Knowing the Score Read online

  Beck raised his in return. “Cheers.” The Bella Florida Polo Club members-only bar was cool and quiet, a welcome change from the polo field’s sticky heat. He leaned against the leather booth and sipped his beer. Diego was an inveterate gossip and Beck relaxed as he listened to him chatter away about their friends, as well as their adversaries. The bar was a masculine retreat with vintage photos of famous ponies, champion teams and even a few antique saddles mounted to the dark green walls.

  “Eh, Beck, Sonja von Kasterman has been hinting that you two are getting serious.”

  Beck choked on his beer. “Serious about what? I’ve been helping her shop for polo ponies, not engagement rings.”

  Diego shrugged. “For some women, that is enough. I thought you would want to know. She was telling this to her girlfriends while they were here for brunch last Sunday.” Diego was a big fan of the famed American all-you-can-eat buffet. Despite his smaller stature, he packed away the food.

  “Hell, yeah, I want to know.” He pushed his glass away, no longer thirsty. He’d thought he and Sonja were friends, evaluating ponies and attending a couple of cocktail parties together when she’d requested his company. “I’ve only kissed her on the cheek a couple times. How can she build a serious relationship out of that?”

  “Ah, perhaps she thinks you are a gentleman who restrains his animal lusts for the sake of his lady.”

  Beck was startled into a loud laugh and Diego joined him. “Since when have you known me to restrain my animal lusts?”

  Diego signaled for another round. “Never. That is why we get along so well.”

  “Well, I’ll be so restrained around Sonja that the only place she’ll see me is from the spectator stands at the next match.” That really burned Beck. She was taking advantage of his friendship to spread rumors about them, and he didn’t care for it at all.

  Diego shrugged. “That is the way of women. They see us men as a trophy to capture, and once they win us, we become their stableboy to be ordered about.”

  “Not all women, Diego. You’ve met my Aunt Mimi.”

  “Ah, if only she were forty years younger. I would not mind being captured by her.”

  Beck grinned. His Aunt Mimi had been one of the first women to play polo with men. Local legend held that she’d cut her hair and disguised her feminine appearance to play professional polo in South America for a couple of seasons before her secret was discovered. Mimi was forthright, without any ulterior motives. If only he could find a woman like her.

  He glanced at Diego, who was a favorite among the club ladies. “When do you think you might settle down?”

  “Settle down?” Diego’s expression was puzzled, almost shocked. If Beck didn’t know better, he would have thought that the English phrase was unknown to him. But for Diego, it was a philosophical question, not a linguistic one.

  “Yes, as in settle down with one woman.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Diego was honestly surprised. “I do not make good husband material. I am not filthy rich like you, I move from country to country throughout the year, and I always put my ponies before any woman.”

  “True.” Diego had just described most of the polo players in the circuit.

  “Now, do not go crazy on me, Beck.” Diego was starting to look alarmed. “You have barely escaped one woman who wanted to put a saddle on you—do not go looking for another.”

  “All right, all right.” Beck drained the last drops of his beer. He didn’t know why he’d even introduced the topic. It wasn’t as if he were lonely or anything. “We’re at the start of a busy polo season, so it’s not like we have time to moon over women.”

  “Absolutely.” Diego stood, and they left the bar, passing several bikini-clad women on their way to the pool. They noticed Diego’s appreciative stare and giggled. “But maybe we should not be so hasty, eh? There is more to life than polo.” He blew a kiss to the sultriest beauty.

  Beck tried to remember the last time he’d been on a real date, one where he’d burned for the woman, and he couldn’t. Maybe that was his problem—he’d forgotten about having a life outside his sport. If he did find a woman he burned for, he’d go after her the way he played polo—with all his power, brains and skill.

  “WHAT ON EARTH am I doing at a polo match?” Ashley Craig muttered. She’d never been to a match before and wished someone had told her not to wear high heels to an outdoor sport played on lush grass.

  Tisha overheard her. “Trying to find Enric Bruguera so you can keep your career.” Tisha was staring avidly at the polo players. “But since he’s nowhere to be found, we may as well enjoy ourselves.”

