The Glory Game Part 18

"Sssh. Someone might hear." From where he was standing, he could see the smokers on the terrace and glimpse the guests milling inside the Great Hall. But there was no way he could stop now.

"Do you suppose someone's watching us?" She sounded excited as her fingers dug into his hair, clutching him tighter. "I hope so. Let them watch. Let them watch," she moaned.

It ceased to matter as he drove into her, thrilling with each shuddering sensation until it was all pumped out of him, weakening his knees. There was nothing left but a pleasant tingling ache. He wiped himself with his handkerchief, then belatedly remembered to offer it to her.

"You were fantastic." Rob never quite knew what to say to a girl afterward.

"I know." There was a smug, feline quality about her smile as she tossed his wadded handkerchief under a bush. "Let the gardener wonder about that in the morning. Or did you want to keep it for a souvenir?"

"No." Such coa.r.s.e remarks didn't appeal to him.

"I told you I wanted to find out everything you did well." She came over to him. "And it was good, wasn't it?"

"You know it was." Standing close to her this way, he remembered the heat of her and the things it did to him.

"I know something better," she said.

"There is nothing better," Rob retorted. Except maybe the thrill and excitement of polo-that stimulating chill of danger-but she wouldn't know about that.

"You disappoint me." She unfastened the clasp of her beaded evening purse and removed a mirror and a tube of lipstick. Turning so the light from the manor reflected on the mirror, she redrew the outline of her mouth with the red lipstick. "I thought all you rich American boys knew about stardust."

"What?"

"Stardust. Spelled with a C-as in my name, Cyn." She shook her head at him, doubting that he understood her. "Cocaine, darling boy." The lipstick was tucked back inside her purse, but when she took her hand out, a vial of white powder was between her fingers.

Rob felt a surge of excitement, and stiffened to resist it. The pull of that remembered feeling was hard to fight.

"Haven't you ever tried it?" she chided his apparent innocence. "I promise you it will make you feel good."

"Yeah, I've ... snorted it before." He hadn't had any since his folks split.

It sounded stupid and superst.i.tious, but everything had been fine at home until he started messing around with cocaine. Things had gone to h.e.l.l so quickly, he'd sworn off using it. It had only been an occasional thing with him anyway-not like some of the guys he knew who were tooting every chance they got.

Besides, it was expensive, and Rob wasn't sure how much of his own money Luz was going to expect him to spend to finance this year of polo. Christ, additional horses for his string, "made" ponies, were going to cost five to ten thousand dollars each, and a pro usually had thirty or more ponies in his string. Add to that the grooms, stabling and feed, veterinary bills, horse trailers, traveling expenses to tournaments around the country, a coach, and sponsors.h.i.+p of a team, and the investment started to get near the million-dollar mark.

Money wasn't the problem. He'd spend his own inheritance if necessary. Polo was what he wanted. The exhilaration of playing and winning, like this afternoon. It was a sensation like no other. Except, maybe, the glory of cocaine.

"Then you know what it's like," she said, smiling. "I have enough for two. I think it's always better when you can do it with someone. It's like the difference between masturbation and making love. It's never as much fun getting off by yourself." She took his partic.i.p.ation for granted, and Rob couldn't make himself say anything to correct her as her hand delved inside the purse again. "I have everything-mirror, razor blade ... d.a.m.n." She began frantically digging through the scant contents. "Where's the straw?"

"No problem." Rob took a fifty-pound note from his money pocket and rolled it into a small cylinder. It was a trick he'd learned from his buddies at school; if they were searched, they wouldn't get caught with drug paraphernalia in their possession.

She tucked the purse under her arm and handed him the square makeup mirror. "Hold this." Rob held it level while she carefully tapped the white powder into a small mound on its s.h.i.+ny surface. Then she used the single-edged razor blade to divide it into thin lines easily sniffed through a straw.

"Ladies first," she said and took the rolled bill from him. Bending over the mirror, she pressed one nostril closed and inserted an end of the makes.h.i.+ft straw into the other side of her nose, then lowered the bottom of the rolled paper to the white line and inhaled. Rob saw the look of pleasure that spread over her face when she straightened.

"My turn," he said and waited impatiently for her to hold the mirror.

He breathed in through the money straw, catching first the bitter taste of the cocaine, then that slow-spreading numbing sensation and the warm glow of energy. It was wonderful, great. The whole world was his for the taking.

