Polo Heat - The Complete Series (eBooks)

Lolly Benoit. High Winds Polo Club. Palm Beach, Florida.

This headstrong filly, Tattle, will eat anything, Cheez-Its, road apples, your ham sandwich if you’re dumb enough to take it into the barn. She’s snuck slurps of Earl Grey and Gatorade, post-match beer, and bourbon. I even caught her with my favorite sweatshirt hanging out of her mouth one time, but that was long before we knew she was a nibbler! We’ve smartened up since then, horse-proofing her stall and keeping anything, even if it doesn’t look edible, out of her reach.
Gustavo—best barn buddy ever—pops his head around the corner. “How’s our little Pica Princess?”
“She does not have pica. She’s curious about the world around her.” With her tongue and her teeth, mostly. She’s devoured a window box crammed with petunias, the wheelbarrow of bulbs the gardener parked too close to the barn door, and a granola bar her owner, Stephanie, accidentally left in her stall. And that’s just this month! “She’s orally curious, that’s all.” And fast and funny and stubborn as fuck. Can’t say who she reminds me of, but I’m proud to share all those attributes with a horse who knows what she wants and goes for it.
He runs his hands along the tooth marks on her saddle. “She likes to chew…” I know where he’s going and I can’t stop him, but I wish I had some clapback that would make him laugh. “She’s a pica-chew!”
He snorts and strides away, whistling, but ends with a sharp double note, which is our code for ‘lookout, here she comes!’
The she in question is none other than Stephanie Weiling, Tattle’s owner.
“She’s not ready yet? I have a lesson.” She’s perfectly manicured, glossed, and bejeweled as always, but why—the word bounces around the inside of my cranium—why would you turn up to a barn looking like that? A gala, yes. Fundraiser? Sure. But the barn? Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t get it. All you need to ride is britches, boots, and a brain protector, that’s what I say! And mud? It’s a badge of honor!
But Stephanie is one of those women who seems never to get so much as a smudge on her immaculate ensembles. From her thousand-dollar Fabbri boots to her ridiculous shadbelly coat and Cavalleria Toscana breeches, she’s one of those horsewomen whose shiny hair never has a single strand out of place, whose fingernails never get grimed with dirt. Her clothes never have a single spot or stain—maybe because she never wears the same outfit twice.
She’s on her phone, eyes anywhere but on her horse. “Oh, yeah, the man’s over. Totally. I got it from an impeccable source. One thousand percent certain, he’s done.”
Her laugh—sharp, shiny, and short—chills me.
“Am I happy about it? Me? No!” She flicks a look at me, eyes sliding to her horse’s swishing tail and back to the barn door like I’m invisible. “I’m freaking ecstatic. What goes around comes around. Karma, baby! And here she comes, whacking him upside the head like she’s a two-by-four.”
My heart’s in my throat, even as I slide Tattle’s saddle pad down from her withers onto her back and loosely do up her girth strap, all the while beaming messages of calm to her horsey brain. Stephanie’s one of my highest paying clients and I need to make sure everything’s perfect, but she and Mariano, the Golden Horseshoes’ top scorer, were an item for several months—the breakup messy and acrimonious—and if he’s the he she’s talking about, I want to know. Now. Ten minutes ago. Yesterday.
I don’t go in for sighing and swooning, but Mariano Arias is a cut above. Polo god, philanthropist, and my secret crush since he first graced the cover of Polo Life all those years ago, he isn’t merely my obsession, he’s the embodiment of the life I crave. The life I’m destined for. Oh, to be a polo player for the Golden Horseshoes. It’s so close, I can almost taste it.
If by close we mean slipping the bit into Tattle’s mouth, sliding the bridle (which, of course, she nommed in the past) over her ears, and buckling all the straps before handing off the reins to Stephanie.
She takes them and yanks poor Tattle’s mouth, hard. “Listen to this, because you’re going to crap yourself laughing. He’s looking for someone.” She throws her head back and laughs, oblivious to the effect she’s having on her horse.
Tattle’s head shoots up, startled at Stephanie’s loud voice and sudden movement. The mare is seconds away from going into full-on freeze mode. Not good. If Stephanie keeps flailing her arms, what happens next could be very, very dangerous. If Tattle rears or bolts, Stephanie’s not skilled enough to be able to control her.
