"Clayton will show you the place," Paul repeated, studying her composed features. Drily, he added, "1 gather that you two know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?"
Whitney dragged her gaze toward the tall figure lounging in the doorway, and gritted her teeth to hide her loathing.
"I'm sure your father won't object if Clayton rides one of your horses," Paul said, already starting to leave.
Outside on the fourth step, he turned. "Take good care of my girl," he called to Clayton, and then he was gone, leaving Whitney slightly pacified and thoroughly mystified at being first cavalierly handed over into Clayton's custody, and then called "my girl."
Her bemused thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice she despised saying a quiet, "Good morning." Resentfully, Whitney snapped her attention to Clayton, who was still standing in the doorway. Biting back three nasty responses to his simple greeting, she passed a disdainful glance over his immaculate white shirt, which was open at the collar, his gray riding breeches, and his gleaming black boots. "Can you ride?" she asked icily.
"Good morning," he repeated with calm emphasis, still smiling at her.
Whitney clamped her mouth shut and brushed past him into the brilliant sunlight, leaving him to follow her or stay in the house, she didn't care which.
As she marched down the path leading around the back of the house toward the stable, he remained a pace behind her, but halfway there, he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Smiling down at her, he said, "Do you treat every gentleman who steals a kiss from you with such animosity-or only me?"
Whitney looked at him with withering scorn. "Mr. West-land, in the first place, you are no 'gentleman.' In the second, I don't like you. Now, please get out of my way."
He remained there, studying her stormy face in thoughtful silence. "Kindly move out of the way and let me pass," Whitney repeated.
"If you will keep still long enough to allow me to do it, I would like to apologize for last night," he said calmly. "I can't remember the last time I apologized for anything, so I may be a bit awkward about it."
What an arrogant, conceited beast he was to think he could take liberties with her and then placate her with a few lukewarm words of apology. By telling her to "keep still" he completely banished Whitney's momentary inclination to hear him out anyway, and get it over with. "I won't accept any apology from you, awkward or otherwise. Now get out of my way!"
His face darkened with annoyance, and Whitney could almost feel his struggle to hold his temper in check. She glanced toward the stable to see if anyone would be within hearing if she needed help. Thomas was there, trying to hold a furious Dangerous Crossing who was lurching and trying to rear.
And revenge took the shape of a fiery black stallion.
The smile Whitney turned upon the angry man before her was dazzling and genuine. "My manners have not been entirely beyond reproach either," Whitney said, trying desperately to look ruefully apologetic when she felt like laughing. "If you wish to apologize, I shall be most willing to accept it." Instantly, he looked suspicious, so Whitney prodded, "Or have you changed your mind?"
"I haven't changed my mind," he said quietly. Putting his hand beneath her chin, he tipped it up and said, "I am truly sorry if I frightened you last night. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I would like for us to be friends."
Whitney resisted the urge to slap his hand away and appeared to consider his offer. "If we're going to be friends, we should have something in common, should we not? I particularly love to ride. Are you an adequate horseman?"
"Adequate," he confirmed, subjecting her to a cool, appraising look.
Eager to be free of his scrutiny, Whitney pulled away and started down the path toward the stable. "I'll see to a horse for you," she called over her shoulder. Clayton Westland was going to have to ride that stallion, or else admit he was afraid to try it. Either way, his monstrous ego was going to take a beating, and Whitney felt he deserved every bit of what was in store for him.
By the time she reached Thomas, she was breathless from running. She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, saw that Clayton was less than five paces behind her, and dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. "Have Dangerous Crossing saddled immediately, Thomas. Mr. Westland insists on riding him."
"What?" Thomas gasped, staring at Westland. "Are you certain?"
"Positive!" Whitney said, laughing silently as Thomas turned and walked into the stable. Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Whitney clasped her hands behind her back and strolled over to the white corral fence to stand beside Clayton, "I've arranged for you to ride our very finest horse," she told him.
Clayton studied her bright smile, but his attention was diverted by the sound of a scuffle from within the stable. Two violent oaths from a groom were followed by a yowl of pain, and Dangerous Crossing erupted into the enclosure, flinging one groom against the fence, then kicking savagely at the other.
"Isn't he wonderful?" Whitney rhapsodized, casting a mirthful sideways glance at her intended victim. At that moment, the horse changed direction, charging for the rail where they stood, then swung around. Whitney jumped back just as his rear feet punched out, exploding against the fence like the crack of a cannon. With a tremor in her voice, she explained, "He's … ah … very spirited."
"So I see," Clayton agreed, shifting his impassive gaze from the nervous, sweating stallion to Whitney.
"If you're afraid to ride the stallion, simply say so," Whitney generously suggested. "I'm sure we can find you a more suitable mount. . . like Sugar Plum." Fighting back her laughter, she nodded sweetly toward the old brood mare who was nibbling contentedly at grass, her belly hanging down, and her backbone sticking up. Clayton followed her gaze, and a look of cold revulsion crossed his features. Instantly, Whitney decided it would be much more satisfying if Clayton Westland had to jog up to the picnickers on the ancient mare. "Thomas!" Whitney called, "Mr. Westland has decided to ride Sugar Plum instead, so-"
"The stallion will do," Clayton snapped at Thomas, then he swung his icy gaze on Whitney.
Defensively, she said, "Why don't you just tell me where the picnic is, and I'll go on ahead."
"I have no intention of doing that, nor do I intend to gratify your wish to see me lying on the ground under the stallion's hooves." Jerking his head toward Khan, who was being led out of the stable, he said curtly, "Get on your horse and keep him at the rail out of my way. I'm going to have enough on my hands without having to worry about you."
His arrogant assumption that he could ride the stallion wiped out Whitney's momentary trace of guilt. She mounted Khan and guided him to the rail at the far end of the enclosure. Transferring Khan's reins to her teeth, she reached
up behind her neck, gathered her hair into a fist at her nape and then tugged her scarf loose, using it to tie her hair back.
Grooms and stablekeeps and three gardeners hurried to the enclosure, positioning themselves along the fence for the best view. Thomas and two grooms held the stallion's head while Clayton ran his hand along the horse's sleek neck, speaking quietly to him. The remembered feel of that same hand fondling her breast made Whitney flush with anger.
Clayton put his foot in the stirrup, then eased up and over, settling slowly, carefully into the saddle, avoiding any sudden movement that might add to the stallion's alarm. In spite of his caution, Dangerous Crossing snorted and jerked wildly at the men holding him. The last man who had used that particular saddle was shorter than Clayton and, for a moment, it looked to Whitney as if Crossing were going to rid himself of his unwelcome burden while the stirrup leathers were being lengthened.