The Lavender Field

Lexington, Kentucky

Whitney Benedict, only child and sole heir to Whitney Downs, Boone and Pryor Benedict's Thoroughbred farm, reread her notes and frowned. The involuntary gesture formed a small vee in the space between her eyebrows. It was her third perusal of the draft she'd composed and she was committing it to memory. She always read her drafts three times, the first for content, the second for changes and the third to edit the changes. It was a habit she'd picked up in law school and kept throughout her twelve years of practice. Not much escaped a third read. Not much escaped Whitney.

Carefully she aligned her pencil with the other two on her desk so that the erasers faced up and the points down. Then she stacked her papers, all nine sheets, neatly on top of one another and placed them in the righthand drawer of her desk. She had exactly four minutes before her meeting with Everett Sloane, senior partner of Barnaby & Sloane, and Robert Kincaid, United States senator and chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. She would put those minutes to good use.

Leaving her desk, she strode purposefully across the gleaming hardwood to her private bathroom, soaped her hands for precisely fifteen seconds before rinsing and drying them, sprayed mouthwash on her tongue, massaged her gums and reapplied her lipstick. Her hair, a sophisticated twist at the back of her head, her suit — navy, severe, expensive — and her immaculate pumps needed no adjustment. They were flawless.

It was time. She was ready. Smiling at her secretary, she walked toward the boardroom, her heels clicking sharply on the priceless cherrywood floors. Her gait was confident, her expression serene. What would follow was a challenge she'd prepared for. Whitney welcomed challenges.

Everett Sloane was seated behind his enormous desk. The senator faced the window. Both men rose when she entered the room. Robert Kincaid looked at Whitney and his jaw dropped. She pretended not to notice, but behind her cool smile, annoyance curled into life.

"My, my," the senator said in the good ol' boy voice that won him the state of Kentucky in the last election.

"Are you sure a pretty thing like you is old enough to practice law?"

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Whitney's expression change. "I'll give it my best shot," she said smoothly, taking the chair across from him. "Please, sit down, gentlemen."

The two men resumed their seats. "Whitney's specialty is international law," Everett Sloane explained. "She's the best there is. If she can't get the job done, no one can."

Kincaid rubbed his fleshy hands together. "Well, then. What's the plan?"

"The plan," Whitney replied smoothly, "is to remind Mr. Mendoza that not only will he become a millionaire many times over, he'll also be contributing to a timeless legacy."

"What if that doesn't work?"

Whitney allowed a small, superior smile. "It will."

"He didn't rise to the bait before," Kincaid said slowly. "What's different now?"

Whitney's eyes met those of her colleague. She shook her head slightly.

Everett Sloane leaned forward. "We're not at liberty to say, Bob. It's a matter of confidentiality. You'll have to trust Whitney on this one. If she says Mendoza will take the money, he will."

"Hell, I say we just confiscate the damn horses," said Kincaid. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

Sloane stood and walked around his desk to the fully equipped bar. "Care for a splash, Bob?"

The senator grinned. "If it's bourbon, I won't say no."

"Whitney?"

"No, thanks. I've got a few more hours to put in after this." She nodded at Robert Kincaid. "To answer your question, Senator, the Lipizzaners belong to Mr. Mendoza. He is their legal owner. The last of the stock brought over by Franz Kohnle died long ago. Gabriel Mendoza is under no obligation to sell his horses. The ball is in his court. I'd like to proceed cautiously."

"Whose side are you on, young lady?"

No one on the receiving end of her charming smile would have guessed that it was calculated. "The winning side, Senator. That is the point, isn't it?"

Robert Kincaid sampled his bourbon and sighed. "Mighty good, Everett, mighty good." He turned his piercing gaze on Whitney. "If Everett chooses his employees the way he chooses his liquor, I'm sold."

"Whitney is a partner, Bob," Sloane reminded him gently, "not an employee."

"I don't care if she's Sherman's granddaughter, as long as she brings us those horses. I need all the positive strokes I can get, if you know what I mean." He shifted his eyes to the senior partner. "Do we understand each other?"

"We do."

Kincaid drained his glass and stood. "Well, then, I'll be on my way. Keep in touch, Everett. I'll expect updates."

"You'll have them."

Whitney watched him leave. "So much for southern gentlemen."

Everett chuckled. "He's one who still believes a woman's place is in the home."

"He's insufferable."

"He's not the issue. I don't have to tell you what it means to the firm to do this one right. I'm sorry about your vacation, Whitney, but I meant what I said to Kincaid. You're the best we've got. We're counting on you."

She stood. "You won't be sorry. "Has Mendoza gotten back to you?"

"We have an appointment on Tuesday."

"Good luck."

"Thanks." Whitney closed the door behind her. Luck had nothing to do with it. Luck wasn't reliable. Hard work, research and the right price were her preferred negotiating tools. They hadn't let her down yet.

Whitney Downs Thoroughbred Farm

When, precisely, did Whitney turn difficult? I think back, recalling her formative years, and still it escapes me.

I'm her mother. I should have seen the signs. Not in my wildest dreams would I have believed my agreeable child would grow up to be the cause of such frustration.

Pryor Benedict dispassionately studied the words she had written only yesterday on the first page of her journal. It was one of those lovely leather-bound ones with the gilt edges, the kind only the best stationery stores offered. Pryor didn't believe in using a computer. There was something about the process of actually forming the letters with a black fountain pen and watching the words take shape on thick, cream-colored paper. In her opinion, people used computers far too much. What was wrong with handwriting or books, for heaven's sake? What could be more satisfying than curling up on the couch, turning pages at one's own pace, lingering over a particularly fine passage?

Seated on a spindle chair in front of the eighteenth-century secretary that had originally belonged to one of her ancestors, she stared out the window into the blue twilight. Fireflies seeking refuge from a sudden burst of blood-warm rain swam around the smeared gold light of the porch lamps. They were early this year. She loved watching them flit about, awed by the amazing resilience of the little bugs whose lives were spent over the course of a single day. They were indigenous to Kentucky, to home, just as much as the sight of spring foals munching on summer bluegrass, their legs so long and delicate and bone-thin that it didn't seem possible they could hold their own velvety weight.

Pryor was proud to admit that she was a homebody. Her heart never failed to lurch when, after a day of shopping or volunteering at one of her endless charities, she turned down the long, dirt-packed road bordered with white rail fences and lined with ancient oaks that led first to the house, then to the barns of Whitney Downs. The Thoroughbred stud farm had been her family's lifeblood for more than a hundred years, ever since the first Whitney crossed the Kentucky state line,...