Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy, #1)(19)

“Don’t strain yourself,” Bran advised. “English works.”

“Good thing. Thanks for stopping.”

“American, are you? I’m surrounded.”

“Yeah. Sawyer, Sawyer King.” He added a fresh smile and a nod when Riley walked up.

“Where are you heading, Sawyer King?” she asked.

“Oh, around for now. A ride however far you’re going would work, but you look pretty packed in.”

“That we are,” Bran agreed. “We’re going a bit past Sidari. Bran Killian.”

“Irish, huh?” Sawyer accepted the offered hand. “Y’all vacating?”

“Not exactly.” Riley turned, looked meaningfully at Sasha. “Well?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Sawyer hooked a thumb in his belt loop—an easy stance—but clearly went on alert. “Sure of what?”

A picture could be worth any number of words, Sasha decided. “Can you wait a minute?”

“Yeah.” He flashed a grin—quick lightning—but stayed on alert. “I’ve always got time.”

She went to the jeep, leaned in to pull out her tote from where it was wedged on the floor of the backseat. She dug out her portfolio, then the sketch of the six.

She took it back to him, offered it. “I drew that about three weeks ago, in North Carolina—where I live.”

He studied it, took his sunglasses off, studied it a bit more. Yes, gray eyes, like evening mist over a shadowy lake.

He said, “Huh.”

“I know how strange it sounds—is—but I’ve got other drawings in here. Of us, of you—of this,” she said, waving her arms.

“Who are you?”

“Sasha Riggs, and this is Riley Gwin.”

“Who are the other two in the drawing?”

“I don’t know.”

“The way things are moving,” Bran said, “I don’t think it’ll be long before we find out. As I don’t think this strikes you as strange as it might, you’ll know what I mean by the Stars of Fortune.”

Sawyer swung his sunglasses by the earpiece. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“So we can discuss all this here, on the side of the road, and risk being mowed down by a passing car whose driver enjoys great rates of speed, as does our Riley, or we can go discuss it over a pint.”

“Wouldn’t say no to a beer.” Sawyer handed the sketch back to Sasha.

“I change my vote. We should go straight to the villa.”

Sawyer lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve got a villa?”

“Friend of a friend of an uncle.” Hands on hips, Riley studied the jeep, the luggage. “I’m good at making things fit, but this is it. Sasha’s going to have to sit on your lap, Sawyer.”

“He’ll have the back,” Bran corrected. “She can sit on mine, as she’s known me longer.”

“That can’t be legal. To drive like that.”

Riley snorted, headed to the driver’s door. “You kill me, Sash.”

“It’s only about twenty more kilometers.” Bran nudged her toward the jeep. “We’ll all be fine.” He got in, patted a hand on his legs. “Come on then.”

“Don’t be so delicate, Sasha. Jesus, you’ve already slept with the guy.”

“I did not. Well, technically, but—”

To solve it, Bran took her hand, pulled her in.

“This should be fun.” Sawyer swung long legs over the back, slid down.

“Yeah, we’re a merry band.” Riley bulleted back on the road, and had Sasha’s knuckles whitening on the dashboard she gripped like the last thread of life.

“Relax.” Amused, Bran wrapped his arms around her waist, eased her back. “It’s clear enough we’re not meant to die in a car crash in a borrowed jeep on the way to a borrowed villa.”

“Speaking of villas.” Riley flicked a glance in the rearview. “You cook, Sawyer?”

And Sasha, crushed on Bran’s lap, flying down the road like a reckless and carefree teenager, laughed until her sides ached.

By the time they bumped up the track toward the gate, it had been established that Sawyer could cook, which, according to Riley, made him cocaptain of the kitchen with Sasha.

“Three bedrooms are spoken for,” Riley continued. “But there are four more, so you’ve got next pick.”

“Just like that?”

“We’ll have that drink, and maybe Riley will create some of her world-renowned sandwiches. Then,” Bran added, “we can all decide.”

“He’s one of us,” Riley said simply as she took the turn that brought the villa into full view.

From the backseat, Sawyer let out a whistle. “Yobanny v rot.”

Riley angled back to study him. “How’d a nice Virginia boy—that’s a coastal Virginia accent you got there.”

“Good ear. Little place called Willow Cove, on the Chesapeake.”

“Yeah, so how’d a nice Virginia boy learn to swear in Russian?”

“Russian grandfather. You speak Russian?”

“I’m multilingual in obscenities. And yeah, the place earns a yobanny v rot.”