Deeper Than Secrets

CHAPTER 1 | Holly –––––––– I think part of me knew Beau was up to no good even before our newest groom came running to get me. I was sitting on the bleachers, watching for our sales horse to be led in for auction and doing Beau’s emails while I waited. In fact, I was almost done when I heard boots pounding down the aisle. I looked up and spotted Maisy heading straight for me, eyes nearly bugging out of her head. “Holly,” she gasps when she reaches me. “He’s at it again.” I frown. ‘It’ is drinking, and technically, Beau hasn’t stopped long enough to be at it again. He’s more like...at it still. And as his personal assistant, it’s my job to stop him. Or try. Honestly, over the past two months, I haven’t been that successful, but I give Maisy my best “I got this” smile and slip Beau’s smart phone into my bag. “Where is he?” She swallows. “The bar.” Of course he is, I think, trying to keep from grimacing. Appearances are important and I can feel about a dozen sets of eyes following me as I stride through the bleacher seating and take the stairs to the top walkway. Of all the flipping places for him to have a meltdown, I think, did it have to be here? Here being Atlanta’s inaugural Southeast Sporthorse Auction. It’s being put on by my best friend’s boyfriend, Caleb Reese. He’s the manager/owner/brainchild behind Jacks or Better Farm. It’s also being endorsed by Adele Mar, the billionaire heiress who happens to be my boss and Beau’s boss. Not that Beau ever acts like he remembers it. I spot Beau trailing through the crowd, a drink in each hand. Somehow I doubt this was what Caleb had in mind when he organized the auction’s themed out food and drink menus. Then again, I wouldn’t necessarily put it past him. Caleb’s girlfriend is also employed by Adele Mar and if Caleb thought he could move Beau out of the way so Ellie could take the top rider spot, he’d do it. Honestly, I don’t think there’s much Caleb wouldn’t do for Ellie and if I didn’t love her so much, I would be jealous as hell. “How can you walk in those things?” Maisy whispers as we work our way through the crowd. “These?” I peer down at my shoes. They’re vintage red platform sandals and I love them. Love. Them. I’m a firm believer they go with everything, but Maisy doesn’t look like she agrees. “Oh, walking in heels just takes practice. I wore them a lot for my last job. Heels, mini-skirts, I wore this see through top once that everyone loved—it was considered normal.” Maisy pales and I realize how that must sound. “I worked for a fashion designer in New York,” I explain. “Oh. I thought you’d always worked for Mrs. Mar.” “Nah, just for the last few months. I’m...rebuilding.” Which is a tactful way of saying I’m figuring out my life since the design company I worked for went under. “Rebuilding?” Maisy looks at me in confusion again, but before I can explain the crowd thins and I spot Beau by the railing behind the bleachers. He’s staring down into the auction paddock, consumed with the horses and oblivious to the stir he’s creating all around him—wives sliding him sideways glances, husbands getting annoyed at their sideways glances, and excited fans struggling to get the courage to come talk to him. I stifle a sigh. I get it. Even if he weren’t a two-time showjumping gold medalist, Beau Kent is easy on the eyes. Over six feet with a lean build and panty-dropping smile, he looks like trouble. Mostly because he is. “Can you go get my car?” I ask Maisy, one hand deep in my purse as I search for my keys. “It’s parked in the A lot. First row.” Maisy pales. “I can’t drive stick.” I stifle another sigh. “Remind me to teach you. Why don’t you go check on Mrs. Mar, see if she needs anything?” The poor girl whirls away, more than happy to leave me to wrangle Beau alone. I don’t really blame her. When Maisy signed on as a Twelve Oaks groom and exercise rider, she was expecting to learn from the once-upon-a-time Number One rider in the world. I should specify she expected to learn riding, not whether he’s about to black out. Ahead of me, Beau weaves further on, studying the horse being led in a circle below. The auction has been going on for two hours now, horses selling at a steady and pricey clip. The four-year-old being presented now is approaching fifty thousand and the bids are still climbing. I’ve been around the horse world my whole life and it still blows my mind that some people have that kind of money. I sidle up to Beau, bracing one hip against the railing so I can lean close to him. He smells like whisky, and his skin has a clammy sheen. “We’re leaving.” Unsurprisingly, he ignores me. “Hey,” I say, thumping his arm hard. It makes his drink shake and I pause. I’ve never seen him this bad before. Beau is usually a friendly drunk, the kind you meet at late night parties. This is...different. Worse. “We’re