It Takes a Rebel (15 page)

But the best moment came after climbing the stairs to the stands and walking out for the first breathless view of the track.

Awesome. The enormous ring of freshly raked black earth was lined with a fence on both sides, and skirted by lush grass and

beautifully manicured shrubbery that spelled out "Keeneland" in enormous letters. As large as a movie screen, the black tote

board sat on the inner ring of grass, already flashing jockey changes and entry scratches. The entire scene hummed and was

poignant enough to make a person want to burst out singing "My Old Kentucky Home."

Her spirits lifted with every step as she made her way toward the box seats in the milling crowd. Alex held on to her hat and

tilted her face to the sun—she was spending a gorgeous day with the man who cared most about her, and Jack Stillman was far,

far away.

"Well, if it isn't a small world."

Alex froze, unwilling to believe the familiar voice behind her belonged to the person she thought it did.

"I said,
if it isn't a small world
."

Keeping a firm hold on her hat, Alex whirled. She gaped at Jack Stillman lounging in her father's box, clad in faded jeans and

a pale blue denim shirt, with his black booted feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the little hall wall that separated their

four seats from the adjacent box. Small binoculars hung around his neck.

She marched closer and gasped, "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking a beer," he said, lifting the half-empty plastic cup.

"I mean, what are you doing
here
, in our box?"

He grinned behind black sunglasses. "Your dad invited me."

Her heart pounded at the thought of sharing such a small space with him and—good Lord—with him
and
Heath for several

hours. "Why?"

Unfazed by her obvious disapproval, he shrugged. "Because he likes me, I suppose."

Exasperated, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Where
is
my father?"

"I haven't seen him, he told me to meet him here." He peered around her. "Is your boyfriend with you?"

Alex gritted her teeth, then said, "Yes, Heath is with me, and this seating arrangement simply will not work."

"Why not?" He looked at the chair wedged next to his and the two close behind him. "Four seats, four people." He lifted his

sunglasses and squinted up at her. "You might have to lose that lampshade on your head, though."

Her mouth fell open. "You insufferable—"

Jack stood abruptly, balancing his beer with one hand, waving with the other. "Hey, Mr. T!"

Alex blew out a long, shaky breath, listing her hands to resist strangling Jack, then turned to offer her father a welcoming

smile.

"Jack! And Alex—what a delightful surprise!"

She leaned forward to kiss her father's cheek, but her hat poked him in the eye.

"Goodness, my dear, that thing is dangerous."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, shooting a murderous look toward Jack who hid his smile behind a drink from his cup. "I should

have asked if you were using the box today. With Gloria the Gold—" She stopped, bit her tongue, then continued, "I mean, with

Gloria out of town, I just assumed it would be okay if Heath and I came."

"But it is," her father said cheerfully. "This is a family box, Alex, you know that. We'll have a wonderful time, all of us." He

put one arm around her shoulders, and one arm around Jack's, pulling them into him. "And with Jack being our company

spokesman, he's practically family."

Jack grinned at Al—the man was immensely likable. And he respected him for his down-to-earth attitude despite his

accomplishments and wealth. He realized suddenly how this man and his own father had formed a bond during their brief

encounter. Paul Stillman, like Jack, would have responded to Al Tremont's magnanimous outlook, and Al surely reacted to his

father's spirit of generosity. In fact, Al reminded him a bit of his father—not so much in looks as in personality. The kinship

was comforting.

He glanced from Al's glowing face to Alex, who glared at him beneath the brim of her ridiculous hat with an almost palpable

dislike. Did he imagine it, or did she pull closer to her father? Puzzled, Jack withdrew from Al's casual embrace, and excused

himself to collect drinks for the group. While standing in line at the concession stand on the top level, he mulled his

observation. Was it possible that Alex was jealous of her father's time and attention?

