Outsider

NATALIE WANTED THE floor to open and swallow her, but it remained disappointingly solid, so she rallied her defences.

‘I think that’s my business,’ she retorted, her chin tilted dangerously. ‘Perhaps you should remember what they say about eavesdroppers, Mr Lang,’ She realised his hands were still gripping her upper arms, not too gently, and she stiffened. ‘And will you kindly get your hands off me!’

He released her so promptly it was almost an insult. Then he was walking past her, the thin, tanned face relaxing into a smile.

‘Mrs Slater?’ He held out his hand to Beattie. ‘I’m sorry for this apparent intrusion, but your husband thought you might not have heard Mr Bentley’s car arrive, so I volunteered to find you.’ He looked round him, his smile widening. ‘Not that it’s any hardship,’ he added appreciatively. ‘Something smells absolutely fantastic!’

‘It’s just ordinary home cooking,’ said Beattie with modest untruthfulness, as she shook hands with him. Her candid grey eyes looked him over. ‘You look as if you could do with some.’

He laughed. ‘You could be right. I’ve spent so many years living on starvation rations to keep my weight down, that it’s hard to believe I can now eat as much as I want.’

There was a pause, then Beattie said with slight awkwardness, ‘And this, of course, is my stepdaughter Natalie.’

He turned back towards Natalie. ‘How do you do,’ he said with cool civility.

The swift charm which had bowled over Beattie, it seemed, could be switched on and off at will, Natalie thought with contempt.

She returned a mechanically conventional greeting, then excused herself on the grounds that she had to see to the drinks.

Her retreat was in good order, but when she was safely alone, she found her heart was pounding as if she’d taken to her heels and fled from him.

It was infuriating to realise she had been betrayed into such a schoolgirlish piece of rudeness, but at least Eliot Lang now knew quite unequivocally where he stood where she was concerned, she thought defiantly.

Andrew’s greeting was rather less ebullient then usual, she realised as she took the drinks into the drawing-room. He knew, none better, how desperately keen she’d been to join Grantham as his partner, and she thought she saw a measure of compassion in his gaze, as he swapped genialities with her about how good it was to have her father back again, and how well he was looking.

Gradually she recovered her composure, and by the time Eliot Lang accompanied her stepmother into the room, she was able to meet the rather searching look he sent her with an appearance, at least, of indifference.

She found, to her annoyance, that she was stationed opposite him at the dining-table, although the conversation was general enough to enable her to avoid having to address him directly. Her father was in his most expansive and relaxed mood, making no secret of his delight at the success of his plans.

Naturally, as the meal wore on, the talk turned to racing, and Eliot Lang’s past triumphs, although in fairness Natalie had to admit the subject wasn’t introduced by him, and he seemed reluctant to discuss them, commenting instead with open wryness on his failure ever to ride a Grand National winner.

‘It’s only one race,’ Grantham leaned back in his chair. ‘And that last Gold Cup of yours must have made up for everything.’

Eliot Lang laughed. He had good teeth, Natalie noticed, white and very even. ‘It was Storm Trooper’s race. All I had to do was sit tight.’

‘Don’t denigrate yourself, lad. He nearly went at that last fence, thanks to that damned loose horse. You held him up, and took him on.’ Grantham shook his head. ‘A great win —a truly great win.’

Natalie stole a covert look at Eliot Lang under her lashes, trying to visualise him sweat-streaked and mud-splashed. In the dark, elegant suit, its waistcoat accentuating his slim waist, the gleam of a silk tie setting off his immaculate white shirt, he looked more like a successful City executive.

And he was undeniably attractive, she thought resentfully, if you liked that sort of thing, his good looks only slightly marred by the slanting scar that slashed across one cheekbone.

It was a tough face, the cleft in his chin, and the firm line of his mouth emphasising the ruthlessness and determination which had always been a hallmark of his riding. ‘Fearless’, she recalled unwillingly, had been one of the adjectives most often used by the sports writers.

With a faint shock, she realised he was watching her in his turn, a faintly cynical smile playing round his lips. Natalie transferred her gaze hastily back to her plate, trying to control her confusion.

He probably thought she was another potential conquest, she thought scornfully. Well, he would soon discover his mistake.

Beattie was speaking. ‘After all the success and the excitement, Mr Lang, aren’t you going to find training rather—mundane?’

He smiled at her. ‘Won’t you please call me Eliot? And the simple answer to your question is—no, I’m sure I won’t. I’m looking forward immensely to joining you here at Wintersgarth.’

