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and felt her heart constrict in a sudden unreasonable flash of panic. Oh God, what if she ran into her mother here? She stopped for a moment and tried to shake off the silly fear. The last Georgia’s dad had heard, she’d been in St. Moritz—a safe continent away.
    Billy grasped her elbow and steered her through the crowd, giving his inimitable running commentary on the characters they passed. A literary celebrity in his trademark white suit, one of last season’s Real Housewives in a ravishing backless sundress, a stunning transgender actress recently seen on the cover of a magazine with cleavage as taut as rubber dinghies, actors, singers, bankers, dandies, barely dressed horsey groupies, and a theatrically busy club manager in a monogrammed blazer and orange suede loafers, conspicuously wielding a walkie-talkie. Between Billy’s wry asides, Georgia caught snatches of passing conversations in a dozen foreign accents.
    Nobody, Georgia saw, was trying to be subtle about their wealth here. Everything that could be had been dipped in diamanté: riding boots, saddles, wrists, ring fingers, and pinkies. It was as if all the money in the world had slid into the laps of people with horses.
    They moved through something Billy called the tailgate section, but it was like no tailgate Georgia had ever seen. These tents were decorated in every conceivable theme, from Moroccan luxury desert dweller with Berber carpets and jewel-colored throw pillows to redneck hipster with pristine hay bales and ironic kerchiefs around the waitstaff necks.
    Billy scanned the crowd with fierce determination and homed in on his target. “There he is.” He smiled triumphantly. “With the team.”
    She followed the direction of his gaze and made out a distinctive profile, smooth gold skin, pale blue eyes, and a thick mop of red-blond hair. Beau was flanked by two tall, wide backs in tight La Victoria team T-shirts. Their sleek, dark heads ducked as one into the shade of the Maserati tent.
    The tent perimeter was being policed by very pretty security—a girl with severely pulled back hair, bright red lips, and a look on her face that seemed to say she lived to turn people away.
    “Oh God,” Georgia said, frantically trying to brush the worst of the wrinkles from her travel-worn clothes. “I look like I just crawled out of bed. They’ll stop me at the door.”
    But Billy flashed their laminated passes, and to the evident disappointment of the clipboard chick, they were in. As their eyes adjusted to the filtered light in the tent, Billy paused for a second to pat down his closely cropped curls and straighten his tee over his perfect abs, then scooped two plastic goblets of champagne, handed one to Georgia, and arranged himself behind Beau as if he’d been standing there all day.
    Beau turned and smiled. “Hey, you,” his voice a smooth Virginia drawl, “I was hoping you’d show up. Where you been all day?”
    “Remember? I had to meet my best friend at the airport,” Billy said. “This is Georgia. She’s a veterinarian. Specialist in equine medicine.”
    Georgia raised an eyebrow. Given her recent responsibilities, that was a bit of a stretch, but she appreciated Billy trying to make her look good.
    Beau tore his eyes away from Billy’s to shake Georgia’s hand with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you already, Georgia. So glad to finally meet you in person.”
    Georgia returned the smile. “Likewise,” she said.
    Georgia watched the way Beau moved closer to Billy, and she relaxed a bit. It was clear the guy was smitten. Which was no surprise really, since Billy was one of the most irresistible people she knew.
    Beau briefed Billy on the honorable defeat of the Del Campo team, La Victoria, at the match they’d just missed, and Georgia resisted a retort about the irony of the team name. The two men talked animatedly about the party they’d attended last night, the tequila casualties and the overall extravagance, and as their