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‘I understand.’

‘I don’t want to have to go to your father and explain how you’ve had your throat cut by a tomb robber. What did Antonio Zaccaria say?’

‘He’s spoken to the carabinieri and the Coastguard, and they’ve promised to keep an eye on the site. I’m also going to speak to the duke about it—apparently he’s arrived back in the palazzo and we’re going to have a formal supper with him.’

‘Excellent! Please give him my best wishes. It’s some years since we met. He is a wonderful source of information, Isobel. You can learn a lot from the old gentleman.’

‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes, Professor. And I’ll email photos of the coins some time tomorrow.’

‘All right. Keep me posted. And buon appetito!’

Under the languorous eyes of the half-naked ladies in the rococo frames, Isobel dressed carefully for dinner. She wanted to look her best for the Duke of Mandalà. The old man’s health had been frail for years, but he was a major philanthropist, and an important figure to the Berger Foundation through his donations.

She looked at herself in the oval mirror. She had not come to Sicily equipped with a trunk of formal clothing, and this sleeveless amethyst silk top and black skirt were going to have to stand in place of a ruff and pearls. At least, she thought, tilting her head, the top showed off her creamy skin. She had piled her red-gold hair on the top of her head, emphasizing her long neck—Isobel was not a woman who felt obliged to disguise her height in order to pander to fragile male egos—and she was pleased that her bra flattered her breasts under the clingy top. She had never understood women who bought expensive clothes and cheap underwear.

The amethyst silk was shot through with crimson as the light caught it, bringing out the colour of her hair and eyes. She did not favour a lot of make-up—just some baby-pink gloss for her perfect, leaf-shaped mouth, and a touch of blusher on her high cheek-bones so she didn’t look too pale. The shimmering sound of the dinner-gong was rippling through the palazzo. She fastened black pearl drop earrings in her ears, kicked on black sandals and there she was—ready to rock and roll.

Up until now, they had eaten in the ‘small’ dining-room, which was actually a very grand room. None of them had been in the ‘big’ dining-room yet, and Isobel was interested to see just how big it was.

As she joined the others, staring around her, she could not help gasping. The big dining-room was not all that much bigger in sheer size; it was the scale of the furnishings that made it, in every sense, big.

Two enormous candelabra stood at the ends of the table, their dozens of flickering rose candles providing the only lighting. On each of the side walls, a huge Canaletto oil painting showed views of Venice. At the ends of the room were equally imposing studies of naked nymphs frolicking with ditto shepherds and gods that had to be by Rubens. Nobody else could paint women’s bottoms with such voluptuous delight.

There were just the four of them present—the old man had not as yet joined them—and Theo Makarios nudged her, looking upward as he fiddled with his tie. She followed his gaze. The baroque vaulted ceiling was painted with frescoes—naked angels and cherubim, this time, frolicking among clouds. Celestial bosoms and thighs winked naughtily from beneath feathery white wings.

‘I feel positively overdressed,’ she murmured.

The three men were all wearing jackets and ties, and looking very uncomfortable with it. Theo’s choice had been a red-spotted bow-tie, which he had badly mangled. Swiftly, she pulled it loose and tied it properly for him.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

David Franks picked up a fork and showed it to her. ‘Think it’s solid?’

It was gold, and looked to be eighteenth-century, like all the cutlery spread out on the snowy tablecloth. ‘No doubt about it,’ she replied. ‘The contents of this room are worth approximately thirty million dollars. Why would they compromise on cheap, gold-plated cutlery?’

Antonio Zaccaria smiled. Isobel stared around the room at the magnificent furniture, the marble statuary, the elaborate dining chairs. The wealth of the Dukes of Mandalà was legendary. So much beauty, so much great art, assembled to please one family. As someone who herself had been raised with money, she knew how the wealthy lived. But this—this was different.

The double doors at the other end of the room opened and the old butler, whom they had learned to call Turi, stepped in.

‘The Duke of Mandalà,’ he announced, in a cracked voice.

They all straightened up from whatever treasure they had been examining and faced the door expectantly.

The man who strolled in, however, was not the patrician figure with a white beard and horn-rimmed glasses, familiar to all of them from photographs.

Not even close.

This was a very tall, very well-built man who looked like a demigod in evening dress, and who could not have been more than thirty-five. His jet-black hair was immaculately cut and his face—surely the most beautiful male face Isobel had ever set eyes on—was clean-shaven and wore a tiger’s smile.

