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“You do tend to wander off when I’m talking to you. I never realized how boring I am.”
    She met his gaze, that dangerous, ironic gaze. He was trying to unsettle her, surprise her. Well, two could play that game. She gave him a stern look. “You know perfectly well how seductive you are, and you don’t hesitate to use it,” she said flatly, “and don’t pretend you don’t. You reeled me in like I’m some poor salmon, gasping for air, and even if I struggle I’m still flapping around on the floor, fighting to survive.”
    He laughed. “Do you think you’ll need mouth-to-mouth? I’ve never kissed a fish before.”
    Trumped again. She fumbled for her lemon drink. She didn’t need to be thinking about kissing him. Thinking about how she wanted to kiss him. She raised her eyes again. “I’m not quite sure what game you’re playing, but I should make it clear that I’m not the type who goes in for one-night stands or hops into bed with any man I happen to find attractive.”
    “You find me attractive? That’s a step in the right direction,” he said lightly, and she could still feel the intensity of his gaze. “So what kind of woman are you? What kind of man do you hop into bed with?”
    This was getting entirely out of hand. Why had she used the word “seductive”? Why had he talked about kissing her? “I got my PhD when I was twenty,” she announced abruptly.
    He raised his eyebrows—dark, arched, almost satanic eyebrows. “A prodigy, then. So if you’ve already got your doctorate, why are you scrambling around Italian ruins on your own?” He took her change of subject with equanimity, and she breathed a small sight of relief.
    “Publish or perish,” she said. “Besides, how can I teach if I don’t have firsthand knowledge of what I’m talking about?”
    “One should always have firsthand knowledge,” he said innocently. “Do you like teaching? Do you like your students?”
    “I do,” she said, surprising herself. “They can be pains in the ass, but every now and then you find one who’s genuinely passionate about learning, and if I can find the right hook I can draw the slackers in as well.”
    She couldn’t keep from staring at his mouth, and the smile that flitted across it was different than the others—it somehow seemed more honest. “I can imagine,” he murmured. “So tell me how you do it.”
    It was an odd interlude—she knew he was drawing her out just as she did with her students, and yet she was helpless to resist. No, that wasn’t true. She’d never been helpless in her life, not if she could do anything about it. But he smiled at her, spoke in that low, easy drawl, and she could feel all her caution and doubts melt away beneath his practiced charm. She found herself telling him things she’d never told anyone—her stage fright when it came to teaching, her perfect older sister, her remote parents. She told him about the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, a beauty she’d left for Massachusetts, where she was alternately freezing and roasting, and he listened, his eyes on her, his attention never straying, and she felt herself slipping, slipping, underneath his lazy, tempting charisma.
    No one could be that seductive by accident—he had to have had lots of practice, and he was exerting everything he’d learned on her. She knew it, and even though she did, it worked. She was melting, and she slapped down that tiny warning voice inside. Other women did this, all the time, and she could count it as another milestone in her goal of putting the bad things of the past behind her. She was hardly a romantic—sex was a pleasurable, physical sensation, one that was much more enjoyable with a partner. She suspected he’d be a very good partner. He knew what she wanted to drink, he’d ordered for her, and he’d chosen perfectly. He was attuned to what she liked, what she wanted, picking up subtle cues, and he asked just the right questions, ones that had her telling him