Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

I t was an appalling day to be out. His father had warned him in his customary quiet way. His stable master had been less polite. “Day for a damned fool to kill himself,” he'd said.

“Shorten the leathers a shade then, Leon. That'll keep me alive.”

“Shit. Take more than that today,” Leon muttered, but he'd seen the restrained fire in his employer's eyes, and had done as he was told. When Charles Fersten's mouth clamped shut in that thin straight line, everyone did his bidding or stayed out of sight.

For the fifth day in succession, cold, driving rain swept the northern Minnesota countryside. There were pools of water on the practice track near the stables, and the first curve of the private steeplechase course visible from the paddock resembled a snipe bog.

“Positive you want Tarrytown?” Leon tried one last time to dissuade his employer.

“He's surefooted in heavy going,” was the curt reply.

Also had a bad mouth, which combined with his phenomenal strength, made him a difficult horse to hold, Leon thought. But maybe that was a masochistic fire in those black eyes and the count was out to match his temper against Tarrytown's gigantic strength.

Leon wasn't so far off the truth, although Charles Bernadotte Carrville Fersten, a count if he chose to acknowledge his father's lineage, normally didn't scrutinize his motives too closely. He just needed to ride.

His father had seen the morning news, too. As they watched, the death toll had mounted from the terrorist attack in Rome. Sixteen dead last count. The attack, reporters said, had Shakin Rifat's mark.

Whenever Shakin Rifat struck, Egon fell apart.

And then the phone would ring, and Sylvie would make demands.

Charles swore and swung himself up into the saddle.

Tarrytown jumped the first two timber fences beautifully, even under the adverse conditions. He was a massive horse of remarkable power, and a smile flashed briefly across Charles's mouth in appreciation. A half mile into the three-mile course, both horse and rider were thoroughly soaked and splashed with mud. Tarrytown took the first water turn without breathing hard and cleared the third and fourth hurdles like a leaper. Then, his head stretched out like a racer on the straight, his hooves scarcely touching the dark ground, Tarrytown flew down the treelined course. The pines were dark against the gray northern sky, in contrast to the silvery birches wet with rain, their tiny buds still tightly curled, waiting for a warm spring sun. Charles's spirits soared with Tarrytown's burst of speed and, despite the cold driving rain, he felt a warm surge of pleasure, a familiar elation synonymous with reckless wild rides.

But at the next water jump thoughts of Sylvie intruded like unwelcome messengers of doom, and he inadvertently tightened his grip on the reins. Tarrytown had already launched himself before the unexpected tug at his mouth. He cleared the water, but not with his usual rise, having faltered midair with the cut of the bit. The huge bay slipped on landing, slithering for several yards. It was touch and go for several breathless seconds before he recovered his legs. But his formidable strength pulled him through, and he managed to struggle upright, leaving both horse's and rider's hearts pumping furiously. A rider had to give his horse its head going over a jump; a rule Charles knew instinctively. Bending over, he apologized softly to Tarrytown, stroking him gently beneath his ear. “Sorry,” he murmured, “my fault…” and added a few pithy comments concerning his ex-wife.

Dismounting, Charles walked Tarrytown back to the stables, talking aloud to his old companion… about Sylvie and her stupidity, about Sylvie and her arrogance, about Sylvie and her weak-willed brother. During the mucky walk back the rush of adrenaline slowly subsided and, like a cleansing tonic, it washed away much of his tension. Or maybe it was the wild ride that eased the tension. Since boyhood, a horse and speed had been comfort, therapy, intoxication-all things to Count Charles Fersten.

“Didn't go the whole,” Leon laconically remarked when they returned.

“You were right, Leon,” Charles replied with his familiar smile, the fire gone from his eyes. “Damn near got killed out there.” He even felt restored enough after the exhilarating ride to ask, “Any phone calls?”

“Nope.”

She hadn't called yet. Maybe this time she wouldn't, Charles thought, his normal cheerfulness renewed.

Bitch must not be able to get a call through, Leon uncharitably thought. And a cable wouldn't do her much good. If you're going to threaten and plead, it loses impact somehow on paper.

“See you tomorrow,” Charles said, turning to go, the light from the open door silhouetting his powerful frame and the spiky outline of wet windswept hair.

“If the rain lets up.” Leon was busy wiping Tarrytown down.

