I refuse to be seen in public with you!”

His knees bumped the dash as he folded himself into her Panda. “Believe me, you’ll enjoy the day more this way. I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but the Italians love my films.”

She gazed at his geeky outfit. “You have to lose the fanny pack.”

“I can’t believe I’m out of bed this early when I don’t have to work.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes.

“I mean it. The fanny pack goes. I can deal with the white socks and those sandals, but not that fanny pack.” She looked again. “No, I can’t deal with the white socks either. They both have to go.”

He yawned. “Okay, let’s see . . . how will the story play out on Entertainment Tonight?” He dropped his voice into television-announcer mode. “The recently disgraced Dr. Isabel Favor, who’s apparently not as wise as she wants her legions of worshippers to believe, was seen in Volterra, Italy, with Lorenzo Gage, Hollywood’s dark prince of dissolute living. The two were spotted together—”

“I love the fanny pack.” She threw the Panda into gear.

“What about the sandals and white socks?”

“A retro fashion statement.”

“Excellent.” He squinted, then fumbled with the zipper on the pack. She wondered how someone so tall fitted into a Maserati.

“What were you doing in the shrubbery?”

He stuck on a pair of clunky black sunglasses. “There’s a bench back there. I was taking a nap.” Despite his complaining, he looked healthy and rested. “Nice hair this morning. Where did the curls come from?”

“A sudden and mysterious electrical failure that rendered my hair dryer ineffective. Thanks for the hot water. Now may I have my electricity back?”

“You don’t have electricity?”

“Strangest thing.”

“It could be accidental. Anna said they’ve had water problems at the farmhouse all summer, which is why they need to dig.”

“And why she told you I have to move to town.”

“I believe she mentioned it. Dump the hat, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

“It’ll draw too much attention to us. Besides, I like those curls.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“You don’t like curls?”

“I don’t like messiness.” She gave his clothes a telling glance.

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just ‘ah.’ ”

“Keep your ‘ahs’ to yourself so I can enjoy the scenery.”

“Be glad to.”

It was a beautiful day. Hills stretched to the horizon on either side of the road. Oblong bales of wheat sat in one field. A tractor moved through another. They passed acres of sunflowers drying in the sun but not yet plowed under. She would’ve loved to see them in bloom, but then she would’ve missed the sight of the grapes ready for harvest.

“My friends call me Ren,” he said, “but today I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Buddy.”

“That’s gonna happen.”

“Or Ralph. Ralph Smitts from Ashtabula, Ohio. It has a certain ring to it. If you have to wear a hat, I’ll buy you something a little less eye-catching when we get there.”

“No thanks.”

“You’re one uptight chick, Dr. Favor. Is that a building block of your philosophy? ‘Thou shalt be the most uptight chick on the planet’?”

“I’m principled, not uptight.” Just saying it made her feel stuffy, and she wasn’t stuffy, not really, not in her heart anyway. “What do you know about my philosophy?”

“Nothing until I got on the Web last night. Interesting. From what I read in your bio, you built your empire the hard way. I’ve got to hand it to you. Nobody seems to have given you anything for free.”

“Oh, I got a lot for free.” She thought of all the people who’d inspired her over the years. Whenever she’d reached a low point in her life, the universe had always sent her an angel in one form or another.

Her foot slipped off the accelerator.

“Hey.”

“Sorry.”

“Either pay attention to the road or let me drive,” he grumbled. “Which you should have done in the first place, because I’m the man.”

“I noticed.” She gripped the wheel more tightly. “I’m sure my life story is boring compared to yours. Didn’t I read that your mother’s royalty?”

“A countess. One of those meaningless Italian titles. Mainly she was an irresponsible international playgirl with too much money. She’s dead now.”

“I’ve always been fascinated with the influences of childhood. Do you mind an intrusive question?”

“You want to know what it was like growing up with a mother who had the maturity level of a twelve-year-old pothead? I’m touched by your interest.”