"Are you coming to the polo match tomorrow afternoon? It's going to be a h.e.l.luva game," he declared exuberantly. "Those ponies I'm riding are the best I've ever played on. Sometimes it's like they know what I want them to do next before I ask them. That bay horse with the four white stockings? I was riding him in the third chukkar today, and I swear, I barely pulled on the reins to stop him, and in the next second, he had reversed his field and we were racing h.e.l.l for leather the other direction."

"When I met you at the party last week, you were so quiet. But when I saw you play today, I said to myself, 'I'm going to get to know him better.' I planned this whole evening, and it worked perfectly."

Rob laughed. They talked eagerly, about everything and nothing. But the exhilaration was too fleeting. In less than ten minutes, he could already feel himself coming down. It never lasted long enough.

After a little while, she removed the other vial from her purse. "Have you ever free-based?"

"No." A guy he knew at school did it all the time and swore by it.

"You have to try it sometime," she said. "It's really more potent that way. And the high it gives you is better than anything."

"Maybe I will someday." At the moment, he was only interested in recapturing the previous feeling as he watched her painstaking division of the powder with growing impatience.

"Once you have, this will seem like kiddy stuff," she warned. "And you won't want to settle for it. A friend of mine can show you how to do it if you're interested."

"We'll see."

"No more," Trisha protested when Don Townsend-she had finally remembered his name, although she still couldn't recall his father's t.i.tle-tried to drag her back onto the dance floor. "My feet need a rest." She'd been dancing solidly for the last hour.

"I haven't stepped on them that many times. Come on," he urged.

"I don't think you stepped on them at all, but they're worn out," she insisted. "And I'm thirsty."

"All right. What would you like to drink? I'll get it."

"Something tall and cold-and nonalcoholic," she told him.

"Done."

As he walked away, Trisha fanned her flushed skin with her hand and moved toward the terrace door where the air was fresher and cooler. All that dancing had made her tired, but it was a good feeling-the blood flowing through her body, her muscles loose and relaxed. She admitted, although only to herself, that a lot of her tension had left when Raul did.

"There you are, Trish. I was just looking for you."

"Rob." Her brother's sudden appearance took her by surprise. Her glance swept over his slightly rumpled hair. "You've been gone so long I don't think I'd better ask where you've been-or what you've been doing. Where's the siren? Did you lose her?"

"Cyn?"

"Cyn's her name and sin's her game." Trisha mockingly repeated the catch-phrase Don Townsend had used to describe her.

"She's in the powder room." Rob ignored the snide remark as he stretched his neck to scan the room. "Where's Raul? I saw you with him earlier."

"Much earlier. He's already left to rest up for tomorrow's game."

"I wanted to introduce him to Luz." His shoulders sagged in a disappointed slump. "Did he meet her?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"What happened? Did he talk to her about the polo school?"

"I don't think he had a chance. I doubt if it would have sunk in if he had."

"Where is she? Do you know?" He looked around the room again. "I think I'll talk to her and see what he said."

"She's upstairs in her room-probably pa.s.sed out," she informed him grimly. "She was quite drunk, Rob."

"No." His expression turned somber, that troubled moodiness settling over him again. "I'd better go check and see how she is."

"She's fine," Trisha insisted, but Rob didn't accept her word for it and walked quickly away to see for himself. "At least," she continued, speaking only to herself, "she was fine an hour ago when I looked in on her." She lost sight of Rob in the crowd of guests, then saw him going out the large doors into the main foyer.

"Something tall and cold-and nonalcoholic." Don Town-send gave a mock bow as he stopped beside her and presented a tall gla.s.s of soda to her, a wedge of lime floating on top.

"I'll love you forever for this."

"Promises, promises."

CHAPTER XII.

The ball took a wild bounce on the cut-up turf and bounded into an open area as the momentum of the players carried them past it. Raul's inside position blocked his opposite number from any attempt at the ball and gave him the closest angle to the ball. Checking his pony's speed, he urged it into a tight, fast turn and aimed for the ball, his mallet aloft.

"Leave it!"

The shouted instruction came from a teammate who had a better angle for a shot at the ball than he did. Now his team duty became to block the closest opposition between his teammate and the goal. Only one rider was in that position, already racing his pony to intercept the antic.i.p.ated flight of the ball and defend against a score.