From his vantage point behind and above the stands, he watched Alex with her father, studying their body language. They

were still standing, as was most of the crowd since thirty minutes remained until the first race. Alex seemed to find excuses to

touch him—straightening the collar of his golf shirt, reaching up to smooth a strand of his sparse white hair.

Al appeared to tolerate her ministrations, but not much more. In fact, he seemed more absorbed in his racing form than in the

elegant woman next to him who so obviously adored him. Jack frowned as Reddinger emerged from the crowd to join them. Al

shook his hand, but kept Reddinger at arm's length. The man leaned close to Alex and angled his head as if to kiss her, but the

hat got in the way.

Jack smiled.

He paid for four beers and four bowls of thick, dark burgoo stew, then elbowed his way back to the seats. "Lunch is served,"

he said, nodding hello to Reddinger, who nodded back with a distinctly unfriendly look.

"Ahh," Al Tremont said. "I've been craving burgoo since I last had it at the spring races." He collected a bowl and a cup of

beer, then settled into one of the two front chairs. Jack looked back and forth between the happy couple. "There's enough here

for everyone, and my arms are getting a little tired."

"Um, we don't eat red meat," Reddinger said, wrinkling his nose as his hand snaked around Alex's waist. The man looked

like a prep school class president. He probably owned a pink sport coat.

"More for us," Al chirped, having already put a dent in his first portion of the stew thick with a dozen kinds of meat,

including wild game.

Jack smiled back at Reddinger and Alex, then nodded toward the beer. "Do you beatniks eat hops and barley?"

"Actually, we prefer mint juleps," Reddinger said. Naturally.

"Ah, have a beer," Al said, waving away their resistance. "You two don't know how to have a good tine."

Jack struggled to hide his mirth as the pair frowned, then dutifully retrieved their cups of beer. He started to claim the seat

next to Al, but the older man held up his hand.

"Jack, I need to discuss a few matters with Heath. Would you mind if he sat with me?"

"Not at all, sir." He exchanged tight smiles with Alex and Reddinger, then dropped into the seat behind Al and proceeded to

eat. The couple stood around, shifting from foot to foot and murmuring for a couple of minutes before Reddinger sat down next

to Al. Within a few minutes, the men had their heads together.

Alex stood a few steps away in the grandstand aisle, apparently unaware that the sun turned the thin dress she wore into a

virtual peep show. Jack settled back in his chair to enjoy the view of her slender silhouette, the curve of her breasts bound up

in a thin-strapped bra, the line of her hip skimmed by high-cut panties. Damn, with her long graceful neck and delicate limbs,

the woman could easily be mistaken for a ballet dancer instead of a ball-buster. He took a long sip of cool beer and swallowed

hard.

"Jack, we're going to place our bets," Al said, standing. "Want to come?"

Jack tore his gaze from Alex. "No, thanks, I'm covered for the first two races."

"Alex?"

She shook her head, and with the shade of her huge hat, nearly caused an eclipse of the sun. "I'd rather not fight the crowd."

"I'll place a bet for you," Heath said, and she smiled her thanks.

Jack frowned as the men turned and climbed up the concrete steps toward the covered top level where most of the betting

windows were located. As much as Jack wanted to keep ogling her, he was even more compelled to bring her closer. " You

going to stand all day?"

The only indication that she'd heard him was a slight lift of her chin. Then, holding the cup of beer as if it were swill, she

stepped inside the box, moved her folding padded chair as far away from Jack's as possible—a full two inches—and sat down

primly.

Jack watched with his tongue in his cheek as she looked for a place to set her unwieldy shoulder bag and a place to position

her expensively clad feet. After a few minutes of shifting, adjusting, and fidgeting, she fell still, staring straight ahead, her

shoulders shoved back against the metal chair.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

She turned her head and the brim of her hat poked him in the eye.

"Ow!"

"I'm sorry," she said, jerking back and spilling most of her beer on her dress. "Oh, dammit!" She jumped up and held the wet

fabric of her skirt away from her. With his lap full of unclaimed food, Jack could only lean forward and dab at the wetness on

her thigh with a handful of napkins.

