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ZARA STONELEY
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014
Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Ebook Edition © September 2014
ISBN: 9780008101732
Version 2015-06-18
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
This one is for you, Mum! xx
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Tippermere
The Residents of Tippermere
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon From Zara Stoneley …
Zara Stoneley
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Tippermere
Welcome to tranquil Tippermere, set deep in the Cheshire countryside. Home to Lords and Ladies, horsemen and farmers.
Set on the highest hill, keeping a close eye on the village and its inhabitants, lies Tipping House Estate. In pride of place is the grand Elizabethan style mansion, sweeping down in front of her are immaculate gardens, well-kept parkland and rolling acres that spread as far as the eye can see.
Follow the stream down to the flat below, and nestling between copses and lakes, you find Folly Lake Manor and the sprawling grounds of the bustling Equestrian Centre. The country lane in front wends its way between high hedges to the village green, the church and two village pubs. Then fans out into tributaries, follow them further and you find a small eventing yard, a scattering of country cottages and rambling working farms.
Take the road north eastwards, travel on a few short miles and soon the elegant village of Kitterly Heath unfolds before you - a village whose origins were recorded in the Domesday Book. At one end of the ancient high street a solid 14th Century church stands sentry, with an imposing school at the other, and all around sprawl the mansions old and new that house the rich and famous…
The Residents of Tippermere
Marcus James - millionaire businessman owner of Folly Lake Manor and the Equestrian Centre at Tippermere. Recently deceased.
Amanda James – the grieving widow. Elegant and understated, delicate and demure.
Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Brinkley – disorganised but loveable daughter of Billy. Desperately seeking something, if only she knew what.
Rory Steel – devilishly daring and sexy three day eventer, owner of a small eventing yard in Tippermere.
Tilly – head of the terrier trio that accompany Rory everywhere.
Billy Brinkley - Lottie’s father. Former superstar show jumper, based at the equestrian centre.
Victoria ‘Tiggy’ Stafford – dog groomer and some-time groom for Billy. As friendly, shaggy and eternally optimistic as a spaniel.
*
Philippa ‘Pip’ Keelan – headline hunting journalist. Trim, sophisticated and slightly scary. Recently moved to Tippermere, from London, in search of real life and real men.
Mick O’Neal – expert farrier, Irish charmer, dangerously attractive.
Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe – owner of Tipping House estate, lover of strong G&T’s. Meddler and mischief maker. Lottie’s gran, Dominic’s mother.
Bertie & Holmes – Elizabeth’s black Labradors.
Dominic Stanthorpe - dressage rider extraordinaire. Uncle to Lottie, son of Elizabeth, slightly bemused and frustrated by both.
Tom Strachan - sexy ex-underwear model. Divorced, devastated but amazingly dishy. Recently made his ‘escape to the country’ with his goth daughter.
Tabatha Strachan – teenage daughter of Tom. Horse mad, but suitably unimpressed by most other things.
*
David Simcock - England goalkeeper, resident of the neighbouring Kitterly Heath.
Sam – partner of David. Lover of dogs, diamonds and designer delights.
Anthony Simcock – property developer father of David.
*
The horses – too numerous to list
Chapter 1
‘I think he’s dead.’
Rory Steel had been enjoying, in his semi-conscious state, a particularly gratifying dream where he was just about to clear the last cross-country hurdle that stood between him and the gallop down the home straight, when his mobile had started to buzz like an irritated hornet inches from his ear. He’d picked it up automatically, horse suspended mid leap.
‘Shit, you’re kidding.’ The horse dissolved, along with his dream of a perfect round, as he sat bolt upright. Something he instantly regretted as a sledgehammer came into contact with his skull and church bells started ringing in his ears. ‘Fucking hell.’ As he sank back on to a soft pillow, clutching his throbbing head, Rory briefly wondered if the caller had been making a pronouncement of his own demise, then decided that was rubbish. It hurt too much.
And he could see faint outlines in the dark that surrounded him, and surely death was a total blackout? He prodded his temples experimentally and decided his head probably wasn’t about to disintegrate in a bloody mess. But, where the hell was he?
From somewhere in the general direction of his feet came an indignant disembodied voice, which meant he hadn’t flung the phone far. Now all he had to do was find it, without causing himself grievous bodily harm.