I drop my whole essence—that part of me that remains eternally calm—into my core and radio a pulse of shhhhhhh, you’re fine; hang tight; I won’t let her hurt you—at Tattle’s heart. I know horses and they know me. It’s a biological thing, below and beyond language. It’s the chemistry of the animal kingdom and I speak it fluently. I sigh out a breath, loud enough Tattle can hear. I am not holding my breath, there is nothing to fear. Whatever else is going on—Stephanie braying, Mariano looking for someone, Gustavo staying busy so he doesn’t get caught in the crossfire—is banished to the sidelines as the horsewoman in me takes over.
“Where’s the mounting block?” Stephanie holds her phone away long enough to snipe at me, still completely oblivious to her horse’s agitation.
I run my hand down Tattle’s neck, tighten her girth strap one more hole, and once again send her calming signals before hunting down a block and placing it at Stephanie’s feet.
She steps up, just missing my fingers by a hair. “I don’t know if I feel pity or scorn, but the word’s out. Mariano Arias is advertising. Couldn’t you just die?”
My brain smashes the pieces together, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing. There are massive gaps in the data, but one thing is clear as clear can be: Mariano Arias is looking for someone.
Stephanie trots away. No thank you, no nod of appreciation, no acknowledgment that I keep her horse in tip-top shape, but what does any of that matter? Mariano Arias is looking for someone!
Gustavo pops out of the far stall as if he’s been working, rather than avoiding her. “What? You’d have done the same if you could.”
He’s not wrong. It she wasn’t a paying client, I’d run a country mile whenever her car crunched on the gravel.
“Did you hear?” I’m not normally a squeeing type, but this is not a normal turn of events. “Mariano Arias is hiring!” If he hires me—even if it’s to do what I do for Stephanie—the exposure alone will be a massive opportunity.
Gustavo keeps a straight face for all of ten seconds, then breaks into a grin. “Go! Estúpida! What are you waiting for?”
I wasn’t waiting for permission, exactly, but if I head over to Mariano’s place and get my foot in the door before anyone else beats me to it, Gustavo will have to take care of the High Priestess of Complaints when she returns from her ride. “Thank you, Gustavo. Thank you, thank you!”
He rewards me with besos on each cheek and sends me on my way.
I take the stairs two at a time, startling Mr. Wiggins out of his dog bed as I galumph through the front door. There are upsides and downside to living over a barn. People always know where you are and you’re the first call if there’s a horse-related emergency, but it also means you’re home in seconds.
I jam the printer’s on button, praying it can’t sense the urgency. They have a reputation for being fickle for a reason. My lappie’s open on the living room table and it takes only seconds to find my resumé. I scan it, but there isn’t time for revisions. I need to be out that door faster than a raccoon on speed. The machines connect, purring at each other and I hit print, dashing to the mirror behind the door.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the luckiest of them all?” Me. Me, me, me, me, me. I’ve got this. It’s not conventional, turning up at a man’s front door and asking for a job, but whatchagonnado?
Theroux for the win: ‘You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.’ Who says being an English major was a waste of time!
Okay. Decision made. I’m not changing. I’m going right now. This second. He can take me as I am or not at all. Besides, what better outfit is there to interview for a job in a barn than barn clothes?
I grab my resumé off the printer, tuck Mr. Wiggins under my arm for luck, throw my bag over my shoulder, and storm the steps back down to the barn.
Gustavo’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “He’s in the penthouse at the Palm Frond Hotel.”
“How—?”
He shrugs. “So I have contacts. Sue me.”
It doesn’t matter how he knows. He’s a saint who just saved me an hour or more. That Mariano’s at a hotel is his business, not mine. My business is getting hired.
“I owe you!” I scamper to my car, praying Stephanie won’t see me leave and send an armed guard to hunt me down, insisting I be the one to untack and bathe Tattle after her ride, because she pays me good money, blah blah blah. I take it as a good omen when I make a clean escape.
