Free Thief of Light by Denise Rossetti Page B

note. All Garden courtesans learn the martial arts from Walker, both theory and practice.”
    How she knew, Prue had no idea, but she was certain Erik wanted to laugh. “So you’re not entirely defenseless?” he said, his rich voice a melody that washed over her in a wave of warm honey.
    Prue’s lips drew back from her teeth. She still couldn’t believe what had happened last night—his gall or her own stupidity. Thank the Sister she’d regained her senses in the nick of time. Let me kiss it. She suppressed the impulse to shake her head in amazement. “No,” she said, “we are not.”
    After a short silence, Rose said smoothly, “I’ll leave you two to discuss the contract.” She glided toward the door, paused and offered her hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Erik.”
    “Likewise, Mistress Rose.” He raised it to his lips and kissed it, a real kiss, Prue noted, not just a polite brush of the lips.
    Setting her jaw, she said, “Be seated, Master Thorensen, and tell me why you want a bookkeeper.”

    In the courtyard of the Sweet Manda, surrounded by smooth, healthy flesh and shining hair, the implied promise of pleasure, it had crossed Erik’s mind to wonder if he’d made a mistake about Prue McGuire. Why would the Dark Lady choose a no-nonsense woman like Prue to test his control? He’d been inclined to put last night’s thoughts down to wounded vanity, the astonishing challenge her resistance posed to both his masculinity and the strange powers the gods had given him.
    But the goddess had made no mistake.
    Her hair lay loose over her shoulders in a gleaming ripple of brown, held away from her face by a couple of simple braids. To his delight, it was soft and thick, with an enchanting wayward curl, making her look softer, younger. The effect was enhanced because she’d been laughing when he walked in, her eyes narrowed, sparkling with merriment like those of a mischievous child.
    The delightful gurgle of it was infectious. When Mistress Prue laughed, she gave it all of herself, helpless with amusement, the dimple quivering. Like warm fingers, the sound slid into his trews and curled around his balls, until they drew up in anticipation. Once a man got past the barriers, she’d be a generous lover, abandoned in her pleasure. Gods, she might even strike a spark in the emptiness that was his soul.
    She wore loose trousers and an over-tunic in a blue so dark it was nearly black, the outfit obviously intended for comfort while she worked. She probably thought the getup modest, but any man’s gaze would be drawn to the way the fine fabric pulled against the rounded curve of buttock and breast—unless he were dead, of course. Judging by the warmth and tightness in his trews, he’d be very much alive for some time yet.
    To the seven hells with a bookkeeper, I just want you.
    Instead, he fell back into role. He said mildly, “You called me Erik last night.”
    “I may have done.” Seating herself behind the desk, she tapped the parchment, all traces of humor hidden from him. “Are there no bookkeepers in Concordia, Master Thorensen?”
    Godsdammit, she was a prickly little thing. He’d hoped the music lessons would win her over, especially as Rose had been perfectly amenable. He should have known better. The Dark Lady’s challenge wouldn’t be worthy of the name if it was easy.
    “Not one that I trust.”
    She didn’t give an inch. “Why?”
    “I’m a singer, Mistress Prue, not a mathematician.” He rearranged his features into a pleasant smile, which appeared to soften her not at all.
    This wasn’t strictly true. Erik didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he was perfectly capable of keeping the Unearthly Opera’s accounts himself. In fact, he’d done so for years.
    “I have a man,” he said, inventing as he went along, his mind racing. “There are things he does I don’t understand, but they don’t seem to . . . ah . . . add up . . .” Spreading his hands, he trailed off, doing