‘Please accept my apologies for my late arrival,’ he greeted them in a deep, husky voice, speaking perfect but accented English. ‘A bad habit of mine. I trust you have not been too incommoded by my absence. Signor Zaccaria, how do you do? And surely this is Theoharis Makarios, the famed numismatist?’

Theo mumbled a modest reply, flushing as the big man wrung his hand.

‘Which means that you must be David Franks, of Harvard University?’ their host continued, shaking David’s hand briskly. ‘I enjoyed your recent article on the Etruscan bronzes very much. I have some bronzes myself, which you may be interested to see.’ Finally, he turned to Isobel, who was watching the performance frozen and open-mouthed. Dancing blue eyes met hers with a jolt that shook her right down to her feet. ‘And thus, by a process of elimination, you must be Dr Isobel Roche,’ he informed her with a wicked grin. He bowed over her hand, brushing it with warm lips that were all too familiar to her.

Familiar because she no longer had any doubt—if there had ever been any in her heart—that this demigod in evening dress, clean-shaven and barbered as he was, could only be one man.

The man who had given her a golden coin in exchange for a searing kiss that very morning.

Her Poseidon.

CHAPTER THREE

AS THEY all took their seats—Isobel finding herself seated at Poseidon’s right hand—David stammered out, ‘Won’t the duke be joining us, after all?’

‘But, my dear fellow, I am the duke,’ Poseidon replied, with courteous surprise. ‘Ah—you were expecting my grandfather?’

‘Your grandfather?’ Isobel echoed hollowly.

He turned to her. His face was solemn, but those amazing eyes were full of laughter. ‘I do apologize yet again. A perfectly natural mistake. My beloved grandfather, Ruggiero, the twelfth Duke of Mandalà, died six months ago. I am Alessandro Massimiliano, the thirteenth duke. But my friends call me Alessandro.’

‘So it was you who asked us here?’ Theo said.

‘Oh, yes. As I have told you, my revered grandfather died just before Christmas. A fisherman spotted the wreck only a few weeks ago, and it was plainly a matter of urgency to excavate it as soon as possible, before the sea reclaims it.’ The butler had been filling all their glasses with champagne, and now he raised his glass in a toast. ‘Let us drink to my late grandfather. And may I add what an honour it is for me to host such a gathering of archaeological talent!’

They all raised their glasses and drank. But as the icy bubbles sank down her throat, Isobel’s mind was racing. Alessandro Mandalà.

Good God. Of course. Now that the beard and the long hair were gone, how familiar that film-star face was! Alessandro Mandalà, international art dealer, playboy, rogue, jet-setter, boyfriend of pop-stars and supermodels, the latest wild branch on the Mandalà family tree!

She dared not look at him, in case her eyes betrayed the thoughts that were racing through her mind.

Pity for the decent old philanthropist whose place had been taken by this rogue filled her. What an heir for a great man!

Hadn’t there been that huge scandal just last year? A marble torso he had sold to the Getty Museum for millions, which had turned out to be a fake?

And that other business, a flagrant liaison between him and a vampy rock singer at least ten years older than he was? High-octane media fuel, with lots of public fighting and kissing, splashed all over the tabloids?

And something just recently, a rumbling from the British Museum about some sculptures he had supplied them with, now suspected of having been stolen?

She caught David Franks’s eye, and knew he was thinking about exactly the same stories.

‘But tell me, Dr Roche,’ Alessandro Mandalà purred, laying a warm hand on the bare skin of her arm, making her jump and sending goose-flesh shivering up her spine, ‘how is the excavation going? Have you recovered any artefacts from the wreck?’

She forced herself to look into that beautiful face. He had shaved immaculately—she caught a hint of some costly cologne from his skin—and if he had been stunning as a bearded pirate that morning, he was ten times more so as the suave aristocrat. His eyebrows were thick and black, his nose straight, with flaring nostrils. His mouth was pure sin, passionate and mocking and totally erotic. ‘We’ve been able to recover quite a lot of pottery,’ she said. Her mouth was still dry with shock and she licked her lips. His warm blue eyes watched the quick movement of her pink tongue appreciatively. ‘And today—today we found a hoard of ancient coins in a jar.’

‘But how fascinating.’ His fingers were caressing her arm intimately. ‘Any gold coins among them?’ he asked innocently, cocking his head.

She almost choked on her champagne. She pulled her arm away from those caressing fingers. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. A rather nice gold Poseidon of Syracuse.’