Traffic’s not too bad, landing us in the Palm Frond parking lot in under twenty minutes. I park far from the entrance and take a couple of deep breaths. I need to be the center of calm when I walk through those doors. Calm, cool, and hirable.
“High five, Wiggie Woo!” Mr. Wiggins gives me enough side eye to slay a dragon. He’s not in the mood for parlor tricks. “Okay, if you’re not going to give me a paw, at least give me kisses?” I need all the luck I can get walking into this interview.
I scoop him up—all seven pounds of fur and attitude that make up my sidekick—and lavish him with kisses. “Come on Wiggins, you’re my snorty-barky talisman! Show me some love!” He allows the PDA, rewarding me with a single nose lick, but as soon as I plunk him on the seat beside me turns circles, huffs, and tucks his head under his paws.
I’ve got a jump on the competition but not by much. Now that the word’s out that Mariano Arias—the polo god I’ve admired for donkey’s years—is looking for an assistant, he’s going to be beating them off…
Snort.
I’ve got to remember to tell Alicia that one. My bestie has a taste for low-rent sexual innuendo, and I aim not to disappoint.
I turn the rearview mirror my way, making sure I don’t have hay in my hair or barn muck smeared on my cheeks.
I’ve got to admit, it doesn’t much matter what he wants me to do. He’s a Golden Horseshoe and being his PA or AA or personal barn rat, mucking out stalls and making sure the polo ponies are ready for play, all leads to good things.
The way I look at it, working for Mariano Arias equals visibility, and I can turn that into opportunities, and from there the sky’s the limit. “You hear that, Mr. Wiggins? That’s the sound of the crowd cheering for Lolly Benoit as she scores the winning goal for the Horseshoes!” It’s going to be me. I’m going to secure a slot on the team. I close my eyes and pray to the horse gods of old, they who snort and stamp and steam, readying themselves for battle. “All I want is a shot. Give me that and I’ll spin it into gold. I promise.”
Creative visualization. That’s the way to go! How do I want this interview to play out? Got to see it in order to make it happen.
Okay, first up: I’m in my best riding outfit. Strike one. Never mind. Let the scent of the barn speak to my work ethic.
Step two: I present my resumé and tell him why I’m the woman for the job, what my quals are, how long I’ve been around horses, and how I’m destined to be the next Esther Fitzwilliam.
The laugh that explodes out of me tells me just how much I do not believe that last bullet point. Esther Fitzwilliam is only the world’s greatest polo player. She’s a southpaw like me but British and proper and fierce as hell. In my dreams I might be her one day, but it’s not something I could say out loud. And definitely not to Mariano, who’s the creamiest cream of the crop: a 10-goal player and a legend in his own right.
I guess that’s not exactly strike two, but it’s not a home run, either.
Deep breath and reimagine: he has my resumé in his big, beautiful hands, crooking his fingers the way he does around a mallet, and he’s studying it. In depth. Nodding and smiling, because he knows—just as I do—that there’s no one who comes close to being as suitable as me, Lolly Benoit, Assistant to Mariano Arias, and future polo queen.
Ugh. Every time I try to articulate my deepest desire the doubts come swarming up from the depths of my icky-sticky subconscious.
So, let’s concentrate on the him part of the interview, rather than the me part. It’s easy to conjure him from memory, the hair that falls into his eyes, his powerful stride when he enters the barn, his seat so intimately connected with his mount that they ride as one. There’s nothing about him I don’t like.
But for the purposes of this pre-enactment, he’s seated. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Every feature trained on me. Lush!
We each have a glass of water, but I spy the bottle of bubbly already on ice, waiting on the words he’ll inevitably utter.
“Why do you wish to work for me, Ms. Benoit?”
Why? Isn’t it obvious? Your record speaks for itself. Polo hasn’t been the same since you stormed onto the pitch. I don’t just want to work for you, Mr. Arias, I want to play alongside you. I…