She’d imagined herself staying aloof today instead of chatting away. Still, what else could he do to her? “Professional curiosity only, so don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Let’s see, maternal influence . . . I can’t remember the first time I got drunk, but it was around the time I grew tall enough to pick up the liquor glasses her party guests left around.” She didn’t hear any bitterness, but it had to be lurking around in there somewhere. “I smoked my first joint when I was ten, and a lot more after that. I’d seen a few dozen porn films before I was twelve, and don’t think that doesn’t screw up your adolescent sexual expectations. In and out of boarding schools all along the East Coast. Totaled more cars than I can count. Arrested for shoplifting twice, which was ironic because I had a fat trust fund and way too much disposable income for a snot-nosed punk. But, hey, anything to get attention. Oh . . . snorted my first line of coke when I was fifteen. Ah, the good old days.”

A lot of pain hid behind his chuckle, but he wasn’t going to let her see a bit of it. “What about your father?” she asked.

“Wall Street. Very respectable. He still goes to work every day. The second time around he made sure he married more responsibly—a blueblood who wisely kept me as far away as possible from their three kids. One of them’s a decent guy. We see each other occasionally.”

“Did any angels show up in your childhood?”

“Angels?”

“A benevolent presence.”

“My nonna, my mother’s mother. She lived with us off and on. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be in prison now.”

As it was, he seemed to have made his own kind of creative prison, playing only villainous parts, maybe to reflect his self-image. Or maybe not. Psychologists had a bad habit of oversimplifying people’s motivations.

“What about you?” he asked. “Your biography said you’ve been on your own since you were eighteen. Sounds tough.”

“It built character.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“Not far enough. I’m currently broke.” She reached for her sunglasses, hoping to deflect the conversation.

“Worse things can happen than being broke,” he said.

“I’m guessing you’re not speaking from personal experience.”

“Hey, when I was eighteen, the interest check from my trust fund was lost in the mail. It got pretty ugly.”

She’d always been a sucker for self-deprecating humor, and she smiled, even though she didn’t want to.

Half an hour later they reached the outskirts of Volterra, where a castle of forbidding gray stone appeared on the hill above them. Finally a safe topic of conversation. “That must be the fortezza,” she said. “The Florentines built it in the late 1400s over the original Etruscan settlement, which dated to around the eighth century B.C.”

“Been reading our guidebook, have we?”

“Several of them.” They passed an Esso station and a tidy little house with a satellite dish perched above its red roof tiles. “Somehow I’d pictured the Etruscans as cavemen with clubs, but this was a fairly advanced civilization. They had a lot in common with the Greeks. They were merchants, seafarers, farmers, craftsmen. They mined copper and smelted iron ore. And their women were surprisingly liberated for the time.”

“Thank God for that.”

There was nothing like a history lesson to keep things impersonal. She should have thought of this earlier. “As the Romans moved in, the Etruscan culture was gradually assimilated, although some people think the modern Tuscan lifestyle is more a reflection of its Etruscan roots than its Roman ones.”

“Any excuse for a party.”

“Something like that.” She followed the parking signs past a pretty walkway lined with benches and found a spot at the end of the lot. “They don’t let cars in the city, so we have to park out here.”

He spoke around a yawn. “There’s a great museum in town filled with some world-class Etruscan artifacts that should strike your fancy.”

“You’ve been here?”

“Years ago, but I still remember it. The Etruscans were one of the reasons I majored in history before I flunked out of college.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “You already knew those things I was talking about, didn’t you?”

“Pretty much, but it gave me a chance for a quick nap. By the way, the original Etruscan city was built around the ninth century B.C., not the eighth. But, hey, what’s a hundred years here and there?”

So much for showing off her knowledge. They got out of the Panda, and she saw that one corner of his sunglasses was wrapped with tape. “Didn’t you wear a disguise like this in that movie where you tried to rape Cameron Diaz?”

“I believe I was trying to murder her, not rape her.”

“I don’t mean to sound critical, but doesn’t all that sadism get to you after a while?”

“Thank you for not being critical. And sadism has made me famous.”

She followed him through the parking lot toward the sidewalk. He moved with the rolling gait of a much heavier man, another illusion from his actor’s tool box. It seemed to be working, because no one was paying any attention to him. She told herself to be quiet and leave it alone, but old habits were hard to break. “That’s still important to you, isn’t it?” she said. “Despite all the inconvenience. Being famous.”

“If there’s a spotlight around, I generally enjoy having it pointed in my direction. And don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about.”

“You think attention is what motivates me?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Only as a means of getting my message across.”

“I believe you.”

He clearly didn’t. She looked up at him, knowing she should let it go. “Is that all you want your life to be about? Staying in the spotlight?”

