He was startled into a split second of blankness, but rallied quickly. “I do enjoy martial arts for exercise and recreation,” he said. “And I belong to a martial arts club near my home in Rome. But I would not presume to call myself a master. And I miss my knife.”
“Your knife, I think, is overkill.”
He injected a calculated hint of seduction into his smile. “I like overkill,” he said softly, letting let his gaze drop to the tangle of complicated jewelry at her cleavage. “And so do you, I think.”
She conceded this with a brief nod.
“I am tempted to procure some of your dangerous secrets for myself,” he said. “To combat my male insecurity.”
“Bullshit,” she said softly. “You do not have a single insecure bone in your body, Mr. Janos.”
He blinked. “Ah. Thank you…I think.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “It was not a compliment, just an observation. And in any case, I do not design jewelry for men. Ever. It is against all my principles.” Her smile turned predatory.
He knew when to back off. “Of course. I was surprised at your security procedures. Was all this elaborate choreography necessary?”
She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? I never do. Hence my caution.” Her smile widened. “Welcome to my world.”
“I am honored, to have penetrated even the outermost defences.”
Her eyes flickered. “Che galantuomo,” she murmured. “Erin told me about your old world charm.”
“I try to please,” he said. “Are you immune to charm, Ms. Steele?”
Her smile tightened. “We shall see, hmm?”
He had evidently overstepped his bounds by flirting with her. Val Janos allowed himself to be cowed.
“Excuse me for getting straight to business, but would you show me the torque that you showed to Erin?” she asked. “Before we begin, it makes sense to verify that it really is one of my designs.”
“Of course.” He opened his case and lay the flat black leather case on the conference table. Steele flicked it open and gazed down at it.
Her head was inches beneath his face. The mingled scents of her perfume and her hair gel tickled his nose. The coils of her hair were gleaming and slick as varnished mahogany, gelled sternly into submission. No wisps allowed. Part of her armor.
But he had seen her without it. He had already seen the thick, disheveled braid swinging down her back as she played with the child. He had seen it wet and loose, clinging to her neck, to her slender, naked back and shoulders. The damage was done.
She looked up, rocking him with the sudden, blazing force of her eyes. “The provenance?”
He looked politely regretful. “As is often the case in my business, the piece came to me by unofficial channels. I bought it from a woman in Rome who had received it from a mysterious foreigner in Prague on a mad weekend love affair—after which she could never contact him again. He evidently gave her a false name and cell number. She sold the piece to me out of pique. The card was with it. I recognized your name, since I’ve dealt with some of your pieces before. I have received many offers already. The price rises daily, you will be gratified to know.”
“I see.” She stared down at the torque, a tiny dent marring the smooth skin between her perfect brows. “Were you aware that the last known owner of this piece died three weeks ago in Paris? She fell to her death from a penthouse terrace. Thirty-four stories.”
“I am shocked to hear it,” he said, his voice respectfully subdued. “Was it…?”
“Suicide?” Steele’s elegant shoulders lifted. “Murder? Who can say? Perhaps she saw or heard something she shouldn’t, perhaps she slept with the wrong person. I imagine it’s best for you that the story not be widely known. People might consider the piece cursed.”
Val made a noncommittal sound. “Forgive me if this sounds calculated, but considering the type of people who are most drawn to your work, it may enhance the torque’s value. Risk makes people feel alive. Danger is an indulgence for many of them.”
“Yes, of course. Carefully controlled danger. Like an amusement park ride.” Her tone was delicately contemptuous. “Do you like danger, Mr. Janos?”
“I am here, am I not?”
Her chilly smile pushed him away. She lifted a telephone set into the wall near the table. “Have you eaten? The food here is excellent.”
“I rarely eat in the evening,” he said. “But rules can be suspended. When temptation beckons, it is wasteful to resist.”
She ignored his flirting. “I had originally thought to invite you to a place that specializes in Italian food, in case you were homesick for ragú, or gnocchi,” she said. “Then I changed my mind, decided to range a little further afield.”
“You did well,” he said. “I seldom eat Italian food outside of Italy. No matter how talented the chef, la cucina italiana loses much of its magic out of context.”
“I agree,” she said. “Well, then. Your choices are the classic Japanese haute cuisine of Mr. Takuda, or that of his wife and associate, Mariko Takuda, who specializes in a more modern style of pan-Asian fusion dishes.”
“Choose for me,” he said gallantly. “I put myself in your hands.”
“Ah, you do enjoy risk.” She picked up the phone and spoke at some length in what sounded like fluent Japanese to whoever was on the other line.
“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.
Her gaze slid away. “Oh, I lost count long ago,” she evaded. “The question becomes irrelevant at a certain point. Shall I show you the pieces, while we wait for dinner?”
He assented. She turned on a light, and laid out her pieces.
Her work was stunning. The designs were bold and yet delicate, imbued with a sense of simmering danger, and the hidden weapons were as cunning and ingenious as they were effective. He understood why Steele’s work was becoming a hot investment. It was unique, timeless. The businessman inside him that desperately wanted to be let out was intrigued, already calculating the profits that could be had by organizing a private auction to select clients of Capriccio Consulting.
He tried not to dwell on how badly he wished his act was real.
A discreet knock indicated that their meal had arrived. Two attractive Asian women entered, clad in skintight, jewel-toned silk brocade dresses, pushing a rolling tray full of fragrant, steaming dishes.
Dinner was essentially a duel. He continued his attempt to flirt with her. She would lead him on for a few dance steps and then slam the door in his face. She ate little, despite the savory perfection of the food, and preferred the steaming green tea to the sake that accompanied the meal. He was pouring her another cup when her cell phone chimed.
She pulled it from some hidden pocket in her pants and glanced at the display, frowning. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
She retreated to the far corner of the room, and stood with her back to him, muttering in Portuguese, in a tone he wasn’t meant to overhear. “…yes, I told you she needs a bath…well? So? She always has a cold! If I only bathed her when she didn’t have a cold, she’d never be bathed at all…so heat the bathroom, and dry her hair…Cristo Santo, Rosalia, you’ll survive if she screams. I survive when she screams…no, not the yogurt. She’s constipated. Give her the fruit, and the bran cookies if she wants another snack…how should I know where the fuzzy pink blanket is? Look in the laundry room, or under the covers of my bed…”
The hot buzz that had been building up in his balls vanished.
The