Actually, no. It’s more than that. I want to work for Mariano, rather than any of the other players at the club, because of the way he comports himself on and off the pitch. I’ve seen him school his horses when no one is looking and remain calm and kind, no matter the disobedience. I’ve watched him offer water to his horses between chukkas and sponge them down before he ever takes a drink himself. He’s chipped in to do basic chores any lowly groom could do, for no other reason than it will make the horses more comfortable. And he has always, always been unfailingly kind and considerate toward both me and Gustavo whenever we cross paths. We’re generally invisible to the polo elite and the stuck up, toffee-nosed clients whose horses we tend to. I’d say seventy-six percent of the people who walk through our gates treat us like the help. Just a notch above servants. But not Mariano. He treats us like people. Humans. Equals.
I don’t know how to say that in an interview. “I think you’re a decent man?”
Whether he’ll be impressed or galled by such a reply, I can’t tell. But he presses on, in my brain still the perfect interviewer. Why not? He’s a gentleman the rest of the time! He has impeccable manners to go with those looks. But better than all of that, I believe that our polo superstar has a good, good heart.
“I see from your curriculum vitae that you are the epitome of steady.” Esteady. His accent—the way he puts an ‘e’ in front of any word starting with an ‘s’—is perfection. Just enough to remind anyone who hears him that he’s Argentinian. His diction and syntax, so much more formal than anyone else in the club. I love it—it reminds me of childhood summers in the Cotswolds and riding in the Peak District after we moved back to England.
Then what happens?
Then his eyes crinkle at their corners, roving over me, lingering in the right places. He reaches for me, doing all the things I’ve always wanted him to do—
The needle on the record screeches to a halt.
Nope.
None of those fantasies.
I might want his big, bold hands on me, but that’s got nothing to do with landing this job.
Eyes on the prize, Charlotte. Do not waver.
“Charlotte… May I call you Lolly?” He places my resumé on the table and folds his hands.
You can call me whatever you want. Just hire me.
The moment lasts for so long I think I might explode, even though it’s just me and Mr. Wiggins sitting in my Ford Maverick in a hotel parking lot, drumming up the courage to walk into the hotel, hit the elevator button, and ride all the way to the top where Mr. Polo himself is waiting for me.
I keep my eyes shut tight, returning to my visualization, willing him to say the words. I have to believe it’s possible. If I can’t even imagine it, how can I make it happen?
I’ve been working my butt off behind the scenes—mucking out stalls, exercising the lesson-string ponies, hiring myself out to players like Stephanie who want a “full service” experience, and generally acting as the gofer—but here’s my chance to step out of the shadows and shine! It happens! Lowly stable hand with talent and gumption gets noticed and promoted up the ranks. Who says it can’t happen to me!?
Say it. Go on. Please. Do it. I know this is just a fantasy, but I NEED to hear you say the words!
“You’re hired!”
Balloons, streamers, fireworks, the whole enchilada! He said it. End fantasy. We’re ready! Don’t let it fade. March on the up note. Now, Lolly! Now!
I lower all four truck windows a couple of inches. Even in winter, we can’t be too safe. “I’m heading out, Mr. Wiggins! I’m going to nail it!”
Hahahahahaha. I wish Alicia lived closer. She’d lap this stuff up while bolstering my confidence and prepping me for the interview of a lifetime. All laughter aside, bills are coming due, funds are running low, Lolly Benoit needs to turn this vehicle around before she careens into debtor’s prison—or worse, is made to turn tail and run, begging bowl in hand.
Certain people who shall not be named (Mother), would give me a job right this minute, but not doing what I want and at such a huge price… I couldn’t bear to pay it.
No, bootstrapping my polo career is the way for me.
Lolly Benoit you’re going to meet Mariano Arias, blow his socks off, land the job, problem solved.
I’d prod Mr. Wiggins for another kiss, but he’s snoring loud enough to wake the kraken, so I leave him be.
I close the truck door, latching it as quietly as I can, and pad across the parking lot toward the Corinthian columns that do nothing structurally but add an air of luxury to the hotel’s frontage.
The bellhop—turned out in his natty uniform and pillbox hat—scans me. Sorry, bub, no luggage for me today.
I know how to handle front desk people. The trick is to look like you belong. In this instance, being part hobo works in my favor. The ultra-rich don’t dress up if they don’t need to. My muddy boots say that I’m comfortable just being me. I march to the desk and wave the clerk over. “Mr. Arias is expecting me. I’m here for the interview.”

