Summer Kisses (111 page)

“Otto was probably trying to save money,” Kurt said quickly.

Nick only shrugged and turned away.

Kurt watched until he faded into the far recesses of the barn, until he could no longer see Nick’s outline, could only hear the solitary tapping of his hammer and the humming of a melancholy tune.

The announcer’s voice crackled over the barn speakers. Two races left. Kurt walked to the front of Otto’s now vacant stall. According to the police report, Connor had stood in this exact same spot. Talking to Julie. Looking for Otto.

But why?

Otto’s frustrated attack confirmed the mare was the link. So far though, all Kurt had discovered was a bad shoeing job.

Shaking his head, he carried the shoes into his tack room and powered up his laptop. The keyboard clicked as he finalized his report to Archer and stressed the need for a border alert. The thought of Otto’s heated reception the next time he entered Canada filled Kurt with perverse pleasure.

Laughter and shouts rocked the barn, so he shoved the laptop back into his briefcase and stepped into the aisle.

“Hey! Join the celebration.” A grinning Sandra yanked a can of beer from a dented blue cooler and lobbed it in the air.

“Did someone win a race?” He snagged the beer and snapped open the tab. Beer foamed over the top, and he covered it with his mouth, savoring the taste.

“You don’t have to win to make money,” Sandra’said. “I’m up three hundred and seventy-two dollars from betting, and I ponied every race. So it’s a big payday. Help yourself, Martin.” She shoved the cooler toward Martin with the side of her boot.

“Whoa,” Kurt said. “How old are you, Martin?”

Martin’s hand stalled over the cooler. “Almost fifteen,” he mumbled, averting his eyes.

Sandra’s mouth straightened in displeasure. “Martin can have a drink. There’s no damn cop around. And it’s my beer.”

“And he’s my employee,” Kurt said.

Martin’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his hand. Kurt felt his disappointment; nothing tasted better than a cold beer after a day of dust, dirt and horses, but Jesus, he wasn’t even fifteen. And the kid already had social problems.

Kurt glanced at Sandra who cocked her head and glared, as though they’d just entered into an undeclared power contest.

“You don’t look the type to care about a little alcohol,” Sandra said, her eyes narrowing. “Quite the opposite. And there’s no reason to worry about Martin. His mother is a close friend of mine. They live walking distance from here.”

Everyone seemed to be a close friend of Sandra’s, and Kurt didn’t like the speculative gleam in her eyes. Didn’t want her natural nosiness turned on him. Sometimes he felt like he had ‘cop’ tattooed on his forehead.

“One beer, Martin,” he said. “But make sure you feed on time in the morning. And I’ll drive you home.”

“We’ll walk him home,” Sandra said, clearly unwilling to relinquish her hard-earned status as boss mare. “It’s on the way to the pub. Grab a cold one, Martin.”

Martin needed no second invite. He pulled a beer from the cooler and popped the lid. His throat gurgled as he drained half the can. Kurt had an ugly image of young drivers and car crashes and resolved to make sure the kid got home safely, regardless of what Sandra said.

And maybe he could meet Martin’s mom. He didn’t intend to get involved with the people here—never did when he worked a case, not anymore—but Martin was like a sponge and if he wanted a career at the track, there were a few programs that could be helpful.

Awareness crackled through him seconds before he heard Julie’s voice, and his pulse quickened. He turned toward her but could only gape.

She swept down the aisle, looking vastly different from the rider he saw every morning, hidden behind a helmet and vest. Tonight, jeans hugged her hips—his hands could probably span her waist—and a white shirt scooped over her breasts. Lovely, full breasts. He took a hard gulp.

Her hair swirled loose, freed from the usual ponytail, and it gleamed under the lights. No obvious makeup other than a hint of lipstick, but her skin was flawless and those killer cheekbones were free of dirt. Nothing fancy, just jeans and a shirt, but her feminine curves made him drool. Christ, he had it bad.

He fumbled a greeting, somewhat mollified to see Martin’s eyes had also bugged. The kid even spilled some of his precious beer.

“Julie!” Sandra called, raising her can. “Thanks to you, Okie will get a new pair of wraps. Your dad and I made a chunk of money. Sadly, Kurt wasn’t a believer and missed out.” She spoke with the smug tone of one who’d successfully backed a long shot.

Julie glanced at Kurt, her gaze steady.

“I had faith in you,” he said, “just not enough in your horses. You did a great job tonight.”

