The latest young competitor had had a disappointing run and now his beast trotted in brief, glorious freedom around the edge of the arena. Mounted attendants converged on the animal to usher it efficiently towards the race at the other end of the enclosure. Kayla swept her gaze over the riders absentmindedly and then continued to scan the area. A fizz of dismay and resignation rippled through her stomach as she realised she was searching for a particular tall, lean figure. Tom Jamieson. God, what was wrong with her? Tom wasn’t around—she should be glad, not trying to find him. Sure, they’d talked, settled some of her wariness. But that didn’t make them best buddies. And it was certainly no reason to be visually stalking him like a…camp draft groupie—if there was such a thing. The cup of tea they’d had together had been pleasant…fun, even…but it still didn’t mean she was going to seek him out. Tom had said he enjoyed crossing swords with her. She was honest enough to admit there was a perverse enjoyment in their tension-riddled contact.
