Luck takes a backseat when a sure thing is a sure thing. A strange coincidence that triggered an outrageous plot to win a fortune in a masterful racetrack betting coup . . . The daring team that put the caper together . . . A flawed stallion that was the key to its success. A dangerous rogue who needed it to fail. Six people whose tomorrows hung in the balance. An iconic stud in Australia’s outback where the plot ripened. A town alive with hero worship and a racetrack torn by the threat of scandal. A rousing world of racing carnivals, sophisticates, touts, glittering women, virile men, dark secrets, and devious cheats who saw millions in the dancing tail and clipped mane of one spirited thoroughbred. There had never been a caper like this! You have never been more fascinated than you will be when you meet the players who come alive on the pages of The Great Stallion Caper. Ken Lord’s first novel; it will not be his last!

Frank Valentine didn’t remember much about that day. Although he concealed his ambitious fantasies beneath a veneer of street smarts, Frank was a dreamer and a hunch player. With a towel around his hips, he stood on the balcony of his rented fourteenth-floor apartment overlooking the Brisbane River and gazed out at the magnificent view without really seeing it. He was thinking of something else . . . Was this some kind of coincidental stroke of luck? Had he been singled out to stumble upon it? Was it a signal for a hunch player like him to make a move? Was this one magic con that could set him up for life? The idea obsessed him more and more, and by the time he joined Lorrie and Eddie for dinner at Marco Polo, he was barely able to stay sane through the social prattle, two bottles of Pol Roger, and three courses of the restaurant’s exquisite cuisine. When his moment came with the after-dinner cognac, Frank was still as sober as the soberest judge on the planet! He started talking. After outlining the gift fate had handed him, he quietly and deliberately took a high dive into his strategy. Melbourne Cup day had always been the greatest show on earth for Mickey Flynn, and so it was for Michael J. Flemington Racetrack was where he sported his social credentials and his hard-won position as a superior being in the gilded upper levels of the racing fraternity. There he rubbed shoulders with the international thoroughbred elite—movers; shakers; horse traders from Asia, the Middle East, Europe, and the UK; and well-heeled visitors, owners, and trainers from the Americas and New Zealand. In such illustrious company, there was, naturally enough, a contingent of shrewd operators who lurked in the shadows of the sport—manipulators and fixers, masterminds and strategists, lured by the smell of big money and bought victories. They were not easy to spot, but they were not strangers to Michael J. because he was one of them; and because he was, he was rated, as they were, on the success of his latest exploits. The phrase “You’re only as good as your last con” was the rule by which they all lived. Looking over Cooper’s shoulder, Lorrie caught the approach of a second cream van that had just turned into the McCoy Stud driveway. “Here’s something else to hang out for, I think the models have arrived.” Cooper turned around, saw the van glide to a stop, and watched the models emerge like six Aphrodites rising from the mist—silken haired, long-legged, and satin skinned—prime examples of what every wannabe Aussie model could ever hope to be. The farmhands stirred restlessly, shifting weight from one foot to the other. When a couple of the models unleashed pearly smiles and friendly waves at them, the healthy country lads registered a heartbeat rise and a tremor in their loins that actually anchored them to the spot. The reaction did not escape Lorrie, who glanced Cooper’s way and said, “I think your boys have just flown to heaven . . . You too?” Cooper aimed a wicked look at her. “I’ve seen girls before, Lorrie. And just for the record, I’ve even logged up a few in-flight hours, you know, trips to the moon on gossamer wings and stuff.” Lorrie was itching to keep the conversation on that track but reminded herself that it was neither the time nor the place to be playing games. “We’ll do our thing with Bill’s audio after lunch,” she said. “It’s a cloudy day. It looks like the sun is going to stay in hiding, so it shouldn’t be too hot.” “You’re the boss,” said Cooper, registering a pang of disappointment. He’d wanted to keep the cute talk happening and didn’t quite understand why it stopped.

I have been a regular contributor to magazines and newspapers since 1976 as food writer, restaurant critic, restaurateur, social columnist, and show business reporter. I have edited a magazine and written for television and the stage. I have acted in stage productions, hosted television and radio shows, designed sets and costumes, and directed and produced the shows I have written. These activities have been a part of my life since I was a very young man, and as such, I have been a professional observer of human life. I have been married for thirty-five years. My wife shares my interest in the arts. She was my partner in the restaurant business and my close associate in my theatrical enterprises. I have a son, a daughter, and three grandchildren—all girls, ages 10, 5, and 1. We have always had dogs as pets, and they are/have been part of our lives. I live in Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland, Australia. It is a beautiful, clean green subtropical city on the Brisbane River, close to the shores of Moreton Bay in the South Pacific Ocean.