He realized belatedly his voice sounded gruff, but no one else seemed to notice. Martin had straightened his beer and now pretended to be studying the small print on the can. Kurt wasn’t fooled. He saw the kid peeking at Julie. Didn’t blame him a bit.

Sandra pressed a beer into Julie’s hand. “I saved the last can for you. What a night. A second and third. Gary was so surprised when you passed him, he nearly fell off. And did you see Otto’s face when Kurt claimed his horse?”

Sandra did a series of imitations, grimacing and pumping her fists, making everyone laugh, but Kurt was too distracted to pay much attention. His thoughts had already veered back to Sandra’s comments about Julie. She didn’t date much, but Sandra hadn’t said why.

Probably because she didn’t want a demanding relationship. He totally understood that. In fact, Julie’s position suited him perfectly—he was only here for a short time anyway. His gaze kept sliding back to her. She was looking at Sandra but kept glancing at him. When he winked, she flushed and looked away, but he caught the hint of a dimple.

“Okay. Beer’s gone.” Sandra abruptly rose, and he suspected she’d caught their glances. Cans clattered as she tossed the empties into the cooler. “Time to get to Champs. If we hurry, we’ll catch happy hour.”

“I’ll meet you over there,” Kurt said, looking at Julie. “I need to stay a bit and settle the new mare. She’s still hot.”

“We’ll see you later,” Sandra said, grabbing Julie’s arm and tugging her down the aisle. “Martin can give you directions to the bar,” she called over her shoulder.

Sandra would make an excellent drill sergeant, Kurt thought. Without Julie, the barn had lost some sparkle, but at least he was alone for the next ten minutes. He needed to take some cautionary measures.

He turned to Martin. “I’m moving Lazer to the stallion stall further down the aisle. Please put Ace beside him, and Cisco can go in the stall on the other side of Country Girl.”

Martin grabbed Ace’s halter, his tone apologetic. “Does the new stall have a bigger window? I didn’t notice the mare was hot.”

“She’s fine.” Kurt hesitated, but the kid looked truly concerned. “I want to switch horses in case Otto holds a grudge. He’d recognize Country Girl in a line-up but probably can’t pick out my other horses. Not if they’re in different stalls.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “You think he’d deliberately hurt them?”

“It’s just a precaution,” Kurt said. “Otto was upset when I claimed his mare. He’s probably calmed down now. It’s just a precaution.”

But as he repeated the words, he had the unsettling notion he was really trying to reassure himself.

A swinging sign with large black letters proclaimed ‘Champs Bar, Where Winners Meet.’ Kurt pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a room swollen with conversation, laughter and the yeasty smell of beer. Clearly a track hangout, racing pictures decorated every inch of wall. A dartboard hung in a mock winner’s circle. It wasn’t the type of bar that had a dance floor.

Sandra’s purple shirt was visible at a table on the far side, and he strained to see her companion. Not Julie, a man. Looked like Gary Bixton. Good. He wanted to talk to Julie alone, away from Sandra and her troublesome mother-hen tendencies.

He spotted Julie perched on a bar stool next to a cowboy in a red striped shirt. He moved in, ignoring the man’s resentful frown.

“Hi, Julie.” He kept his voice low, using the background noise as an excuse to dip his head close and absorb her fresh smell of sunshine and flowers. She tilted her head, her smile much wider than it had been in the barn. Obviously she was keen to discuss Lazer. Regret pricked him—her warm welcome was based on his horse.

“I thought maybe you couldn’t find the place,” she said, still gracing him with that big smile. “You must be hungry.”

“Starving. I stopped to talk to Martin’s mother for a minute.” Kurt took the menu she passed him, stared down the cowboy in the striped shirt and further staked his territory by wedging his knee against Julie’s stool. “What’s good here?”

“The pictures.” She shot him a teasing grin. “But if you’re starving, everything tastes good.” Her laugh was throaty, and he automatically leaned closer. She made a half-hearted effort to straighten her stool, but his leg kept it locked. “Maybe we should move to the table with Sandra and Gary.” She pointed across the room. “There’d be more room to eat.”

Her gesture lacked its usual grace, and when her hand brushed his chest, she jerked her fingers back. His gaze narrowed, automatically assessing her condition. Bright cheeks, flushed eyes, somewhat inebriated. Perfect. She was tiny and didn’t eat before a race. Naturally, alcohol would have a big effect.

