Bronwyn Scott - Regency Surrender - Ruthless Rakes

At breakfast, everything had changed. She’d refused his initial position, turned down his money, and then had the audacity to renegotiate with him. Somewhere between his third and fourth piece of toast, he’d found himself straying from his original offer to an offer of actual physical assistance. In return, she would leave after he helped her retrieve something from the count. Goodness knew what that might be and what it might involve. Certainly, it would involve covert action and that meant it would involve risk. He would be ready for it. To that end, he had two more stops to make before dinner. The sooner they could expedite their association the better.

Nolan braced his packages under one arm, pushed open the door and stared in amazement. This was his room? For a moment he thought perhaps he’d gone to the wrong place. In all the weeks he’d lived here, it had never looked like this: candles flickering, the curtains pulled back to reveal the lanterns on the canal, the long, highly polished but little-used dining table set with white cloth, silver and crystal. This was a setting fit for a prince. It carried an elegance far beyond that of an itinerant gambler who had money but not much else in life. If he’d known what was waiting for him, he might have come back sooner. Or, he might be highly suspicious.

Nolan chose to be the latter. This was the same woman, after all, who had tried to suck him and then slapped him for a kiss moments later. This was a woman who was with him because he was her only alternative for the moment, a rather lowering thought for a man who prided himself on the ability to seduce anyone.

Gianna moved from the shadows. Her entrance was masterfully staged. She only drew his attention after he’d had a chance to absorb the scene. And rightly so. Nolan thought he might have missed the table and all its finery if he’d seen her first. She was a queen in the candlelight, dressed in a silver-grey silk gown banded at the waist and trimmed at the hem in bands of black velvet. Her dark hair was piled high, exposing the slender column of her neck, a few curls left loose to tempt a man’s hand. ‘Welcome home.’ She moved forward, a glass in her hand, its cut facets catching the light of the candles. ‘There is chilled champagne and dinner will be here shortly.’ She handed him the glass and took his packages to set aside. Now, he was officially suspicious. She played the hostess far too well. A less-cautious man would be drawn in before he even knew the net had been cast.

‘What is all of this?’ Nolan kept his tone casual.

‘This is thank you and I’m sorry.’ Her hands were at the shoulders of his coat, helping him out of it. ‘I should not have slapped you last night. You have been kind to me none the less.’ She folded his coat and draped it over the sofa. She gave him a sly smile. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all on your bill if that makes you feel better. I can hardly seduce you on your own money.’

‘Is that how it works? Perhaps that explains why my other mistresses failed,’ Nolan said coolly. He was finding her premise fairly debatable. The candlelit suite, the cold champagne and the woman herself were doing a fine job seducing his senses and his body, although his mind was holding out for something more rational before he was entirely persuaded there was no other agenda.

A knock sounded at the door, and Gianna moved to answer it, favouring him with a chance to watch the grey silk move over her curves. Apparently, the session with Signora Montefiori had gone well.

The facchini stepped in with trays and laid the rest of the table with quick efficiency. Covers were removed, a second round of champagne was poured, bread was sliced in advance. Gianna dismissed the porters and stepped towards the table, holding a hand out to him in invitation, her voice husky. ‘Will you come and dine with me?’ She might as well have said, Come to bed with me .

Her eyes were on him. He felt his body start to fire with arousal. Direct eye contact with a woman who knew her own mind had always turned him on. Tonight was proving to be no exception. She was all Eve with the apple, tempting him to believe in the mirage she’d created—this elegant domesticity mixed with sophisticated intimacy. He found her intoxicating, this beautiful woman in grey, who had so effortlessly taken charge of the setting. It conjured up thoughts of other settings in which she might take charge; what would it be like to take such a woman to bed? Would she take charge of her own pleasure? Would she take charge of his ? It was certainly probable. His cock recalled the feel of her hand on him and his body raced at the prospect of such possibility.

He joined her at the table, holding out a chair for her, thankful for the shadows that disguised his response to the fantasy she’d created. ‘Everything looks delicious.’ The compliment was designed to encompass more than the food, although everything on the table was in fact his favourites—the trota al burro , the thin strands of angel-hair pasta, the careful geometric piles of white polenta and at the centre of it all was the bowl of steaming go risotto.

Of course, the kitchen had all of his favourites on file. All one had to do was ask the kitchen what Signor Gray liked to eat. He was known throughout the markets of Venice for his love of Venetian seafood. It wasn’t the resourcefulness that touched him, it was her thoughtfulness. She’d gone to the trouble of asking. If she even guessed how compelling he found that little courtesy, he’d be entirely vulnerable despite his rather healthy layer of cynicism. Oh, it would be very prudent indeed to expedite their association as quickly as possible if this was her effect on him. Randy, well-fed men didn’t always think with their brains. He was on the verge of becoming both, a very dangerous fate considering he lived by his wits.

‘More champagne?’ She poured him the rest of the bottle and then opened another. ‘You have fallen in love with our seafood, it would seem. The lagoon is a fisherman’s paradise. But the risotto dish is hardly rich man’s fare.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I like it.’ Nolan sat back in his chair, letting his food settle. ‘Or perhaps it’s the risk in it that appeals to me. I’m a gambler by trade, I thrive on it. Once, on Burano, I saw someone make the go risotto. I saw the chefs carefully prepare the go fish so that they didn’t ruin the broth, I saw the risotto flipped in the air for aeration. There were so many variables needed to make perfection.’

He watched her take in his words, unravel their meaning. Her hand stilled on the stem of her flute. Did she know she did that? Whenever she felt caught, her body stilled while she gathered her mental resources. It was her tell. Everyone had them. Some just hid them better than others. He pitched his voice low, caressing each word deliberately. ‘One false move, one missed step, and the dish becomes disaster.’

Her hand came up and played with the pearl drop that lay just below her throat. Nolan’s hand itched to take its place. Perhaps she’d made the gesture on purpose to distract him, to redirect his thoughts. He could almost feel the pearl in his hand. It would be warm from the heat of her body. It would be a natural progression of movement to draw a finger down the column of her throat to the shadow between her breasts. As lovely as this interlude was, he needed to end it before he was entirely at her mercy.

‘Is that what we’re doing tonight, Gianna? Making perfection? If so, a man has to wonder why?’

Everything had been going perfectly until now. She’d known from the outset Nolan would have to be massaged into compliance, but she’d not guessed it would be over this. These—the dinner, the dress, the direct looks—were all designed to ensure his compliance, not to rouse his suspicions. They were supposed to help her avoid suspicion and now, her efforts had accomplished the very opposite of her intentions.