Page 3 of Run for the Money

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says cooly. “But you can relax. I’m not going to jump you or shove you over the edge. And even if I were interested in what you’ve got under that skirt—which I’m not—I wouldn’t take anything you’re not offering.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

He extends a hand to me. “Nicholas Korbel. You can call me Nick.”

“No thank you,” I say, ignoring the hand.

“I’m Melanie Archer, pleased to meet you,” he says in a falsetto voice, shaking his own hand. “What brings you to this stuffy, unpleasant function, Nick? I can’t imagine what would be so important that you’d hang out for an hour in the cold waiting for me!”

I take a step back. Him knowing my name does nothing to help me relax.

“Glad you asked, Melanie,” he says in his regular voice. “I’m here to meet you, because I think we could help each other out with a mutually beneficial situation.”

“Are you stalking me?” I whisper.

“Hardly. You are extremely easy to find on the internet. But since you’ve been ignoring all my attempts to contact you, I’ve had to resort to more extreme measures. A quick call to the foundation chair confirmed you were on the guest list for tonight, and here we are.Keep up, Melanie. You’re going to have to be quick on your feet if we’re going to pull this off.”

I don’t believe for a second that Mirielle—the foundation chair—is in on this, whatever it is. Despite her misstep with Paul, she’s not actually dead-set on distressing me.

“We’re not pulling anything off,” I say. “I’m leaving. Whatever you want from me, I’m afraid you’ll have to keep wanting.”

“I have an Arabian Thoroughbred, Grand Theft Equine. I call him GT for short. Eight years old. Stallion. Surprisingly even temperament.”

If I’d had a thousand guesses to figure out what he wants from me, sharing horse stats wouldn’t have made the list.

“Congratulations?” I say. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“You’re going to compete him in the next Olympics.”

I laugh, and the high, clear sound is too loud on the near-deserted rooftop. It’s barely a laugh; the noise is closer to a hysterical scream. Now Iknowthis is a prank. Nick glares at me, as though I’m the one behaving poorly.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes tonight,” I say once I manage to collect myself. “This conversation is already pushing the limit for me. Have a good night.”

I head for the door, because I don’t need to be involved in this man’s delusions.

“You’re telling me the three-time North American Junior Show Jumping Champion is afraid of a challenge?”

His words stop me in my tracks.

“Two-time,” I correct quietly.

“Would have been three-time if you’d completed your final run,” he rebuts.

“But I didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth.

There’s no need to clarify which competition he’s talking about. There was only one competition in my entire career when I didn’t finish the final run. After that, I stopped competing altogether. Nick obviously knows more about me than I know about him. He’s poking at a sore spot, trying to get a reaction out of me. I should know better than to give him one—especially when he’s making preposterous offers about the Olympics.

“If Diana Walters had completed both of her runs that day, she would have beaten me,” I add, unable to stop myself.

“How do you know?” he challenges.

It’s something I’ve thought about over and over again, for more than a decade, so my answer is ready to go the moment Iturn to face him.

“I was sloppy that day. She was ahead of me in the qualifying round by two points. A clean run on the final course would have given her the title, easily, even if I’d been faster,” I say. “The turns were tighter than I was comfortable with, and my horse had been tired all week. The likelihood of us tapping a pole or getting a time penalty was huge. The only way I would have won was if—”

I stop short, guilt swallowing up my temper.

“If Diana fell off her horse?” Nick prompts.

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