Out of Control

'First what?'

Bruno signalled to the waiter, who brought the bill. As he wrote a cheque Bruno said, 'Haven't you ever been to a game of polo? It isn't very complicated, I'll give you a brief outline of the rules as we go. There aren't many, and I often think they make them up as they go along! Once they're in the melee you can't see who hit what, anyway.'

it's just hockey on horseback, isn't it?' Liza asked as they got back into the car, and Bruno winced.

'Please! Don't say that to my uncle or he may hit you with his mallet.'

'It's already beginning to sound like a dangerous game,' Liza muttered as they parked and walked along the grass verge towards the polo field near Windsor Great Park. There were crowds of people milling around, but Bruno whisked her through; he was obviously well known there, for officials smiled and nodded. Liza was very nervous. She hadn't been looking forward to meeting Bruno's mother, but she couldn't back out of it now at the eleventh hour, so she let Bruno put an arm around her and lead her forward.

'Mother, this is Liza. Liza, my mother.' He was very formal and very nervous; the back of his neck was dark red and Liza could feel the rigidity of the arm around her waist.

Bruno's nervousness made Liza more nervous too, but she managed a quavering little smile and held out her hand to the woman turning to look at her. Philippa Morris was still beautiful; no question about that. She had blue eyes and dark hair and a long-nosed, faintly haughty face. She looked like a rather beautiful horse, thought Liza, feeling the long, cool fingers touch hers in a well-bred handshake. It was over in a second; the less contact Philippa Morris had with her the better, obviously!

'So you're Liza,' the other woman drawled. 'You look even more lovely in person.' Liza smiled. 'Thank you.'

'My mother saw your picture in the paper,' Bruno explained and then clearly wished he hadn't reminded his mother about the gossip item.'

'Oh, that nonsense!' Liza said and felt the other woman's quick, narrowed glance.

'Absolute rubbish,' Bruno hurriedly agreed, laughing, then he looked at the field. 'G. K. has got the ball!'

Heads swivelled to watch the field and Liza looked blankly at the blur of galloping figures, hearing a strange whirr as a player hit the ball and sent it flying. At first she couldn't make anything of what was happening, or see any individual faces; things happened too fast, men bent and whirled in their saddles, striking at the ball, the long, twangy handles making an arc as they bent. She saw polished boots, white breeches, sweating horses and heard the crowd watching the game shouting, laughing, yelling encouragement or praise.

"Which one is your uncle?' she whispered to Bruno, who muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

'On the grey.'

Liza studied the horses; two of them were white, was that what Bruno meant by grey? But which one was G. K Gifford?

It shouldn't be hard to guess since there were only eight men playing altogether, but she was sure none of them looked old enough. Bruno's uncle was middle-aged and presumably had grey hair; none of these men looked much above thirty-five.

Her eye floated from one to the other and froze suddenly on features she recognised with a blinding shock.

It couldn't be! All the colour flowed from her face as her eyes widened until they stretched the skin around them painfully; her pupils dilated, glowing brilliantly, black and shiny, and she stared hard as the tall man on the white horse wheeled and began to gallop after the ball he had just struck. The others wrenched their mounts round and followed, jostling him, and Bruno made a crowing, cheering gurgle.

G. K. Gifford? She slid a look at Bruno. 'Is that your uncle? Is that him, the man who just hit the ball?' That's him!' Bruno said, exultant, grinning. 'He's a damn good player—ruthless as hell and faster than lightning!"

'Yes,' Liza said.

'Never misses a trick,' Bruno cheerfully added.

He could say that again, Liza thought with bitter irony. If she had ever seen a photograph of him in the newspapers, she would have recognised him, of course. Bruno had often told her that his uncle hated having his photograph taken, especially by the Press. He loathed personal publicity, would never be interviewed or answer questions by any of the journalists who hung around official functions at which he appeared.

He preferred privacy, Bruno said, and of course he would—it made it easier for him to play his vicious little games, to lie and cheat!

Her throat closed up and she had to bite down on her inner lip not to scream out. She mustn't let it show; Bruno and his mother couldn't know, if he had told them it would show in their faces and there was no awareness there at all.

She kept her eyes fixed on the flying figures, watching his supple body bending and striking. He had lied to her about everything right from the start; made a fool of her, without caring what he did to her, and she hated him, her hands screwed up into fists as she imagined hitting him. If she got hold of one of those twangy cane-handled mallets she would . . .

Bruno looked round, smiling. 'Enjoying it?' Then he did a double-take, staring, and she had to hurriedly change her expression.

'I would if I knew what was happening!' she said, flashing a smile at him.

'Oh, still confused? I thought you were furious about something. You were scowling!"

'Was I? Trying to concentrate, I suppose,' she said lightly, and Bruno gave her a running commentary on the game after that, making it hard for her to think. G. K. Clifford had changed horses; he was riding a big, glossy black now and Liza watched, wishing he would get thrown and trampled by some of those curvetting, skirmishing horses. At the very least she would like to see his crisp white clothes muddy!

The field moved further their way and Liza could see him closer; he was sweating heavily, she saw the damp patch down his side, on his shoulders, and his skin carried a sheen of perspiration, on his face, his neck. The thick black hair glistened with sweat, too. He would have a shower after the game, of course; she stared and suddenly her mind conjured up the image of his naked body under the cool water, the muscled chest and brown skin, black curly hair growing down the centre of his body, above his thighs.