Page 136 of My Dark Horse Prince

Eventually, Kristiana starts answering for me, which is a real blessing. We’re both holding horses, though, and we’re both tired. So before too long, Kris cuts it short. “We’ll make her available for interviews tomorrow,” she says. “We really need to get these horses cooled off, tacked down, and in their stalls.”

A moment later, Adriana reaches us, and I hand her the reins to Blanka. She’s beaming as we exit the arena and head for the stables.

“You destroyed her.”

I smile.

“It looked like your leg was hurting, though, at the end?” She peers down at my bad thigh. “Are you alright?”

She’s too smart and she pays too close of attention sometimes. “It’s fine,” I say. “I tweaked it a little, but the pain’s fading.”

Charlemagne tosses his head and looks back at me.

“Do you want to take him?” Kristiana asks.

Adriana’s brow furrows. “I still can’t believe you were competing so soon after that surgery. But if you’re walking on it, it can’t be that bad, right?” She points at a chair at the front of the stables. “You should wait here. Kris and I can cool these two down, and you can take a little break. Join us when the twinge is gone.”

“But I—”

She jabs her finger at the chair. “Sit.”

It’s easier to sit than to argue with her, and I am a little exhausted. I’m sure Charlemagne is, too. There are horses and riders walking back and forth in front of us, and it’s not smart for Kris and Adriana to loiter around. Plus, the horses do need a cool down, water, and some rest.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I say. “Thanks.”

Of course, about four minutes later, two men with name tags and notepads realize who I am. “Mirdza Strelkova?” The taller one looks delighted. “You’re sitting here. . .alone?” His Latvian is good—no accent at all. Grigoriy will be pleased that I’m paying attention—he does not sound Russian.

I laugh. “Just taking a quick break. I’ll be headed back to check on my horses in a moment.”

“Is it true you and Brigita are close friends?” The shorter one’s not quite as tall as his companion, but they’re both quite tall. Taller than Grigoriy, even. And they’re both in the nerdiest looking tweed suits I’ve ever seen. They definitely wouldn’t make Grigoriy nervous. No black at all.

“We’ve known one another for a long time,” I say. It’s what Kristiana said earlier, and it seems like the smartest thing to disclose.

A few other reporters around the corner notice we’re talking and start walking this way. In a few short moments it’ll be another feeding frenzy.

“Do you have time for a brief interview?” the tall one asks. He’s quite handsome, even for a reporter in nerdy clothing. His jaw is square, his eyes are sky blue, and his hair’s a striking golden-blond, military cut. “We could sneak back there.”

I wave them off. “I really should be getting back.”

“We’re with Horse and Hound, and our editor wants to use you as our spotlight this month. Unfortunately, we have to leave on a flight in about three hours.” The tall blond glances at the shorter one, who has russet hair.

Good heavens, he’s stunning looking, too. Is everyone who works for Horse and Hound as fabulously shiny and handsome as their publication? It’s probably the most famous of the magazines that covers show jumping. The thought of being on the front. . . “Why would you want to feature me?”

“Far more women than men ride at the lower levels, but the higher echelons of the sport have always been dominated by men,” the russet-haired man says. His Latvian’s also quite good. Maybe that’s why they were sent to cover this. “Our editor’s a woman, and she’s keen on highlighting how that’s changing. What better story to feature than one about a country that recently had its first Olympic contender, and the woman who just brought home the win at their local World Cup qualifier?”

My national pride swells up a bit, thinking about being the representative for Latvia. We’ve always been the step-child of the European jumping circuit. We’re not as wealthy, and we’re farther away than most other counties from the majority of the shows.

“Aren’t you also best friends with Kristiana Liepa?” the blond asks. “We’ve been trying to reach her for a feature for weeks and weeks now. The second woman to ever win the Grand National, and the first person from Latvia to ever take it. It seems like Latvia may be a sleeping powerhouse for equine sports.” He beams.

“Fine,” I say. “But only ten minutes. If I’m gone any longer, my best friend will worry. And if we hurry, she might be willing to give you a bit of time, too.” I stand up and start following them out the back way, where hopefully there won’t be quite as many other reporters heading for us like heat-seeking missiles.

“Is it true she’s engaged?” the blond asks. “To some kind of magnate from Russia?”

I bob my head. “I mean, he’s not a magnate, but he’s pretty wealthy.”

“So it is true,” the russet-haired man says. His bright green eyes are sparkling. “Will they move to Russia? Or will he come to Latvia?”

“I think she’d be the better person to ask those questions.” My feeling are a little hurt that they seem more excited about her than me, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Winning the Grand National landed her a million pounds, whereas my win made me thirty thousand euro. And this is only a regional qualifier—a two-star, at that. But still. I just won it. “Are you guys using me to get to her?”

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