He weighed this up, already backtracking, smiling his way out of confrontation. Telling Ronnie the truth meant revealing his complicity in selling a brilliant young horse down the river. Telling her meant revealing how close Beck had come to killing a man. Telling her meant revealing that his loyalty had been bought and still was. His silence had been bought, he reminded himself.

He held her gaze steadily. ‘His brain’s fried.’

The returning smile was defiant. ‘You’re the one who always says no horse is born bad.’

‘Some are born cowards.’ He knew it wasn’t strictly true of Beck, but it was simpler put like that.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one who could be accused of cowardice.’

Maybe she was right, thought Luca, the prince’s call still fresh in his head. Do as Mishaal asks. A remote, bodyguarded figure who Luca occasionally glimpsed in newspapers or racing pages, the scarred playboy prince had a reputation for cruelty, but he’d never pursued his threat. It was his father who had asked him to contact Luca. He’d talked of endurance racing and birds of prey, not old scores. The Horsemaker might be tracked by the prince’s team like a tagged child, but Beck wasn’t.

It was still possible they didn’t know the stallion was here. Their world of skyscrapers, sand and turf was a far cry from muddy event riders in lorry parks; Ronnie’s drumming up interest by word of mouth alone would never reach them, the stud’s digital footprint still lighter than a hummingbird’s. If he couldn’t get Becks to safety, he had no choice but to stay and protect him. They’d both made the same enemy six years ago.

Every instinct in Luca wanted to help this horse. He looked at him again, unable forget that riding him had been amongst the most exhilarating experiences of his life. Luca knew the principle of deserving a second chance as well as any man. This was his own second chance too. That unspoilt, darkly dappled youngster that Luca could have ridden into battle, jumping cirrus in the sky all the way, might be a ghost of what he had been, but Beck was still the horse that had haunted his waking thoughts and deepest dreams more than any other.

‘Let’s try it,’ he said quickly, before he could think on it too much, the plan forming as fast as he could say it. ‘On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘Stand him here just one season then sell him back to Fuchs.’ He held up his hand when Ronnie started to protest. ‘Visiting mares by invitation only, a restricted number.’

‘Why limit my profit?’

‘It’s more lucrative. Next year you can cherry-pick his first generation to retain as your foundation line. That’s your long-term investment while your quick profit comes from selling him afterwards.’

Ronnie look at him shrewdly. ‘For a gifted man who doesn’t say a lot, you make sense when the gift of the gab takes you. Keep talking.’