  Ashley plucked at her dress and forced herself to look around. The men strode about like masters of all they surveyed. They wore form-fitting polo shirts—so that’s where the term came from—and snug white pants untouched by mud or grass, yet. Thick leather pads covered their knees.

  “Chica, if their polo pants were any tighter, I’d think I’d mysteriously developed X-ray vision.” Tisha winked at her and Ashley gave her a small smile. She was intensely out of place among all the sleek horses and even sleeker women.

  “As long as all you do is look. Paolo would not be happy if you ran off with a dashing polo player.”

  Tisha sighed theatrically. “I suppose it would be awkward to explain to the kids. Although they would like a pony…” She burst into laughter. Ashley had to laugh, too. Tisha’s in-laws owned more horses than were at the entire polo grounds.

  “As their godmother, I have to advise against your plan.” Ashley settled her red straw hat more firmly on her head after a breeze kicked up. Rats, her floaty red-poppies-on-white chiffon dress was kicking up, as well. She turned slightly so the wind pressed it against her legs instead of blowing it around her thighs.

  “Fine, I’ll have to live vicariously through you. Maybe you can find you somebody to run off with.”

  Ashley snorted. “Not likely. You know I’m just here because of that fire.”

  “Talk about the dangers of second-hand smoke.” Tisha covered her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry—that was thoughtless.”

  Ashley waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. At least all my stock is safely tucked away in the bank.” Tisha was right, though. The smell was almost unbearable, and the disaster-recovery-cleaning company had told her they would even need to strip the walls down to the studs and replace all the drywall.

  Determined to change the subject, Tisha patted her necklace and matching bracelet. “Did you notice I wore the waterlily set you made for me a couple of years ago?”

  “I did notice that. The gold looks great with your pale green dress.” Ashley smiled down at her, though not as far down as usual because her shoes had sunk into the soft turf. “Why didn’t you tell me to wear my ballet flats?” She bent and fussed with the grass sticking to the red patent open-toed slingbacks she’d borrowed from Tisha.

  Tisha elbowed her in the ribs, nearly knocking Ashley over. “Stop messing around and look at that guy by the tent—he’s checking you out.”

  Startled, Ashley looked up from her feet and her gaze zeroed in on the tall blond man staring at her. She straightened slowly and returned his stare. He was a good half a foot taller than her own five foot nine and was dressed in a scarlet polo shirt. His pants were whitewashed onto his muscular limbs and were tucked into knee-high burnished leather riding boots. His face was lean and sculpted, with firm lips and a cleft in his chin. But his eyes were most compelling, a whiskey-brown that glittered at her. She wondered if they darkened or brightened when he was aroused. And she did want to find out.

  “I think he’s coming this way!” Tisha hissed, breaking the spell the sexy stranger had woven. “Oh, my God, this is so exciting!”

  “Shut up, Tisha,” Ashley muttered out of the side of her mouth. Mr. Tall, Blond and Handsome was heading their way, and he interested Ashley more than any other man had in a long time.

  The loudspeaker came on announcing the next match. To
her crushing disappointment, the man stopped and gazed ruefully at the field. He lifted his gloved hand in a brief salute with his riding crop and joined his scarlet-clad teammates, disappearing into the crowd.

  Tisha groaned. “Too bad, Ash. I thought he was going to eat you up with his eyes.”

  “Oh, well,” Ashley replied, with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “He seemed pretty arrogant, anyway.”

  Her friend huffed out a breath. “That, chica, is called machismo. He’s got something strong and powerful between his thighs, and he knows how to use it.”

  “Letitia!” Ashley burst into laughter.

  “What? His polo pony, of course.” Tisha went on tiptoe, which didn’t help much. “Is his team playing next?”

  Ashley craned her neck. “I think so.”

  Tisha caught her elbow. “Let’s go watch. Men racing around on horses, their tight white booties gleaming in the sun…”

  “Paolo won’t know what hit him tonight.”

  “He knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or a gift polo pony.” Tisha shoved her into the crowd. “You’re tall. Find some room in the bleachers.”