Instinctively, Raul waited a split second until his chocolate-colored horse had the necessary pivot foot on the ground to change angles before he signaled with legs and reins to alter direction. That fractional hesitation gave a fluidity to the movement, an effortless grace with hardly any break in speed. If he hadn't waited that pulsebeat, the horse would have attempted to obey the signal, but off-balance, on the wrong lead, it would have appeared lumbering and awkward.

Control was the key. Control of a mind and body other than his own and knowing the exact second to exercise it. And it all had to be reflex. There was no time to consciously check which hoof was down or which lead the pony was on, he had to know. The animal had to be an extension of himself, two highly skilled athletes playing as one.

He heard the clunk of a mallet striking the ball behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Raul saw the ball flying by him and made a mental note of its path as he bore down on the horse and rider angling toward the ball. He identified Rob Thomas as the rider, but it made little difference beyond knowing the level of skill of his opponent.

Raul closed on the young rider at an acute angle, approaching on Rob's mallet side. At this speed, anything wider would be not only dangerous, but a foul as well. The distance shortened. And the impact of two tons of horses and riders colliding at a combined speed between fifty and sixty miles an hour was coming. His horse knew it as well as Raul, but the animal didn't shy from it.

The danger of the collision had to be ignored. Controlled recklessness was an integral part of polo. It was definitely a contact sport, and those who feared it had no business on the field.

Timing and leverage were the dominant factors, and Raul planned both so the impact was made by his horse's shoulder driving into that of his opponent's mount. Wham! He felt the bone-jarring hit and saw the sorrel head of Rob's pony dip down, stumbling, nearly knocked off its feet, but the horse recovered stride and balance.

Still, the collision had given Raul the advantage. His knee was in front of Rob's-the angle was his-and he kept the weight of his horse leaning into the other galloping animal, successfully riding Rob off the line of the ball and leaving it clear for his own teammate to send it through the now undefended goalposts.

Raul looked back as Hepplewhite made the scoring swing, but he didn't ease the pressure on the horse and rider running stride for stride with him. Even when the ball went sailing through the air toward the posts, he rode off the opposing player, keeping him away from the ball.

There was always the chance of a wild bounce, a freak ricochet that could stop it short of the goalposts. Raul didn't let up until both had gone over the endline. Only then did he pull up to go back, prepared to give further a.s.sistance, but it wasn't needed. The ground judge waved the flag over his head, indicating a point scored, and Raul reined his horse in.

Rob's sorrel acted up, wildly tossing its head and fighting the restraining pressure on the bit. Such misbehavior wasn't normal in a horse of the sorrel's caliber of training and game experience. Instinctively, Raul's horseman's eye attempted to locate the reason as Rob forced the sorrel alongside to return to the center of the playing field. His glance fell immediately on the blood-flecked foam at the corners of the horse's mouth. He looked back at Rob, ignoring his mixed expression of grudging respect and resentment over being ridden off the play.

"His mouth is cut," he said bluntly, leaving the choice to Rob whether he should play out the final minute of the chukkar on a pony suffering pain. If Rob took the precious time to change horses, he would leave his teammates one man short when play resumed with the throw-in. In Raul's opinion, fair play did not include giving advice to the opposing side.

A second later, Rob swung his horse away and spurred it toward the picket line. Raul doubted if the young rider would have made that choice six months ago. His absence on the field for a few seconds of playing time would not be as harmful to his team as a full minute of play on a disobedient pony.

His horse pushed at the bit, and Raul gave it more rein. Its chocolate head bobbed low as the horse blew out a rolling snort, clearing its distended nostrils. Absently, he listened to the familiar noises of the horse as he posted back to midfield at the regulation trot.

It was four against three in the ensuing throw-in. Raul's side got control of the ball and drove quickly for the goal. On a fresh horse, Rob raced onto the field, but he was too late to even out the numbers and prevent the scoring of a goal.

As the two teams regrouped in the center of the field, Raul heard Sherbourne berating Rob for his decision. "What the h.e.l.l did you think you were doing? There was less than a minute! Why didn't you wait until the d.a.m.ned chukkar was over to change horses?"

Raul smiled humorlessly at Rob's initiation in playing for someone else. Regardless of how wrong he was, the team owner or captain was always right. The desire to win was fierce. And having two quick goals scored on them in succession was hard for a man like Sherbourne to accept. Rob, indirectly involved in both plays, suffered the brunt of his sour temper. It was an unpleasant by-product of the game, like fatigue and injuries.

