Susan Stephens - In the Brazilian's Debt

And how did Chico feel about that?

Lizzie’s heart thundered with apprehension. If she didn’t make the grade, or he threw her out, who would save Rottingdean then?

‘Hey—wait up. You forgot something...’

She turned, and her heart went into overdrive when she saw the grubby top she’d discarded in the stall, hanging from the tip of Chico’s finger.

‘Rule one,’ he said, strolling up to her. ‘Never leave anything in a stable that could harm your horse.’

She was mortified. She never did. She never had before. She’d slung the top over the top of the partition between the stalls, meaning to take it with her.

Seeing Chico again had knocked everything out of her head. The sheer force of his personality swamped her as she took the top. Chico Fernandez was one of life’s primal forces, while she must look like the primmest thing on earth to him in her crisp white blouse, with its ironed and starched Peter Pan collar, her fresh-out-of-the-box sneakers, and her neatly pressed jeans. She had loved the outfit when she first put it on, because it was a parting gift from her grandmother. To bring her luck, Lizzie’s grandmother had said. And she still loved the clothes, but she had to admit they were more garden party than gaucho. Almost in defiance of that, her nipples were tightening and her heart was thundering out of control. She grabbed the chance to take a deep, calming breath as he paused to turn and talk to one of his fellow polo players.

‘Black eyes, black colours for his team, and a black heart has never stood in the way for Chico Fernandez when it comes to unparalleled Gaucho Polo success for this world-beater...’ This quote from one of the articles she had read about him seemed so relevant now. If Chico’s opponents on the polo field were subject to this same force field, no wonder they found him formidable. Most sports commentators said there had never been a player like him.

And what did most women say?

She didn’t even want to think about his other women. She guessed Chico accepted what was freely offered and then moved on, and could only thank her lucky stars that fate had decreed she would never be one of his discards.

What a great thought—such a sensible thought—that unfortunately had no influence on her body, and her body still wanted him. She blamed it on the primal imperative to mate with the leader of the pack.

‘Forgive me,’ Chico said brusquely, spinning round. ‘Before you go to supper, I have one or two more questions for you, Lizzie.’

She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Oh?’

‘As a representative of the grooms, could you tell me, are your quarters comfortable?’

Why did he care? Was he trying to trip her up? Was he looking for an excuse to get rid of her? ‘Quite comfortable, thank you.’

He stabbed a glance at the utilitarian block where the students were housed. What could she possibly have to complain about? There was running water—possibly glacier melt judging by the temperature—and she shared her room with five other girls. No problem there. Only three of them snored. And thanks to the freezing water they were all quick in the shower.

‘Your bed’s comfortable?’

She frowned. ‘Yes.’

She would have gladly slept on a bed of nails for the chance to work at Fazenda Fernandez with the best trainer in the world on the best polo ponies in the world, and she really didn’t want to discuss her sleeping arrangements with Chico Fernandez. Was he determined to unsettle her?

‘Thank you, Lizzie. I had thought of making some improvements to the grooms’ accommodation, but I can now see that that isn’t necessary.’

Not necessary? Inwardly, she groaned. Imagine how popular this was going to make her.

And then Chico stopped dead and she almost crashed into him. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her. ‘Enjoy your supper, Lizzie.’

‘I will.’

‘Perhaps I’ll see you later—’

Not if she could help it. She was going to stick to the original plan—keep her head down, work hard, do well, and then go home with her diploma and her pride intact, so she could set up a viable business. What was so attractive about a snarl and a swagger, anyway?

* * *

He couldn’t rest. The past wasn’t just back, it had punched him in the face, and he wasn’t in the mood for the raucous good humour of the cookhouse. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, especially Lizzie Fane, and so he paced the vast, polished oak floor on the ground floor of his home as he tried to make sense of his feelings. He paused by the window where he could see across the yard to the cookhouse. What was she doing? Who was she with? He wasn’t fooled by her circumspect manner. Lizzie had turned her back on him once. When he was of no further use to her, would she do so again?

Probably, if he gave her the chance, which he wouldn’t.

So was Lizzie Fane a force to be reckoned with? He smiled at the thought of testing her out, but past events at Rottingdean stood between them. He couldn’t remember that time without being forced to accept that Lizzie had a damaged bloodline. Her father, Lord Reginald Fane, had been a dissolute pervert who beat his wife, while Lizzie’s mother had been a liar and a cheat. Only Lizzie’s grandmother, the Grand Duchess, had stood out like a beacon of light, but how much influence had the old lady brought to bear on Lizzie? Judging by Lizzie’s contempt for his many letters to her, very little, he guessed.

Horses were easier to breed than people, he concluded. You could be sure of a horse’s bloodline and its flaws. He’d been lucky that Eduardo had saved him, lifting him from the barrio like a drowning puppy in a sack in the river. Eduardo hadn’t just taught him everything Chico knew about horses, but how to live and work responsibly, and how to care for his fellow human beings. He’d taught him how to eat in a civilised manner, and how to behave in society. Losing Eduardo had been like losing a father—a good father.

Learning Eduardo had left him everything had been the biggest shock of his life. Eduardo’s last words had been to beg Chico to shrug off his past and learn from it, but how was he supposed to do that now that Lizzie Fane was back in his life? Leaving Lizzie twelve years ago had torn him up inside. How could they leave a fifteen-year-old child in the care of her nymphomaniac mother, and a violent, debauched father? he had asked Eduardo. He hadn’t known then what they had accused him of, or why Eduardo and Lizzie’s grandmother had been in such a hurry to get him away. He could still remember clutching his head as he raged about Lizzie’s situation for the whole of their journey back to Brazil.

‘It’s not your job to save Lizzie,’ Eduardo had told him firmly. ‘You have your career to think about, and Lord Fane is too powerful, too respected, for you to take him on.’

‘But I will one day,’ Chico had vowed.

‘No,’ Eduardo had told him flatly. ‘You will forget this and keep your mind on your work and your future career. And as far as Lizzie Fane is concerned, you will forget her too, and place your trust, as I have done, in Lizzie’s grandmother.’

Trust, he remembered agonising in mutinous teenage silence. What was that?

He knew now that trust was one of the most important parts of loving someone, and that Eduardo had trusted him like a son.

* * *

‘So?’ Danny demanded as she waited with Lizzie in the supper queue. ‘What happened with Chico?’

Lizzie flashed a glance around.

‘I don’t know why you’re being so secretive. I saw you walking across the yard with him—everyone must have...’

‘Doesn’t this smell delicious?’ Lizzie remarked, refusing to rise to the bait. She and Danny were standing in front of the open grill where three chefs were preparing everything from vegetarian specials to man-sized steaks.