solid with his senses swimming as they were. “Phew. So that’s the obnoxious show-off charge taken care of. What about the unprofessional-wretch accusation?”
Her solitary dimple winked at him. “Yes, what about it?”
He guffawed at her volley, shook his head. The words came to him now, what she felt like; like the sum total of his desires.
And those were indeed fierce. More. They were all-consuming.
Which brought him back to his plan.
He would claim the crown that had once been ripped from him. If he could be convinced once more it was his destiny to wear it.
There were no ifs when it came to her. He would claim her.
If he claimed the crown, it would be on his terms. No negotiations. But in her case…this was were his plot thickened.
He’d pursued her the first time around, always coming back to her as if starved. This time, he would make her do the running. Then he’d claim her.
And when he judged the time right, he would walk away.
He signaled the staff to begin the night’s service, leaned across the table and captured the hand that kept frying his imagination with its restless movements.
“Va bene, Phoebe. Let’s get the myth of my un-professionalism debunked, too. Let’s get down to business. You have the whole night to work…on me.”
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