Page 25 of Sin Wager
I glance at Vera, who has stopped working and is listening to our conversation. Her face is neutral, but I catch a flicker of concern in her eyes.
"What about it?"
"People are saying I threw it. That I made Lucky Strike win on purpose." Pavel's voice is steady, but I can hear the undercurrent of fear. "It's not true. I rode to win, same as always."
"Lucky Strike wasn't favored."
"No, but he felt good under me. Strong. Responsive. Sometimes horses surprise you."
Vera has moved closer, still holding the brush. "Pavel's a good rider," she says quietly. "He wouldn't throw races."
Interesting. I file away her defense of him, along with the way she's looking at Pavel—protective, concerned. Either she genuinely cares about his reputation, or she's worried about what he might say under pressure.
"The stewards cleared the race," Pavel continues. "No evidence of tampering, no illegal substances. Clean win."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
He nods, but the fear doesn't leave his eyes. "Right. Nothing to worry about."
Pavel walks away, and I watch Vera's reaction. She follows him with her gaze until he disappears around the corner, then turns back to me with a forced smile. There is a flicker of fear in her expression, but I willfully ignore it. She needs to see me exude confidence and compassion.
"Ready to go?" I ask, extending my elbow, which she takes timidly.
The sun is lower in the sky as we stroll across the parking lot to my car. Vera settles into the passenger seat and buckles her seatbelt, then looks out the window at the track buildings.
"Long day?" I ask.
"They all are lately." She turns to face me as I pull out of the parking lot. "Thank you for the ride. And for dinner last night. It was…"
"What?"
"Nice. I can't remember the last time I went to dinner like that."
The admission makes my chest tighten. How long has she been taking care of everyone else without anyone taking care of her? It rankles my better judgment. I care. For some reason, it bothers me that she takes care of her brother and father and they don't have enough time or energy to care for her in return.
I'm the man sent to extract information from her and discard her like a used bandage, and I spend more emotional effort to help her than the men in her life. It makes me shake my head in disbelief.
"You work too much."
"Bills don't pay themselves."
"Speaking of which." I reach into my jacket and pull out a credit card. "Take the weekend off."
She stares at the card but doesn't take it. "Misha, I can't?—"
"You can. You should be taking time for yourself."
"I have to work. The weekend races are busy, and they need all the hands they can get."
"The track will survive without you for two days."
I hold the card out again, and this time, she takes it, turning it over in her hands. Her name is embossed on the front—I had it made after our first night together when we had drinks. It's supposed to be a means to an end, pouring out expensive things on her to woo her into submission, but I find myself thinking of what she might buy with it. What smile might curl her lips as she admires the finer items of clothing she'll purchase and see with her own eyes a reflection that displays how stunning she is.
"This has my name on it."
"So you can use it without questions."
"I don't know what to say." She tries pushing it back into my hand, and I shake my head firmly.