‘But you’re still quite young to have retired from National Hunt racing,’ persisted Beattie. ‘Grantham says you still had years of winning in front of you.’

He shrugged ironically, ‘Perhaps.’

‘So how could you bear to turn your back on it, when you were still at the peak?’

He was silent for a moment, the straight dark brows drawn together. ‘I suppose it was a question of motivation,’ he said at last. ‘I had a couple of bad falls last season.’ His hand went up and touched the scar. ‘They rather brought home to me that I was over thirty now, and that letting horses stamp you into the mud was not the way I wanted to spend part of the next decade. I had to start thinking about a new career, and as I want to stay with horses, training seemed the ideal answer.’ He smiled. ‘Once I’d made up my mind, it really wasn’t that hard to walk away.’

Natalie said, ‘And will you find it just as easy to walk away from us when you’ve had enough?’

His brows lifted. ‘This isn’t a whim, Miss Slater. It’s strictly business. I’m investing in Wintersgarth.’

‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful,’ she said. ‘Not that we need your money—we’ve always made out financially. But it’s natural I should be concerned about your—er—motivation. After all, you don’t exactly have a reputation for fidelity.’

‘Natalie!’ It was a bark from her father, his face thunderous. He turned to Eliot. ‘I must apologise for my daughter. Sometimes her tongue runs away with her.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Eliot, ‘If she has misgivings, it’s best that they’re aired now.’ He leaned across the table, his hazel eyes boring into Natalie’s. ‘My partnership with your father isn’t just a flash in the pan, Miss Slater. I’m coming to him to learn from his genius, and maybe contribute some skills of my own, and it’s for the rest of my life.’ He added drily, ‘I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit the image you seem to have of me.’

She was furiously aware she’d been cut down to size by an expert.

She said, ‘That’s—reassuring. But you live in the South. Your life has been based there, near the bright lights. Aren’t you going to find Yorkshire quiet and dull?’

‘Even the brightest lights can pall.’ He looked amused. ‘And I was born here, you know, although admittedly it was more by accident than design. My parents were staying with friends during the hunting season, and had totally misjudged the possible time of my arrival.’

Everyone was laughing with him, enjoying the slackening of tension, although the glance Grantham bestowed on Natalie was minatory, promising a tongue-lashing later.

She wished now she’d kept quiet. There was obviously nothing to be gained from confrontation.

‘What will you do about your lovely cottage?’ Beattie asked. ‘Keep it for weekends?’

‘No.’ Eliot shook his head. ‘I’ve already told one of the local agents to put it on his books.’ He paused. ‘But you’re not going to be lumbered with a lodger, Mrs Slater. I’m quite self-sufficient, I promise you, and your husband mentioned something about a self-contained flat over the garages that might be suitable, at least on a temporary basis.’

Natalie said sharply, ‘The flat? Dad, you didn’t!’

Grantham’s florid face adopted a moderately apologetic expression. ‘Maybe I should have talked it over with you, lass, but I’ve had other things on my mind.’ He turned to Eliot. ‘My daughter’s name is Drummond, actually. She was widowed three years ago, but the flat in question was built to accommodate Nat and her husband originally.’

Eliot’s eyes surveyed Natalie’s bare hands briefly, then he said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Naturally if it’s going to cause Mrs Drummond any distress, I’ll willingly look for an alternative.’

‘Nonsense,’ Grantham said robustly. ‘The flat’s there, and it’s empty. Nat never goes near the place. Anyway, have a look at it, and see what you think.’

Natalie didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I won’t have coffee, Beattie. I have to telephone the feed merchant.’ She sketched some kind of smile round the table. ‘If you’ll excuse me …?’

The office was a big, cluttered comfortable room, and it seemed like a sanctuary to Natalie as she sank into the chair behind her desk. She had letters to reply to, messages on the answering machine to listen to, as well as the call to the feed merchant, but for a moment she could deal with none of it. The thought of Eliot Lang taking over the home where her marriage to Tony had started out with such high hopes sickened her. Although she might have felt differently if she’d liked him, she admitted, biting her lip. Or would she?

When she had moved out, to resume life in her old room in her father’s house after the funeral, she’d turned the key in the lock as if she was closing off a part of her life. It had never occurred to her that it might have to be re-opened. They had never needed the flat. The lads had their own block, and Wes had a cottage in the village.

She supposed she should have seen it coming, but she hadn’t …