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she as devastated as Emilio by the loss of Isabella’s
Belt?”
    Sighing, Damian fiddled with his silverware, then took a
deep swallow of his scotch. He wished he had assigned Reynard or Cherub to this
interview. Or had not let his cock rule him. He was too involved with Tiffany
to remain objective, but he would be damned if he turned this case over to
anyone else.
    “Women are more pragmatic about the loss of things.
Madrina—my godmother—is more concerned about Emilio’s health.”
    After a very long moment Tiffany glanced at her menu, smiled
and lifted her gaze to his face. “Smashed peas. May I have smashed peas with my
dinner?”
    “If you will answer a question for me, you may have every
smashed pea in the entire restaurant.” He apparently had survived the bullshit
meter. This time.
    “Shoot, Luke.”
    “My name is Ian, not Luke. And I have no desire to shoot
anyone. Except, perhaps, your husband.”
    Ignoring the sarcasm in his voice and the explanation about
her marriage he seemed to demand, she said, “I don’t expect you to shoot
anyone. It’s just an expression.” Laughing, she touched his hand, but pulled
away immediately. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
    “My family lives in Devonshire. Torquay.”
    “Oh yes. Scones and clotted cream. Yum.” She licked her
lips.
    Ignoring his swelling cock, he countered, “Would you like
some now?”
    “What, and ruin my appetite for smashed peas?”
    “Ah, humor.” He took a deep breath and said, “You and Sir
James are very formal with each other.”
    “We’re both very private people.”
    “Yes. I could sense that in his office. But… Is your
relationship outside the office so cool? So impersonal?”
    “Sir James did not approve of my marrying his stepson,
William. On the other hand, William’s mother did not approve of William
marrying me.”
    She looked somewhere over his shoulder. A hint, perhaps, to
change the subject. Which he did. “Then why did they allow it?”
    “Oh Ian, this is the twenty-first century,” she said on a
laugh tainted with bitterness. “William’s mother allowed it because it gained
her son access to the high-flying world of Charles Cartierri, renowned jeweler
and gemologist.”
    “And Sir James allowed you and William to marry because…?”
    “Because it irritated Charles.”
    She looked so annoyed, Damian thought it best to change the
subject. “Do you like the theater?”
    “Love it.”
    “I think I can get tickets for Phantom. ” He watched
her eyes widen. “I might even be able to arrange a backstage tour.”
    “That sounds wonderful.”
    “You have not seen the show?”
    “Couldn’t get tickets. Seeing it in London makes it even
more special,” she crowed, then wiggled her shoulders like a puppy having its
tummy rubbed.
    Damian wanted to wiggle too, preferably in a wide bed with
satin sheets and Tiffany under him.
    “Backstage, too? Impressive.”
    Damian ground his teeth but, mimicking his teenage sisters,
said, “Yeah, way cool.”
    They sipped their drinks in silence until the waiter
finished serving their entrées. Tiffany ate as if food was a prelude to
sex—small, tentative bites at first, a nod of approval, a soft groan of
pleasure.
    To save himself from more libidinous thoughts, like her
taking bites of him, he asked, “When did you first go to work for Sir James?”
    “Can’t wait to start the interrogation, eh?” She put her
knife and fork at precise angles on her plate.
    “I am simply making conversation. Conversation that avoids
the subject of your marriage, which you clearly do not want to discuss. Do you
like the prime rib?”
    “Were I better with words, I would wax poetic about the
prime rib. And the Yorkshire pudding is perfection.”
    “I suspect you are very good with words,” he muttered,
focusing on his plate instead of ogling her breasts or remembering how she had
writhed when he suckled them. “How are the peas?”
    She retrieved her silverware and