I wasn't looking for for a fling, exactly. But when a red-hot polo champion sweeps you off your feet, whatchagonnado?

Hawaii's paradise, right? Try getting dumped by your long-time boyfriend who decided coming back to see you was less important than getting drunk and laid at college, repeatedly--while you're being a good girl and not bedding any of the hotties who are after you, because you BOTH said you'd 'wait'--then tell me you're in paradise.

Grumpy doesn't come close.

At least I've got my bestie, Lizzie, who's promised me the 'adventure of a lifetime.' She's a non-stop bubblefest and laughriot, completely OTT, so I had my doubts, but then came the horseback ride on the beach and even I had to admit it was pretty magical...

Until the horse bolted and bucked, leaving me battered and bruised.

And hopping.

And mad.

Just when I was about to give up on life, lie down on the forest floor and let the bugs eat me alive, he appeared. Gorgeous bod, perfect hair, and that accent? To die for. And did I mention he's a polo champion?

He'd be the perfect antidote to my grumpfest, rebound brain... but according to Mr. RaisingThePoleInMyPants, training for a career-changing match doesn't involve a torrid little fling with little old me.

Yeah?

Well, we'll see about that!

Mariano Arias wants everyone to want him. So long as "everyone" isn't me.

When his billionaire father's business goes under, it's up to him to find a way to bring in some cash, and fast.

As soon as this "little" problem cropped up, he asked me to come see him. Sure, I'm great around the office, but what do I know about bringing in cash? I probably should have asked that first before I got my hopes up that he might be interested in me.

Funding a polo club takes the kind of cash that only a billionare - or a patronness - can provide. And now that his father's money's out of the picture, there's only the one option left... but reeling in a patronness requires more than a pretty smile.

So here I am, "dating" him - but only as bait, to reel in the money he so desperately needs to keep his pride and his team intact. I'm happy to help - after all, my job's on the line, too - but I've got ambitions of my own THAT don't involve living my life as fake dating arm candy.

My ultimate dream is to move out of my office gig and onto the field as a star of my own. With his backing, I'll be able to do just that. So, sure - I'll play along with his little game, all while playing my own on the side. Playing games is risky, though, and in the end I might end up getting more than I bargained for....

***

Polo Heat is a fake dating, enemies-to-lovers, he falls first steamy romantic comedy series. Grab your copy today and see why readers are calling this series "F***ing genius!" and "Really hot!"

He said we're just friends. Fate had other ideas.

Mick Anderson's my best friend, roommate and - as luck would have it - we even work at the same club. While my days are filled with spreadsheets and keeping clients happy, though, he spends his wining and dining the club's rich patronesses - after all, someone's got to keep the bank accounts in the black.

