Page 52 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“You think they should go on a date first? Catch a film? Share a milkshake?”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder from my seat at the desk. He’s pacing, like usual, and wearing the Sweater again, worn open over threadbare jeans and his Bitches and Snitches band tee. I’m in loose-knit pants and a ribbed Henley I slept in last night (both gray, of course), though I put on a bra before leaving my bedroom. My mom used to say, Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. If writing with Dylan is a real job possibility, then I’ve nailed it.

We’re just getting started for the day. Amorosa has lured Zane off his ship and onto her island, which appears out of the fog for one week every hundred years before disappearing again. Grams ripped this straight from Brigadoon, though she made it her own, and at least she gave the lovers a full week instead of a single night. A week in which they have a lot of sex.

“Does she want him for real, or is she seducing him only to break her curse?” I ask.

“It starts as a seduction but turns into mutual desire. That’s Zane’s power in these books.”

I swallow a laugh. “The ability to make any woman want him? Cocky bastard.”

Dylan leans back against a bookcase, shoving his hands into his pockets. “According to Iris, the more desirable Zane is, the more valuable his desire becomes. The more valuable his desire becomes, the more valued the women he desires feel. That’s the fantasy Iris offered her readers, most of whom are women and relate more to the heroines. Value in the guise of desire.”

This tempers my amusement. Grams knew what she was doing. I need to trust that.

“Okay.” I set my fingers on the keyboard. “Where do we begin?”

Zane stood at the threshold of Amorosa’s small but tidy hut, taking in the furniture and personal belongings. An ornate four-poster bed carved from Brazilian garapa. A Japanese screen inlaid with cherry blossoms. A chest made from the ebony most common in Nigeria or Cameroon. Since Amorosa had never left the island—or so she claimed—she must’ve collected the items from sailors like himself. Whether they were purchased, received as gifts, or taken through less amiable means, Zane didn’t yet know.

His focus drifted back to the bed.

Amorosa’s smile widened as she followed his gaze.

“You have been too long at sea.” She didn’t sing the words, and yet, they sounded like music to his ears, melodic and enticing, suggesting she was right.

“Seven months,” he said, though it seemed like only seven days since he’d discovered Euphoria with Balbo, the pain of her betrayal still razor sharp.

Amorosa found his hand and led him forward, drawing him toward the bed.

“Seven months without . . . ?” Her eyes dipped lower, just past his waist.

He understood the suggestion.

Or rather, he understood the invitation.

His eyes dipped as well, lingering on the full swells of her breasts where her gathered chemise failed to fully contain them. Then lower, where two dark, tight peaks pressed against the thin fabric, making him draw the tip of his tongue across his lips. So perfect. So enticing. So ripe for tasting as she arched closer, willing him to do the same.

“I didn’t leave my ship for this,” he said, though he couldn’t quite recall any other reason he’d be here right now, standing before this beautiful woman, devouring her with his eyes, his body hot and hard with desire.

A key, he thought dimly. Hadn’t he come here for a key?

He’d been on his way somewhere. Somewhere important. Somewhere with a treasure the likes of which he’d never seen. And all he needed was a key to the cave.

A key kept on an island that came and went with the fog.

An island inhabited by a woman with hair the color of roasted coffee beans and eyes the color of tourmaline. They were the treasures he sought. The only treasures.

Amorosa sat on the edge of the bed, still holding his hand, drawing it to her breast, filling his palm and encouraging his fingers to press into her soft flesh.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” She found his other hand, leaning into his touch as he stroked both breasts with swiftly mounting urgency. Every stroke, pinch, flick, twist, or tug drew sounds from the back of her throat. Sounds he couldn’t get enough of.

“I can’t tell you that,” he said, the words little more than a breath.

She gathered her skirts, baring her strong thighs and a tangle of dark hair.

“And this?” she asked.

That, he definitely wanted, but he forced himself to drag his eyes to hers.