Amelia waved one hand in a careless affectation of dismissal, unsure of what to say. He was correct; she was too bold. But she was not brazen enough to admit outright that she found the thought of his interest gratifying. “I hope you find the woman you are looking for,” she said instead.
“I am afraid that isn’t possible.”
“Oh?”
“She was lost to me many years ago.”
Recognizing the yearning in his words, she sympathized. “I am sorry for your loss. I, too, have lost someone dear to me and know how it feels.”
Montoya took a seat beside her. The bench was small, and due to its curvature it forced them to sit near enough that her skirts touched his cape. It was improper for them to be seated so close to each other, yet she did not protest. Instead she breathed deeply and discovered he smelled like sandalwood and citrus. Crisp, earthy, and virile. Like the man himself.
“You are too young to suffer as I do,” he murmured.
“You underestimate death. It has no scruples and disregards the age of those left behind.”
The ribbons that graced the stick of her mask fluttered gently in the soft breeze and came to rest atop his gloved hand. The sight of the lavender, pink, and pale blue satin against his stark black riveted her attention.
How would they look to passersby? Her voluminous silver lace and g*y multicolored flowers next to his complete lack of any color at all.
“You should not be out here alone,” he said, rubbing her ribbons between his thumb and index finger. He could not feel them through his gloves, which made the action sensual, as if the lure of fondling something that belonged to her was irresistible.
“I am accustomed to solitude.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It is familiar.”
“That is not an answer.”
Amelia looked at him, noting the many details one can see only in extreme proximity to another. Montoya had long, thick lashes surrounding almond-shaped eyes. They were beautiful. Exotic. Knowing. Accented by shadows that came from within as well as from without.
“What was she like?” she asked. “The woman you thought I was.”
The barest hint of a smile betrayed the possibility of dimples. “I asked you a question first,” he said.
She heaved a dramatic sigh just to see more of that teasing curve of his lips. He never set his smile completely free. She wondered why, and she wondered how she might see it. “Very well, Count Montoya. In answer to your query, yes, I enjoy being alone.”
“Many people find being alone intolerable.”
“They have no imagination. I, on the other hand, have too much imagination.”
“Oh?” He canted his body toward her. The pose caused his doeskin breeches to stretch tautly across the powerful muscles of his thighs. With the gray satin spread out beneath him in contrast, she could see every nuance and plane, every hard length of sinew. “What do you imagine?”
Swallowing hard, Amelia found she could not look away from the view. It was a lascivious glance she was giving him, her interest completely carnal.
“Umm . . .” She tore her gaze upward, dazed by the direction of her own thoughts. “Stories. Faery tales and such.”
With the half mask hiding his features she couldn’t be certain, but she thought he might have arched a brow at her. “Do you write them down?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you do with them?”
“You have asked far too many questions without answering my one.”
Montoya’s dark eyes glittered with warm amusement. “Are we keeping score?”
“You were,” she pointed out. “I am simply following the rules you set.”