"Indeed." Demon couldn't help himself-eyes hardening, his gaze openly intent, he lengthened his stride, swung to face her, and halted.

Sucking in a breath, she stopped precipitously, all but teetering in her effort not to run into him. She looked up, blue eyes widening in surprise.

He smiled down at her. "I'll be watching you, too." He held her gaze. "Don't doubt it."

She blinked; to his chagrin, not a flicker of awareness-the consciousness he was deliberately trying to evoke-showed in her soft blue eyes. Instead puzzlement filled them. She searched his face briefly, then shrugged, stepped aside and walked around him. "As you wish, although I can't see why. You know I can handle The Flynn, and Carruthers never misses a stride."

Swallowing a curse, Demon swung on his heel and stalked after her. It wasn't The Flynn that concerned him. Flick clearly considered him unthreatening. While he had no wish to threaten her, he definitely wanted her in his bed, which ought, in his book, to make her nervous, at least a bit wary. But no-not Flick.

Felicity was sensitive-Felicity was sensible. She had the good sense to be aware of him. Felicity had some degree of self-preservation. Flick, as far as he could tell, had none. She hadn't even recognized that he was not a benign uncle, and definitely not the sort of man to be managed by a mere chit.

"It won't," he enunciated, regaining her side, "be The Flynn's performance I'll be watching."

She glanced up and met his eyes, her frown more definite. "There's no need to watch me-I haven't parted company with my saddle for years."

"Be that as it may," he purred, "I assure you that watching you-keeping my gaze firmly glued to your svelte form as you trot about perched on one of my champions-is precisely the sort of behavior that's expected of a gentleman such as I."

"Be that as it may, watching me when you could be observing the hangers-on is silly. A wasted opportunity."

"Not for me."

Flick humphed and looked ahead. He was being deliberately difficult-she could sense his aggravation, cloaked though it was, but she had no idea what had caused it, or why he was making less sense than Dillon. She strolled on. And continued to ignore the fluttery sensations assailing her stomach, and the insistent flickering of her nerves. Along with the other unwanted, unwelcome remnants of her girlish obsession with him.

He'd been her ideal gentleman since she'd been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo's works in the library. She'd found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder-altogether better defined. As for the rest, she'd surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.

She hadn't, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be foolish beyond permission to imagine he would ever look at her. But she would marry one day-one day soon; she was very ready to love and be loved. She was already twenty, waiting, hoping. And if she had her way, she would marry a gentleman exactly like Demon. He, however, was an unattainable idol, entirely beyond her reach.

"This"-she gestured-"shady contact of Dillon's. Presumably he's not a local. Perhaps a search of the hotels and inns-'

"I've already got that in hand."

"Oh." She glanced up and met Demon's gaze; for a moment, his blue eyes remained sharp, keen, then he looked ahead.

"I'll check, but it's unlikely we'll find much by that route. This is, after all, Newmarket, a place that abounds in inns and taverns, and that attracts its fair share of shady characters, most of whom aren't local."

Flick grimaced and looked forward-they'd ambled through the gardens. The stables lay ahead, framed by a series of wooden arches over which wisteria grew. Stepping onto the path leading beneath the arches, she mused, "This contact-who would he be? One of the syndicate, or another pawn?"

"Not one of the syndicate." Demon strolled beside her, his strides long and lazy, his hands, somewhat surprisingly, in his trouser pockets. His gaze was on the gravel. "Who ever they are, the syndicate won't want for money, and the last thing they'd risk is exposure. No-the man will be a hireling. Perhaps a permanent employee. That, for us, would be best."

"So once we identify him, we'll have the best chance of following him back to his masters?"

Demon nodded. Then he looked up and stopped. They'd reached the end of the arches.

Flick glanced up, squinting into the sunlight that shone from over his shoulder. He was looking at her; she couldn't see his features, but she could feel his gaze, could sense his sheer physical presence through every pore. She was used to working with large horses; standing near him reminded her of them-he exuded the same aura of potent physical power, which could, if provoked, be dangerous. Luckily, neither horses nor he posed any danger to her. Inwardly lamenting her continuing sensitivity, she raised a hand and shaded her eyes.

And looked into his.

Her breath caught; for an instant, she felt disoriented-unclear who she was, who he was, and how things really were. Then something shifted in the blue; she blinked, and regained her mental footing. Yet he continued to look at her-not precisely seriously, but intently, the expression in his eyes one she neither recognized nor understood.

She was about to raise a brow when, his gaze still steady on her face, he asked, "Now you know the full story of Dillon's involvement, do you regret agreeing to help him?"

"Regret?" Considering the question, she raised both brows. "I don't think the concept applies. I've always helped him-he's made something of a career of getting into unexpectedly complicated scrapes." She shrugged. "I always imagined he'd grow out of them eventually. He hasn't yet."

Demon considered her face, her open expression, the honesty in her soft blue eyes. They didn't tell him how she felt about Dillon; given her apparent resistance to him, he had to wonder if Dillon was the cause. When she and Dillon were together, she was the dominant party-the one in charge. She'd grown accustomed to Dillon being dependent on her-it was possible she liked it that way. There was no doubt she liked to lead.

Which was all very well, but…

"So," she blinked up at him, "what do you imagine will happen next?"

He raised his brows. "Probably not a lot." At least, not in his stables. "However, if you do stumble on any clue, I will, of course, expect to be notified immediately."

"Of course." She lowered her hand and turned toward the stables. "Where will you be?"

Investigating far and wide. "Send a message to the farm-the Shephards always know where to find me."

"I'll send word if I hear anything." She stopped at the edge of the garden and held out her hand. "I'll see you at the stable in a few hours."

Demon took her hand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes-and fell into the blue. Her fingers lay, trusting, quiescent in his grasp. He considered raising them, considered brushing a lingering kiss upon them, considered…

Madness and uncertainty clashed.

The moment passed.

He released her hand. With an elegant nod, he turned and, jaw setting, strode for the stables, more conscious with every stride of a demonic desire to capture a Botticelli angel-and take her to his bed.