Nacho Figueras Presents (4 page)

G
eorgia was swept from the plane by a tide of money on the move. Exiting behind first class, she couldn't help noticing the ease with which the rich traveled. The loose white linen shirts on the men, beautifully cut white linen pants on the women. Monogrammed everything. And it was funny, since agreeing to help Billy grab his love in the land of polo, she was seeing the Ralph Lauren and US Polo Association logos everywhere. She had to wonder how many of the people walking around with ever-bigger insignias of the horse and player emblazoned on their chest had any idea how the game was actually played.

She found Billy waiting at the curb, leaning against a slate gray car as sleek and neat as he was. He flashed her his gorgeous smile, blinding white against his tan skin, slung her bags into the backseat, and then caught her in a warm hug. She always felt a bit unwieldy next to Billy, but it was far too good to see him to mind.

“Pretty,” Georgia said of the little Porsche.

“Christmas,” Billy said quickly, with the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I drove it down after the holidays.” Billy's parents had made a fortune from some sort of powdered sports drink and seen to it their only son couldn't run through his trust fund if he tried. Which he did.

Though he didn't need the money, Billy did like to keep himself busy, always coming up with new business schemes. His latest venture was sourcing the world's most luxurious leathers to make artisan bags handcrafted at price-on-demand expense. Every few months, he copied Georgia on a press release to show they'd been featured in a
Vogue
somewhere around the globe, but as far as she could tell, he'd actually only sold one or two so far.

He put the roof down and tunes on, and before Georgia could put on her seatbelt, he lurched away from the curb with a reckless lack of clutch control. They sped out beneath the airport underpass and into the Florida sun.

Billy changed lanes without looking and chattered happily about everything he'd planned for the weekend. In classic Wayfarers, a sleek jersey tee, and spotless white jeans, he was, Georgia thought, a study in hip elegance. In her wrinkled pants and tank top, she felt horribly plain and frumpy.

They were cruising past some of the most immaculate landscaping she had ever seen. Manicured paddocks and pristine fencing, the edges of everything were impeccable. Vast barns were set back from the road, supersize houses looming behind. “This place is unreal,” she said.

“Welcome to Welly World, Georgia Fellowes.” Billy grinned. “You're going to love it, and I'm going to spoil you while I've got you. On today's schedule: manis, massages, margaritas—let the pampering begin! I owe you big time. But first, I'm afraid we need to make a quick pit stop at the polo grounds—”

Georgia groaned. “Already?”

“Sing for your supper, girl,” he said. “But don't worry. I'm not forcing you to watch any actual polo 'til tomorrow. Today's about scoping out Beau—while enjoying some generously sponsored drinking—before I whisk you off for a thorough spoiling.”

He turned to her, his eyes sparkling. “Did you open that picture I sent? Was he not the cutest man you've ever seen?”

There was a tiny silence while Georgia thought about the brothers in the photo. Cute didn't quite cut it. In fact, magnificent was more like it.

“Beau,” Billy pressed. “He's edible, right?”

“Oh. Yes. Beau.” Georgia nodded quickly. “Super cute. And how perfect that he's in leather—”

“Right? He's in the business! I'm envisioning a dynasty built on love and rawhide. I mean, there are only so many six-figure purses I'm ever going to sell but these horsey types are made of money, and there's no portion control when it comes to their accessories. Beau has contacts up to his adorable little ears—”

“I bet,” Georgia said.

“And you saw the Del Campo boys?” Billy said, adopting a terrible Spanish accent. “Del Campo…Don't you love how that sounds on your tongue? It's like the firm hand of fate on your lower back, like a deep clinch on a starry beach…” He groaned pornographically. “Oh,
Señor
Del Campo.”

“Stop, you're ridiculous,” Georgia said as Billy turned into a long private drive. “Anyway, they're probably gay.”

“No, no,” Billy said. “Maybe if they were show jumpers or dressage, but almost everyone's hetero on the polo field. Believe you me, I'd know.”

She laughed to acknowledge that it was probably so. Then she rested her head back as they passed beneath towering palms, and she felt her muscles begin to unclench in the warm, lush breeze. It was surreal to Georgia to think it was January.

Passing a glossy red monogrammed horse trailer, she felt a swell of interest in seeing what were supposed to be some of the most impressive ponies in the world. She was surprised to find herself even a little disappointed she wouldn't see polo played right away.