‘Ah, one of my favourite coins,’ he replied, looking smug. ‘One could buy something really special with one of those—in ancient times.’

Isobel felt the colour rise into her pale cheeks. ‘It’s a valuable coin,’ she said tersely.

‘Perhaps you will give me a guided tour of the artefacts after supper?’

‘If you like.’ Her teeth clicked shut on the words. The hypocrite!

‘We had an intruder on the wreck this morning,’ Antonio Zaccaria said, oblivious to Isobel’s discomfiture. ‘He nearly made off with the gold coin, but Dr Roche confronted him and chased him off.’

Alessandro raised shocked eyebrows. ‘But how unpleasant. Some local mafioso, no doubt. Give me a description of the villain and we’ll see if we can track him down.’

‘I didn’t get a good look at him,’ she muttered. ‘He had long hair and a beard.’

‘Well, you showed great fortitude, Dr Roche. How exactly did you manage to—er—frighten this fellow away?’

By now her face was flaming, and she could sense the others looking at her curiously. He was teasing her deliberately, playing with her like a big cat. His expression was all concern, but those eyes held the hot blue memory of what had happened between them only hours earlier. ‘He heard the boat coming and left of his own accord,’ she replied thickly.

‘He didn’t hurt you in any way?’

‘No,’ she snapped, ‘but it was certainly one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life!’

He nodded gravely. ‘The perils of archaeology are great. One has to make many sacrifices—in order to preserve the historical record.’

She felt like throwing the champagne in his face. Luckily, Theo Makarios addressed their host.

‘You’re a dealer in antiquities, aren’t you, Duke?’

‘Oh, please call me Alessandro. I think we should be on first-name terms, don’t you? And, yes, I am an art dealer, for my sins.’

‘Something of a change in the family business,’ David put in meaningfully. He was a thin, earnest man, and always spoke very directly. ‘Your grandfather was a great conservator of the past. He dedicated his life to preserving treasures for future generations. Whereas you buy and sell them to the highest bidder.’

‘Are you making some point, my dear David?’ Alessandro purred, his eyelids lowering.

‘Yes. That your grandfather might not have approved of your career choices.’

‘But my grandfather and I loved one another dearly, I assure you,’ Alessandro replied easily. ‘There was no disapproval. In fact, my work grew out of his in a very real sense.’

‘Isn’t your work the opposite of his?’ Theo said cautiously. A Greek-American from New Jersey, he had the same integrity as David, but was more softly spoken. Isobel gave a silent cheer. Go get him, Theo, she thought. ‘Trafficking in antiquities doesn’t sound like something the late duke would have approved of. With the greatest respect.’

Alessandro laughed. ‘Trafficking? My friends, I think you have the wrong idea about my work. I deal only with top-level museums. I make a point never to sell to private collectors. I do not approve of treasures going into Swiss bank vaults, never to reappear. It is my heartfelt belief that beautiful things should be seen by everyone. Hence, my clients are bodies such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the British Museum, the Getty. Anyone who can afford the price of a ticket can see the things I sell.’

The servants were unobtrusively serving the first course, an antipasto of frutti di mare, crisp calamari, prawns and shrimps drizzled with lemon juice.

‘Speaking of the Getty,’ Isobel said, in a voice like crystal, ‘what is the status of the torso you sold them last year, Duke? Wasn’t there some question of its authenticity?’

‘A very sad story,’ he said huskily. But she could see he was quite unfazed by the question. ‘A great museum, a wonderful piece, some foolish outsiders raising irrational doubts—the investigations continue, of course, but I am sure I will be vindicated in time. My beloved grandfather raised me to have an unerring eye for what is genuine.’ He was looking deep into her eyes as he spoke. ‘And what is truly precious.’

She gulped, feeling her heart flutter. He was a rogue, but he knew how to flirt. ‘So you maintain the torso is genuine?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And the sculptures at the British Museum?’ Theo put in softly. ‘Some people are now saying they are stolen.’

‘Not stolen,’ the thirteenth Duke of Mandalà said firmly, attacking his antipasto with a gold fork. ‘Looted, my dear Theo.’

‘Looted?’

‘They come from a Third World country currently in the grip of a prolonged war. This country is also the possessor of great archaeological riches. The sculptures were looted by soldiers from one of the big museums. Luckily, they found their way into my hands.’

They had all stopped eating the delicious antipasto, eyes wide. David put his fork down with a clatter that made Isobel wince—gold cutlery meeting Sèvres crockery rather too sharply for safety. ‘Most dealers won’t even touch that kind of thing!’ he said angrily.