  After a few minutes of maneuvering, Ashley found spots for them next to a couple of older ladies. “It is his team.” A quartet of red-shirted men on horseback trotted onto the wide grassy field. Their polo ponies had matching red leg wraps, clipped manes and braided tails. Their opponents, in blue, moved into position.

  Tisha squinted. “Which one is your guy?”

  “The one with the white helmet,” Ashley promptly replied.

  “You sure?”

  “I am, yes.” Somehow she knew, even from that distance.

  The loudspeaker clicked on. “Playing in red, we have Team Pan-Florida, and in blue, Banque Française du Québec.”

  The whistle blew, and the riders charged after the ball. Ashley’s player, as she thought of him, was in the thick of the action. The ponies’ thundering hooves churned the well-groomed grass as they nearly crashed into each other. Her heart was in her throat as he stopped his pony on a dime in order to chase the ball and leaned at perilous angles for shots. Some of his shots were blocked, but one finally sailed between the pair of goal posts. A cheer rose from the crowd and her player raised his polo mallet in acknowledgment before focusing on defense.

  Play continued for a few more minutes, and Ashley’s favorite captured the ball again. The lead player from the blue team reached across his pony to try to spoil his shot. The more knowledgeable crowd around them muttered in disapproval.

  “What was that?” Ashley asked the older lady standing next to her, whose flowery pink hat sat incongruously on her close-cropped gray hair.

  The woman’s weatherworn face crinkled into a smile. “Cross-hook, dear. Reaching over your opponent’s mount is a foul. See, the umpires are calling a penalty.” The older woman’s friend glared at the field, obviously too intent on the game for chit-chat. She didn’t bother with a hat and wore a red shirtdress. Maybe she was a fan of the Pan-Florida team.

  “Do you know the player who was fouled?” Ashley asked urgently. “The one in the white helmet.”

  Her neighbor laughed indulgently, glancing at her companion, who sighed. “Of course. Everyone in polo knows Beckett Emery. He’s one of the best players in the world—a ten handicap, no less.”

  “Beckett Emery,” Ashley murmured to herself, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine. The name fitted him, masculine and very aristocratic.

  “His family grows the best American polo players in the world. You’re in for a rare treat to watch a man like that on the field.”

  Tisha had overheard. “He is a rare treat, isn’t he, Ashley?”

  Her pithy retort to Tisha was waylaid by shouts and curses as a blue-wrapped pony crashed into Beck’s. She clutched the older lady’s elbow. “Look at that! That was another foul, wasn’t it?”

  “Ooh, poor horse.” Tisha shook her head, but all Ashley thought of was how hard the horse’s rider had been jolted. He’d barely moved in the saddle, though, towering over the other players.

  Their friendly neighbor stared at the field and shook her head. “No. No foul called.” She turned to grin at Ashley. “Polo’s not for the faint-hearted—playing it or watching it.”

  “Beck’s tough. He can handle it, Bootsie.” It was the first comment from the other woman.

  A whistle blew and the players trotted to the sidelines. “Ah, the end of the chukker,” the chatty woman, Bootsie, told them. “Time to change out the ponies. Two more chukkers before it’s half time and we can stomp the divots.” She peered at Ashley’s feet and laughed. “Watch out for the manure, though. You don’t want to try cleaning that off patent leather.”

  “Stupid shoes,” Ashley grumbled. Play started again, and now that Ashley knew a bit more about the game, she was able to follow it better. Even she could tell Beckett Emery stood head and shoulders above the rest of the players—and not just because of his height. His teammates clearly deferred to him, and the other team was out to get him.

  Ashley flinched with every hit he took, every daring swoop he made swinging his mallet at the ball. Before she knew it, it was half time, and they, along with the other spectators, traipsed onto the playing field to stomp the divots, which consisted of avoiding piles of manure and pressing into the ground chunks of turf the horses had kicked up. Ashley gingerly tapped one grassy clump into the ground while Tisha threw herself into it. Being a mother of twin toddlers, she was used to avoiding poop. “Come on, Ashley. Put some muscle into it!”

