Page 55 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

Her jaw clenches, but she doesn't argue further. Smart woman.

I leave her alone to get ready, closing the door behind me.

Thirty minutes later, she emerges wearing a cream colored dress that hugs her curves and falls just above her knees. The dress is elegant but not too formal, expensive but not ostentatious. Perfect for where we're going.

Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing minimal makeup. She looks beautiful. Classy. Like she belongs on my arm.

"Where are we going?" she asks as we walk to the car.

"You'll see."

The drive takes forty minutes. Kiera sits in silence, staring out the window. I can feel the tension radiating off her, the barely contained frustration. She's still angry about last night and being forced into this marriage. I don't blame her.

But she'll come around. Eventually.

When we pull up to the racetrack, her head turns sharply toward me.

"Horse races?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because gambling is one of my businesses," I say as we get out of the car. "I own this track and three others in the state. Plus several casinos and card houses."

She stares at the sprawling facility, the crowds of well-dressed people streaming toward the entrance. "You own this?"

"I own a lot of things, Kiera. You'll learn."

I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the VIP entrance. The security guards recognize me immediately and wave us through without question.

Inside, the atmosphere is electric. The smell of expensive cologne and perfume mingles with the scents of leather and money. People mill around in designer clothes, clutching racing forms and champagne glasses.

I lead Kiera to my private box overlooking the track. It's spacious with comfortable seating, a full bar, and floor-to-ceiling windows that provide an unobstructed view of the course.

"This is yours?" she asks, looking around.

"Yes."

She moves to the window and looks down at the track. The horses are being led to the starting gate for the first race. Even from here, I can see their muscles rippling and their coats gleaming in the sunlight.

"Have you ever bet on horses before?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No."

"Would you like to?"

She glances at me, suspicious. "With what money?"

I pull out my wallet and hand her a stack of bills.

She stares at the money like it might bite her. "I can't take this."

"You can, and you will. Pick a horse. Any horse."

For a moment, I think she's going to refuse. Then something shifts in her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or defiance. She takes the money and studies the racing form on the table.

"This one," she says finally, pointing to a horse named Midnight Runner. "Number seven."