He’d fought noticing how the graphic statues were affecting her as they walked through them. She’d been curious, as anyone would be. They were meant to be sexually provocative. He’d seen her blushes and lingering looks and the way her nipples had poked against the cups of her bra beneath the layer of her silk dress.
He’d had his own stiffness to disguise. In another life they might have had an entirely different sort of conversation among those athletic examples of libidinous acts, one that might have ended in an attempt to emulate—
Stop. He couldn’t let himself do this. He had hired her.
To ruin him.
And their conversation on how best to go about that had been some of the most amusing banter he’d enjoyed in ages.
Guillermo was right. Amy could be very dangerous to him on a personal level.
Even so, he glanced at his watch and decided he was hungry for an early dinner.
Amy eyed the slim-fit chive-green pants and the madras patterned jacket in pink and green and gold that she’d bought from the hotel boutique. They would work for tomorrow’s meeting with Luca’s gala committee, but it wasn’t a formal enough outfit for dining with a king.
She debated between the two tea dresses in the closet. One was a pale rose, the other a midnight blue. Both were exceedingly good quality, elegant and pretty, but so demure as to bore her into a coma while looking at them. That pastel pink with the long sleeves would make her skin look sallow, and its sweetheart neckline would have her begging for an insulin shot.
She tried on the blue. It had a round collar, cap sleeves and a sheer overlay on the A-line skirt. She was tempted to put her own leather corset belt over it, but tried the belt off the pink dress. It was a narrow plait with a spangled clasp that added some pop against the blue.
She ignored the closed-toe black patent leather pumps and put on her own silver-heeled stilettos. Then she pushed all her bangles so they sat above her elbow. She couldn’t hide the tattoo on her upper arm and shoulder, so she underscored it.
Her hair was in a topknot with wisps pulled out at her temples. Simple eye makeup made her new crimson lipstick all the more dramatic. She was ready to face Luca.
She hoped.
The young man who escorted her—was he a footman?—glanced at her in the various reflective surfaces they passed. She wasn’t falsely modest. She knew she attracted the male gaze. Even before her curves had developed, her mother had coached her to play up her femininity and keep the men around her happy and comfortable.
Manipulate them, was what her mother had meant. Trouble was, she’d taught Amy to hunt without teaching her to kill. Thus, Amy’s first experience had been to successfully stalk a predator and become his prey without even realizing what was happening.
But she wouldn’t think about that right now. The footman was letting her into an office that held a small lounge area and a scrumptious king.
“Amy,” Luca greeted.
The impact of his presence, of a voice that sounded pleased to see her, was a blast of sensual energy that made all the hair on her body stand up.
He was freshly shaved and wore dark pants with a pale blue shirt. Both were tailored to sit flawlessly against his muscled frame. Funny how she almost wished he wore a jacket and tie so this would feel more formal. She wasn’t sure why she wanted him to put up armor against her, but it would have made her feel safer.
Not that she felt unsafe as the door closed, leaving them alone. She just wanted him to put up barriers because she couldn’t find any of her own. She suddenly felt very raw and skinless as she faced him.
So she turned her attention to the old-world decor, the fine rugs and carved wooden columns. No overtly sexual images in here. It was decorated in a combination of modern abstracts, contemporary furniture and a few period pieces. His desk had to be three hundred years old. It was all very beautiful and...impersonal.
He hadn’t moved in. Not properly. He might have erased his father’s presence, but he’d made no effort to stamp the space with his own. He’d been planning his abdication from the day he was crowned.
When she looked at him, she caught him staring at her tattoo.
“You really don’t care for convention, do you?” he said.
Her toes tried to curl, reacting to the conflicting mix of approval in his tone with the suggestion of disapproval in his words.
“Does that bother you?” she asked, voice strained by the pressure in her chest.
“Some.” He poured two glasses of white wine and brought them across the room to offer one. “This is our private reserve. If you don’t care for it, I have a red that’s not as dry.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” She accepted it, and they touched the rims of their glasses before she tried the wine. It was icy and very dry, but complex with a fruit forward start, a round mouth feel and a brief tang before its soft finish. “This is lovely. I’ll take payment in cases.”
His mouth twitched. He nodded at her shoulder. “Do you mind? I saw online that you had one, but I didn’t see what it was.”
She angled slightly so he could examine the inked image of a bird flying free of a cage suspended from a branch of blossoms.
“Colorful,” he murmured. Something in his amused tone was drier than the wine. It made her feel as though he was making a joke she didn’t understand, but his thumb grazed her skin, blanking her mind while filling her body with heat. “It must have taken a lot of time.”
“Four hours. It hurt so much,” she said with a laugh that was shredded more by her longing for another caress than any