It would be simple to ply her with another beer before ordering food. Maybe even switch to something more potent. He’d been trained to encourage people to drink, then listen when they blabbed, but that idea seemed repugnant now. It was hard to be a total asshole with someone like her. One thing was certain though; they were
not
going to move to Sandra’s table.

“We can move to a table later,” he said. “Food service will be faster here.” He leaned over the bar and gestured at a waiter, deliberately brushing his arm over Julie’s shoulder, testing her reaction. A shiver of awareness. All good.

“It’s good to see you off track,” he said, leaving his arm so close he could feel her heat. “You work both sides of the clock.”

She swiveled on her stool, and he could smell her skin again or maybe it was her hair. Whatever it was, he liked it.

“It’s not work,” she said. “Being paid to ride is a dream. I wanted to do that since I was four.” She brushed her hair back. Like him, she wore no ring.

“It’s probably harder to be a trainer,” she added. “You have to attract owners, just like I’m trying to attract trainers.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “Not that you’re running around trying to attract owners. Or that I’m trying to attract trainers. Well, of course, I suppose I am—”

She bit her bottom lip and looked so flustered he squeezed her hand. “Already done,” he said.

“What?” she asked. “What’s already done?”

“Attracted.”

“Want the usual, Julie?” A waiter with a shaved head and protruding ears appeared, brandishing his order sheet and a stubby brown pencil.

She grabbed the diversion like a lifeline, ignoring Kurt’s comment as she turned her attention to the waiter. He listened to her order, noted her too-careful enunciation. She reminded him of a drunk at a breathalyzer. Obviously she’d had several drinks before he’d arrived, in addition to the beer at the barn.

Convenient, of course. But he didn’t want her wasted. Sometimes witnesses tried so hard to remember that they conjured up things, even padding stories to please their interrogator.

Not that Julie would lie. And he didn’t like to think of himself as an interrogator. This could be as pleasant as she let him make it. But there simply wasn’t much sense in loading her with liquor—relaxed and talkative was all he wanted.

He listened while she talked with the waiter, and it was apparent the guy was smitten, asking if she wanted her fries crisp or her bun toasted. Kurt’s mouth tightened. It shouldn’t take that long to jot down an order, although maybe she was the one prolonging the conversation. Maybe she wanted to avoid being alone with him.

He took a thoughtful sip of beer. There was no way she could have guessed he was a cop. Archer was anal about secrecy, and only close friends and family knew the kind of work Kurt had been doing. The race world thought he’d spent the last nine years working at an obscure breeding farm. Still, the Internet was pesky.

The waiter must have realized he couldn’t linger by Julie any longer and reluctantly moved on to Kurt. “What ’cha want?” he asked. He didn’t mention the three kinds of cole slaw or the sweet potato fries.

Kurt gave his order to the disinterested waiter. “Better hold the onions,” he added with a pointed glance at Julie.

The waiter frowned as he walked away, and Julie elbowed Kurt in the ribs. “Double onions for me,” she called, not missing a beat.

“Ouch.” Kurt gave her his best hurting smile, perfect for skittish women. An old girlfriend once said it made her want to take him home, feed him chicken soup then bonk his brains out.

It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Julie—she rolled her eyes. “Stop teasing the waiter. He’s always a big flirt. Not that it matters.” Her voice trailed off.

“Of course it matters,” Kurt said. “This is the third time I asked you out. I don’t like to share.”

“I don’t remember being asked out. And this is just grabbing something to eat, a meeting to talk about Lazer.” She crossed her arms. “That’s all it can be.”

There was a finality in her voice, and he leaned forward, genuinely puzzled. He liked her, and she may not have realized it, but she’d touched him three times tonight. Dinner, a few drinks, some pleasant company. He didn’t understand why it was such a big deal.

He mentally reviewed her file. Single. Her mother, also a jockey, had been killed in a car accident. Julie had never been married, and the researcher hadn’t dug up a boyfriend. But something made her ball her napkin in agitation.

She tossed the paper wad at his chest, eyes sparkling with such mischief he decided he was over-analyzing. “Good catch,” she said as he grabbed the napkin in midair. “And this is a meeting. And I’m paying for my own food. So don’t lay on the charm or tease about onions. Gosh, you Eastern trainers are cocky.” A smile softened her words, but her back had straightened, and her chin had a challenging tilt.