“Spare me your self-improvement lectures. I’m not interested.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture.”

“Fifi, you live to lecture. Lecturing is your oxygen.”

“And that threatens you?” She followed him down the cobblestones.

“Everything about you threatens me.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“You think I’m smug, don’t you?”

“I’ve observed a tendency.”

“Only around you, and that’s deliberate.” She tried not to enjoy herself.

They turned into a narrower street that looked even older and more quaint than the ones they’d been on. “So did you get your Four Cornerstones in a thunderbolt from God,” he asked, “or did you read them on a greeting card somewhere?”

“From God, thanks for asking.” She gave up on her attempt to stay aloof. “Not in a thunderbolt, though. We moved around a lot when I was a child. It kept me fairly isolated, but it gave me time to observe people. As I got older, I started working different jobs to put myself through school. I read and kept my eyes open. I saw people succeed and fail—in jobs, in personal relationships. The Four Cornerstones grew out of all that observation.”

“I don’t imagine fame came instantly.”

“I started writing about what I was observing around the time I entered graduate school.”

“Academic papers?”

“At first. But that began to feel too limiting, so I condensed my ideas for some of the women’s magazines, and that’s how the Four Cornerstones were born.” She was rattling on, but it felt good to talk about her work. “I’d begun putting the lessons to use in my own life, and I liked what was happening, the way I felt more centered. I organized some discussion groups on campus. They seemed to help people, and they kept getting bigger. A book editor started attending one of them, and everything took off from there.”

“You enjoy what you do, don’t you?”

“I love it.”

“Then we have something in common after all.”

“You truly enjoy those parts you play?”

“See, there you go with that snotty thing again.”

“It’s just hard to imagine loving a job that glorifies violence.”

“You forget that I usually die in the end, which makes my films morality tales. That should be right up your alley.”

The crowd jostled them apart as they entered the piazza. She gazed around at the open stalls displaying everything from baskets overflowing with fruits and vegetables to brightly colored toys. Pots of herbs scented the air, along with braids of garlic and strands of peppers. Clothing vendors sold silk scarves and leather purses. Colorful bags of pasta rested next to jewel-like bottles of olive oil. She passed a pushcart holding an array of earth-toned soaps that were studded with lavender, poppy seeds, and lemon peel. As she stopped to smell the lavender ones, she spotted Ren near a wire birdcage. She thought of other actors she’d known. She’d heard them talk about how they had to look internally to find the seeds for the character they were playing, and she wondered what Ren saw inside himself that let him portray evil so convincingly. Leftover feelings from his deviant childhood?

As she approached, he gestured toward the canaries. “I’m not planning their demise, in case you were worried.”

“I suppose two small birds aren’t enough of a challenge for you.” She touched the latch on the cage door. “Don’t get a big head about this, but objectively speaking, you seem to be a terrific actor. I’ll bet you could play a great hero if you set your mind to it.”

“Are we back to that again?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to save the girl for a change instead of brutalizing her?”

“Hey, it’s not just women. I’m an equal-opportunity brutalizer. And I tried saving the girl once, but it didn’t work. Did you ever see a movie called November Time?”

“No.”

“Neither did anyone else. I played a noble but naïve doctor who stumbles on some medical chicanery while he’s fighting to save the heroine’s life. It tanked.”

“Maybe it was a bad script.”

“Or maybe not.” He glanced down at her. “Here’s the life lesson I’ve learned, Fifi: Some people are born to play the hero, and some are born to play the bad guy. Fighting your destiny only makes life harder than it needs to be. Besides, people remember the villain long after they’ve forgotten the hero.”

If she hadn’t caught that flicker of pain on his face the day before, she might have let it go, but delving into people’s psyches was second nature to her. “There’s a big difference between playing the bad guy on-screen and playing him in real life, or at least feeling as if you are.”

“Not very subtle. If you want to know about Karli, just ask.”

She hadn’t been thinking just of Karli, but she didn’t back off. “Maybe you need to talk about what happened. Darkness loses some of its power when you shine light on it.”

“Wait here for me, will you? I have to throw up.”

She didn’t take offense. She simply lowered her voice and spoke more softly. “Did you have anything to do with her death, Ren?”

“You’re not going to shut up, are you?”