“So, anyway,” Billy said, “I think things are getting kind of serious with Beau. Last night—in the middle of what I will simply call a really good time so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities—he almost said the L word. And if he had, I swear to God, I would have said it right back. So you are here just in the nick of time, Peaches. If I'm missing the obvious and this guy is actually bad news, I need someone to tell me right now, before I'm in too deep.”

Georgia shook her head. “I don't know why you think I have some sort of magical sixth sense for this kind of thing.”

Billy swerved a little as he looked over at her. “Because you do. It's your gift. You can always read the vibes around someone—human or animal. It's what makes you such a good vet and a good friend. I mean, you called out every jerk I ever dated—right from the first day you met them—but it's just taken me this long to actually want to listen to you.”

Georgia laughed. “I'll do what I can. But please don't blame me if I'm wrong.”

“Oh, don't worry, I will,” said Billy merrily. “Now, I happen to know that Beau's going to be trapped in the Maserati press tent right after the match, and so your job is to get trapped with him and chat the man up. Get a feel for him, find out his secrets, see if you think I should hide the keys to my car.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Georgia said distractedly as she flipped down the visor to look in the mirror. Frowning at the dark shadows under her hazel eyes, she made a face and snapped it back up. “Shouldn't I change, though?” she said. “I actually brought a dress—”

“You did?” Billy laughed. “Georgia Fellowes, I am astonished to learn that you're not immune to vanity after all.” He glanced at her. “No, you're perfect just as you are. There's no hiding that body and that whole sexy librarian thing you've got going is set to turn every head. You'll be a breath of fresh air down here, Peaches. You just be you, and the men will come running.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “I'm only here for four days. I'm not looking to meet a man.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, darling, I'll make sure you meet lots of men, and then you can simply take your pick. A little flirtation to take the edge off your winter.” He cocked his head critically at Georgia a beat longer and reached behind him, swerving again as he did, to retrieve a gift bag from the backseat. “You could use a hit of color, though. See if there's something in yesterday's swag. Press tent goody bag.”

For a girl like Georgia with one wand of desiccated mascara and a smushed old lip gloss to her name, a bag full of makeup freebies made her feel both giddy and intimidated. She just never quite knew what to do with the stuff.

“Go easy,” Billy said as she puckered up to consider a second coat of lipstick. “You want to work that whole ‘I have my mind on higher things' look.”

A few minutes later, they were pulling in to the Everglades Polo Club beneath a logo of crossed palms and mallets. Billy tossed his keys to a parking valet with a wink. Georgia smiled for a second to think how dismayed the poor guy would be if she'd handed him the keys to her ancient Mercedes, scattered with old parking tickets and pistachio shells. But then again, she thought, as she saw the high-handed way some of the guests treated the valets, at least she'd be sure to give a big tip.

I
nside the grounds, the air was festive with post-match revelry. Billy set the pace, scooping up their security passes without breaking stride. Looking longingly at the happy activity around the ranks of horse trailers, where ponies were being hosed and groomed and loaded back into their trailers by casually glamorous grooms, Georgia hurried to follow her friend.

Weaving through the many beautiful girls in Lilly Pulitzer prints and skimpy silk dresses fluttering like bunting in the sunshine, all Georgia's worries about being underdressed went out the window. With so many gorgeous sights to see, it was quite obvious that no one would look at her at all.

They passed vivid orange Veuve Clicquot tents; craft tents where little girls in smocked dresses painted wooden polo ponies; and a gaggle of women staggering by on six-inch heels that Georgia imagined they must be wishing they'd left at home.

She caught a glimpse of a red dress and felt her heart constrict in a sudden unreasonable flash of panic. Oh God, what if she ran into her mother here? She stopped for a moment and tried to shake off the silly fear. The last Georgia's dad had heard, she'd been in St. Moritz—a safe continent away.

Billy grasped her elbow and steered her through the crowd, giving his inimitable running commentary on the characters they passed. A literary celebrity in his trademark white suit, one of last season's
Real Housewives
in a ravishing backless sundress, a stunning transgender actress recently seen on the cover of a magazine with cleavage as taut as rubber dinghies, actors, singers, bankers, dandies, barely dressed horsey groupies, and a theatrically busy club manager in a monogrammed blazer and orange suede loafers, conspicuously wielding a walkie-talkie. Between Billy's wry asides, Georgia caught snatches of passing conversations in a dozen foreign accents.

Nobody, Georgia saw, was trying to be subtle about their wealth here. Everything that could be had been dipped in diamanté: riding boots, saddles, wrists, ring fingers, and pinkies. It was as if all the money in the world had slid into the laps of people with horses.

