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of them. “I’m just not used to small talk.”
    “Then we can dispense with small talk. Tell me about your work instead.”
    “You wouldn’t be interested,” she said, reaching for the glass of yellow liquid. Limoncello, her favorite.
    He noticed her surprise, but then, she had the impression he was a man who noticed everything. “Silvio told me about the Limoncello,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Why do you keep looking at me like I’m Jack the Ripper?”
    That finally made her laugh. “Hardly. But this is the third year I’ve spent a month travelling around Italy on my own, and I’ve learned that it only makes sense to be cautious.”
    “Is that caution I see in those gorgeous green eyes of yours? Or acute paranoia?”
    She squirmed. “I’d look a lot less paranoid if you stopped trying to shower flowery compliments on me.”
    “Saying you have gorgeous green eyes is hardly overdone. Now if I said you had eyes the color of the heart of jade, now that would be flowery.” She made a face, and he laughed. “I tell you what. I’ll let you do the talking, and I won’t say anything nice at all, I promise. Tell me where you come from, what you love, why the hell you picked medieval clerical architecture, in particular walled towns, to devote your life to. Tell me who your best friend is, whether you hate spiders, why you love Italy, who gave you your first kiss. I’ll just listen. It’s been so long since I’ve heard an American accent.”
    She looked at him. “There are tons of Americans overseas. You must hear it more often than you think.”
    “Then it’s your accent I like. Pacific Northwest, I’m guessing.”
    Now that was unnerving . “I don’t have an accent.”
    “Of course you don’t,” he said soothingly. “People in the US don’t think they do. I like regional accents—I can usually tell where someone came from, if not the actual state. And in some cases, like Texas or Massachusetts, it’s easy enough to even place what part of the state that person comes from. For the Pacific Northwest accent, it’s a bit of Scandinavian with a touch of Venice, and I’m talking California, not the gorgeous city to the north of us. Which I hope you’re going to see on this trip. There are obviously no walls, but lots of medieval architecture.”
    He was probing so delicately, and she wasn’t sure whether it was wise to tell him her itinerary. “Depends how much time I have,” she said carefully. “Venice has been overdone. And I grew up in Port Townsend, Washington.”
    “One can never have too much of Venezia.” He leaned back, a faintly ironic smile on his mouth. The mouth she kept glancing at and then jerking her gaze away. He really was something else, she thought, momentarily distracted, dreamy. If he really put his mind to it he might be almost impossible to resist.
    Except he wasn’t going to put his mind to it. This was simply to ease his boredom, listen to an American accent, and maybe even make a desultory attempt to get her in bed, but it wouldn’t really matter. She was used to men like him, though she seldom spent time in their company. Now she was glad she hadn’t.
    Because he unnerved her, seducing her when he probably didn’t even realize it. Despite the emptiness in his dark, dark eyes, he had the most devastating smile, a soft, drawling voice that made her want to curl up inside it, a mouth so luscious it didn’t bear thinking about. Maybe she should just give in, assuming he did make a pass at her, which was still up in the air. It wasn’t as if she were frigid, or a prude. She’d had enough therapy to get past any lingering . . . issues, and her sexual relationships had been satisfactory. She knew the rudiments of self-defense if he got kinky, and besides, she’d read Fifty Shades of Grey with horrified fascination. It might be interesting . . . no!
    “What in heaven’s name are you thinking about now?” Bishop demanded good-naturedly.