But I come to a stop in the kitchen.
Rafe is standing by the counter. He’s got two bottles of champagne beneath an arm, turned to leave. But then he sees me.
He goes very still. His eyes look down at my body, lingering on the exposed skin. Just like they did yesterday when I was topless. There’s power in having one of the most powerful people in the world wanting you. Even if he won’t admit it to himself.
Or to me.
“Having fun?” I ask him.
The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, and his hair is a bit mussed. There’s more color in his cheeks than usual. He looks alive, and good, and handsome.
“Not as much fun as you, clearly. What are you wearing?” he asks.
“It was a gift from the girls.” I part the silk robe, giving him a look at the thong and the lacy stockings. “Like it?”
He sets the bottles down. “You’re wearingthat?”
“They dared me to try it on.” I run my hand along the counter and take a few steps closer. “Are you enjoying your Beethoven? Reciting Latin with your friends?”
He shakes his head slowly, and those green eyes flash. He says something in rolling Italian that I can’t understand.
My smile slips. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t understand you.”
“Then learn to,” he says, completely unrepentant. “Don’t drink too much before tomorrow.”
“That’s not what you said.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Wasn’t it?”
I tap my fingers against the marble. There’s a pulsing beneath my breastbone, like its pounding in time with the music. I shouldn’t want to talk to him. Shouldn’t want him to want me.
And yet here I am, like a moth to a flame. “I hope you kiss me better tomorrow. In front of all those people.”
“Kiss youbetter? I kissed you just fine the other night.”
“It was like a handshake,” I say, “at the end of a meeting. It was pathetic.”
“Pathetic,” he repeats. There’s a curve to his lips, the dimple showing.
“Yes. You were holding back, and I think an audience will be able to tell.” I tilt my head and feel like the most powerful woman alive. “I think you’re afraid you’ll like it if you kiss me properly.”
“You’re the one daring me to kiss you, darling.” His eyes are on mine, and from upstairs, I hear a muffled crash. Are they destroying the pool table?
“I’m daring you to?”
“Calling a man’s kiss pathetic is a challenge, no doubt about it.” He takes a step closer, and the buzzing inside my chest slows into the pulse of liquid honey.
“I’m not touching you until I have to,” I say.
“Right. Because you’re afraid you’d like it if I kissed you like a real wife and not a fake one.” His eyes dip down, skimming my mouth.
“Over a hundred people will be watching tomorrow,” I say.
“I know. I’ve reviewed the guest list.” There’s a looseness to him that I’ve never seen before. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t kiss you properly last time.”