leaving,” I repeat. “Dump the whisky.” “Don’t talk to me like that. I’m your boss.” “Nooooo,” I tell him. “Mrs. Mar is my boss. You are my project. You’re like a spreadsheet that has to be updated.” Slowly, Beau turns to me, brown eyes narrowed to slits. “Spreadsheet?” “Would you rather be a pie chart?” I pretend to think. “A PowerPoint presentation?” He scowls, the Beau Kent equivalent of a Care Bear stare. It causes most women to fall all over themselves. Thankfully, I am not most women. “You know that doesn’t work on me,” I say. A deeper scowl, but when I don’t start taking my clothes off or try to take his clothes off, he turns back to the horses, passing one shaky hand over his mouth and drawing my attention to his lean, bare forearms. Usually, Beau always wears long sleeves. They hide the tattooed scripts that run up his forearms and (rumor has it) across his chest. Other guys go for barbed wire or naked women. Beau went for the names of his greatest horses and the dates of his greatest wins. They wind like veins across his skin and whenever I see them, I have the urge to trace each line with my fingertips. Or maybe my tongue. Like I said, Beau Kent is trouble. “I’m not leaving,” he tells me at last, eyes still tracking the horses below us even as he takes another swallow of whisky. “I have something I need to do.” Suspicion makes me tense. “Like what?” I follow his gaze, and my stomach curdles. He isn’t watching the sale at all. He’s watching Dell Landers. The thickset businessman is sitting in the stands with a small group of people, enjoying lunch and the horses. “Beau...” I trail off. I have no idea what to do with this. Dell owned one of Beau’s horses, Arch, an up and coming Grand Prix showjumper who dropped dead a year ago. While Beau was riding him. He’d been pinned underneath the poor animal, suffering a head injury, cracked ribs, and a broken back. Everyone called it a horrific accident, but Beau’s been muttering that it was intentional for months. He thinks Dell’s groom, George Parish, killed the horse so Dell could collect the insurance money. And as I watch, a wiry, dark-haired man joins Dell’s party. Yep, that’s Parish. This is going from bad to worse. I try to edge around Beau to get his attention. “Beau? What do you think you need to do?” He drops his drink onto the concrete and hurls himself forward, striding straight down the steps for Dell. Oh s**t, I think, tearing after him. He’s going to start a fight! “Beau?” I catch up and grab his shirt with both hands. “No! Stop it!” He shakes me off, and I stumble. “Beau!” Too late. Two more steps and he’s right in Dell’s face, Beau jams a finger into the other man’s meaty shoulder. “Buying something else to kill?” “Excuse me?” Dell’s face flushes bright red. “What did you say to me?” “You heard me.” Dell’s friends begin to shuffle around. No one knows what to do—including me. How do I play this off? You can’t, I think, planting myself firmly in between the two men. Heat radiates off Beau. I can feel it right through the back of my T-shirt. “Sorry, Mr. Landers. He’s...not well.” “The f**k I’m not.” Dell jerks his jacket back into place, and behind him, Parish smirks. “Get him away from me now,” Dell snaps. “If he can’t speak respectfully, he can leave.” “Of course.” I back up a step, trying to force Beau to move. He doesn’t. “We were just leaving.” “I know what you had Parish do,” Beau says to Dell, moving around me. I yank on his arm, but it makes zero difference. Beau leans into Dell like he wants to kill him, and the older man’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Beau! Please!” He jerks. “This doesn’t concern you,” he says, cutting me a dark glance. I give him another yank. “If you can’t think about yourself then think about Mrs. Mar,” I whisper and to my utter relief that actually does it. Beau steps back, his arm brushing my shoulder. He’s shaking and for a second I think it’s from the exertion and the booze, but then I see his clenched jaw. He’s not sick. He’s furious. I swallow, tugging him toward me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Landers,” I say. “It won’t happen again.” “You better see that it doesn’t.” Dell tugs at his jacket again, face almost purple with fear and fury. “And don’t think I won’t talk to Adele about this.” I wouldn’t expect any less, I think, steering Beau up the stairs. He’s moving funny, disjointed almost. All the booze must’ve finally caught up with him. Briefly, pity tugs at me and then I notice a couple of reporters whispering to each other. So not good. This will end up on one of the gossip sites for sure. Beau stumbles, curses, and stalks on. He’s oblivious. Wish I could say I was the same. Forget the snatched glances and subtle looks from earlier, everyone’s staring now. My skin crawls as we leave. I’m really not sure how much more of this I can take.