“What then? Am I supposed to be more impressed that the studly, every-woman’s-dream Rafe Contini has done me this great honor?” Mocking. “Is that it?”
“Jeez, you’re a bitch.”
“And you don’t know how to ask a woman to be fake engaged,” she said flatly. “It’s not a trip to the dentist, dude. A couple of smiles wouldn’t be out of place.”
He grunted.
An angel face, real as fuck. “That’s not a smile.”
“You drive me crazy.”
“I know, but you like me anyway. And I adore you. I’ve already told you that.”
His smile slowly unfurled, the corners of his gorgeous mouth tipping upward bit by bit until pleasure lit up his eyes, warmed her heart, and made them both glad they’d met. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better,” he said. “But even a fake engagement is pretty radical for me.”
“Call if friendship then.” She gave him a wink. “Although I like radical.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know you do.”
And his smile that time would have lured every nun who’d ever lived in this cloister into his arms and straight to hell.
“One more thing.” He picked up the second package, wrapped in pale peach handmade paper and tied with green hemp string, from the table. “It wasn’t easy to find on short notice. I hope you like it.”
When she untied the string and unfolded the soft paper, she stopped breathing for a second. Two small books lay inside, the smallest, on top, the oldest from the looks of the worn cover. She glanced up, still breathless with delight. “Hafiz. You remembered.”
“I checked him out. His poetry is incredible. The book on top is the first edition in English, 1771. But I also got you a later edition, ’cause the eighteenth-century fonts are hard to read.”
“You’re not getting these back. The ring, yes, but not Hafiz.”
“Not a problem. I’m glad you like them.”
“Like them?” She grinned. “Wrap my happiness in diamonds and pearls and pigeon egg rubies.”
His happiness was somewhere in the same zip code, but he didn’t want to think about any of this too much because he’d panic. To calm his historically uninvolved nerves, he told himself there was nothing wrong with a spontaneous, carpe diem, let-the-good-times-roll friendship with Nicole. Regardless of his occasional lapses into romantic sentiment, their time together wasn’t forever. That’s what made it manageable.
A month.
Perfectly acceptable.
Then back to normal.
“So did I do good? Did I do better on the smiles?”
“Better everything, Rafe. Thanks.”
She hadn’t called him by his given name before. It was stunning how good the small intimacy made him feel. As if she’d stepped over some prohibitive line and offered him more than her volatile sexuality. As if he’d ever wanted more than sex from a woman. That perhaps he did now stopped him cold for a moment.
But fuck it. It was what it was until it wasn’t. Period. “You’re welcome, pussycat. My pleasure. Now, what do you want to do? We have a few hours until we pick up Ganz and Madeline.” He took one look at her expression and chuckled. “Silly question, right?”
“Well, we are engaged.” Her smile was the image of innocence. “So you are allowed to kiss me now.”
“I see,” he said. “Had I known the rules, I would have given you a ring sooner. What do I have to do to fuck you?” An infinitesimal lift of one brow. “I’m assuming that involves a priest.”
She met his eyes, blank-faced. “Being in a cloister house perhaps allows us some latitude with a sense of religiosity in the air. Surely a priest must have been here many times.”
“From what I hear, some of these nuns might have enjoyed having him over.”
“I’m shocked.”
“I could shock you a little more if you like.”
“You understand, I have to resist you at first or risk losing the moral high ground.”
“Not a problem, tiger.” He grinned. “I like it when you resist. Let me show you my bedroom.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You can tell me if you like the decor.”
His bedroom was cozy, even the bed was close to normal size—a simple pine bed without bed curtains, the coverlet plain quilted indigo cotton. A rush chair sat beside the bed like in Van Gogh’s bedroom in Arles, a cherrywood table used as a desk, the only touch of luxury in the room—discounting the splendid late Kokoschka paintings—a sumptuous long sofa with down cushions upholstered in peach silk velvet.