‘Of course not,’ Alessandro retorted. ‘That’s the trouble with this business. Too much hypocrisy, too much greed.’

Isobel almost gaped at the effrontery of this magnificent brute, purring about hypocrisy and greed as he devoured calamari off a golden fork! ‘Well, I’m glad you are free of those hindrances, Duke,’ she said scathingly.

‘Do I detect irony in that silvery voice?’ He smiled. ‘Someone has to pick up the pieces, my dear.’

‘That someone being you?’ David sneered.

‘If the world is lucky, it’s me.’ He nodded imperceptibly to the staff to clear the plates. ‘I make sure that when these items reach the so-called open market, as they invariably do, that they find their way to great institutions. The British Museum were fully aware of the provenance of those sculptures. They’re offering them sanctuary while the war rages in their homeland.’

‘And when the war ends, I suppose they’ll just give them back?’ Isobel said.

‘That’s not my business,’ he said dismissively. ‘I am just happy to have rescued them from the hands of avaricious private collectors. Or from being pulverised by a smart missile that wasn’t so smart.’

‘And, of course, you make a handsome profit in the process!’

‘Isn’t your own work paid, Isobel?’ he asked softly. ‘Sometimes my job calls for me to become a kind of search-and-rescue agency for orphaned treasures. You’re quite right to say that many other dealers won’t touch this stuff. That’s not because of their high ethics, dear heart. It’s because they’re too afraid of tarnishing their haloes.’

‘I don’t see a halo over your head,’ she retorted.

‘Quite right,’ he said seraphically. ‘My reputation is hopelessly blemished. I really don’t give a damn. In fact, in my business, it is a distinct advantage to be thought of as a scoundrel. It’s the perfect entrée for certain kinds of dealer.’ He grinned at her wickedly. She had never seen such perfect teeth. ‘And I don’t always make a profit. Sometimes my virtue is its own reward.’

The arrival of the main course, a magnificent roast, forestalled her reply. Alessandro carved the joint expertly, his razor-sharp carving knife sliding through the juicy meat.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘if I don’t make sure those treasures end up in the world’s top institutions, they disappear for ever. The British Museum pieces, for example, are exquisite carvings in marble, a notoriously fragile material. The military gentlemen who were selling them had the bright idea to break them up and sell the fragments piecemeal. A head here, an arm there. You understand? They hoped to double their investment that way.’ He laughed heartily at their expressions. ‘I was in a position to dissuade them from this path and make sure the pieces reached the museum intact. Wouldn’t you say that history owes me a debt?’

‘Is that a true story?’ David asked. There was a grudging smile on his thin face and Isobel realized with a flash of real annoyance that even David was falling prey to this man’s monumental charm.

‘Absolutely,’ Alessandro said silkily as succulent slices of meat made their way onto Sèvres plates. ‘And I have stories better than that, believe me.’

And he proceeded, as Isobel sat in a seething silence, to tell two more. Tall tales, in which he himself emerged as the reluctant hero from hair-raising deals with looters or international smugglers. And the other three sat there with wide eyes, drinking all this rubbish in!

Could her colleagues be such idiots? Wasn’t anyone going to challenge these ridiculous tales of his? At last she couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘Don’t morals come into any of this?’ she demanded icily. ‘Don’t you care who you deal with?’

He turned to her, deep blue eyes meeting hers. ‘Not in the slightest,’ he said with a velvety smile. ‘I believe that the end justifies the means, every time. A single good deed is worth all the good intentions in the world. You’re shaking that glorious head. You disagree?’

‘One hundred per cent,’ she snapped. ‘Without morals, you’re just a thief.’

‘I have been called many worse things,’ he said, without turning a jet-black hair. ‘But you live in the realms of theory, my dear Isobel. Let me give you a real-life case. A man calls you to say that he has been with guerrilla tribesmen in a remote area of a war-torn country. While hiding in a cave, the guerrillas have turned up a cache of scrolls, thousands of years old. Manuscripts of great historical value. These gentlemen are anxious to sell the scrolls. He names a figure. You happen to know a world-class museum willing to pay that price. What do you do?’

‘Walk away,’ she shot back at him without hesitation. ‘Of course.’

‘And save your soul?’

‘And save my soul.’

