Page 117 of Double Bucked

Her eyes dart greedily from Claire to Ransom, back and forth like a pinball, eager for the latest gossip.

I can feel Ransom gearing up for an elaborate lie, so I come out with the truth: “We all sleep in the same bed these days.”

The girls break into a flutter of laughter, thinking I’m joking.

Yes. How absurd.

Claire changes the topic. She twists toward the window and asks, “What’s going on down there?”

Men in tight-fitting suits and helmets linger around the racetrack. Some walk with horses that wear dark socks around their ankles and braids around their tails.

“They’re having a polo match,” Mary-Kate says. “Look at them,” she whispers, her voice soft and reverent. “Those strong legs…the way he fills out those pants…”

“Are we talking about the horses or the riders?” Claire asks.

“You know what they say,” Mary-Kate grins. “Save a horse.” She puts her hand on my chest. The uninvited touch makes my skin crawl.

I retreat into James. “Polo originated in Iran,” I say. “But it’s a popular sport among modern English gentlemen.”

Ransom squints at me. “Oh, yeah? You play often?”

I stand my ground. “When the opportunity presents itself.”

“Wicked cool, gov’ner!” Ransom says, with the worst British accent I’ve ever heard in my life.

The urge to put my hand around his throat is strong.

“You should sign up!” Elsbeth squeaks. “It’s an open game.”

I press my lips together. “I don’t think so?—”

“Yes,” Claire says enthusiastically. “They absolutely will.” She sets down her glass to grip me and Ransom, then pulls us aside. “Go,” she says, dropping her voice. “Arris will speak freely with me. He might clam up if you two are breathing down his neck. Besides. It will give you a chance to…mingle with the locals.”

“Mm.” All I can think is horses. Dust. Sweat.

“Knock ’em dead,” Claire says, trying to be encouraging.

“May I?” I ask.

Her mouth twists. “Ransom. Hold his hand.”

Ransom smacks me on the back. “C’mon, James. Time to cowboy up.”

38

RANSOM

I’ve never seen a grown man look more uncomfortable on top of a horse.

Everett’s boots are hooked in the saddle’s stirrups, and he’s poised as though he’s about to leap straight off the horse. He’s clutching the horn like it’s a lifeline.

I pat the horse’s neck. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says stiffly. He’s had to put away his moral-support headphones so they don’t fall out while he’s riding. It’s made him cranky.

“You should be riding comfortable. We had to get you a special saddle and everything, you tall princess.”

He grimaces.

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