Rory put an exploratory hand out. And came into contact with skin; soft, warm skin that definitely wasn’t his own. And it all came flooding back with clarity. He was in a horsebox, crammed into the bulkhead bed, with a tin roof only a foot or so above him. Which explained the ringing in his ears. And he was with Lottie.
‘Bugger off.’ She pushed his hand away, her voice groggy with sleep.
‘I was trying to find the light switch.’
‘Not heard it called that before.’
The phone was squawking, more desperate by the second, from its mystery location.
‘What’s that funny noise?’ The words came out on a yawn as Lottie stretched, groaning as her foot came into contact with the wall.
‘My mobile.’
‘Well bloody answer it.’ She rolled over and buried her head under the pillow, and his hand shifted to the dip in her waist. Drifted down to her hip. He liked Lottie’s hips.
‘Proper child-bearing hips these.’ His fingers tightened, in sympathy with other parts of his body.
‘Huh, you mean big.’ She didn’t sound as drowsy now, as she swatted at his hand again and shifted onto her back. ‘And don’t you dare go back to playing with my boobs. Answer the phone.’
‘I can’t find the bloody thing in the dark, can I?’ He groped further down her body, which earned him a slap, and finally his fingers closed around the lump of hard plastic. Just as Lottie flicked the light on. She was shaking her head at him.
‘You’re hopeless.’
‘And you’re just so fuckable.’ He blew her a kiss and stared openly at her naked body. He’d missed a lot of things about Lottie while she’d been gone, but that glorious body had been his first thought when he’d heard she was heading back.
In fact, Lottie’s uninhibited nakedness had probably been what he had fallen in love with in the first place. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he’d found someone even more disorganised than he was, and he’d found her need to flee the country even more incomprehensible. But when it came to bed, and her body, her complete lack of hang-ups made her irresistible.
‘Who is that? Who’s there?’ The voice in his ear had moved on from hysterics to a mix of suspicion and brittle annoyance and he half wished he’d prolonged his ‘find the phone’ game, who knew what it might have led to?
‘It’s me of course, who the hell do you think it is? Who’s that?’
‘There is a chance, darling…’ Lottie straddled him, which was no mean feat given the headspace, and his cock hardened in anticipation. He could ditch the phone right now, straight out of the window. She reached forward, those perfect breasts bobbing against him; he could already taste her kiss. Except he couldn’t. She’d grabbed the phone and was waggling it in front of his face.
‘Hang on, that isn’t my bloody phone.’
‘Exactly.’ She giggled and fell sideways.
‘Hello? Hello? You’re not—’
‘Pip.’ Rory stared at the bright pink phone in disgust. ‘Hell, I forgotten I’d ended up with bloody Pip’s phone again, why the fuck does she keep walking off with my mobile?’ Pip was lovely, Pip was totally, one hundred per cent organised when it came to work, and a shambling mess when it came to everything else. And this was the third time in a week she’d picked up his mobile by mistake and walked off with it. Which left him with hers.
‘Why don’t you keep it in your pocket, like everyone else?’ Lottie was regarding him through big green eyes, her head cradled in her hand. Mussed up hair in a tangle round her face. A very kissable face, and he just knew that mouth would taste of sex. He leaned forward, just as she put a hand out to his chest. ‘Rory, you’re on the phone remember?’
He sighed. ‘I’d rather be on you.’
‘Shush,’ she giggled, ‘she can hear you.’ He made a move to chuck the phone back down the bed, but she grabbed it from him before he had chance.
‘Hello?’
He trailed a finger over her slightly rounded stomach and was rewarded with a slap. ‘Stop it.’
‘I can’t. You’re irresistible, especially when you’re cross.’
‘You’re not Pip, either.’ He could hear the voice, sharp, on the other end of the line.
‘Nope. It’s Lottie. Pip has got Rory’s mobile, her number—’
‘I know what the number is, thank you.’
‘Hey, is that Amanda? Hello? Amanda?’ Lottie dropped the phone on his chest and flopped back. ‘Well thanks to you too. She’s bloody hung up on me.’
‘I’m hung up on you.’ He stroked a finger down one of the forbidden breasts, over the peak of a nipple. ‘So, fancy a bit of mounting practice?’
‘What time is it?’
