Foxleigh Park (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #4)

Prologue

“Milo, for fuck’s sake, find out who she is and untwist those knickers of yours. Then maybe you can start hanging out with your family again.”

Spinning around from the giant windowpane stretching over the polo field I’m staring out of, I stare at my sister instead. Glare. I receive one in return, coupled with a challenge in her eye, one that’s always present, but becomes more prominent when she drinks.

We’re in that hazy week between Christmas and New Year’s, where you lose track of time and alcohol becomes acceptable at any hour. Bingo, I spy an almost empty bottle of champagne on the table between her and Haven.

“My knickers aren’t in a twist, Clementine.”

“Coulda fooled me.” She raises her glass, smirks, and takes a sip.

“Clem, leave him alone.”

My expression turns from annoyance to surprise when I look at Alex, because ninety percent of the time, he’s the one trying to wind me up. I’m genuinely taken aback that he’s leaping to my defense. “Thanks, Al.”

“Anytime, little brother.” He leans over and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “It must be hard for you . . . as the first time a woman rejects you has gotta sting. But it happens to the best of us.”

Hendricks—my identical twin—smirks, while Clementine and Alex guffaw at his pathetic joke. Haven giggles, and her hot friend, whom I only met an hour or so ago, joins in too.

I definitely don’t like her anymore.

I shrug off Alex’s hand. “Fuck off, the lot of you. I nearly died, it’s not a laughing matter, and she didn’t reject me—she tried to kill me.”

Ignoring Alex’s overly dramatic eye roll, I continue, “You were there, Al. She tried to mow me down with her pony. I only just jumped out of the way in time—”

“And fell into the bush.”

I glare at Clementine again.

“Maybe she didn’t know it was you,” adds Hendricks.

I scoff. “Of course she did. Everyone knows me here. She saw me, and she tried to kill me.”

Clementine sits back in her chair and stretches her arms above her head. She lengthens out her neck from side to side, then yawns.

We touched down in Aspen a couple of hours ago, flying in from England for an impromptu New Year’s Eve celebration.

We’re all a little tired and tipsy. Technically, it was supposed to be Alex and Haven’s holiday celebration, which the rest of us hijacked.

As our family plane is big enough to fit the whole family and we haven’t spent New Year's skiing together in a while, I invited myself—and the rest of our siblings—to join them.

Maybe that’s why Alex is pissy.

“To be perfectly honest, Milo, I’m amazed that more women haven’t attempted to murder you already,” Clementine drawls.

I don’t bother to respond and turn back to the window, listening to my siblings snicker before resuming their respective conversations.

My eyes scan the field where eight polo ponies gallop up and down.

Two teams of riders chase a bright pink ball across the snow, attempting to take control from their opposition and smack it between the goalposts at either end of the pitch.

I’m not too familiar with the teams playing.

The holiday games Aspen Polo Club puts on are for amateur and low-goal.

But I still can’t find the player I’m looking for.

It’s possible she’s a groom and was warming up the pony before the match, but even from the moment I locked eyes with her as I scrambled out of the hedge, she didn’t seem the groom type.

There was too much arrogance flashing in her eyes, the kind I usually see on the field, powering toward me atop half a ton of horse.

It’s only on the third sweep that I spot her.

She’s not on the field, but almost below in a practice arena you can’t see into from the spectators’ stands. I, however, have a perfect view, and I don’t take my eyes off her.

A braid of thick, dark red hair bounces against her black shirt as she charges her pony up and down a series of practice maneuvers.

In and out of cones packed so tight together, it reminds me of the agility courses set up at Crufts.

Once through, she gallops to the end, spins, and races to hit ten balls all lined up in a row, before darting between the cones again.

They’re the same courses I used to set up for myself at Foxleigh.

A bubble of excitement stirs inside me. She rides with a fearlessness that needs refining.

She turns too hard in the corners, and her elbows are sharp enough to cut a two by four, but the way she swings her mallet so it hits the ball dead center is nothing short of poetic. She’s an incredible rider.

Even if she might also be the personification of evil.

I know for a fact I’ve never seen her before, and I’m so zoned in to watching her that I don’t notice the match on the field has ended.

It’s only when she slows down and jumps off her pony to collect all the balls she’s launched around the arena that I turn around to find my siblings watching me with amusement on their faces.

“Did Foxleigh get awarded the England’s Cup match yet?” asks Alex, conciliatorily, which I take as his version of an apology for trying to wind me up. He knows I’ll take any opportunity to talk about it.

I shake my head, reaching for my beer. “Not yet. The decision isn’t made until January.”

“Cool. Fingers crossed.” Alex nods, stands, and holds his hand out to Haven, who follows. “We’re going back to the baby. We’ll see you lot tomorrow for New Year’s Eve.” He grins at Clementine, followed by Hendricks, and finally me. “I expect you to be in a better mood by then.”

