Page 71 of The Wrong Brother

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I murmur under my breath as we turn and head toward a luxurious spread of food on what looks like vintage plating.

His pale eyes flick toward me briefly. “Public goodwill is useful for men in my position.”

“Men trying to hide their bad deeds?” I murmur, too low for him to hear, as he smiles and nods at someone else. A headache pulses at my temples as I remember my training and the half-dozen criminals I canvassed, all of whom hid their crimes beneath the veneer of “helping others.”

Except that Ruslan reallyisdonating to the youth program. Making a difference. Should that tip the scales, or am I losing my mind? My taste for justice?

Across the museum, cameras flash suddenly near the grand staircase.

Andrei and Victoria.

Of course.

Victoria wears sleek navy silk tonight, and Andrei looks devastatingly handsome beside her, every inch the golden future governor standing beneath museum lights while reporters circle like sharks scenting blood in the water.

The sight still hurts more than I want it to. Not because I miss him, but because I hate that I ever trusted him. Maybe it’s a good thing I was forced to leave the FBI. Obviously, my internal compass is…off.

Rus notices the shift in my expression immediately. His fingers press lightly against my spine in warning before someone else approaches him for conversation.

“Stay close,” he murmurs quietly. The command irritates me on principle, but I nod anyway, not opposed to having a moment to myself.

I drift toward one of the side galleries while Rus gets trapped by another group of donors, grateful for the temporary escapefrom cameras and socialites. Abstract paintings line the walls in violent bursts of color; the room quieter than the rest of the museum.

“Emma?”

I freeze.

No.

Turning slowly, I find Ryder Demsky staring at me near the entrance to the gallery, looking equally stunned. The last time I saw her was in Miami.

The beginning of the end.

“Dios mio,” she mutters. “I thought that was you.”

Every muscle in my body tightens automatically. Old instincts. Old fear. But a gorgeous smile stretches across Ryder’s face, and she laughs.

“Relax. I’m not here for work.”

“Should that be reassuring?”

A faint grin touches her mouth. “Fair.”

She looks older than I remember, though we’re only a few years apart. Sharper around the edges, and more tired. Her son, Rex, must be close to a year old now if I remember correctly.

Her gaze shifts past me toward the crowded gala beyond the gallery, eyes narrow. “So…you’re here with Ruslan Smirnov. I thought you were done with ‘our world,’ Emma. What happened?”

Shit.

“You know him?” A twist in my gut; I realize I’ve been living in a sort of bliss up until now, able to pretend that maybe Ruslan isn’t as bad as hehas to beto run an underground crime organization in California.

“Know of him.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Emma, do you understand who he is?”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “Unfortunately.”

Her expression darkens. “Then you know Andrei’s his half-brother. And that Ruslan hasn’t been in Colorado for…”

“Almost ten years,” I murmur, my brain kicking into overdrive, cataloging facts. Details. Things I’ve been trying to ignore.