Rory sighed and held his wrist up so she could see his watch. ‘I really don’t know why you haven’t got a watch.’
‘I lose them, or drop them in water buckets. And they leave tan lines.’ She stretched perfectly bronzed, unmarked arms out in front of her and squinted again at his watch. ‘You do know your class starts in an hour?’
Oh yeah, that was what he was doing shacked up in the crummiest horsebox that Billy Brinkley owned. With the man’s daughter. They’d got to the showground and hit the whiskey and an uncomfortable, cramped bed with the long-legged shapely Charlotte had, in his drunken haze, seemed a far better bet than the comfort of the hotel that the horse’s owner had booked for him half a mile up the road.
‘And Flashy needs a good half hour work-in unless you want to exit over the judge’s car like she did last time.’
‘Well you better shift your arse hadn’t you gorgeous?’ He gave the bum he quite fancied fondling a shove with his foot. ‘I can’t exit anywhere with you in the way.’
Three minutes later the horsebox door was open and Rory Steel stood in nothing more than breeches and boots, surveying the showground. There was an early morning spring nip in the air that did nothing to clear his head, nor did the sight of already gleaming horses being walked out.
His two least favourite aspects of the world of eventing he competed in were dressage and small events like this. Unfortunately, Flash didn’t approve of dressage either, so he’d been forced to take the sensible route and bring her to a smaller dressage competition. The other competitors would hate him, because they knew who he was, and considered it jolly bad form to compete at a lower level. And he’d hate every minute because there was a good chance the stroppy little mare would play up like the prima donna she was and make him look a prize dick.
Hot Flash had been named well, though as far as he was concerned it was more Hot Flush, she was as temperamental as a menopausal woman. Not that he’d known that many, but the image of his mum at fifty stuck in his mind. She’d developed a temper worse than his dad’s had ever been. Which was going some.
‘Are you going to just stand there showing the world your abs, or let me get past so I can get her ready?’
‘I’d rather have just lain there actually.’ He ran his fingers through his hair and could swear his head was literally throbbing. ‘Christ, was that whiskey you were plying me with last night bootleggers’ stuff?’
‘Probably. You know me, anything to get you into bed.’ She grinned, which made her even more shaggable, and he couldn’t resist kissing those full lips, sliding his hand round onto her firm bum so he could pull her closer.
Lottie wriggled her way past him. ‘Are you going to ride dressed like that? Try distraction techniques so no one notices what a crap test you’ve done? I can see the headlines now,’ she waved her hands in the air ‘Rory Steel, the fearless eventer, beaten by a bunch of Cheshire WAGs.’
‘Piss off.’ His foot missed her bum by inches as she jumped down the steps laughing. It beat him how she managed to get up so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when they’d spent the evening getting slaughtered and the night getting shagged.
***
It wasn’t until Lottie was grooming the laid-back Flash that she remembered the phone call. If Pip had been calling first thing in the morning, it wouldn’t have seemed strange, Pip had been shadowing Rory’s every move lately. But it was Amanda. And that was just weird. Pip did horses, didn’t think anything of getting up before the birds had started tweeting to get a horse ready for a show. But Amanda was a lady of leisure, well at least that’s how the rest of Tippermere saw her. Marcus made the millions, and his beautiful wife spent them. His extravagance had been to buy Folly Lake Equestrian Centre and sponsor one or two of the riders who frequented it, but his lovely wife had zero interest in the centre, the horses or even the riders. Which was a constant source of amazement to Lottie. If she’d been married to the slightly portly and very bossy Marcus, she’d have felt entitled to eye up every single fit horseman at close quarters as a consolation prize, but the only time she’d ever spotted Amanda down at the stables was when she’d been searching out her errant husband – who had no qualms about mentally undressing every groom and female rider on the yard. Lottie reckoned he was totally shameless; he’d have shagged anything with a pulse. Even the podgy dishevelled Tiggy, or the bad-tempered Fliss.
Maybe Amanda was frigid? But she didn’t seem like that; she’d been a bit of a laugh at the parties they’d held in Folly Lake Manor, or Follyfoot funny farm as Rory and his mates often referred to it. To them it was a majestic home for misfits, to others, like Billy, her father, it was a necessary evil in the village.
