Finally. The big day had come.

"Are you sure you're well enough?"

"Yes, of course! I've been out on the meadow helping you train Silver Star the entire last week, haven't I?"

"I know. Still..."

"Stop! I'm coming, and that's final."

"You are absolutely sure?"

"Hell yeah! I want to see that bastard Jasper get smashed!"

"An admirable sentiment, if slightly roughly phrased. Very well, then." He gestured to the waiting Rolls Royce, and the driver held the door open. "Let's go."

It only took us about ten minutes to reach the Ascot Racecourse. The crowds I had seen my first time there were nothing compared to the ones that were milling around everywhere today. Today was the climax of the Royal Ascot: the Golden Cup.

I looked over at Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcolm Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh. He was wearing his dark gray jacket and pants, and looked so deliciously lordly I felt my knees go weak. As for me, I was wearing a tight, high-necked black dress, and, out of principle, my pineapple hat.

Somehow, after the disaster the hat had caused last time, I had expected to be relegated to the silver ring, from where the main audience was watching. But when we stopped and got out of the car, Lord Farleigh immediately linked his arm with mine.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"I'm taking you to my private box, Miss McKinney."

"Are you sure? After last time..."

Slowly, he turned his head towards me, and from under dark strands of hair hanging into his beautiful face gazed into my eyes with a look of iron. "Do I look uncertain to you?"

I gulped. "No."

"Do you have any objection to accompanying me?"

"No."

"Very well then. I want you on my balcony, and I will have you there."

"That's very kind of you."

"Kind?" One corner of his mouth twisted up into a half-smile, and he interlocked his fingers with mine. "No. It's actually quite selfish of me—but in a good way."

Everyone made way for us. And of course, everyone stared at the pineapple. I didn't let it faze me. We reached his box in a matter of minutes, and took our seats in the center, while Tom settled down in a corner.

"Now, remember," his Lordly Lordshipness growled into my ear, "the Queen is here today. So no cheering chants about getting physical, understood?"

"Yes, your Lordship."

"And in general, please restrict your language to clean words that appear in the Oxford Dictionary, will you?"

"I'll do my best."

The door on the balcony next to us opened then, and a familiar emaciated figure stepped out, gazing over at us with cold eyes. I met his gaze, and felt the sudden urge to rip out my knife, kick through the glass barrier and improve Sir Jasper's fancy suit by adding a hole in the area of the heart.

Calm, I told myself, Stay calm. Stick with the plan.

If only the plan involved a little more blood. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

Yes, it is. Don't worry. What you're going to do to the stuck-up asshole is going to hurt a whole lot more than a simple knife wound.

Hm. I hoped so.

"And there they are!" the magnified voice of the commentator echoed out of the speakers. My eyes snapped down to the track. "Hector! Mastiff! Pink Pimpernel! Harriet! Carbuncle! Ravenblack! Thunderstorm! Lightwind! And... Silver Star! They're taking up their positions."

We waited as the horses filed into the start boxes. I could hardly sit still in my seat. If I'd been a normal person, I would have been biting my fingernails off. As it was, I was tempted by the incredibly powerful urge to pull out my knife and twirl it around. But I didn't think that particular stress-relieving habit would have gone down well with the police and private security swarming all over the racecourse.

The seconds trickled past.

Any moment now, the doors of the boxes would fly open.

Any moment now...

"And... they're off!"

Yes!

"Lightwind in the lead!"

No!

I watched in horror, as the brown horse moved to the front of the galloping herd. This was not how this was supposed to go!

"Come on!" I pleaded. "Come on!"

But as the race progressed, Silver Star fell even further behind. By the third lap, he was almost five yards behind Lightwind, and a disgusting smile lay on the face of Sir Jasper Jedidiah Woodward.

"It's the jockey!" I growled. "It's the jockey's fault! Poor Silver Star never had a chance!"

Lord Farleigh didn't say anything. But he didn't have to. The look on his face spoke volumes.

They entered the fourth lap, and there was no sign of a change. Damn! I had to do something! I had to let Silver Star know I was here, supporting him!

"Come on!" I yelled. "Come on! Go horse! Go run that course! Go, Silver Star! Go! Let's get phy—"

I cut off when I saw Lord Farleigh look at me. It was more than a look, though. It was a warning of bodily violence. "The queen, Miss McKinney! Remember Her Majesty the Queen!"

"Oops." I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, but... but..." Desperately, I gestured at the tragedy unfolding on the racetrack. "Just look at that! How can you stand to watch that and do nothing?"

"I can't!" he growled. "But we will have to, anyway."

So I closed my mouth. But in my mind, I continued chanting. To no avail. The last lap started, and still, Silver Star was behind. What had I done wrong? All the care Tom and I had invested into him, all the training for nothing, for nothing at—

My thoughts screeched to a halt. Down on the racecourse, things were starting to happen. Silver Stars hoofs had suddenly turned into blurs, eating up the distance between him and his contenders with ravenous hunger. Five yards. Four.

What was happening?

Three yards.

"He's been holding back!" I whispered. "The son of a nag has been holding back all this time, conserving his strength!"

I glanced over at Lord Farleigh. One corner of his mouth was twitching in a way I knew well by now.

"You knew about this?"

