Reclaimed By The Powerful Sheikh. Pippa RoscoeЧитать онлайн книгу.
MASON MCAULTY COULDN’T tell if she was breathing.
It was highly likely, an automatic physical directive obeyed by her body through necessity, but often during a race she didn’t have the time to remind herself to do it. But then, often during a race she didn’t have unwanted thoughts intruding on her mind. Usually her mind was like a cool stream running quick and clear. Not this time. Mason should be focused on the horse beneath her, not the man from her past—the man in her present—the man she wanted to run from. Danyl.
She stopped short the shiver of ache that vibrated within her chest from thoughts of what might have been before it could take hold. Before it could synchronise with the rhythm of the pounding of horses’ hooves and overwhelm her. She shoved the thought away and focused on the invisible line halfway round the racetrack, beyond a corner that was coming up. Very quickly.
The burn in her thighs, holding her just above Veranchetti’s spine, felt good. Felt right. Sound in her ears was nothing but an unending roar. Her knees, absorbing the undulations of the horse beneath her. Hooves thundering in place of a heartbeat. For her. For Veranchetti. They were perfectly in time with each other.
This.
This was what sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. It wasn’t like flying, it wasn’t effortless, it wasn’t easy. It took fierce determination, muscle, control, understanding and intuition to harness the power of such a horse, to be able to direct that power, to be able to meet that power and do incredible things together.
Mason could have been riding for hours, years even, but it had only been seconds. Perhaps only as long as a minute. But it was the last eighteen months that condensed into this moment. Nothing else mattered, but everything mattered. She had to win this race. For her father. For herself. For everything that she’d been through and everything that she would go through.
With ruthless focus, Mason blocked out the thoughts, blocked out the sight of the horse in front of her, the one beside her and the many behind her. She blinkered her vision, just like Veranchetti, as they came to the last corner on the flat race.
Anticipation rose within her like lightening glass, twisting and twining inside her, solidifying into a tangible thing. This was the moment that Veranchetti came into his own. As if he too blocked everything out until the very last second.
This was the moment when she allowed herself a small smile. The moment Veranchetti threw himself into the race, as if everything before had just been to get them to this point. She felt it in him, the moment he found that inconceivable burst of strength, the moment that he surged ahead, the moment he surprised everyone but her.
The moment when there was only a breath between victory and failure. Between past and present, present and future.
Just one moment...one breath.
December, present day
DANYL NEJEM AL ARAIN needed to breathe. Needed to focus on what one of his best friends and co-owners of the Winners’ Circle Syndicate was saying. But he couldn’t. His mind was being torn in a million different directions, all pointing to the royal palace’s gala in a week’s time. The gala that would be the final undoing of his sanity.
‘Antonio, I—’
‘Have to go, yeah, I got it. Things to do, countries to run... Listen, don’t worry. John and Veranchetti are on their way.’
‘On their way to where?’ Danyl asked, the suspicion sneaking through his usually quick mind deeply unsettling.
‘To Ter’harn.’
‘What?’
‘As per your mother’s request. As they were already set to come to you for the New Year’s Day meet, she asked that they arrive a few weeks early so that they could be part of the celebrations.’
‘This gala is getting completely out of hand.’
‘Not as much as my soon-to-be mother-in-law’s wedding plans. Fifty doves. The woman wants to release fifty doves as we leave the church. Never has Las Vegas looked so appealing!’
‘Las Vegas?’ Danyl struggled to keep track of the words pouring from Antonio’s mouth.
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Impatience bit into the earpiece of the phone.
‘Las Vegas. If you really want to move the wedding there, count me in,’ Danyl said, forcing an energy he didn’t feel into the promise.
‘Appreciated. Look, the point of the call... I need to know who your plus one will be for the wedding. So, who do you have up next to audition for the role as your future and perfect Queen? I have to admit, from what Dimitri said about Birgetta—’
‘I’ll let you know, when I know,’ Danyl bit back.
‘It’s just that, given the recent press attention from McAulty’s win, we’re having to get extra security in place.’
‘Got it. Look, I’ll get back to you on the plus one. And I’ll see you and Emma in a week for the gala.’
Danyl hung up on whatever response Antonio would have given, knowing that his friend would forgive him.
Things to do, countries to run...
He slipped his phone into his pocket, rather than hurling it across the room as he wanted. What on earth was his mother thinking, bringing their racing syndicate’s trainer John and their prize thoroughbred Veranchetti to the gala? Not only that, but also to go behind his back and speak directly to Dimitri and Antonio? She was clearly up to something and he had to put a stop to it. Now. The more she added to the line-up of entertainment, the more risk there was that something would go wrong, that it wouldn’t be perfect. And the gala had to be perfect.
He backed the chair away from the solid wooden desk piled high with paperwork and yellow legal notepads full of his tightly scrawled handwriting, so different from the sleek glass design and state-of-the-art technology of his office in central Aram, capital of Ter’harn. He missed the smooth efficiency and calm simplicity of his professional setting, gently cursing his mother for the melodrama that had brought him reluctantly back to the royal palace.
Entering the hallway sent a couple of house staff scattering and drew his personal bodyguard along in his wake. His parents would be in the dining room at this hour, Danyl was sure of it. Marching along the hallways with brusque determination, he failed to take in the centuries of elaborate decoration lining the walls, the fine tiled details on the flooring, soft earthy tones contrasting with bright whites, blues and greens, yet his shoulders still felt the burden of the palace. If he twitched them in reflex, he didn’t realise it.
Ter’harn was an oil-rich country, perfectly placed for both the desert climate and the almost