Thief of Light (10 page)

Fighting a furious blush, Prue wiped her eyes and marshaled her forces.

“Thank you, Tansy,” said Rose, still smiling. “Better run to the fighting salle now. Walker and the others will be waiting.”

Erik patted the girl’s shoulder. “You did well today, sweetheart,” he said, and he sounded absolutely sincere. Pink with pleasure, the apprentice bobbed a curtsey and trotted away, her step light.

One dark gold brow rose. “You have a fighting salle?”

“Indeed we do,” said Prue crisply. There’d been a sword duel in the
Demon King
, choreographed with great skill, Erik Thorensen moving through the steps with such grace and masculine power. She could imagine him in the airy space of the salle all too clearly, stripped to the waist, that magnificent chest gilded with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing with the rise and fall of the blade.

She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them again. Sanity prevailed. Gods, a real swordsmaster like Walker would carve an actor, a
fake
, to bloody ribbons. With some difficulty, she suppressed the curl of her lip. “Our gardener also happens to be a swordsman of note. All Garden courtesans learn the martial arts from Walker, both theory and practice.”

How she knew, Prue had no idea, but she was certain Erik wanted to laugh. “So you’re not entirely defenseless?” he said, his rich voice a melody that washed over her in a wave of warm honey.

Prue’s lips drew back from her teeth. She still couldn’t believe what had happened last night—his gall or her own stupidity. Thank the Sister she’d regained her senses in the nick of time.
Let me kiss it.
She suppressed the impulse to shake her head in amazement. “No,” she said, “we are not.”

After a short silence, Rose said smoothly, “I’ll leave you two to discuss the contract.” She glided toward the door, paused and offered her hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Erik.”

“Likewise, Mistress Rose.” He raised it to his lips and kissed it, a real kiss, Prue noted, not just a polite brush of the lips.

Setting her jaw, she said, “Be seated, Master Thorensen, and tell me why you want a bookkeeper.”

In the courtyard of the Sweet Manda, surrounded by smooth, healthy flesh and shining hair, the implied promise of pleasure, it had crossed Erik’s mind to wonder if he’d made a mistake about Prue McGuire. Why would the Dark Lady choose a no-nonsense woman like Prue to test his control? He’d been inclined to put last night’s thoughts down to wounded vanity, the astonishing challenge her resistance posed to both his masculinity and the strange powers the gods had given him.

But the goddess had made no mistake.

Her hair lay loose over 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.

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 was going to enjoy it, relish every smooth, round morsel of her.

Hauling in a breath, he settled himself. “I’m all in favor of
thorough
,” he said. “I think we’ll suit, don’t you?”

Ignoring his remark, she laid her hands flat on the big ledger in front of her and leaned forward. Ink stained the first two fingers of her right hand. He found it oddly endearing. “Bring the books and all the relevant receipts, bills and documents tomorrow.” She shifted her gaze to a point on the wall over his left shoulder. “Good day, Master Thorensen.”

“I haven’t finished.” Because he hadn’t. There was still the greatest mystery of all—how had Prue McGuire resisted the Voice?

“I’m sorry, but I’m a busy woman. I have work to do.” She gave the leather-bound volume a brisk pat.

“So I see,” he said. “What is it you have there?”

“It’s The Garden’s tax records. The Queen’s Money demands them once a year. We’re not only ready, we’re a whole month early.” She smiled, an almost feline expression of satisfaction and pride.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Paying tax gets you excited?”

Her lips twitched, the dimple flashing in her cheek before she could master her response. Inwardly, Erik crowed with triumph. “I lead a simple life,” she said.

Slowly, he rose and held out a hand. “Will you show me the ledger?”

“No.” She didn’t miss a beat. “The Garden’s accounts are none of a stranger’s concern.”

“I won’t be a stranger for long, Prue.” First, make absolutely certain she wouldn’t do it, then . . .

Oh, gods.

“I’d like to see a sample of your work,” he said.

She shook her head, her hair shifting like a gleaming brown shawl on her shoulders. “You’ll see it soon enough.” Reaching for the ink brush, she effectively dismissed him.

Erik hauled in a breath and rested both hands on the edge of the desk, looming over her. “
Open your private ledger, Prue, and show me.
” The words thrummed in the air, deep and thrilling, sheer command echoing off the walls.

Prue’s head jerked up and her mouth fell open.

Those brilliant eyes clouded while Erik stared, his pulse hammering a mad tattoo. “
Show me
.”

She frowned. “It’s wrong.” Her knuckles went bone-white on the leather of the book. “I c-can’t.” Hauling in a huge breath, she rubbed at her eyes like a fretful child.

Erik could hardly bear to watch.

Another sharp inhalation. But this time, when she looked up, her gaze was once again as clear and hard as aquamarine. She laid her palms flat on the ledger, her lips thinning. “Very persuasive,” she said with scarcely a tremor, “but none of your godsbedamned business.”

Erik’s head spun—with relief? Disappointment? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that this time she might have wavered, felt the force of the Voice. And he felt like shit.

“I see that now,” he said softly. “Forget it, sweetheart. I was out of line.”

No more than a heartbeat and she snapped back to her old self. “You seem to be out of line a good deal, Master Thorensen.” She shoved the ledger into a drawer and slammed it shut.

Yes, she might want him, but that didn’t mean she liked him.

More than a little piqued, Erik walked around the desk until he stood at her elbow. “Where I come from, we shake hands to seal a bargain.” He waited, his hand outstretched.

She thought about it for an endless moment, her teeth sunk into a plump lower lip. It gave her a curious air of innocence and seduction combined. Erik’s belly tightened with the desire to take control of that bite. And then kiss it better.

Finally she took his hand, her flesh warm and her grip firm.

Erik enveloped Prue’s hand in both of his and drew her gently to her feet, her sweet breasts almost brushing his chest. She smelled intoxicating, the scent she’d said was soap combined with something uniquely fresh and female. And a touch of ink. “I’m not so bad, Prue,” he said with a crooked smile. “I wish you’d trust me.”

Her cheeks turned pink. “There are very few people I trust.”

And wasn’t that the ring of truth he heard? Clear as a bell, right there.

When he lifted her hand to his lips, he did it slowly and in silence, so she could pull away if she wished, but apart from a subtle intake of breath, she didn’t move. When he pressed his open mouth to her knuckles, she trembled. Erik turned Prue’s hand over and kissed her wrist, where the skin was thin and the blood beat hot.

This time, the gasp was audible. “Erik!”

She tugged, and reluctantly, he let her go.

Judging by the feminine panic in her eyes, the expression on his face must be more predatory than reassuring. Completely intrigued, he watched her work to master her reaction and set it aside. The Dark Lady was clearly more devious than he’d ever imagined.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said coolly. “You have ink on your chin, by the way.”

Erik chuckled, his blood bubbling. “Do I? A small price to pay for something so delicious. Good morning, Mistress Prue.” Bowing, he turned on his heel.