I laugh. “Oh, so you’re going to make this hard? Fine. What’syourfavorite color?”
“Black.”
Big surprise.
“What food do you hate?” I prod.
“That’s easy. Raisins.”
I make a sympathetic sound. “But cinnamon raisin toast is the best.”
He pretends to gag, completely taking me by surprise. I had no idea he had this much of a playful side. It’s probably an act to charm me into letting my guard down, but I’ll take it.
We eat in silence for a moment while I think of my next question. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll play this game, so I need something to reel him back in.
“What’s your favorite thing to see a woman wear?” The question is clearly self-serving, but if I’m really going to move in with him, I should know what pleases him.
Eyeing him over a sip of water, I see I’ve caught his full attention with my subtly seductive question. I’m sure he’s going to say “nothing.” They all say that. Still, it’s fun to grab him like this.
Armani lifts a brow. “Leather.”
My mind instantly strays to bondage—oh, God.
I clear my throat. “Interesting.”
That’s it. No more questions for this guy. Except that I can totally picture him with one of those multi-tailed whips in his hand, his deep brown eyes gleaming dark with lust as he stalks toward me, and now the image won’t go away.
By the time we’re done eating, the sky has gone the deep blue of dusk. Armani clears our plates and then brings his chair around beside mine, then tops off our champagne glasses again.
We watch the sky, our upper arms brushing against each other. My skin is cool, but even through the fabric of his sleeves, I can feel the heat radiating off of him.
“Hai il fuoco di un tramonto,”he murmurs.
He says the words a little reverently. I have no idea what they mean, but they sound sexy as hell coming out of his mouth.
“Are you fluent in Italian?” I ask. “All I know are the wine words.Vino bianco,vino rosso,vino rosato. The basics. I’ve been meaning to learn more for ages, but I still haven’t gotten around to it.”
“My brothers and I grew up immersed in the language,” he says. “Even our nannies had to be able to speak it.”
“So…what did you just say?”
His eyes drop to my lips. “I said, ‘You have the fire of a sunset.’”
Oh, he’s good. I salute him with my champagne flute.“Go raibh maith agat.”
He arches his brows, but I wave him off. “Don’t be impressed,” I say. “It means ‘thank you,’ informally, and it’s literally the only Irish Gaelic that I know.”
“Goo-ruv ma-goth,” he repeats, his pronunciation slightly off.
“Not bad.” I grin.
“Non c’ è male,”he says back to me in Italian.
“Non c’ è male,”I repeat, mimicking his accent perfectly.
“Bella,”he says, and even I know the word means “beautiful.”
I meet his gaze, the sparks between us undeniable now. I never expected Armani to be like this one-on-one. This isfun. But it also feels like a huge risk, being alone on a dark river with this man who has a killer’s eyes.
