She had a melodic, almost hypnotic voice, not so much sirenlike as that of a storyteller, luring you to believe, to accept, and to respond.

Dillon fought the compulsion, forced himself to listen dispassionately, sought, found, and clung to his usual aloof distance. Although uttered as statements, he sensed her sentences were questions. “The register you’re referring to is known as the Breeding Register, and no, it’s not a public document. It’s an archive of the Jockey Club. In effect, it’s a listing of the horses approved to run on those racetracks overseen by the club.”

She was drinking in his every word. “I see. So…if one wished to verify that a particular horse was approved to race on such tracks, one would consult the Breeding Register.”

Another question parading as a statement. “Yes.”

“So it is possible to view the Breeding Register.”

“No.” He smiled, deliberately a touch patronizingly, when she frowned. “If you wish to know if a particular horse is approved to race, you need to apply for the information.”

“Apply?”

At last a straight, unadorned question; he let his smile grow more intent. “You fill out a form, and one of the register clerks will provide you with the required information.”

She looked disgusted. “A form.” She flicked the fingers of one hand. “I suppose this is England, after all.”

He made no reply. When it became clear he wasn’t going to rise to that bait, she tried another tack.

She leaned forward, just a little. Confidingly fixed her big green eyes on his face, simultaneously drawing attention to her really quite impressive breasts, not overly large, yet on her slight frame deliciously tempting.