They moved through something Billy called the tailgate section, but it was like no tailgate Georgia had ever seen. These tents were decorated in every conceivable theme, from Moroccan luxury desert dweller with Berber carpets and jewel-colored throw pillows to redneck hipster with pristine hay bales and ironic kerchiefs around the waitstaff necks.

Billy scanned the crowd with fierce determination and homed in on his target. “There he is.” He smiled triumphantly. “With the team.”

She followed the direction of his gaze and made out a distinctive profile, smooth gold skin, pale blue eyes, and a thick mop of red-blond hair. Beau was flanked by two tall, wide backs in tight La Victoria team T-shirts. Their sleek, dark heads ducked as one into the shade of the Maserati tent.

The tent perimeter was being policed by very pretty security—a girl with severely pulled back hair, bright red lips, and a look on her face that seemed to say she lived to turn people away.

“Oh God,” Georgia said, frantically trying to brush the worst of the wrinkles from her travel-worn clothes. “I look like I just crawled out of bed. They'll stop me at the door.”

But Billy flashed their laminated passes, and to the evident disappointment of the clipboard chick, they were in. As their eyes adjusted to the filtered light in the tent, Billy paused for a second to pat down his closely cropped curls and straighten his tee over his perfect abs, then scooped two plastic goblets of champagne, handed one to Georgia, and arranged himself behind Beau as if he'd been standing there all day.

Beau turned and smiled. “Hey, you,” his voice a smooth Virginia drawl, “I was hoping you'd show up. Where you been all day?”

“Remember? I had to meet my best friend at the airport,” Billy said. “This is Georgia. She's a veterinarian. Specialist in equine medicine.”

Georgia raised an eyebrow. Given her recent responsibilities, that was a bit of a stretch, but she appreciated Billy trying to make her look good.

Beau tore his eyes away from Billy's to shake Georgia's hand with a warm smile. “I've heard a lot about you already, Georgia. So glad to finally meet you in person.”

Georgia returned the smile. “Likewise,” she said.

Georgia watched the way Beau moved closer to Billy, and she relaxed a bit. It was clear the guy was smitten. Which was no surprise really, since Billy was one of the most irresistible people she knew.

Beau briefed Billy on the honorable defeat of the Del Campo team, La Victoria, at the match they'd just missed, and Georgia resisted a retort about the irony of the team name. The two men talked animatedly about the party they'd attended last night, the tequila casualties and the overall extravagance, and as their voices rapidly rose and fell, Georgia felt her eyes wandering and her shoes sinking into the deep green grass. Finally, Billy looked over at her and gave her a little nod. “I'm going to go refresh our drinks. I'll be right back.”

Beau watched Billy walk away and then turned to Georgia and grinned. “So, what do I have to do to pass the Best Friend Test?”

Georgia laughed, sheepish. “Oh, so you know?”

Beau shook his head, amused. “Billy is as transparent as a window. But that's one of the reasons I like him so much. The guy can't hide anything from anyone.”

“That's true. He never could,” said Georgia. She smiled at Beau. She had a good feeling about him.

Billy returned, and talk turned to the afternoon match and the saddles Beau made. Beau described them with lively eyes while never taking his hand off Billy's arm.

“Hey, Beau,” came a low, laughing voice.

“Sebastian. You remember Billy. And this is Georgia.”

She turned around to see Sebastian Del Campo—looking every bit as outlandishly handsome as he had in his photo. With him was a shorter, redheaded man with a dazzling smile, whom Beau introduced as Rory Weymouth.

The men shook her hand with old-world charm and slid into practiced repartee, taking turns asking where she was from and how long she'd be staying. Certainly their spirits didn't seem dimmed by recent defeat.

Georgia could tell that their disarmingly attentive double act was probably due to some running tally of conquests between the two. She had zero intention of being added to either of their lists, but she had to admit, it was fun to be flanked by two such good-looking and very friendly men.

“Georgia has horses, too,” Billy said, apropos of nothing, and buried his nose back in his flute.

Sebastian looked interested. “What kind of stable do you have?”

Georgia shrugged, embarrassed. “Well, we don't have horses like you have horses. I mean, not ones you can actually ride these days. We have a sweet old mustang named Ben—you can't mount him, though, his last owner foundered him, and so his feet are too sore. And we have a one-eyed donkey named Jenny. You could ride her, I suppose—but she only goes in circles—you know, because of the one-eye thing.”

Rory looked rather startled, but Sebastian threw back his head and laughed.