Page 2 of Riding High

If this was the players taking it easy, then a proper match would be a fantastic spectacle.

A whistle blew and a few beats later the horses slowed to a walk, and the riders relaxed.Eden raised her eyebrows and spread out her hands, hugely disappointed.‘That’s it?It’s over so soon?’

The man looked at his expensive watch.‘They only play for seven minutes, but a normal match is played at double the speed.’

Thank God for her new friend, else she would be floundering to understand the game.Eden watched as grooms led new horses onto the field.A young man walked to sexy Number Three and guided the new horse, the colour of heavy caramel, to stand next to his horse, both facing forward.Without fuss, and with a great deal of skill, he hopped from one horse to another, and without looking, slid his boots into the stirrups.‘Why are they all changing horses?’Eden asked.

‘Ponies, we call them ponies,’ her companion replied.‘It’s for their welfare.Polo is a demanding sport, played at high speed, and they don’t want to overwork their animals.’He sent her a sweet smile and waved at someone in the crowd.‘I must go, there’s my girl.’

Eden watched him weave his way through the clumps of spectators to stop by a middle-aged woman dressed in jeans, a tight t-shirt and wellington boots, a jaunty straw hat perched on her grey curls.A tall, slim blonde wearing a short white mini dress and wedges, thick straight hair pulled back into a ponytail, stood next to her.She was exceptionally pretty, and Eden suspected he was proud of his stunning daughter…

Eden’s eyes widened when he reached up to place an open-mouth kiss on the younger woman’s mouth and slid a possessive arm around her oh-so-tiny waist.

Right.Serve her right for making snap judgements.

Eden watched the next chukkas and resisted the urge to rub her itchy, watery eyes.After the fourth, and more changing of horses, the riders left the field.Around her, people streamed from their deck chairs and left their picnic blankets to swarm the field.Laughing and chatting, they started to stomp down divots in the bright green grass.

Eden made her way down the bank, the hem of her sundress fluttering around her knees.Instead of heels, she wore very sensible trainers, and she’d slathered her skin with sunscreen.But stupidly she’d forgotten to bring a hat.She fought a never-ending battle with freckles in the summer, and she could feel them popping out on her chest, shoulders, nose and cheeks.

And what on earth was wrong with her eyes?Why were they watering?

Walking away from the field, Eden turned to look at the country house behind her, taking in the many rectangular, precise windows along the ridiculously large façade of the three-storey house.The early nineteenth-century house was owned by Troyden Castle, mega-billionaire, polo aficionado, bon vivant and…

Apparently, her uncle on her father’s side.

At least that was what her genealogical DNA test had revealed six years ago.

Eden rocked on her heels as a five-year-old boy ran into her, and with a brief ‘sorry’ he was off again.His father chased after him, the slight breeze lifting his shirt.A pregnant woman carrying a toddler trundled after them, and she caught Eden’s eye.Her smile was tired but good-natured.‘Have kids, they said.It’ll be fun, they said.’

Eden wished her luck.

‘I’m going to bloody need it,’ she muttered, but laid a hand on her bump, and Eden caught the affection in her eyes.She looked like she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Had her mum ever looked at her like that?No, she never recalled seeing that easy affection on her mum’s face.Frustration and resentment, sure, sometimes what she thought was flat-out dislike.

God knew her mother had never been the warm-and-fuzzy type.As an emergency foster carer, she’d been hailed as a saint, a selfless crusader for vulnerable kids.And she’d believed the hype and took immense pride in her good works, her sacrifices and her hand-to-mouth life.

To her mum, Eden hadn’t needed saving.Eden was just there– silent, steady, waiting.

Their house was never hers, not really.It had been too full, too loud, too temporary.A revolving door of faces, names and stories, all so much more important than hers.Up until earlier this year, she’d dreamed– foolishly and desperately– that one day, just once, she’d be chosen.That her mother would look at her and see her.That she’d be her mum.

It never happened.

She’d always been the afterthought, the one who stayed while everyone else came and went.The one who didn’t need attention, or love, or to be put first.The daughter who could be discarded.Her mum dropping out of her life annihilated any hope of a mother-daughter relationship.She couldn’t avoid the hard truth any longer: she wasn’t her mum’s first choice.And never would be.

Eden hauled in a deep breath, then another and shoved the memories away into her mental junk cupboard.One day it would fly open and projectile vomit a stream of unresolved emotional gunk, but it wouldn’t happen today.Hopefully not tomorrow, or anytime soon, either.

Suddenly thirsty, she headed toward a refreshment tent, wishing she could dodge the crowds.She sighed at the long line of people waiting to be served.G&Ts and beers were popular options, but she needed to rehydrate.Eden joined the queue, her attention caught by a blunt, deep-as-night Phryne Fisher bob.Crap…

Eden immediately looked for Vincent.Yep, there he was, on the other side of the tent, talking to a woman in a blue dress.Shit.

Tara and Vincent were the remoras of the charity fundraising world, attaching themselves to the bellies of the wealthy, socialising and cajoling their way to receive mammoth donations for their foundation supporting a range of charities.This was a minor, pre-season match, and she’d thought it would be a waste of their time because there wouldn’t be a ‘hoard of high-net-worths’ in attendance.But she’d forgotten that Troyden Castle was their favourite whale.

Stupid.So stupid.

Not wanting her ex-bosses to see her–keep your mouth shut about the investigation, Miss Ennis–and wanting a conversation even less, Eden hurried out of the tent and away from the crowd.She hadn’t seen the Bancrofts since abruptly resigning from their foundation six weeks ago, but they were still blowing up her phone with text messages begging her to come back.Tara and Vincent took turns phoning her, calls she didn’t answer.And she’d yet to respond to their why-are-you-ignoring-us emails.She still, dammit, missed them.On one hand, she wanted to kill them; on the other, she would do anything to go back six months, a year.Tounknow.

To not light the fuse that would, sometime soon, blow up their world.