“You just told me all I had to do is ask. I’m asking.”

The look he shot her was withering, but he didn’t walk away. “We hadn’t even spoken in over a year. And when we were dating, it wasn’t a grand passion for either of us. She didn’t kill herself because of me. She died because she was a junkie. Unfortunately, the less savory members of the media wanted a sexier story, so they invented one, and since I’ve been known to play fast and loose with the truth myself when it comes to the press, I can hardly cry foul, can I?”

“Of course you can.” She said a quick prayer for the soul of Karli Swenson, only a few words, but in light of her current spiritual black hole, she was thankful she could pray at all. “I’m sorry for what this has put you through.”

The chink in his self-protective armor had been a small one, and his villain’s sneer returned. “Spare me the sympathy. Bad press only adds to my box-office appeal.”

“Gotcha. All sympathy retracted.”

“Don’t do it again.” He took her arm to guide her through the crowd.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to antagonize anyone with a fanny pack.”

“Funny.”

She smiled to herself. “See those people staring at us. They can’t figure out why a babe like me is walking around with such a geek.”

“They think I’m rich and you’re a little treat I bought for myself.”

“A little treat? Really?” She liked that.

“Stop looking so happy about it. I’m hungry.” He took her arm and steered her into a tiny gelateria, where a glass case held round tubs filled with the rich Italian ice cream. Ren addressed the teenager behind the counter in pidgin Italian laced with a hokey Deep South accent that made Isabel snicker.

He shot her a quelling look, and a few moments later they emerged from the shop with double cones. She dabbed at the mango, then the raspberry, with the tip of her tongue. “You could have consulted me about what flavor I wanted.”

“Why? You’d just have ordered vanilla.”

She’d have ordered chocolate. “You don’t know that.”

“You’re a woman who likes to play it safe.”

“How can you say that after what happened?”

“Are we back to our night of sin?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Proving my point. If you didn’t like to play it safe, you wouldn’t still be obsessing over what turned out to be a less than memorable experience.”

She wished he hadn’t put it that way.

“If the sex had been great—now, that would have been worth obsessing about.” His steps slowed, and he slipped off his sunglasses to gaze down at her. “You know what I mean by great, don’t you, Fifi? The kind of sex that makes you so wild all you want to do is stay in bed for the rest of your life. The kind of sex where you can’t get enough of the other person’s body, where every touch feels like you’re being rubbed with silk, where you get so hot and—”

“You’ve made your point!” She told herself this was simply Ren Gage showing off his tricks and, in general, trying to aggravate her with those smoldering eyes and that husky, seductive voice. She took a slow breath to cool off.

A teenager shot by on a scooter, and the sun melting from the golden stones fell warm on her bare shoulders. She smelled herbs and fresh bread in the air. His arm brushed hers. She licked her cone, swirling the mango and raspberry against her taste buds. Every one of her senses felt alive.

“Trying to seduce me?” He pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“What are you talking about?”

“That thing you’re doing with your tongue.”

“I’m eating my gelato.”

“You’re diddling with it.”

“I’m not diddl—” She stopped and gazed up at him. “Is this turning you on?”

“Maybe.”

“It is!” Sparks of happiness rushed through her. “Watching me eat this is turning you on.”

He looked irritated. “I’ve been a little sex-deprived lately, so it doesn’t take much.”

“Sure. It’s been, what? Five days?”

“Don’t even think about counting that pitiful encounter.”

“I don’t see why not. You were satisfied.”

“Was I?”

She no longer felt quite so happy. “Weren’t you?”

“Have I hurt your feelings?”

She noticed he didn’t sound too worried about it. She tried to decide whether she should be honest or not. Not. “You’ve destroyed me,” she said. “Now, let’s go to the museum before I completely fall apart.”

“Snotty and sarcastic.”

Compared to New York’s glittering monuments to the past, the Guarnacci Etruscan Museum was unimpressive. The small lobby was shabby and a little gloomy, but as they began inspecting the contents of the glass cases on the ground floor, she saw a vast display of fascinating artifacts: weapons, jewelry, pots, amulets, and devotional objects. More impressive, however, was the museum’s extraordinary collection of alabaster funeral urns.

