Page 46 of Sinful Escape

He was about eight inches taller than me and built like a man who’d had a manual labor job his entire life. Luca arrived at my side and leaned forward, and we kissed each other’s cheek. “Your timing is perfect.” He spoke in English for my benefit. “Would you mind helping me with Mon Petit Chou?”

“Of course. What do you need?” Mon Petit Chou was Luca’s nickname for the beautiful little foal born five months ago. It translated to Little Cream Puff, and as her coat was a perfect blend of caramel with cream patches on her rump, the nickname was perfect. Her official name was a combination of her pure-bred parents’ names and wasn’t anywhere near as cute.

“She must’ve run into a fence or something this morning; she’s cut her shoulder.”

I gasped. “Oh no. Is she okay?”

“Not sure yet. I need to take a closer look.”

I followed his lead, hustling toward her stable. Mon Petit Chou was just one day old when I saw her for the first time and for some reason, the little foal and I bonded immediately. While I could walk right up to her, she apparently didn’t like men.

I found it amusing. Luca . . . not so much.

Mon Petit Chou had her hind legs backed up to a corner. When I pushed through the stall door, she lifted her nose and whinnied.

“Hey, girl.” I strolled up to her, nice and casual, and placed my hand on the side of her face. She nuzzled me in reply.

Luca approached from the other side, and Mon Petit Chou reared her head. “Shhh, steady there,” his gentle voice cooed.

I came around to the same side as Luca. “Oh my god. That looks bad.” The cut on her shoulder was about five inches long. Blood dribbled from the wound down her lovely cream coat.

“I think it looks worse than it is.” He touched her wither and Mon Petit Chou shuddered.

I ran my hand down her nose and while I spoke to her, Luca examined the wound. “How bad is it?”

“It’s only a flesh wound—shouldn’t need stitches. Can you talk to her while I sort this out?”

“Sure.” I cuddled her head to my bosom. “Hey, girl.” She nuzzled in and seemed to like it. I’d been around horses before, but I’d never known a horse to be so affectionate. Her long lashes closed and as I scratched behind her ear, she nodded as if encouraging me to continue.

Luca collected a bucket and what looked like a fishing tackle box from outside the stable door, and Mon Petit Chou ground her teeth as if annoyed by his presence.

“Keep her steady.” He pulled on plastic gloves.

“I’ll try.”

Luca dipped a cloth into the bucket of water. When he stood, concern drilled onto his features. He didn’t just care for these horses; he loved them.

With each gentle touch to Mon Petit Chou’s wound, the foal shivered. Blood and water dribbled down her shoulder onto the straw-covered concrete floor. Luca whispered a monologue in French, and although I could only decipher a few words, his tone was a soothing melody.

Luca looked at me. His incredibly blue eyes lured me in, and I wanted to dive into those shimmering pools. It was like he was reaching right into my brain.

Butterflies danced in my stomach and my girly bits seemed to come alive.

Lordy. I better simmer down these stupid feelings, or I’ll pass out.

Mon Petit Chou nuzzled me as if she’d noticed my divided attention. I giggled and rubbed her ears. Her long lashes lowered again, and she seemed to fall into a trance.

Luca rubbed white cream along the cut, taking his time with delicate touches and when he finished, he gathered the blood-soaked cloths into the bucket and pulled off his plastic gloves. “There you go, girl.” He curled his palm over her nose and Mon Petit Chou bobbed her head as if saying thank you.

Luca gave the foal a scoop of grain and as she tucked into the feed, I followed him out the gate. We fell into stride, strolling to the far corner tack room where all the equipment was stored in custom-built compartments. As Luca shifted from one spot to the next putting the bits and pieces away, my eyes absorbed every flex and bulge of his sexy butt. My body purred.

Jaysus, girl. Calm your farm.

With my back to the wall, I watched my French horseman. I guessed him to be about twenty-eight years old. His physique was a work of art, broad shoulders, narrow hips, muscles in all the right places. He’d make men jealous, and women drool. Nothing like William. Shit. Why do I do that comparison bullshit? My ex-fiancé should be a distant memory, not slamming into my brain when I least expected it.

Fuck off, William. Get out of my head.

Luca turned to me, gliding his tongue over his lips. Lips that I wanted to kiss. The urge came from nowhere. It was so strong I could already taste him.

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