His nostrils flared. ‘Really? But supposing you know that if you walk away, these manuscripts will immediately be offered to an unscrupulous merchant.’ His mouth turned down in disgust. ‘A man who will chop up the scrolls so that he can sell the pages one by one to buyers all over the world—thus destroying the sense of the scrolls so that nobody will ever be able to piece together their true significance. So that a piece of history is mangled for ever.’ His lids lowered lazily. ‘Have you really saved your soul? Or have you lost it?’

‘But as long as there are men like you around,’ David Franks put in, ‘art treasures will continue to be looted.’

‘Now that is just nonsense,’ Alessandro said with a smile. ‘Looting is part of the human condition. I know perfectly well that if someone puts a bullet through my brain—and not too long ago, some gentlemen were most eager to do exactly that—it would make not one iota of difference to the looting of artworks. But it might make a difference to how many of those looted artworks wind up in responsible hands.’

‘How long are you going to be staying here?’ Isobel asked abruptly.

He seemed amused. ‘This is where I live. I’m home.’

‘So you’re not planning to go off on some search-and-rescue mission in the near future?’

‘Not unless duty calls. I’m looking forward to observing your work on the wreck.’

Isobel’s jaw tightened ominously. What a terrible prospect!

‘This meat is delicious,’ Antonio said diplomatically. As the local representative of the Beni Culturali, the authorities in charge of cultural assets, he was probably uncomfortable at having such a notable patron of the arts challenged in this way.

‘Do you all know Sicily well?’ Alessandro asked.

‘Theo and I have been many times on various digs,’ David replied. ‘It’s Isobel’s first visit.’

‘Indeed!’ His dark brows rose. ‘I hope you’ve had a chance to visit our incomparable treasures? Agrigentum, Syracuse, the exquisite temples at Selinunte and Segesta?’

‘I’m familiar with those sites on a theoretical level,’ she replied sullenly. ‘I hope to be able to make some visits before I go back to New York. But right now, there’s a lot of work to do.’

‘My dear Isobel,’ he said compellingly, ‘nobody can understand a site like Segesta ‘‘on a theoretical level’’. You have to go there to understand. It will be my privilege to escort you as soon as there is a break in your busy schedule.’

Her mouth opened to tell him to shove it, but she caught David’s warning eye and managed, for once, to control her tongue. But nothing on earth, she told herself firmly, would persuade her to go on any guided tour with Alessandro Mandalà!

The conversation slipped into less controversial channels and it became a happy, animated meal. Except, that was, for Isobel, who could hardly eat a mouthful of the delicious food for the ball of anger in her stomach. She’d already had a taste of the Duke of Mandalà’s morality that morning.

He could have told her who he was out there at the wreck. Instead, he had preferred to make a fool of her, terrify her, then force his odious attentions on her. Some joke. And now here he was, charming the birds out of the trees, favouring them all with his opinions on morality!

The meal drew to a close with exquisite Sicilian cassata ice cream and liqueurs. Their host suggested brandy and cigars on the terrace, to which the men readily assented.

Isobel rose abruptly. ‘I don’t care for the smell of cigar smoke in my hair,’ she said. ‘And I’ve had a long day. I hope you’ll all excuse me if I go to bed early.’

‘But this is devastating,’ Alessandro said, laying his hand on his heart. ‘The golden moon sets and the night is left bereft.’

‘Like I said, it’s been a tough one,’ she replied frostily.

‘Can I beg one favour before you go?’ he asked, rising to tower over her. ‘Show me the artefacts you have recovered from the wreck.’

‘I—’

‘The gentleman need not bother themselves,’ he purred. ‘Go to the terrace, my friends. Turi will serve you with cigars and cognac and I will join you in a moment. But I must see these treasures before the stars go out and the night grows utterly dark.’

Her jaw was clenched so tight that she was probably doing her teeth irreparable damage. But there was no way she could refuse such a direct request from their host in front of the others.

And as they descended the carved marble staircase together he had the effrontery to link his arm through hers, as though they were the oldest of friends!

‘Let me go,’ she snapped, trying to jerk her arm out of his grip. ‘How dare you touch me?’

‘These stairs are treacherous,’ he murmured, unmoved. ‘The third duchess tripped and fell down them in seventeen eighty-three, breaking her lovely neck. There is a statue of her in the billiard-room, and they say it sheds real tears on the anniversary of her death.’

‘Very funny,’ she snapped. ‘I know it was you this morning!’

‘And I know it was you,’ he replied easily.

‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were,’ she demanded fiercely, ‘instead of making such a fool of me?’

