It seemed like fate when his stepfather called, telling Michael that he and Michael's mother were going to sell the property in the hills. Though he had no sentiment for it, Michael heard himself offering to buy it.
It was good horse country.
So, he'd come back, and nature had delivered a hard backhanded Slap in welcome. He didn't give a good damn about the house. But his horses—he would have died saving them, and he'd come dangerously close as those acres of mud tumbled down.
There he was, filthy, exhausted, alone, looking at what had been his next start. The oozing rubble of it.
There had been a time when he would have simply cut his losses and moved on. But this time he was sticking.
Now Josh had offered him a hand, and weighing his pride against his horses, Michael had accepted.
As he swung up the drive toward Templeton House, he hoped he wasn't gambling on the wrong roll of the dice. He'd always admired the place. You couldn't help it. So he stopped in the middle of the drive, got out, and took a long look.
He stood in the mild winter air, a rangy man with an athlete's disciplined body, a brawler's ready stance. He was dressed in black, his most usual attire, because it saved him from thinking when he reached for clothes. The snug black jeans and sweater under a scarred leather bomber jacket gave him the look of a desperado.
He would have said it wasn't far from the truth.
His black hair danced in the breeze. It was longer than practical, sleek and thick by nature. When he was working, he often pulled it back in a stubby ponytail. He hated the barber and would have suffered torments of hell going to what they called a stylist.
He'd forgotten to shave—he'd meant to, but he got involved with the horses. The stubble only added to the dangerous appeal of a rawboned face. His mouth was surprisingly soft. Many women could testify to its skill and generosity. But whatever softness was there was often overlooked when the observer was pinned by hard eyes the color of ball lightning.
Over them, his brows were arched, the left one marred by a faint white scar.
He had others on his body, from car wrecks, fights, his stunt work. He'd learned to live with them, just as he lived with the scars inside.
As he studied the glinting stone, the spearing towers, and glinting glass of Templeton House, he smiled. Christ, what a place, he thought. A castle for modern royalty.
Here comes Michael Fury, he thought. And what the hell are you going to do about it?
He chuckled to himself as he drove up the winding lane, cutting through rolling lawns accented by stately old trees, shrubs waiting to burst into bloom. He didn't imagine that the reigning princess was too happy about his impending stay. Josh must have done some fast talking to persuade his proper society sister to open even the stables for the likes of Michael Fury.
They'd both get used to it, he imagined. It wasn't for long, and he was sure they could manage to stay out of each other's way. Just as they had in the past.
For Laura, carving out this hour in the middle of the day was problematic but necessary. She had sent the maid Jenny to do what she could about cleaning the groom's apartment above the stables. God knew it was a mess of dust and debris and spiderwebs. Mice, Laura thought, shuddering as she hauled up a bucket of soapy water.
She couldn't expect the girl to perform miracles. And there just hadn't been enough time. It hadn't been possible to ask Ann's help. At the mere mention of Michael Fury's name, the housekeeper had sniffed and gone stone-faced.
So, Laura had decided the final work fell to her. She wasn't about to welcome anyone into her home, or a part thereof, and not have it spic and span.
An extended lunch hour away from her duties at Pretenses, a quick change of clothes, and now, she thought, a great deal of elbow grease. The state of the bathroom in the apartment had shocked young Jenny speechless.
Small wonder. With her hair pulled back, her sleeves rolled up, Laura climbed into the tub and began to attack the worst of the grime. When her guest—tenant—whatever the hell he was—arrived the following day, at least he wouldn't find scum on the tiles.
As far as the stables themselves went, she'd decided after one look that they fell into Michael Fury's territory.
While she worked, she rattled through her head for the rest of her day's schedule. She could get back to Pretenses by three. Close out by six-thirty. A quick dash to pick up the girls from piano lessons.
Damn it, she'd forgotten to look into finding a good drawing instructor for Kayla.
Dinner at seven-thirty. A check to make certain both girls were prepared for whatever tests and assignments were coming up.
Was it spelling for Kayla tomorrow or math for Ali? Was it both? Good God, she hated going back to school. Fractions were killing her.
Puffing a bit as her muscles sang, she swiped soap and grit over her cheek.
She really did have to go over that report on the cosmeticians' convention next month. She could do that in bed, once the girls were down. And Ali needed new ballet shoes. They would see to that tomorrow.
"Well, that's quite a sight." Michael stepped into the narrow doorway and was treated to the appealing view of a pretty female butt straining against faded denim. A butt that he assumed belonged to some nubile Templeton maid. "If this is among the amenities, I should be paying a hell of a lot more rent."