"I might have discussed it as a possible strategy with the jockey, yes."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I wouldn't want to ruin the excitement of a suspenseful race for you, Miss McKinney."

I grinned. I couldn't help it. "You are a bastard!"

"Thank you."

My eyes were drawn back to the race track. There were only two yards distance between Silver Star and Lightwind now. Glancing over at Sir Jasper, I saw that he had stopped smiling.

The horses rounded the bend, and, pushing past an opponent, Silver Star was able to advance even further. There was now only a single yard of distance between him and Lightwind.

"Come on...!" I mumbled, my hands clenching into fists around the armrests of my chair. "Come on, Star! Go for it!"

There were only twenty yards left to the finish line. Nineteen. Eighteen and counting. Suddenly, I felt the touch of another hand on mine. Without looking, I knew it was Lord Farleigh. Opening my fist, I let him in, interlocking our fingers tightly. He squeezed back, hard, and like every time he touched me, a tingle went up my arm. This time, it was stronger than ever.

"Come on," I growled, my eyes burning into Silver Star. He was still about half a yard behind, and the distance to the finish line was shrinking rapidly. "You can do it! Just a little bit more! Give me just a little bit more! A bit—"

Suddenly, the black stallion sprang forward with such strength, such speed I could hardly believe it. Hell yes, he had be conserving his strength! Oh yes!

"Look at this, will you?" bellowed the commentator. And I was looking. Oh, how I was looking. "Look at him go! Silver Star, ladies and gentlemen, is racing up to Lightwind. Can he make it? Ten yards to the finish line!"

I glanced at Sir Jasper again. He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his emaciated face hard as stone, his fingers taut around the armrests of his chair. I wanted to smile, but I didn't dare. Not yet.

"Nine yards..."

They were only a slight distance apart now, Silver Star and Lightwind. But no matter how much—any distance would still be enough to make Silver Start second, and the horse of that asshole on the next balcony first.

"Eight..."

The distance was shrinking. I glanced over at Lord Farleigh. There was a feverish light in his steel-blue eyes, a light that I was sure was echoed in mine. Our hands were so tightly clenched in each other I wondered whether we would ever be able to let go again.

"Seven..."

Why was I holding his hand, anyway? And why was he holding mine? Didn't we hate each other?

"Six..."

The heat that was streaming from my fingers up my arm certainly didn't feel like hate. It felt like...like...no. That couldn't be.

"Five—and it's neck and neck, now, Ladies and Gentlemen! Neck and neck!"

I could feel his breathing speed up, and felt the tempo of my own heart rise in concert. Simultaneously, we glanced towards each other, our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments.

"Four... Who is going to make it? Who?"

Please, I prayed, not knowing what exactly I was praying for. Please...

"Three..."

"Come on," I murmured, fixing my eyes on Silver Star again. "You can do it! Go! Go!"

With an almighty snort, Silver Star through his head forward and leaped.

"Two... and... yes, Silver Star is pulling ahead, and one yard to go and—Yes! Yes! We have a winner, Ladies and Gentlemen! The winner of this years Gold Cup! And it is...Lord Farleigh's Silver Star!"

"Yeah!" Leaping up from my chair, I threw my arms into the air, ripping Lord Farleigh's arm up with my own. "Hell yeah! Hail Mary Hallelujah! We've won! Holy macaroni munching mastiff, we've won! You've won! I've won! We've won!"

Forgetting where I was, I started doing a happy dance around the balcony. Who cared if there might be royalty watching? We'd won! We'd damn well won! I was only stopped when I stumbled over a chair and keeled forward. A pair of strong arms shot out to catch me.

"Yes," Lord Farleigh murmured, his steel-blue eyes boring into mine. "I've won, indeed. The biggest prize of all. And thus, we've won."

And, cupping my face between both his hands, he pulled me roughly towards him and pressed a kiss on my lips.

The kiss wasn't tentative, wasn't gentle. It was a hungry kiss, a kiss that had been building up for weeks and weeks and weeks, had gotten pretty miffed at being shoved aside and squashed down for so long and was now breaking free with a roar. It was a kiss that had big dreams of becoming a sexual fantasy when he was grown up.

Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcolm Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh, took possession of my lips with the same ferocity with which his ancestors had sailed over from Denmark or Normandy or wherever and taken possession of this measly little island. He took possession with power, strength and fire—fire that boiled through my veins and pounded in my lips. Without asking for permission, he pulled me against his hard chest and caged me in his arms.

"Oh, Cassy..."

I felt every syllable, every letter of my name, as his lips whispered it against mine. There was no hate in his voice. On the contrary.

I sighed, reveling in complete bliss. He kissed me again, his lips dancing over mine with swift and deadly grace. I gave as good as I got, and for a long while we just stood there, as tightly interlocked as two people can be while they still have all their clothes on.

Then I realized that it had suddenly gone very quiet everywhere. Glancing around, I noticed for the first time that nobody was paying attention to the racecourse anymore. Instead, everyone, the VIPs in the grandstand, the thousands of spectators down at the silver ring, the security, the police, the horses and probably even a certain person with a crown on her head were staring, eyes wide open and mouths agape at me and Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcolm Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh.

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My dear homicidal maniacs,

Well, what do you think of our heroine's newest approaching happy end? Will the emphasis be on "happy" or on "end"? ;-)

Cheers

Sir Rob