When we take a business trip, things go off the rails pretty quickly when we find two orphaned kittens on the side of the road. They're sick, and the nearest vet is two hundred miles away - but leaving them on the side of the road is not an option.

When the only motel just has one bed left, we figure no big deal.

When he comes out of the shower in just a threadbare towel, things get awkward...

Then his dance moves light a fire I didn't know I was tending.

The truth is: neither of us saw this curveball coming!

A bored millionaire is a sure-fire recipe for a whirlwind romance - but there's always a catch... isn't there?

I've paid my family's bills since I was barely old enough to walk in my first child pageant. The stage life isn't always glamorous, but we've got food on the table. This new role, though? This is the chance of a lifetime. They want me - ME - to star in a movie, and all I have to do is not psych myself out during my last few stage performances.

Unfortunately, "hell in a bobsled" doesn't even begin to describe my next performance. My body sock rips, my everything is exposed to, well, everyone - and I'm laughed off the stage.

That's when he appeared.

Tall, abs you can bounce a quarter off of, and absolutely infatuated. Alex isn't just a star, he's a rich star, whisking me away for a weekend in Paris where I repay his generosity with chakra work that opens him up to a whole new host of possibilities.

When his drinking spirals out of control, it's up to me to repay his generous nature and bring him back to reality - if only I can get him to put down the bottle.

A white Christmas has never been so complicated.

The holiday season's never been my thing. At least not since Mom passed and left me drowning in debt and a sleigh ride business in my small town that generates more problems than it does revenue.

Just when it looks like things can't possibly get any worse, a half-frozen, hypothermic - yet blazing hot - man stumbles into my cabin, and it's up to me to save him. Meet snow polo champ Garvan Carachan: a single dad on a mission to reunite with his son in the midst of the worst snowstorm of the century.

Garvan's desperate to leave and save Christmas for his son, and even tries to commandeer my horse and sleigh to get the rest of the way to the airport, but I can't let him go alone - especially when he heads off in the completely wrong direction. That horse and carriage are all I've got left... and Garvan isn't half bad, either.

In the midst of the raging storm, he hits me with an offer: become his son's traveling nanny so he can actually spend time with him. It's tempting, crazy, and the answer to my financial prayers. But it means leaving Aspen and the memories I hold dear, not to mention the complications of a boss-with-benefits relationship that seems to be rapidly forming.

As mistletoe magic starts to work its spell, I'm beginning to wonder - can I actually keep this secret affair secret in such a small town, dodge his nosy in-laws and find a way to heal both of our broken hearts?

Prepare for a Christmas romance that proves miracles can happen, especially when you least expect them.

Control is my mantra. Letting someone in? It's the ultimate gamble.

In my life, I have one golden rule that I never compromise – never be beholden to a man. After my divorce, I found the most solace and excitement in the arms of young, fit polo players. It's a simple exchange: my monetary sponsorship for their physical companionship, no strings attached. I'm in control, and that's just how I like it.

Enter Kamil Mast, a polo phenomenon with charm, talent, and wealth that rivals my own. He's everything I don't need — especially since he doesn't need my money. When a charity auction throws us together, danger rears its head in the form of Stephanie Weiling, a polo groupie with her eyes on Kamil, who takes jealousy to a new level. Her dangerous antics thrust Kamil and me into a whirlwind of threats, chaos and danger.

Kamil's determination to protect me is as surprising as it is unwelcome. He's by my side, day in and day out, protecting me from the danger he unknowingly put me in, but also breaking down the walls I've built around my heart.

I can't let him distract me. As the founder and CEO of the world's largest adult toy company, I'm on the brink of launching a revolutionary product. I can't afford distractions. But Kamil's presence becomes something I can't ignore, and his care, devotion and steadfast loyalty might be the one thing that tempts me to give up a modicum of control.

The question I face is as complex as it is terrifying: Can I let down my guard and allow Kamil into the depths of my heart? Or have I built my walls too high, closing off the chance to love and be loved in return?