made note of it because it was the tallest structure in town. She might need to make use of it if her time came and she had not found any help.
Miguel was being cautious, still respecting her obvious desire not to be touched, but she could feel his gaze on her face as they climbed the gazebo’s stairs. She knew that both his curiosity and hunger were growing. Who was she? What was she? Why did she not instantly fall into his arms? This was probably a new experience for him.
Take the ride or hide? Stop playing games? Should shetell him what she was and what she wanted? Assuming he didn’t already suspect.
No. Not yet. She might be genuinely attracted to him, but that meant nothing. Passion was not honest. He could be another Saint Germain. Only a fool would assume him to be a knight-errant because of his beauty. Other women in the first throes of desire might be trusting, but she had always thought intense attraction was like watching a two-year-old play with fire. She had been badly burned and was more cautious.
“Tell me a little bit about what you do,” Miguel urged.
Ninon smiled.
“I used to be a sort of Mary Poppins for those with relationship problems.” He blinked at her so she explained: “You know, Mary Poppins, the magical nanny who’d arrive with the North wind—or maybe it was the East, I never can remember. Anyhow, she’d work with a child until things got better, and then when the wind shifted, she’d fly off again.”
“I know who Mary Poppins is,” he said. “The image was just so…incompatible that it threw me for a moment.”
“Well, I work with adults, not children, but the idea holds.” She mounted the steps, letting her hips sway. Let him look at something besides her face, which she was having trouble controlling.
“So, you’re a sort of sex therapist?” He seemed to mull this idea over, perhaps feeling that it would explain her differences, why she could be sexy but not be ruled by sexuality.
“A sex therapist. I like that. I was thinking of myself as more of a counselor but—”
“I like counselor better,” he said.
So, he had a few old-fashioned prejudices. That was good to know. It also amused her, and that made her feel more in control. Men! It was so simple for them: Women were either Madonnas or whores.
“You’re sure? I think sex therapists would wear betterunderwear,” she said, resuming their flirtation. “Assuming they wore any, of course.”
Ninon set her drink on the flat railing of the gazebo and leaned against the ancient wood as well, forcing herself to finally meet his gaze and smile with an appearance of calm. She had left her gun in her room inside Corazon’s carrier, but she could feel the trench spike inside the satin sheath that rested on her thigh. It was made of pure steel and had a deadly sharp blade. It wasn’t being shown as a summer accessory in any of the fashion magazines, but like a good Scout, she believed in being prepared—and you just couldn’t count on someone else having a trench spike lying about when you needed one.
“You’re even more beautiful at night,” he said, changing the subject. A cliché, but his voice made the phrase seem like it was being spoken for the first time. That voice! Either he was pulling out all the stops for her, or else the reason he spent so much time in deserted pozas was because he was tired of beating off the females.
“Oddly enough, so are you.” Her voice wasn’t as even as she would like. “So, tell me something about yourself. A favorite color—or do you have a nickname? A pet?”
His head tipped to one side.
“Yes, I have another name. It is a difficult name. Many have trouble uttering it. Would you like to hear it anyway? Or perhaps you would like to choose a name for me.”
Ciuateto, the ozone-rich breeze seemed to whisper.
His eyes! Damn! It took only a moment of contact and she was again lost in their dark reflection, caught in a hall of mirrors where each glance showed
Miguel was being cautious, still respecting her obvious desire not to be touched, but she could feel his gaze on her face as they climbed the gazebo’s stairs. She knew that both his curiosity and hunger were growing. Who was she? What was she? Why did she not instantly fall into his arms? This was probably a new experience for him.
Take the ride or hide? Stop playing games? Should shetell him what she was and what she wanted? Assuming he didn’t already suspect.
No. Not yet. She might be genuinely attracted to him, but that meant nothing. Passion was not honest. He could be another Saint Germain. Only a fool would assume him to be a knight-errant because of his beauty. Other women in the first throes of desire might be trusting, but she had always thought intense attraction was like watching a two-year-old play with fire. She had been badly burned and was more cautious.
“Tell me a little bit about what you do,” Miguel urged.
Ninon smiled.
“I used to be a sort of Mary Poppins for those with relationship problems.” He blinked at her so she explained: “You know, Mary Poppins, the magical nanny who’d arrive with the North wind—or maybe it was the East, I never can remember. Anyhow, she’d work with a child until things got better, and then when the wind shifted, she’d fly off again.”
“I know who Mary Poppins is,” he said. “The image was just so…incompatible that it threw me for a moment.”
“Well, I work with adults, not children, but the idea holds.” She mounted the steps, letting her hips sway. Let him look at something besides her face, which she was having trouble controlling.
“So, you’re a sort of sex therapist?” He seemed to mull this idea over, perhaps feeling that it would explain her differences, why she could be sexy but not be ruled by sexuality.
“A sex therapist. I like that. I was thinking of myself as more of a counselor but—”
“I like counselor better,” he said.
So, he had a few old-fashioned prejudices. That was good to know. It also amused her, and that made her feel more in control. Men! It was so simple for them: Women were either Madonnas or whores.
“You’re sure? I think sex therapists would wear betterunderwear,” she said, resuming their flirtation. “Assuming they wore any, of course.”
Ninon set her drink on the flat railing of the gazebo and leaned against the ancient wood as well, forcing herself to finally meet his gaze and smile with an appearance of calm. She had left her gun in her room inside Corazon’s carrier, but she could feel the trench spike inside the satin sheath that rested on her thigh. It was made of pure steel and had a deadly sharp blade. It wasn’t being shown as a summer accessory in any of the fashion magazines, but like a good Scout, she believed in being prepared—and you just couldn’t count on someone else having a trench spike lying about when you needed one.
“You’re even more beautiful at night,” he said, changing the subject. A cliché, but his voice made the phrase seem like it was being spoken for the first time. That voice! Either he was pulling out all the stops for her, or else the reason he spent so much time in deserted pozas was because he was tired of beating off the females.
“Oddly enough, so are you.” Her voice wasn’t as even as she would like. “So, tell me something about yourself. A favorite color—or do you have a nickname? A pet?”
His head tipped to one side.
“Yes, I have another name. It is a difficult name. Many have trouble uttering it. Would you like to hear it anyway? Or perhaps you would like to choose a name for me.”
Ciuateto, the ozone-rich breeze seemed to whisper.
His eyes! Damn! It took only a moment of contact and she was again lost in their dark reflection, caught in a hall of mirrors where each glance showed