‘You dragged me out of the water by my beard,’ he reminded her. ‘There wasn’t much opportunity for introductions.’

‘Yes, and what happened to the beard and the long hair?’ she demanded.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘You’ve told plenty tonight,’ she said grimly. ‘Long and tall.’

He chuckled. ‘When you saw me this morning, I had just returned from a—well, let’s call it a field trip.’

‘A what?’ she snorted.

‘A sojourn in a country where all the men wear long hair and beards. It was necessary to blend in.’

‘So you could steal some priceless artwork?’

‘I told you—the scrolls shed vital light on the development of a major world religion.’

She glanced at him quickly. ‘So that’s supposed to be a true story?’

‘Quite true, oh, moon of my delight.’

‘Don’t call me pet names!’ she shot back at him. ‘And was this where they wanted to shoot you?’

‘I had a gun to my head for three days,’ he replied easily, ‘while they argued over whether to execute me or not.’

Despite herself, her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘Not all the guerrillas wanted to sell the scrolls, you see. There was a faction who were determined to burn them—because they were written by people with a religion different from their own.’

‘You risked your life for money?’

‘Not at all, dear heart. I risked my life to save the historical record.’

She swung on him, her eyes igniting into green fire, her mouth turning into a passionate pink curve. ‘Oh, please! I’m not impressed by you. And I’m not impressed by your stories, either. They’re all lies. You’re not half the man your grandfather was! You’re surrounded by huge wealth, but you still feel the need to go out and steal. You don’t deserve all this!’

‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘But you’re being a prig, siren lady.’

‘I am not a prig!’

‘You are a prig, and a naïve one at that. You think that what you see all around you is wealth. It’s not. A Rubens on the wall doesn’t generate a penny. In fact, it costs a fortune just to keep it hanging there. What do you think it costs to keep up a place like this?’

Isobel was silent.

‘My grandfather could afford to bury himself in scholarship,’ he went on, ‘because he was convinced that he was a rich man. He died with that conviction intact, I’m glad to say. But I had to start working at seventeen, Isobel. So that we didn’t lose everything. It took me ten years of hard work to pay off his debts. And another ten years to build up the family fortune again.’ He smiled at her, a subtle and complex smile. They had reached the basement now, and he switched on the arc lamps, flooding the marble expanses with light. ‘Now, please show me your haul.’

‘There’s nothing to impress a man of your tastes,’ she said shortly. ‘These amphorae you see here. A bit of an anchor. And, of course, the coins.’

‘Yes, the coins.’ He peered into the plastic tub. ‘What are they soaking in?’

‘It’s Theo’s secret formula. I don’t know what he puts in it.’

He picked up the plastic tongs and fished in the tub. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said, withdrawing the gold Poseidon coin. He rinsed it under the tap and dried it carefully. It glinted in the light. ‘The old goat and his fork.’

Isobel knew that her face was flaming red again. Pale skin and auburn hair showed every change of temperature—and right now she was very hot indeed. ‘What were you doing down at the wreck, anyway?’ she demanded resentfully. ‘Stealing from an archaeological site on your own doorstep?’

‘Hardly.’ He studied the coin. ‘It’s a magnificent thing, isn’t it?’

‘There are more important coins,’ she said tersely.

‘Not to me,’ he replied. ‘To me, this will always be the most important coin in the world—because today it bought me the most beautiful experience of my life.’

‘Don’t you ever give up?’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘You can see I don’t like you. Why do you persist in this flirtation?’

‘But you liked being kissed by me,’ he said softly, his eyes meeting hers directly. ‘Wasn’t it a landmark in your life, too?’

‘I told you—it was very unpleasant!’

‘Do you know what you felt like in my arms?’ he asked. ‘You felt more wonderful than I can tell you. Vibrant, alive, dynamic.’

‘You’re lucky I didn’t scratch your eyes out,’ she panted, her heart pounding now.

‘And your mouth was like a flame,’ he went on, ‘sweet and burning. I felt you catch fire in my arms.’

‘Stop!’ she said, her voice cracking with the strain.

‘That’s the way it’s supposed to be, Isobel,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to feel wonderful at a moment like that. You can’t live in an emotional ice-box for ever.’

‘You know nothing about me!’ she flared at him. ‘How dare you presume to judge me?’

‘If you had your way, nobody would do anything,’ he replied, his eyes glittering like sapphires as he approached her. ‘We’d all sit around talking ethics while the roof fell in.’