“Nothing’s going on, Cuz.”

“Then where’s your watch?” I demanded before I could bite my tongue. Hadn’t I decided to eighty-six the overanalyzing? The prejudgment of men? Yes, but, damn it, I’d been getting some strong gambler vibes off him. Was his car really still in the shop after two weeks?

He averted his gaze as he said, “Went swimming with it the other day.”

“Let me guess. It’s in the shop too?” No watch: pawned? No car: hocked?

Was my cousin a gambler in deep?

“In the shop. You got it.”

I peered up at him. He didn’t seem to be worried about it whatsoever, so I supposed I had enough on my plate without fretting over my cousin’s foibles. “You’d let me know if I could do anything?”

“Of course. You’re a good egg, Cuz. You know that, huh?”

The groom brought out our mounts then. I fell head over heels for my mare all over again. With her glossy gray coat and black stockings, Alizay was stunning. The posh tack just highlighted her lines. Though western riding was preferred in Nebraska, I’d taken English riding lessons, and was thankful for it now.

I gazed into her lustrous eyes, seeing my own adoring reflection. Okay, maybe I did like money, if only for the horses it could buy.

When the groom brought out a third mount, I asked Filip, “Are you expecting someone?” I frowned to see a rifle stowed in a saddle holster.

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Filip scowled, muttering, “Bloody Siberian.”

As if summoned, Sevastyan entered the stables, his towering body briefly shadowed as he strode into the aisle. He wore black riding pants of a modern cut and a sharp all-weather athletic jacket that he could just as easily have worn to play rugby.

Filip’s style: Barneys high fashion. Sevastyan’s? Bespoke—and moneyed.

His gloves and clothes covered any tattoos, but that slim scar down his lips and the hardness of his features belied any gentlemanly appearance.

As he approached, he moved like an athlete; I could see the powerful muscles in his legs flexing with each of his steps, reminding me of when his thighs had quaked around my ears as I’d swallowed him down. . . .

Focus, Natalie. “Are you going with us?” I asked him, flushing at how throaty my voice sounded.

Sevastyan told Filip, “Kovalev wants to see you.”

“Just taking Natalie out for a ride,” he said smoothly. “I’ll catch him later this after—”

“Now.”

Filip’s lips thinned. “Nat, let’s go back to the house. We can come back for our ride when I’m done.”

What if the weather didn’t hold? I didn’t bother hiding my disappointment.

Sevastyan said, “I’m taking her.”

Why would he offer to be alone with me? Maybe he’d mastered his attraction to me, and was now in no danger of plighting. But why was he forgoing work? Had the difficulties been resolved?

Curiosity, my kryptonite, had me jonesing for answers.

The tension between the two men seethed. “You? Taking little sis out for a ride? How brotherly. But she’s not interested.” To me, Filip said, “Come, Natalie.”

I stiffened, not liking his tone at all. Strange, since I’d loved when Sevastyan had ordered me around in bed. Or in a maid’s closet.

Even after everything, I . . . missed the man. What harm could come from one little ride? I told Filip, “I’ve been waiting for this for two weeks.”

He gazed from Sevastyan to me and back. In a disbelieving tone, he said, “You want to go—with him?”

Sevastyan bit out the words, “Ona so mnoi.” She is with me.

Comprehension seemed to dawn in Filip’s expression. Then a disturbing flash of anger surfaced on his face, reddening his cheeks. He turned that look of wrath on me. “Are you? With him?”

His words were rife with undercurrents that I found difficult to accept. Because right now, it seemed like the guy who’d ignored me for weeks and the guy whose face could make angels weep were in a pissing contest.

Over me.

“I just want to go riding, Filip.”

He appeared to be grinding his molars to dust. Finally he told me, “I’ll be waiting for you back at the house.” With a black look at Sevastyan, he strode off.

Disquieted, I glanced up at Sevastyan, but his piercing gaze was trained on Filip’s back. I said, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on between you?”

“Nyet.” That word—when spoken by him and addressed to me—might as well be translated: Dead end, Natalie.

“Why are you taking time off work? Has the issue with Travkin been resolved?”

He shook his head, repeating, “Nyet.”

Dead end. He’d tell me no more—because I wasn’t a member of the inner circle.

He brushed his gloved hand down the neck of his mount. “You wanted to go riding, so I’m taking you.”

The stallion looked high-strung, and Sevastyan didn’t strike me as a natural rider. Recipe for disaster? “Have you done a lot of riding?”

“Unfortunately, work precludes it.”

“We don’t have to go.”

In answer, he moved behind me to help me into Alizay’s saddle.

“Oh. Okay.” Had he let his hands linger on my waist?

Then I watched, enthralled, as Sevastyan hoisted his muscular frame into his own saddle and brought his horse around.

My fears had been unfounded. Though he’d been plucked from the streets in his teens, he rode like he’d been raised in the saddle, with an arrogance that only came from excellence.




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