I snort. “Tudor England was the furthest thing from sexy. They couldn’t have sex on Saturdays, Wednesdays, or Sundays, or throughout the entirety of Lent. And missionary was the only approved position.”
“Really?” He grunts and crosses his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that makes me wish we weren’t talking about sex. How did we end up talking about sex again? “I had no idea. How fascinating. And horrible. So were there people who actually enforced these rules? The No Wednesday Hanky-panky Police? The Sexless Sunday Supper Club?”
“No idea,” I say, determined to get this conversation back onto safer ground. “I didn’t delve too deep into the topic. And I don’t read fiction that often. I prefer biographies. Or occasionally a memoir, if the source can be trusted. Now, as for the—”
“But can you ever really trust a person to tell the ugly truth about themselves?” he cuts in. “Don’t you think all writers paint their flaws in a sympathetic light? I certainly would.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Neither would Sabrina or Lizzy. We’re very different people, but we all value the truth. I think memoir writers feel the same. The good ones, at least. Honesty is more compelling than spin.”
He frowns. “Interesting that you would say that, seeing as when I met Sabrina last year, she was pretending to be Lizzy, and Lizzy was pretending to be her while lying about needing to pay off your boarding school debt in order to trick Sabrina into coming to Gallantia in her place.”
I wrinkle my nose. “An anomaly. They’re not usually like that. Those were…extenuating circumstances.”
“And considering your choice of profession, I don’t think—”
“I think we’re getting off track.” I slice a hand through the air, then point at his chest. “There’s a flaw in your theory about famous people. We can’t confirm that Stefano is in communication with those visitors about anything illicit. The rich and famous attend his events and patronize his resorts and casinos, yes. But there’s no evidence of anything more scandalous than recreational drug use. It’s the same problem we have with the rest of his businesses. It’s obvious he’s communicating with his network, arranging the flow of people and product, but we don’t know how he’s doing it. Cell phone signal tracing and taps on his landlines in Greece and Italy have all come up empty.”
“Which is why I was thinking…” He sits up, swinging his feet to the wood planks between us as he leans his head closer to mine. “Maybe I should take things further this time.”
My brows lift. “Further than high-stakes gambling and buying his cocaine?”
“Right,” he confirms. “If I put myself in a position to need to communicate with him more often and more securely, we might gain access to that secret network. Blaire wasn’t keen on the idea, but you know how she is… If we get the job done, she’ll be quicker with forgiveness than she’ll ever be with permission.”
I nibble my lower lip. He’s right. Blaire does reward successful initiative, even when it goes against protocol. “What exactly are you thinking?”
He threads his fingers and tips his head down, studying me over the tops of his glasses. “I casually mention to Stefano how much I love it here. How I’d like to build a home on the island, but there’s no way I can afford it on the allowance my mother gives me, especially with my gambling debts beginning to pile up. Then I suggest I’m willing to help him gain a foothold in the Gallantian black market in exchange for a cut of the profits.”
I shake my head. “He won’t buy it.” I pause, then backtrack. “Or he might, but he’ll know there’s no way that’s happening in the current climate. Maybe if you’d tried before the authorities started watching the casinos in Baden-Bergen, but not now. He knows they’re cracking down on street drugs, and the Gallantian market is probably more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Good point.” Nick scrubs a hand back and forth across the stubble on his chin.
I wouldn’t have thought it, but Dimples can grow a sexy crop of scruff in a little over twelve hours. My sisters think I’m crazy, but I love stubble, love the way my cheeks sting after kissing a guy with scratchy whiskers.
Whiskers are the good kind of scratchy…unlike this damned bathing suit.
I discreetly scratch the side of my breast, and Nick’s eyes instantly go wide and curious. “You’re wearing it? Let me see.”
“No.” I scowl at him. “I only put it on in case the room was bugged, and we actually had to go swimming. I’m going to go take it off right now.” I start to stand, but he puts a hand on my knee, blinking innocently.
“Please, I’m not being a pervert, I promise,” he says. “I just want to make sure it fits the way it should. If not, we need to pick up something else in the resort shop. We want to make sure you blend in with the rest of the women here.”