She remembered seeing a few urns prominently displayed at other museums, but here hundreds jostled for space in the old-fashioned glass cases. Designed to hold the ashes of the deceased, the rectangular urns varied from about the size of a rural mailbox to something closer to a toolbox. Many were topped by reclining figures—some female, some male. Mythological scenes, as well as depictions of everything from battles to banquets, were carved in relief on the sides.

“The Etruscans didn’t leave any literature,” Ren said when they finally climbed the stairs to the second floor, where they found even more urns crowded into the old-fashioned cases. “A lot of what we know about their daily lives comes from these reliefs.”

“They’re certainly more interesting than our modern cemetery markers.” Isabel stopped in front of a large urn with the figures of an elderly couple reclining on the top.

“The Urna degli Sposi,” Ren said. “One of the most famous urns in the world.”

Isabel gazed at the couple’s lined and wrinkled faces. “They look so real. If their clothes were different, they could have been a couple we passed on the street today.” The date indicated was 90 B.C. “She looks like she adored him. It must have been a happy marriage.”

“I’ve heard such things exist.”

“But not for you?” She tried to remember if she’d read whether he’d been married.

“Definitely not for me.”

“Ever tried it?”

“When I was twenty. A girl I grew up with. It lasted a year, and it was a disaster from the start. How about you?”

She shook her head. “I believe in marriage, but not for me.” Her breakup with Michael had forced her to face the truth. It hadn’t been time constraints that had kept her from planning their wedding; it had been her subconscious warning her that marriage wouldn’t be good for her, even with a better man than Michael had proved to be. She didn’t believe that all marriages were as chaotic as her parents’ had been, but marriage was disruptive by nature, and her life would be better without it.

They wandered into the next room, and she stopped so suddenly he bumped into her. “What’s that?”

He followed the direction of her eyes. “The museum’s prize.”

In the center of the room a single glass case held an extraordinary bronze statue of a young boy. The nude was about two feet tall but only a few inches wide.

“This is one of the most famous Etruscan artifacts in the world,” he said as they approached. “I was eighteen the last time I saw it, but I still remember it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s called Shadow of the Evening. Ombra della Sera. You can see why.”

“Oh, yes.” The boy’s elongated form was reminiscent of a human shadow at the end of the day. “It looks so contemporary, like a piece of modern art.”

“It’s from the third century.”

There was little detail to the piece, adding to its modern aura. The bronze head with its short hair and sweet features might have appeared female if not for the small penis. The boy’s long, thin arms were clasped to his sides, and his legs had tiny bumps for knees. The feet, she noticed, were a bit large in comparison to the head.

“The fact that it’s a nude makes the statue unusual,” he said. “There’s not even a piece of jewelry to indicate status, which was important to the Etruscans. It’s probably a votive figure.”

“It’s extraordinary.”

“A farmer plowed it up in the nineteenth century and used it as a fireplace poker before someone finally recognized it for what it was.”

“Imagine a country where things like this can be plowed up.”

“Houses all over Tuscany have secret stashes of Etruscan and Roman artifacts hidden away in their cupboards. After a few glasses of grappa, the owners will usually pull them out if you ask.”

“Do you have a stash at the villa?”

“As far as I know, the artifacts my aunt collected are all out on display. Come up for dinner tomorrow night and I’ll show them to you.”

“Dinner? How about lunch?”

“Afraid I’ll turn into a vampire after dark?”

“You’ve been known to.”

He laughed. “I’ve had enough funeral urns for today. Let’s eat.”

She took one last look at Shadow of the Evening. Ren’s knowledge of history bothered her. She preferred her original impression of him as oversexed, self-absorbed, and only moderately intelligent. Still, two out of three wasn’t bad.

Half an hour later they were sipping Chianti at a sidewalk café. Drinking at lunch felt hedonistic, but then so did being with Lorenzo Gage. Not even the geek clothes and taped sunglasses could completely camouflage that decadent elegance.

She dredged one of her gnocchi through a sauce of olive oil, garlic, and fresh sage. “I’m going to gain ten pounds while I’m here.”

“You’ve got a great body. Don’t worry about it.” He devoured another of the razor clams he’d ordered.

“A great body? Hardly.”

“I’ve seen it, Fifi. I’m entitled to an opinion.”

“Would you stop bringing that up?”

“Relax, will you? It’s not like you killed someone.”

“Maybe I killed a little corner of my soul.”

“Spare me.”

