a thing? Me? My father? My sister? What kind of people do you think we are?”
“People in need of easy money.”
Pure instinct, instinct and fury, drove her fist. She swung at him and connected with his jaw. She didn’t even feel the pain in her hand, fury and pain blinding her. “Go to hell!”
He caught her wrist in his hand, imprisoning it, his fingers hard around the slender bones. “That’s not going to get you anywhere.”
She tried to ignore the burst of heat surging through her middle, his touch both painful and electric. “I don’t want to get anywhere with you, Count Galván. I resent your questions, and I resent the implications. I don’t know what kind of people you do business with, but we’re not like them. The Collingsworths are a family business, run by family. Now let me go.”
“Don’t take another swing.”
“I won’t. I don’t need any broken bones.”
He let her go, and she cradled her hand against her chest. Her fingers hurt. The knuckles, bones and joints throbbed. It felt like she’d slammed her hand into a brick wall.
No wonder she hadn’t punched anyone since hitting Tommy Wilcox all those years ago. It hurt throwing punches.
But if she was going to hit anyone, she was glad she hit Dante. He deserved it. She felt absolutely no remorse.
Daisy swore beneath her breath and rubbed her sore hand and wrist.
“Hurt?” he managed to drawl the word without sounding the least bit sympathetic.
Her eyes snapped fire and fury. “No.”
“Did you damage anything? It sounded like eggshells breaking.”
“Those were just the cobwebs in your brain.”
His eyes glinted. He seemed amused. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“Get out.”
“I don’t think so.” Without asking permission, he took her hand in his and ran his thumb over her throbbing knuckles. Her fingers had begun to swell. But worse than the pain in her knuckles were the crazy sensations in her belly.
Every place he touched tingled. It was warfare on her senses. Her hand felt sensitive, and yet it was her body responding, her body quivering and melting and aching for things she’d never even cared about before.
When he looked at her, the mocking smile was still there in his toffee-colored eyes. “You’re right. Nothing’s broken. But you do need ice. It’s already starting to swell.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Tell me where you keep the ice.”
“I’ll do it when you’re gone.”
He muttered something inelegant. “Daisy, I’m not leaving until you’ve iced your hand. You’re the only one running this farm. You have to be able to work tomorrow. So sit down, be quiet and stop fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting you. You’re fighting with me. You keep forgetting this is my farm.”
He gazed at her, his expression half amused, half exasperated. “Are you always so stubborn?”
“Stubborn’s not a bad thing, Count Galván. It just depends on the situation.” She hated that he made her feel willful, like a child. “There’s ice in the kitchen, in the little freezer. But I don’t need your help.”
He brought her a makeshift ice pack, ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel. “Yes, you do. You just don’t know it yet.”
Dante placed the ice bag on her hand. “You should never lose your temper like that. It’s the fastest way to let the enemy take the upper hand.”
“Your words, not mine.” She hated that when he touched her she burned. She hated that his eyes made her feel things, want things. She hated that he had to be the reasonable one now, after he’d provoked her into losing her temper.
It was crazy, the way she felt, nerves shot full of adrenaline. It was the same rush she got when riding an unbroken horse—danger, fear, anticipation. But this was not the kind of reaction she wanted to have. Not to a man, and especially not to Dante Galván.
Daisy pressed the ice bag more firmly to her knuckles, trying to ignore the throbbing in her hand and the bittersweet ache in her chest. “I think we’re finished.”
He regarded her steadily, speculation in his hard gaze. And then he smiled. “Finished? No, Daisy, not by a long shot. We’ve got quite a bit of unfinished business between us still. But I do know a way to settle the debt. You have something I want.”
“I do?”
“Kentucky Kiss.”
The blood drained from her face. Her horse, her mare, her fifteenth birthday present? “Kentucky Kiss?”
CHAPTER THREE
DAISY struggled to her feet, the ice bag slipping crookedly off her arm. “Kentucky Kiss isn’t for sale.”
“She’s a valuable dam.”
“No.” Her father had given her Kentucky Kiss when she turned fifteen, and for nearly two weeks after her birthday, Daisy had slept in the stable, snuggled in a sleeping bag inside the yearling’s stall.
“Surely you’ve had offers.” Dante persisted.
Daisy dropped the ice bag on the desk. “That’s not the point. She’s not for sale. Kentucky Kiss is the heart of Collingsworth Farm.” And was her heart, too.
“Daisy,