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      Chapter 3

      The plying of liquor was going well. St. Simon was well into his sixth glass and umpteenth story. “Jonathon was all dressed up as the finest of Venetian courtesans and waving his fan faster than a fainting matron at Almack’s.”

      Ronan leaned close over the table, a trace of his cologne catching her nostrils—sandalwood and vanilla. His smile was wide, his glass of Zubrovka empty once more. “Jon puts his hand on his stomach and says to the guard at the gate, ‘I’m expecting and in a very delicate condition.’ The guard lets us through with a gallant bow to Jonathon and well wishes for a safe confinement, but he stops the wagon right behind us and makes them unload their entire cargo while he searches under the floorboards for a suspicious diplomatic pouch. A pouch, I might add, which was playing the part of Jonathon’s ‘delicate condition’ underneath his skirts and halfway to Amsterdam.”

      “I can just imagine it!” Lucia laughed. It was an honest response. There was no playacting here on her part, and that worried a small part of her very much. In her dealings with men, she’d always been able to hold a portion of herself back, the portion that was just for her.

      That piece of her was under attack tonight. Ronan’s stories touched an intrinsic part of her soul. These were her experiences too, and when he talked of Jonathon dressed as a pregnant Venetian courtesan, she could indeed imagine it. No gambit had ever been too large for Jonathon. His smooth-cheeked élan and his long golden lashes would have served well paired with Ronan’s dark masculinity.

      There would have been no question of Ronan playing the pregnant traveler. Dark stubble already peppered his strong jaw and dusk had barely fallen. But she could picture him perfectly in the role of protective husband, an image that sent a tremor of desire skittering through her. To have such a man at one’s side would be heady and empowering. If one could claim St. Simon’s loyalties, nothing would be impossible.

      Lucia poured them another glass. It would be Ronan’s seventh, not that he was counting. But she was, and she was certain St. Simon had lost track quite some time ago.

      Amid the stories and the endless glasses of Zubrovka, late afternoon had passed to twilight and twilight to the darkness of a summer night. In such company it was easy to forget so many things, not the least being the potential danger posed by St. Simon’s presence. Ronan reached for his newly filled glass, slopping a bit over the rim as he lifted it. The vodka was getting to him. Her own hand held steady. It was time to ascertain whether he’d come as friend or foe.

      She held his eyes. “Here’s to the danger,” she said softly in the dusky intimacy of the parlor. “It is easy to laugh now with the peril behind us. But we were all just steps, minutes, away from discovery at any given point. And we know how that would have ended.”

      They drank their toast and Ronan sobered. “We do know how such a fate ends, in fact.”

      Yes, she knew. Death, but not before torture to extract every piece of what they might know. Was that what had happened to him? She thought to draw him out. “But not for us. You and I are the lucky ones. We survived. We escaped.” She hoped he would contradict her here, argue that he had indeed paid a price.

      When nothing was forthcoming, Lucia rose to stand in front of him to press her case. “Jonathon and the others would not have wanted us to mourn unduly. They’d want us to celebrate life, to take our pleasures where we could. Perhaps we might take those pleasures tonight.”

      She felt his eyes travel up to meet her face at the bold invitation. She was close. She nearly had him. She knew the words that would free him, that would give him permission to act on whatever veiled thoughts he’d carried all these years. “After all, there is no game to stand in our way now. There is no need to worry that this evening will tangle feelings with the goals of those who would build empires. Tonight can be just for us.”

      Lucia saw the naked want in his eyes and the slightest of hesitations too, confirming that he’d come for more than sentimental reasons. Well, she might be disappointed, but not surprised. She’d just have to ferret out what those other reasons might be. His hand reached out to pour the last of the bottle and he knocked his glass over in the attempt.