  But Ashley stopped mid-stomp since she had spotted Beckett Emery standing on the sidelines nearby. He had removed his helmet and his fair hair was darkened with sweat, his teeth white in his dirt-streaked face as he laughed at his teammate’s joke. His damp shirt outlined the lean muscles of his chest, and her heart almost stopped as he pulled his shirt free from his waistband, wiping his face. His stomach was tight enough to bounce a quarter off, and an alluring damp brown line of hair disappeared into the white trousers.

  “Ashley? Ashley?” Tisha had come up beside her, her jaw dropping. “Ay, mami, look at him.” Before Ashley could stop her, Tisha shouted across the field, “My friend thinks you’re playing a great game.”

  Beck dropped his shirt, startled. “Me?” he pointed at himself. Tisha nodded and pointed right back. Ashley’s face flamed and she gave him a weak wave.

  “Your friend is a polo connoisseur?”

  “Of course. Everyone says you’re the best.”

  “They say that, do they?” His eyes crinkled with amusement.

  “Of course. Ashley would love to discuss polo with you after the match. I have to meet my husband so I can’t show her around.” This was the first Ashley had heard of that plan. She thought Paolo was in Miami overnight on business.

  “He’s a lucky man.” He was flirting with Tisha but his attention never left Ashley, like a laser beam.

  She found her voice. “If you have time…” Good grief, she sounded all wimpy and breathy.

  Beck’s whiskey eyes looked into Ashley’s. “I would love to meet you after the match. Meet me at the pavilion.” The whistle blew, and his teammate slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Good luck!” Tisha shouted. She hustled Ashley off the field, which was a good thing, since Ashley’s brains and limbs had failed her after that conversation.

  They returned to the stands before Ashley could put two coherent sentences together aside from, “Beck! Oh, my God! Beck! Tisha! What did you do!”

  “You can thank me later,” she replied smugly. “After ‘later,’ you can tell me all the details.”

  “Tisha, I can’t meet him after the match. I have things to do, finish my proposal for Enric Bruguera, go feed Teddy…”

  “Por favor, is that the best excuse you can think of? You have to feed your hamster?” Tisha sniffed in disdain. “And I happen to know you finished that design proposal three days ago. Now you put a smile on that pretty face
and go out with Beckett Emery.”

  Their pink-hatted friend leaned around and nodded at them. “Not to butt in, girls, but men like him don’t come around every week. This may be your only chance to go out with a genuine polo playboy. When I was your age, mine was named Luis. Oh, the lovely thighs on a horseman…” She stared off into space and sighed happily.

  “Mine was Giovanni,” her taciturn companion admitted.

  “Mimi!” Bootsie was shocked. “You never mentioned any Giovanni before. And how long have we known each other? I thought his name was Juan-Carlos.”

  “Juan-Carlos was a couple of years later—the parliament in his country was threatening to take his throne away if he continued spending the treasury on ponies…”

  Ashley and Tisha glanced sidelong at each other and giggled. Bootsie joined in, and soon they were laughing so hard, they almost missed the start of the second half. But Beck immediately captured Ashley’s attention, and her heart pounded for the rest of the match.

  3

  “THIS IS a bathroom?” Ashley couldn’t believe her eyes. With cream velvet sofas, gold-framed mirrors and black-and-white checkerboard marble on the counter and floors, the room looked more like a magazine spread of a mansion’s formal parlor. The actual functioning plumbing was nowhere to be seen. If she strained her ears, she heard a flush in the distance.

  “Ladies’ lounge, chica. Everybody here pretends they have no need to use a bathroom.” Tisha jerked her head in the direction of a small hallway that must have led to the sinks and toilets.

  Tisha parked her in a spindly Louis Quinze reproduction (she hoped) chair in front of a mirror.

  “Wow, this is the best lighting ever.” Unlike most bathroom mirrors, this one didn’t point out every single flaw in her skin. Considering her late nights working, that was saying something.

  “A patented combo of warm and cool lighting. What’s the point in getting a facelift if the mirror wrecks it? Now let’s get you touched up.” Tisha whipped out some makeup from her clutch purse as she examined Ashley’s face with a critical eye. Before her marriage, Tisha had been a cosmetics saleswoman at an upscale department store. Ashley sat in silence as Tisha darkened her lash-line, brightened her lids and generally gave her a sixty-second makeover.