Page 70 of The Wrong Brother

Emma studies me carefully while we move beneath an archway heavy with climbing vines.

“That explains the fashion.”

Partially.

I nod once. “Nature inspires most collections. Back when I was building things, there needed to be some truth to the shadows, so people would be willing to look past them. Colors. Shapes. Texture. People forget fashion is art before it becomes business.”

“And crime?” she asks lightly.

I smirk without looking at her. “That came later, and easily.”

We fall quiet again as we wander deeper into the gardens. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly from a fountain hidden among the trees. The entire place smells faintly of roses and damp earth.

Peaceful. Too peaceful; I feel the muscles in my shoulders relaxing, forgetting about the man yards behind us who tucks himself into corners and carries a concealed Glock. Andrei wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something here, even on a quiet day.

Emma stops near a cluster of late-blooming dahlias, leaning down slightly to brush her fingertips carefully along one of the petals. The sunlight catches her hair, turning the darker strands bronze.

Beautiful.

When she straightens again, we’re standing too close. Neither of us moves. Her eyes lift slowly to mine, and something shifts between us.

Not lust this time, not adrenaline.

Something quieter.

I reach up before thinking and brush a strand of hair away from her face. Emma inhales softly, her body going still beneath my hand. The look in her eyes nearly destroys my restraint entirely.

For one reckless moment, I almost kiss her.

Not in the possessive way that I tell myself is because she’smine,a hostage rightly taken; no, this would be too honest.

Emma sways closer, like she feels it too. And I step back.

Reality crashes between us. The reason we’re here, Andrei, the wedding, revenge. I want to comehome,I want to come to these gardens whenever I feel like doing so, and for that to happen I need to take him down.

Emma’s expression closes almost instantly, walls sliding carefully back into place. Mine do the same.

Coward.The thought is bitter, but accurate. This is self-preservation. I can’t let a woman, even one as tempting as Emma, take down my empire brick by brick. Not when I’m so close.

I clear my throat and look away toward the gardens stretching beyond us.

“I should call Stepan.”

“Right,” she says quietly.

Every moment I spend forgetting why I’m here makes this more dangerous than it already is. Somewhere in Denver, Andrei is still breathing. I intend to correct that.

Chapter 17

Emma

Ruslan standsbeside me in a charcoal suit, with one hand resting lightly against my back, speaking to a museum director like he belongs among the city’s elite. Maybe he does. People gravitate toward him constantly tonight: business owners, politicians, socialites. The attention only intensifies after he makes some absurdly large donation to a youth arts program, casually.

I almost choke on my champagne when I hear the number.

The museum director looks ready to cry.

Rus merely nods once, like he didn’t just donate more money than most people make in years.