“Hmm, not bad. But don’t you think it might be even more provocative if it read ‘quivering mound of peach-colored flesh’ instead?”
Anna uttered a very unladylike oath. “Why does every creature in Creation think he—or she—is a writer?”
Instead of responding to the remark, Devlin resumed reading aloud:
“Of course I shouldn’t be here,” he replied. “But when have you known me to obey anyone’s rules, save for my own…”
“Hmm, sounds very much like me. Dare I hope that I’ve served to inspire your artistic imagination?”
“You flatter yourself, sir,” said Anna tartly. “Ah, but wait, now that you mention it…”
Devlin wasn’t sure he liked the new gleam that suddenly came to life in her eyes.
“Perhaps I shall have Emmalina discover that Alessandro has a secret passion—that of fashioning intricate automata.” She tapped at her chin, letting the words sink in. “I wonder, what should I say he does with them? Sell them to the Sultan for a fortune in precious gems?”
All at once, the game of teasing was no longer proving quite so amusing. “Miss Sloane—”
“No, wait! I have it!” she exclaimed. “Alessandro will design an ingenious winged eagle, complete with real feathers, and just when the dastardly Prince Malatesta and his cohorts have Emmalina and Alessandro trapped at the top of a remote castle tower, he will push all sorts of intricate levers and buttons—and lo and behold, it will whir to life and fly them to safety.”
“Let’s return to the current story, shall we?” growled Devlin.
For the first time since she had entered the room, Anna smiled. Or perhaps it was better describe as a smirk. “Oh, but we authors are always anxious to capture future plot twists and work out the details before they slip away. Trust me, ideas can be slippery as eels.”
“I would rather see this one wriggle out of your fingers.”
“The manuscript, Lord Davenport.” Once again, she held out her hand. “I’m willing to negotiate. You keep my secret safe and I shall do the same with yours.” A regretful sigh. “Though I really do like the eagle idea.”
“Are you blackmailing me, Miss Sloane?” Ye god, writers were more ruthless than he had imagined.
“Call it a meeting of creative minds.”
Watching the heated rise and fall of her bosom was enough to make a man’s brain go blank. If that weren’t enough, several honey-gold curls had come loose and were caressing the shapely curve of one shell pink ear.
If only a meeting of bodies would follow the cerebral connection.
Pulling a pained grimace, he handed over the pages.
“Thank you.” Anna quickly returned the manuscript to its original hiding place and relocked the drawer with a small brass key pulled from a concealed pocket in her cuff.
“Clever,” he commented.
“My maid is a very talented designer. She tells me that in France, it’s called a poche de billet-doux.”
“A pocket for love notes,” he murmured.
“Yes, well, ladies must learn all sorts of little subterfuges.” Anna smoothed the lace back in place. “That is, if they wish to have the same freedom as men to be a little adventurous.”
“You have certainly created an inspiring example for those of your sex in Emmalina. However, speaking of sex, your characterization of Count Alessandro leaves a little to be desired.”
Her expression turned a little wary. “In what way?”
“For one thing, a real rake wouldn’t put his hand here.” Devlin traced a fingertip along the ridge of her collarbone. “He would put it here.”
She squeaked and backed up a few steps, then edged around the corner of the armoire.
Devlin followed, all primal male instincts now fully aroused. “You see, we men are, at heart, primitive creatures. The trappings of civilized manners often yield to the basic hunter-gatherer behavior of our ancient ancestors.”
“M-my father was an expert on primitive cultures,” said Anna. “I’ve read all about your primal urges.”