Charles's dark brows quirked like the grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “Can't take care of me forever.”

“Someone has to. Besides all the eager women, that is.”

“I don't know, Leon. You might lose against that kind of competition.”

And he had on numerous occasions. But not for long. “Any woman last more than a week?” his stable master bluntly asked. “Besides the bitch, I mean. And from the looks of it, you might never shake her loose.”

“Now, Leon, a little respect for my ex-wife.” But the grin accompanying the words was wickedly boyish.

“I'd like to give her a whole lot more, but she never gets close enough to put my boot where it'll do her the most good.”

“Speaking of boots. Did my boots come back for the Maryland Hunt Cup?”

“This morning.”

“Good. I'll try them tomorrow. Think Tarrytown can take those terrifying timbers two years in a row?”

“If he can't, there's not a hunter that can. The Ferstens are the best breed of jumpers in the world.”

“Thanks to you.”

“And to your pa.”

The phone line from the house trilled tinnily in the stable and they both stiffened, their expressions instantly altering. Charles's heavy brows creased into a frown.

“I'd say it's the bitch,” Leon growled.

“Wouldn't bet against you on that one,” Charles quietly replied. “If it's Sylvie, I'll take it in the house.”

When Leon picked up the receiver, he nodded darkly and said, “Sit tight, Countess, he's on his way to an inside phone.”

And Charles reluctantly started across the muddy paddock.

S ylvie von Mansfeld was a countess in her own right, rich, beautiful, spoiled, and young. She'd met Charles one summer when she'd turned to acting in an attempt to escape boredom. She was captivated by Carey Fersten, the brilliant young director from America who had roots on the continent. She was delighted that his aristocratic family north of the Baltic held a knight's title a thousand years older than her family's mercantile nineteenth-century coat of arms. She was bewitched by his compulsive decisions. When they first met during filming in Yugoslavia, the young genius director was operating on instinct alone. Carey was drinking too much then, using recreational drugs in an excessive way that appealed to her excessive nature. It wasn't until the second week of sharing his bed that he'd stopped in mid “Darling” and asked her name. It still sent tingles down her spine recalling those days, old memories freshly rekindled by the sound of his deep, husky “Hello.”

“I need you,” Sylvie purred into the phone.

“The feeling is not mutual, Sylvie. What do you want, as if I didn't know,” Charles said bluntly, settling into a worn leather chair in the library.

His cool tone brought Sylvie back to her present problem. “You have to come and talk to him. Egon called. He was at the airport during the shooting, and now he's worse than ever. God knows his fear is reasonable. Especially after what Rifat did to the car. He was barely coherent when he called. You have to come and talk to him, Carey!”

“Jesus, Sylvie.” Charles kept his voice steady, despite his feelings on the subject. “I was just there a month ago. Put him in a sanitorium. Find him a confessor. Find him a woman, for Christ's sake. I can't come and hold his hand every time he OD's on terrorism.”

“Those madmen are using him, Carey, you know that. Capitalizing on his nerves and drug habit. He's terrified. No one else can calm him when he's in this state.”

“I can't this time, Sylvie. I'm sorry. I'm scheduled to ride in a meet in Maryland next week, and my next film starts two days after that.”

“I need you. Egon needs you. You owe me!”

Carey sighed. “I can't keep paying for that mistake forever. Everyone was doing drugs out there.”

“But you started him.”

“I didn't, but I'll never win that argument with you. Oh, Christ, it could have been anyone. He was out looking for it.”

“You made him what he is,” she snapped.

“Lord, grow up. He is what he is, with or without me.”

“If you don't come, he's going to die. I could barely understand him on the phone.”

There was a silence on the overseas connection while Charles damned the day Sylvie von Mansfeld first slipped into his bed. “Okay, all right,” he said at last, his feelings for Egon overcoming his aversion to Sylvie, “I'll be there, but I have to be back Wednesday next.”

“We're at the villa in Nice.”

“This is the last time, Sylvie, I swear.” Hanging up, his expression grim, Charles angrily punched the phone number for the stable. “Tell Jess to have the jet fueled. We leave in an hour. And bring my saddle, will you Leon? Maybe I can get in a few hours of riding before the Hunt Cup.” In a brisk cadence he finished his instructions to Leon. Then he dropped the phone receiver in its cradle and turned to his father. “Damn and bloody hell,” he softly swore. “When will it end?”