the few Texans to make a fortune outside oil and cattle. John Taylor, Sr, had a Thoroughbred horse ranch outside of Dallas and traded Grade-A bloodstock across the world. The Aga Khan and other Arab princes made the trip across the Atlantic to buy from him.
Jack Taylor was an only child. One day he would own four hundred acres of prime Southern land, two Dallas hotels, a large stock portfolio, a colonial mansion and an exclusive stable of racehorses.
In addition to this, there was the slight matter of his looks. His mom used to say that when” God was making Jack, he forgot to press the ‘stop’ button. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. Not only was he smart, rich and athletic, Jack Taylor’s tall, muscled body was crowned with a face that stopped girls in their tracks. Women passed him on the street, paused, and turned round for another look. Taylor had jet-black hair, so smooth and glossy it
8I
looked like the flank of one of his mares. He cropped it close to the head in a severely masculine cut, which complemented the frank brown eyes with their dark, long lashes, the square jaw and the sensual, slightly cruel mouth. Jack couldn’t help his mouth, but it was the finishing touch that broke so many girls’ resistance. Set against his all-American, open good looks, the faint sullenness of the mouth, the ruthless set of his lips, spoke
of a hidden drkness, a pitiless male sexuality.
Girls fluttered around him like butterflies.
Jack was selective about the ones who made it to his bed. He’d been hit on since junior high, the envy of all his friends who found it Mission: Impossible just getting to , second base. Jack was thirteen years old when he lost his virginity, and thirteen and a half when his pop caught him on a haystack with his riding mistress. The riding mistress was fired, and Jack was given a lecture. Horrified by his father’s lurid descriptions of what venereal disease could do to his cock, Jack was supposed to abstain. Instead, he learned everything there was to know about condoms.
His pop did nothing because he was secretly delighted. Every good of’ boy would be proud of a son who got laid at thirteen.
By the time he was fifteen, Jack Taylor was a connoisseur.
By the time he hit college, .he was sexually mature. Dynamite in bed, he was dominant and skilful. Non orgasmic women often climaxed for the first time with Jack. He learned to savour going slow, to enjoy relationships, not just two-week flings without strings. His pop boasted that if a stallion of his could sire like Jack, he’d retire ten years early, but slowly the string of cute faces were replaced by steady girlfriends who lasted four, five months at a time.
8z
Still, Jack had never fallen too hard. Six girlfriends at Harvard; six broken hearts by the time he left.
Clarisse Devlin was the last candidate. Blonde, slim and pretty, Clarisse had hung on for a year post-graduation, but eventually the constant travel broke them up. Against the dream of Olympic gold, Clarisse never stood a chance, and Jack was secretly glad. He didn’t need a girl hanging round right now. There were enough Identikit Euro-babes on the circuit to keep any guy happy, and being single gave him more time to train.
Taylor took practice deadly seriously. He was none too happy right now.
‘It’s not a waste of time. It’s a favour to Hans Wolf.’
‘Yeah? Why can’t she train with the British guys? Or have Hans ask favours from the Canadians, not us?’
Brad Hinds shrugged. ‘He wants her to train with the best. She’s’the women’s bronze medallist. This year she wants gold.’
‘Elizabeth Savage is no gold medallist.’
‘I didn’t know you followed the women’s competition, Jack.’
‘Enough to know that Savage is lazy, disruptive.’ Jack’s voice was ice. ‘We don’t need that attitude around.’
‘So, not everyone’s a fanatic,’ Brad Hinds said doubtfully. He’d heard the same things. ‘But it’s only once, and
Jack Taylor was an only child. One day he would own four hundred acres of prime Southern land, two Dallas hotels, a large stock portfolio, a colonial mansion and an exclusive stable of racehorses.
In addition to this, there was the slight matter of his looks. His mom used to say that when” God was making Jack, he forgot to press the ‘stop’ button. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. Not only was he smart, rich and athletic, Jack Taylor’s tall, muscled body was crowned with a face that stopped girls in their tracks. Women passed him on the street, paused, and turned round for another look. Taylor had jet-black hair, so smooth and glossy it
8I
looked like the flank of one of his mares. He cropped it close to the head in a severely masculine cut, which complemented the frank brown eyes with their dark, long lashes, the square jaw and the sensual, slightly cruel mouth. Jack couldn’t help his mouth, but it was the finishing touch that broke so many girls’ resistance. Set against his all-American, open good looks, the faint sullenness of the mouth, the ruthless set of his lips, spoke
of a hidden drkness, a pitiless male sexuality.
Girls fluttered around him like butterflies.
Jack was selective about the ones who made it to his bed. He’d been hit on since junior high, the envy of all his friends who found it Mission: Impossible just getting to , second base. Jack was thirteen years old when he lost his virginity, and thirteen and a half when his pop caught him on a haystack with his riding mistress. The riding mistress was fired, and Jack was given a lecture. Horrified by his father’s lurid descriptions of what venereal disease could do to his cock, Jack was supposed to abstain. Instead, he learned everything there was to know about condoms.
His pop did nothing because he was secretly delighted. Every good of’ boy would be proud of a son who got laid at thirteen.
By the time he was fifteen, Jack Taylor was a connoisseur.
By the time he hit college, .he was sexually mature. Dynamite in bed, he was dominant and skilful. Non orgasmic women often climaxed for the first time with Jack. He learned to savour going slow, to enjoy relationships, not just two-week flings without strings. His pop boasted that if a stallion of his could sire like Jack, he’d retire ten years early, but slowly the string of cute faces were replaced by steady girlfriends who lasted four, five months at a time.
8z
Still, Jack had never fallen too hard. Six girlfriends at Harvard; six broken hearts by the time he left.
Clarisse Devlin was the last candidate. Blonde, slim and pretty, Clarisse had hung on for a year post-graduation, but eventually the constant travel broke them up. Against the dream of Olympic gold, Clarisse never stood a chance, and Jack was secretly glad. He didn’t need a girl hanging round right now. There were enough Identikit Euro-babes on the circuit to keep any guy happy, and being single gave him more time to train.
Taylor took practice deadly seriously. He was none too happy right now.
‘It’s not a waste of time. It’s a favour to Hans Wolf.’
‘Yeah? Why can’t she train with the British guys? Or have Hans ask favours from the Canadians, not us?’
Brad Hinds shrugged. ‘He wants her to train with the best. She’s’the women’s bronze medallist. This year she wants gold.’
‘Elizabeth Savage is no gold medallist.’
‘I didn’t know you followed the women’s competition, Jack.’
‘Enough to know that Savage is lazy, disruptive.’ Jack’s voice was ice. ‘We don’t need that attitude around.’
‘So, not everyone’s a fanatic,’ Brad Hinds said doubtfully. He’d heard the same things. ‘But it’s only once, and
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