Stephanie didn’t skimp on quality, which meant she didn’t skimp on cost, either. She was training world-class jumpers. And competing at that level demanded the best in everything; horses, feed, tack, trainers, vets and facilities. She was accustomed to defending her choices to her brothers. She wasn’t crazy about defending them to a stranger.

“Are you proud of the place?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered without hesitation.

“Then show it to me,” he challenged.

She hesitated, searching her mind for a dignified out.

He waited, the barest hint of a smirk twitching his mouth.

Finally she squared her shoulders, straightened to her full five foot five and met his gaze head-on. “You, Alec Creighton,” she repeated, “are no gentleman.”

The smile broadened, and he eased away, stepping to one side and gesturing to the tack shed door. “After you.”

Stephanie waltzed past with her head held high.

It wasn’t often a man talked her into a corner. She didn’t much like it, but she might as well get this over with. She’d give him his tour, answer his questions, send him back to the ranch house office and get back to her regular routine.

She had an intermediate jumping class to teach this morning, her own training this afternoon and she needed to have the vet examine her Hanoverian mare, Rosie-Jo. Rosie had shied at a jump in practice yesterday, and Stephanie needed to make sure the horse didn’t have any hidden injuries.

They headed down the dirt road alongside a hay barn, moving in the direction of the main stable and riding arena. She was tempted to lead him, expensive loafers and all, through the mud and manure around the treadmill pool.

It would serve him right.

“So, what exactly is it that you do?” she asked, resisting temptation. “I troubleshoot.”

She tipped her head to squint at his profile in the bright sunshine. Last night, she’d privately acknowledged that he was an incredibly good-looking man. He also carried himself well, squared shoulders, long stride, confident gait. “And what does that mean?”