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voices rapidly rose and fell, Georgia felt her eyes wandering and her shoes sinking into the deep green grass. Finally, Billy looked over at her and gave her a little nod. “I’m going to go refresh our drinks. I’ll be right back.”
    Beau watched Billy walk away and then turned to Georgia and grinned. “So, what do I have to do to pass the Best Friend Test?”
    Georgia laughed, sheepish. “Oh, so you know?”
    Beau shook his head, amused. “Billy is as transparent as a window. But that’s one of the reasons I like him so much. The guy can’t hide anything from anyone.”
    “That’s true. He never could,” said Georgia. She smiled at Beau. She had a good feeling about him.
    Billy returned, and talk turned to the afternoon match and the saddles Beau made. Beau described them with lively eyes while never taking his hand off Billy’s arm.
    “Hey, Beau,” came a low, laughing voice.
    “Sebastian. You remember Billy. And this is Georgia.”
    She turned around to see Sebastian Del Campo—looking every bit as outlandishly handsome as he had in his photo. With him was a shorter, redheaded man with a dazzling smile, whom Beau introduced as Rory Weymouth.
    The men shook her hand with old-world charm and slid into practiced repartee, taking turns asking where she was from and how long she’d be staying. Certainly their spirits didn’t seem dimmed by recent defeat.
    Georgia could tell that their disarmingly attentive double act was probably due to some running tally of conquests between the two. She had zero intention of being added to either of their lists, but she had to admit, it was fun to be flanked by two such good-looking and very friendly men.
    “Georgia has horses, too,” Billy said, apropos of nothing, and buried his nose back in his flute.
    Sebastian looked interested. “What kind of stable do you have?”
    Georgia shrugged, embarrassed. “Well, we don’t have horses like you have horses. I mean, not ones you can actually ride these days. We have a sweet old mustang named Ben—you can’t mount him, though, his last owner foundered him, and so his feet are too sore. And we have a one-eyed donkey named Jenny. You could ride her, I suppose—but she only goes in circles—you know, because of the one-eye thing.”
    Rory looked rather startled, but Sebastian threw back his head and laughed.

Chapter Eleven
    A lejandro glanced across the room at the sound of his brother laughing and tried to see whomever he was talking to. He got a glimpse of a pretty, spirited face, animated by conversation, before Rory moved to loom over her and obscure the view.
    He realized his audience was waiting for a reaction and smiled and nodded at the ring of people around him, trying to concentrate on the story that the socialite in the tight turquoise dress was telling and hoping he was hiding how claustrophobic he felt.
    He hated these press events. Every which way he turned, someone waited to talk to him, touch him, demanding his attention. He knew it was part of the job—and he tried his best to satisfy—but the longer he stood, grinning like a fool and saying the same polite and predictable things over and over, the more horrifically restless he became. The mandatory mingling was bad enough when his team had won; but forced jollity after a loss like today’s added serious insult to injury.
    Sebastian laughed even louder, and Alejandro turned his head again. His brother and Rory were pulling out all the stops, competing over their afternoon target. They crowded in front of her, jostling for attention and blocking their poor prey from his sight. He saw Sebastian break away to get a refill on his drink. Fantastic—just what he needed—Sebastian on the rampage. He sure as hell didn’t want a hangover handicap hurting their odds tomorrow on top of their dismal performance this afternoon.
    The blonde finished her story finally, tossing off some dirty punch line about girth, which generated a round of guffawing laughter from