her shoulders in a gleaming ripple of brown, held away from her face by a couple of simple braids. To his delight, it was soft and thick, with an enchanting wayward curl, making her look softer, younger. The effect was enhanced because she’d been laughing when he walked in, her eyes narrowed, sparkling with merriment like those of a mischievous child.
The delightful gurgle of it was infectious. When Mistress Prue laughed, she gave it all of herself, helpless with amusement, the dimple quivering. Like warm fingers, the sound slid into his trews and curled around his balls, until they drew up in anticipation. Once a man got past the barriers, she’d be a generous lover, abandoned in her pleasure. Gods, she might even strike a spark in the emptiness that was his soul.
She wore loose trousers and an over-tunic in a blue so dark it was nearly black, the outfit obviously intended for comfort while she worked. She probably thought the getup modest, but any man’s gaze would be drawn to the way the fine fabric pulled against the rounded curve of buttock and breast—unless he were dead, of course. Judging by the warmth and tightness in his trews, he’d be very much alive for some time yet.
To the seven hells with a bookkeeper, I just want you.
Instead, he fell back into role. He said mildly, “You called me Erik last night.”
“I may have done.” Seating herself behind the desk, she tapped the parchment, all traces of humor hidden from him. “Are there no bookkeepers in Concordia, Master Thorensen?”
Godsdammit, she was a prickly little thing. He’d hoped the music lessons would win her over, especially as Rose had been perfectly amenable. He should have known better. The Dark Lady’s challenge wouldn’t be worthy of the name if it was easy.
“Not one that I trust.”
She didn’t give an inch. “Why?”
“I’m a singer, Mistress Prue, not a mathematician.” He rearranged his features into a pleasant smile, which appeared to soften her not at all.
This wasn’t strictly true. Erik didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he was perfectly capable of keeping the Unearthly Opera’s accounts himself. In fact, he’d done so for years.
“I have a man,” he said, inventing as he went along, his mind racing. “There are things he does I don’t understand, but they don’t seem to . . . ah . . . add up . . .” Spreading his hands, he trailed off, doing his best to look confused and suitably helpless. “I worry that he’s cheating me. This is all confidential, of course.”
It didn’t seem possible, but the set of her shoulders grew stiffer. “Of course.”
Lord’s balls, but she had herself on a tight rein! Something small and petty within him capered with delight and he gave up trying to quash it. Because he’d lay odds it was something to do with him. At some deep, instinctive level, she’d already accepted she was prey, because the mere fact of his presence had her off balance.
Strangely content, Erik shifted his weight carefully in the spindly chair and looked around him with interest. The room was clearly an office, furnished with purpose-built shelves and cupboards with deep, sliding drawers. There were two other doors, one half-open. Through it, he could see a pleasant sitting room, cheerful sunlight spotlighting the rugs, spilling over one end of a large, squashy sofa. He wondered if she was tempted to curl up and take a nap there when work grew heavy. His lips twitched. No, not the conscientious Prue. She’d have to be persuaded. Difficult, but he was sure the right man could do it.
He watched in silence as Prue picked up her brush and moistened it in the water jar before loading it with ink from the ink block. She was aware of his scrutiny, that much was obvious. Little by little, the honey of her cheek flushed a darker pink, but she didn’t look up from her task. When she was satisfied, she signed the contract, every letter small and precisely formed, finishing off with an unexpected flourish at the end. She didn’t lack for nerve.
Erik smiled. Got you!
Prue set the brush aside and raised those amazing, tip-tilted eyes to his. “When I engage to do something, Master Thorensen, I do it thoroughly. No shortcuts. You should know that before we begin.”
“Excellent, Mistress Prue,” he said affably, assailed by delicious visions of the thoroughness of her surrender, the throaty, helpless gasps, the evidence of control shattered, burned away in erotic fire. Gods, he