"Stop it!" she snapped, swatting at his hand. When she realized that people around them were staring, she sat down, morosely

holding the half-full cup of beer.

"Why don't you drink it before you drown yourself?"

She shot him a sideways glare, then lifted the cup to her tight little mouth and took a tentative sip. "You left your coat at my

apartment," she said, her voice accusing.

"I figured as much," he said. "I kept forgetting to ask if you found it."

"
Heath
found it."

"Oh." He smiled into his beer, then spooned in the last mouthful of burgoo and chewed slowly. "Got you in trouble, did I?"

"No!" She turned her head and her hat poked him in the eye again.

"Ow!" Jack covered his watery eye and glowered at her with the other one.

She winced. "I'm sorry!"

Jack set down his trash, then politely said, "Excuse me." He stood and with both hands, lifted the hat from her dark head and

flung it across the top of the crowd down toward the infield, where the more rowdy patrons gathered in a sea of moving color.

"Hey!" she shouted, staring open-mouthed as the hat sailed on the air like a big, brown Frisbee, finally hooking onto the head

of a humongous man, who promptly ripped it off and winged it farther down the line, like a beach ball in a sports stadium.

Her eyes widened to dangerous proportions, and her face flushed fuchsia. Sputtering, she glared at Jack. "That hat cost three

hundred dollars!"

He whistled low as he settled back in his chair and retrieved his beer. "Looks like you're going to have to win big today to

recoup that loss."

"Me? You mean
you!"
She stood and stared down at him until he'd taken two more deep drinks of beer. Her arms, shoulders,

and fisted hands began to shake. "I … you … I'm going to tell—"

"Your daddy? Or your boyfriend?" he asked, half expecting the woman to tackle him, and fully expecting to like it.

"You are so immature," she hissed.

"Mr. Stillman?"

Jack turned to see a red-haired man standing near him, holding an impressive looking camera and wearing what looked to be

some kind of press pass. "Yes?"

"My name is Majeris—I'm the sports anchor for the local PBC affiliate. Sammy Richardson told me to look you up while I

was here covering opening day. Said you'd just signed on as a spokesman for a local business, and that I might get a sound bite

for tonight's broadcast."

Jack rose and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine, sir. You're a legend around the sports desk."

Smiling, Jack said, "That's nice to hear, especially since I've been out of the game for so long. But I'm back in town, running

an advertising firm with my brother, Derek—he also played football for UK—and there's a possibility I might become the

spokesman for Tremont's department store." He grinned and extended his arm to include Alex, who, besides wearing a dazed

expression, sported a wet, stained dress and hat-flattened hair. "Meet my lovely boss, Ms. Alexandria Tremont."

Majeris lifted his camera and shot a half-dozen pictures of the two of them before Alex could even blink.

Chapter 11

« ^ »

A
lex finally recovered enough to ask the reporter, "Excuse me, but who did you say told you about Mr. Stillman?" Tremont's

had not yet issued a press release announcing the name of their new spokesman—Alex had wanted to wait until the end of the

two weeks, in the highly likely event that Jack would not work out.

"Sammy Richardson."

"Sammy is producing the commercial spots," Jack supplied. "We spoke this morning to set up studio time for Monday. I

figured the station would be sending out someone to cover opening race day, so I thought why not get a headstart on publicity?"

She manufactured a smile, thinking that throwing Jack under the pounding hooves of the horses as they raced by would surely

make the eleven o'clock news. "Yes, why not?" she parroted, finger combing her hair in an attempt to counter the effects of her

now-missing hat. "Mr. Majeris, you may report a
rumor
that Jack Stillman will be signed by Tremont's, but our public relations

department will supply your station with a press release in due time."

The man nodded curtly. "A couple more pictures, Jack?" He shot Alex a guilty glance, then added, "Of Jack alone?"