Nessa tried to call up her usually positive disposition. Surely if Barbier saw how far she was willing to go to prove her brother’s innocence, he’d be forced to reconsider and give Paddy a chance to explain, wouldn’t he?
But why was it that that seemed to hold less appeal than the thought of seeing Luc Barbier again? Nessa scowled at herself in the reflection of the tinted window of the car, glad she wasn’t under that black-eyed gaze when her face got hot with humiliation.
* * *
When Nessa returned a short while later the stud was in darkness and quiet. Armand handed her over to a middle-aged man with a nice face who looked as if he’d just been woken up, and he was not all that welcoming. He introduced himself as Pascal Blanc, Barbier’s stud and racing stables manager, his right-hand man, and Paddy’s one-time immediate boss.
He said nothing at first, showing her to a small spartan room above the stables. Clearly this was where the most menial staff slept. But still, it was clean and comfortable, when Nessa had almost expected a corner of the stables.
After giving her the basics of the Barbier stud schedule and informing her that, naturally, she would be assigned to mucking out the yard and stables, and to expect a five a.m. wake-up call, he stopped at her door. ‘For what it’s worth, I would have given Paddy the benefit of the doubt based on what I thought I knew of him. We might have been able to get to the bottom of this whole nasty incident. But he ran, and now there’s nothing I can do except hope for his sake and yours that he either returns himself or returns the money. Soon.’
Nessa couldn’t say anything.
Pascal’s mouth compressed. ‘Luc... Mr Barbier...does not take kindly to those who betray him. He comes from a world where the rule of law didn’t exist and he doesn’t suffer fools, Miss O’Sullivan. If your brother is guilty, then Luc won’t be gentle with him. Or you.’
Somehow these words coming from this infinitely less intimidating man made everything even bleaker. But all Nessa could find herself doing was asking, ‘You’ve known Mr Barbier for long?’
Pascal nodded. ‘Ever since he started to work with Leo Fouret, the first time he came into contact with a horse.’
Nessa was impressed. Leo Fouret was one of the most respected trainers in racing, with hundreds of impressive race wins to his name.
‘Luc didn’t grow up in a kind world, Miss O’Sullivan. But he is fair. Unfortunately your brother never gave him that chance.’
Luc didn’t grow up in a kind world... The words reverberated in Nessa’s head for a long time after she’d been left alone in the room. She eventually fell into a fitful sleep and had dreams of riding a horse, trying to go faster and faster—not to get to the finish line but to escape from some terrifying and unnamed danger behind her.
* * *
What on earth did she have to laugh about? Luc was distinctly irritated by the faint lyrical sound emanating from his stableyard, which was usually a place of hushed industry in deference to the valuable livestock. It could only be coming from one person, the newest addition to his staff: Nessa O’Sullivan.
Her brother had stolen from him and now she laughed. It sent the very insidious thought into Luc’s head that he’d been a total fool. Of course she was in on it with her brother and now she was inside the camp. It made him think of the Trojan Horse and he didn’t find it amusing.
He cursed and threw down his pen and stood up from his desk, stalking over to the window that looked down over the stables. He couldn’t see her and that irritated him even more when he’d deliberately avoided meeting her since her arrival, not wanting to give her the idea that their extended dialogue the other night would ever be repeated. Now he was distracted. When he couldn’t afford to be distracted.
He’d only just managed to convince Gio Corretti that the slight delay in money arriving to his account was due to a banking glitch.
Luc’s reputation amongst the exclusive thoroughbred racing fraternity had been on trial since he’d exploded onto the scene with a rogue three-year-old who had raced to glory in four consecutive Group One races.
Success didn’t mean respect though. He was an anomaly; he had no lineage to speak of and he’d had the temerity to invest wisely with his winnings and make himself a fortune in the process.
Everyone believed his horses were better bred than he was, and they weren’t far wrong. The rumours about his background merely added colour to every other misconception and untruth heaped against his name.
But, as much as he loved ruffling the elite’s feathers by making no apology for who he was, he did want their respect. He wanted them to respect him for what he had achieved with nothing but an innate talent, hard work and determination.
The last thing he needed was for more rumours to get around, especially one suggesting that Luc Barbier couldn’t control his own staff. That he’d been stupid enough to let one million euros disappear from his account.
Even now he still felt the burn of recrimination for finding Paddy O’Sullivan’s open expression and infectious enthusiasm somehow quaint. He should have spotted a thief a mile away. After all, he’d grown up with them.
Luc tensed when he heard the faint sound of laughing again. Adrenalin mixed with something far more ambiguous and hotter flooded his veins. Nessa O’Sullivan was here under sufferance for her brother—and that was all. The sooner she remembered her place and what was at stake, the better.
* * *
‘Who were you talking to?’
Nessa immediately tensed when she heard the deep voice behind her. She turned around reluctantly, steeling herself to see Barbier for the first time since that night. And she blinked.
The skies were blue and the air was mild but, in that uniquely Irish way, there seemed to be a mist falling from the sky and tiny droplets clung to Barbier’s black hair and shoulders, making him look as if he were...sparkling.
His hands were placed on lean hips. Dark worn jeans clung to powerful thighs and long legs. He was wearing a dark polo shirt. The muscles of his biceps pushed against the short sleeves, and the musculature of his impressive chest was visible under the thin material.
He couldn’t look more virile or vitally masculine if he tried. Nessa’s body hummed in helpless reaction to that very earthy and basic fact.
‘Well?’
Nessa was aghast at how she’d just lost it there for a second, hypnotised by his sheer presence.
She swallowed. ‘I was just talking to one of the grooms.’
‘You do realise you’re not here to socialise, don’t you, O’Sullivan?’
Tendrils of Nessa’s hair escaped the hasty bun she’d piled on her head earlier, and whipped around her face in the breeze. Her skin prickled at her reaction to him and irritation made her voice sharp. ‘It’s hard to forget when I’ve been assigned little more than a cell to sleep in and a pre-dawn wake-up call every day.’
She was very conscious of the unsubtle stench of horse manure clinging to her. And of her worn T-shirt tucked into even more worn jeans. Ancient knee-high boots. She couldn’t be any less his type right now.
A calculating glint turned his eyes to dark pewter. ‘You assured me you were accustomed to hard work and you did offer your services in the place of your brother—if this is too much for you...’ He put out a hand to encompass the yard around them.
Nessa stiffened at the obvious jibe. He was clearly expecting her to flounce out of here in a fit of pique. And yes, the work was menial but it was nothing she hadn’t done since she’d started walking and could hold a broom. That, and riding horses. Not that he’d believe her.
She squared her shoulders and stared him down. ‘If you don’t mind,