“I’m not in a mood,” I snap, all evidence pointing to the contrary.

Alex’s question about the England’s Cup provided only a temporary reprieve from my growing annoyance at the red-headed rider.

I can’t decide if it’s worse that she’s incredibly skilled or not.

In my defense, I’m rarely in a bad mood, but I’m tired and slightly hungover.

Not to mention the moods I’ve had to put up with from Alex over the past year when he thought he’d never see Haven again.

It was annoying at best, and the days he was really miserable served as a reminder of why my heart only belongs to my horses. Plus a couple of dogs.

Usually, I put great value on what life has to offer and see the good in every day.

While I’m rarely awake in time to witness the sun rise, one of my favorite things is to watch the sun set over the valley in Valentine Nook.

I hold a deep appreciation for the smell of freshly laid hay in a clean stable and the company of a beautiful woman.

Except one who tries to murder me in broad daylight.

My annoyance is on the rise again as Hendricks gets up from his chair and drops next to me on the sofa, twisting his body to look onto the field. “Did you find her?”

“Yup,” I say, jumping up and pulling on my coat.

“Where are you going?”

“To pay her a little visit. Wanna come?”

“Nope. But I’ll be waiting when you return.”

“Suit yourself.”

I take off, making my way out of the clubhouse and down the steps toward the stables. My blood heats again with every step I take, my feet crunching the remains of the snow shoveled off the path. I pass the spot in the hedge I fell into, and the dent I’ve left behind, and my rage increases.

The stables are a hive of activity when I storm through. Grooms are readying ponies, and teams are strategizing for the later matches, while the sweet scent of hay and manure fills the air.

It’s something that usually calms me, but not today.

Peering into each stall, stopping briefly to say hello to any pony inside, I’m no closer to finding my wannabe assassin until the noise of water spray hitting the concrete floor drags my attention to what I’m looking for. Who I’m looking for.

The shock of plaited, thick auburn hair flops over her shoulder while she cools her pony’s legs.

“Found you,” I spit. “You nearly killed me back there. Do you want to explain what the fuck you're playing at? The sign clearly said no ponies.”

I wait for the apology she owes me. Then I’ll decide how much she needs to grovel, but she’s yet to turn around.

It takes her so long to answer, I’m about to repeat myself at a much, much louder volume. If she’s trying to rile me, it’s worked. The reputation I’ve built on nonchalance is dangerously close to cracking.

“Did I?” she drawls eventually.

“Yes—”

“And the sign said no ponies?”

“Yes!”

“Oh. My bad.”

What the fuck? “Your bad?”

She shifts and moves the hose to her pony’s hind quarters, and his nostrils flare. He doesn’t like it. My fists clench. If I saw a groom hosing their pony like this at my yard, I’d lose my shit. It’s too cold, and she shouldn’t be hosing him down at all.

“Yup. My bad.”

My jaw clenches. “Your bad.”

She spins. A pair of bright green eyes glare at me, and for the first time, I get a look at her. A good look. Dressed head to toe in black, standing against the stark white walls of the shower, she’s a nineties Herb Ritts ad. Long limbs, tight curves, full lips. Stunning.

Lust stirs in me, but only until she opens her mouth again.

“Do you need me to clean your ears? I’m about to do Maverick’s here, so I can do yours too if you want.”

Whatever the hell’s going on right now, I don’t like it. I might not be based full-time at Aspen Polo Club, but I’m a nine-goal player. I’ve spent thousands of hours on polo pitches around the world, scoring goals, winning matches.

I’ve earned the respect she should be paying me a hundred times over. People know me here.

And she’s asking me if I want my ears cleaned.

“No. I fucking don’t.”

She shrugs and goes back to hosing poor Maverick, who would rather be anywhere else. If she gets kicked, it’ll be her own fault.

“You shouldn't be hosing him—”

“You’d better not be telling me how to look after my own horse—”

“You clearly don’t know how to do it.”

Normally, my reflexes are much quicker, but I’m jet-lagged and not entirely sober. So when she turns the hose on me, I don’t jump out of the way in time.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” I fume, wiping away the water dripping down my face. “This is cashmere.”

Her head falls back with a laugh. Loud, animated, and annoyingly infectious.

But I’m too soaked through to find anything amusing.

Too soaked to appreciate how beautiful she is—back arched, the delicate curve of her neck tipping her head back, and her full mouth, wide open, revealing very straight white teeth.

Exceptional beauty aside, it’s obvious she’s a lunatic who will not be reasoned with.

“My bad,” she calls behind me as I storm off, leaving a trail of wet footsteps. “There are towels in the locker room if you need them.” Another bellow of laughter follows her voice.

Fuck the towels. She has no idea who she’s messed with. I’m already plotting my revenge by the time I reach the outside.

More infuriating, I can’t decide if I want to fuck her or kill her.

Either way, this isn’t over.