His faint air of boredom grated on her. She set down her fork and leaned closer. “What I did violated everything I believe in. Sex is sacred, and I don’t like being a hypocrite.”

“God, it must be hard being you.”

“You’re going to say something smarmy, aren’t you?”

“Just making an observation about how tough it has to be to stay on that narrow path to perfection.”

“I’ve been taunted by bigger bullies than you, and I’m impervious. Life is precious. I don’t believe in drifting through it.”

“Well, charging through it doesn’t seem to be working right now, does it? From what I can see, you’re disgraced, broke, and unemployed.”

“And where has your live-life-for-the-moment philosophy gotten you? What have you contributed to the world that you’re proud of?”

“I’ve given people a few hours of entertainment. That’s enough.”

“But what do you care about?”

“Right now? Food, wine, and sex. The same things you do. And don’t even try to deny the sex. If it hadn’t been important, you wouldn’t have let me pick you up.”

“I was drunk, and that night didn’t have anything to do with sex. It was about confusion.”

“Bull. You weren’t that drunk. It was about sex.” He paused, cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’re about sex.”

She swallowed. “We’re not about sex.”

“Then what are we doing here right now?”

“We’ve just formed an odd sort of friendship, that’s all. Two Americans in a foreign country.”

“This isn’t a friendship. We don’t even like each other that much. What’s between us is sizzle.”

“Sizzle?”

“Yeah, sizzle.” He drew out the word until it sounded like a caress.

A little shiver passed through her, which made it a challenge to sound offended. “I don’t sizzle.”

“I noticed.”

Well, she’d left herself wide open for that one.

“But you want to.” He suddenly seemed very Italian. “And I’m prepared to help.”

“My eyes are misting from emotion.”

“I’m just saying that I’d like a second shot.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I don’t want blemishes on my employment record, and I didn’t do the job you hired me for.”

“I’ll settle for a refund.”

“Against company policy. We only give even exchanges.” He smiled. “So you’re not interested?”

“Not at all.”

“I thought honesty was basic to the Four Cornerstones.”

“You want honesty? All right. Admittedly you’re a great-looking man. Dazzling, actually. But only in that impossible, movie-star, fantasy way. And I outgrew movie-star fantasies when I was thirteen.”

“Is that how long you’ve had your sexual hang-ups?”

“I hope you’re done with lunch, because I am.” She tossed her napkin onto the table.

“And here I thought you were too evolved to get huffy.”

“You thought wrong.”

“All I’m proposing is that you stretch your boundaries a little. Your bio says you’re thirty-four. Don’t you think that’s a little old to carry around so much baggage?”

“I don’t have sexual hang-ups.”

The knowing arch of his brow made her uncomfortable. He stroked the corner of his mouth. “In the interest of serving another human being—a philosophy you should appreciate—I’m prepared to help you work through every one of those hang-ups.”

“Hold on. I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever had a more insulting offer. No. This is it.”

He smiled. “It’s not an insult, Fifi. You turn me on. There’s something about the combination of a great body, a first-class brain, and a snotty personality that does it for me.”

“I’m getting all misty again.”

“When we met in town yesterday, I had this fantasy of seeing you naked again, and—I hope I’m not being too explicit here—spread-eagled.” The slow smile that curled the edges of his mouth looked more boyish than evil. He was having a great time.

“Ahh . . .” She tried for sophistication—young Faye Dunaway—but he was definitely getting to her. This man was bottled sex, even when he was being outrageous. She’d always applauded people who were clear about their goals, so it seemed wiser to let the more rational Dr. Favor take over. “You’re proposing that we establish a sexual liaison.”

He stroked the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “What I’m proposing is that we spend every minute of every night for the next few weeks engaged in either foreplay, afterplay, or . . . play.” He lingered over the word, teasing it with his lips. “What I’m proposing is that all we talk about is sex. All we think about is sex. All we do is—”

“Are you making this up on the spot, or is it from a script?”

“Sex until you can’t walk and I can’t stand up straight.” His voice delivered a thousand volts of smolder. “Sex until we’re both screaming. Sex until every hang-up you have is gone and your only goal in life is to come.”

“My lucky day. Free smut.” She tilted her sunglasses higher on her nose. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll pass.”

His index finger made a leisurely journey around the rim of his wineglass, and his smile spoke of conquest. “I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”