Either way, Marcus and Amanda were regarded with amused suspicion by some, and as generous benefactors by others. But everyone agreed they threw a bloody good party.
Maybe, Lottie thought, Amanda had married Marcus for his money, and he’d married her for her looks and that was it. A shiver ran down her spine as Flash nibbled at her collar.
‘Now you are going to behave for Rory, aren’t you?’ She knew how much he hated events like this, but Flash desperately needed some smaller venues to persuade her that dressage arenas weren’t inhabited by lions. The mare was a dream in the stable, and had a jump as big and brave as her heart on the cross-country course, with flicking heels that respected the flimsy show jumps, but in the vast emptiness of the dressage arena she was like a firecracker about to go off. Lottie knew how she felt. It was like being dropped on a fashion runway in uncomfortable shoes and being told not to trip up, not that she knew much about fashion shows, but she imagined it was the same. Hushed silence, everyone watching and an acre of space poised to make a fool of you.
But in the few three-day events Rory had entered her, the cricket score of the dressage section had meant any hope of being on the leader board was doomed. Even when the fiery, fearless chestnut jumped out of her skin in the other two phases of the competition.
Lottie dropped the white pad and elegant black saddle onto the mare’s iridescent back just as an out of tune whistle announced Rory’s arrival.
‘Some of those plaits look like a poodle’s topknot.’
‘You’re very lucky you didn’t have to do them yourself, mate.’ She bent down to tighten the girth and took the time to admire his toned thighs on her way back up. ‘I’m only here because there wasn’t anything else to do, and if I’d stayed on dad’s yard for another five minutes I’d have screamed and hightailed it back to Barcelona.’
‘Why go all the way to Spain, when I’m here?’ His lazy gaze drifted over her body as the soft drawl made its way straight between her thighs. Charlotte loved Rory for many reasons, his sense of humour, easy-going nature, fit toned body, but most of all because he didn’t mean a word he said. No expectations. Just fun. Which was exactly what, she’d decided, she needed after leaving her shit of a boyfriend on a Spanish beach and heading reluctantly back to Cheshire, because she had nowhere else to go. When Lottie had left Tippermere, one of the reasons (and there had been several) had been Rory and his complete inability to take anything, including relationships, seriously. But now she was back she’d concluded that it was actually a bonus.
‘Because it’s sunny there and no one gives a damn about Billy bloody Brinkley, and,’ she paused in her list of some of the other reasons as she got to the crux of the matter, ‘there aren’t any horses.’ Which was, she told herself, why she’d run first of all to Australia, then somehow ended up in Barcelona after hooking up with an adventurer who had itchier feet than she had. Todd.
It was slightly ironic that in the search for a soul mate who didn’t want to be tied down, or committed to anyone or anything, she’d managed to end up with a serial adulterer who also happened to be a bigamist. Spreading it around was bad enough, but the arrival of a platoon of police armed to the teeth, on the beach of all places, had been the ultimate in humiliation. It wasn’t like she’d even had her best bikini on. Todd the hunter could, as far as she was concerned, go screw himself. Which might be the only option left if he got deported from Spain and stuck in the slammer.
‘How boring.’ Rory grinned and ran a large, capable hand through his messy curls before checking the girth. ‘What the fuck do you do then, apart from drink?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Now, do I risk working her in and scaring all the other riders out of the warm-up area, or shall I just enter at A?’
Knowing Rory as she did, she guessed it was probably a rhetorical question, but answered it anyway. ‘And exit three seconds later?’ She patted the docile Flash, who was looking like a tired donkey. ‘I suppose it might give you a chance of getting in the top twenty if you manage to scare all the others off.’ She worked on keeping a thoughtful face, but one glance of the sexily frustrated look Rory shot at her tickled her somewhere deep down and brought a grin to her face. It was hard to stay serious with him around, you either laughed with him, or, as he was so funny when he got angry, you had to laugh at him. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, call yourself a horseman, you could put a baby on her.’ She gave the mare a dig in the ribs as the horse was now resting a leg, and leaning half a ton of horseflesh against her. ‘Come on you old nag, let’s go bust some balls.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about, busting mine.’ Rory gave the mare a hearty slap on the rump as they walked out of the stall past him and flicked some shavings out of the long tail. ‘Call yourself a groom.’