Before the umpire had a chance to bowl the ball between the staggered line of riders, the bell rang to end the chukkar, with Raul's side ahead by three points and only one period left to play. He rode to the picket line and dismounted. The groom, a chunky young girl, took the reins from him and led the sweating horse away.

Pulling off his helmet, Raul breathed in tiredly and temporarily laid his mallet, crop, and helmet across the armrests of a lawn chair. There wasn't time between chukkars to grab more than a few seconds of rest before he had to check the saddle and equipment on a fresh mount. There was a soreness in the thigh muscle of his right leg, the result of being accidentally hit by a stick early in the match. It showed signs of stiffening if he didn't keep moving.

Raul fought off the exhaustion that pushed him toward the chair seat and reached for the wet towel draped over the back. He wiped the sweat from his face and ran it over his damp hair, then let it cool the back of his neck. Blood had dried along a cut on his arm, although he didn't remember how he got it. It wasn't hurting him, so he didn't bother to clean it.

Someone handed him a drink. He lifted it to his parched mouth and downed half of it before pausing to walk again and keep that leg muscle from tightening up on him. The groom came back, leading a saddled horse. He'd saved the black so he could use its lightning speed in the final period. Raul walked to the horse rather than wait for the female groom to bring the animal to him.

As he rechecked the tightness of the saddle girth and the length of the martingale, Hepplewhite rode over, already mounted on a fresh pony. The tiredness in the team captain's face was overshadowed by the gleam of a victory within reach.

"Speed, didn't I tell you that was the key?" he declared. "Every time the tempo picked up we got control. Sherbourne's style of play is steady and deliberate. A fast pace rattles him. This period, you and that black horse have to run their legs off. You do what I say and, by d.a.m.n, we'll win this trophy."

Raul nodded, fully aware the pressure was on him more than the others. He was the professional in their midst. He was getting paid to play, so results were expected. And the only result that counted was winning. The invisible pressure was always there, sometimes wearing on him. But polo was his profession and Hepplewhite's avocation. Excellence was expected-demanded-from him, and little leeway allowed for the bad days everyone had sometimes.

"I will need the longer stick," he told the groom as he walked to the lawn chair and retrieved his helmet and whip.

After he was in the saddle, she handed him the alternate mallet. The black horse was taller than the brown pony he'd ridden before. To compensate for the difference in their heights, he used a longer stick so he wouldn't have to adjust the reach or rhythm of his swing. Holding the mallet upright, like a warrior's lance, he reined the black horse toward the long, wide field of green.

"Good luck," the groom called.

From the sidelines, Luz watched the play resume. Last night's champagne had left her with a miserable hangover, and the supposed stimulation contained in the gallons of caffeine-rich coffee she'd consumed this morning hadn't improved her condition. She still felt rotten. Her head felt heavy, in need of support, and there was a dull pounding in her temples. Despite the shade of her hat and dark gla.s.ses, the brilliant sunlight hurt her eyes. Everything jarred her senses-sounds, smells, movements.

Part of the dullness came, too, from Drew's telegram informing them of his marriage to Claudia. This morning, she had given it to Trisha and Rob. Typically, Rob had said nothing and walked out of the room. Trisha had been equally subdued, murmuring something about buying them a wedding present.

Luz tried not to think about it and watched the game instead. The action on the playing field happened too fast for her to follow all of it, so Luz concentrated on keeping track of Rob. She wasn't altogether successful at that, frequently losing sight of him amid the flas.h.i.+ng sticks and galloping ponies. At the moment, he was racing at the head of a charging line of players, chasing a ball toward the goal line. Luz was fairly certain it was the opponents' goal, although she might have missed a change of ends.

"Go, Rob! Go!" Trisha urged him on.

Luz winced at the encouraging shout, wis.h.i.+ng her daughter wouldn't yell so loudly. A black horse came streaking out of the following pack after Rob. The rider leaned way forward over the horse's neck, stretching in his stirrups and reaching with his mallet. When Rob swung at the ball his mallet head hooked the other man's stick, and he had no chance to hit the ball through the posts.

"d.a.m.n him," Trisha swore.

"Who was it?" With her slowed comprehension, it was all Luz could do to identify her own son.

"Raul Buchanan. Who else?" Trisha muttered while she looked through the binoculars.