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She nodded.
“Try it.” He placed one on her plate, then scooped some strange looking egg onto his own plate.
“What is that?” She was dubious.
“Eggs that have been scrambled with goats milk and ash.”
She pulled a face.
He grinned. “You were beginning to tell me about your work, before.”
“Yes.” She had been going to – a lifetime ago. Her cheeks flushed as memories of the way they’d become distracted flashed through her mind. She took a small bite of the pastry and relaxed when the delicious flavour hit her tastebuds.
“What do you do?
’
“I’m a corporate art broker.”
He shook his head. “I love the way you British have these job titles that sound frighteningly formal and yet poorly describe the actual work involved.”
“Look who’s talking! What is your job title exactly?”
He laughed and nodded. “Point taken. So a corporate art broker means, I presume, that you sell art to businesses.”
“More or less. Some of my clients like to swap their art around once a year. My company has an extensive catalogue and I juggle various clients’ needs with what we currently have in our library.”
“What kind of art?”
“Everything from painting to sculpture to light installations. We’re very flexible. Some of our library features renaissance classics, or Mondrian masterpieces. But we also have a stable of emerging artists who are able to provide cheaper, more bespoke works for one-off impact statements.”
“I see,” he murmured. “You would be good at this.”
“Thank you,” she took the compliment with a small nod. She was excellent at her job, and that wasn’t vanity speaking.
“I imagine you are able to seduce your clients into whatever you wish, in the same way you probably have men wrapped around your little finger.”
The pleasure she’d taken from his praise evaporated. “Oh.”
“As you have me wrapped around your little finger,” he added, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her lips.
Her heart was racing and her blood was zipping. She pulled away, not wanting him to know how easily he could affect her. “You taste like ash.”
“And I look forward to learning what you taste like,” he responded with dark intensity.
Her stomach flipped. His meaning was clear. Her cheeks darkened and she stuffed a big piece of the pastry into her mouth simply to bite back on any kind of ridiculous comment she was about to make.
She sipped her coffee to clear her mouth. The silence seemed to spark between them with an electrical current. “Why are you in London?” She blurted out, when the pulsing heat was almost unbearable.
He laid his cutlery down silently and took her hand in his. He lifted it to his lips, and his dark eyes held her. “When I become Emir, certain things will be expected of me.”
“Magical powers?” She quipped, her expression lightly amused.
He didn’t react. He was distracted. Searching for words. He barely knew this woman, and yet he knew her intimately. He owed her nothing, and yet he felt an obligation.
He stroked his finger over her knuckles. “My country has been scared by the question of succession. No clear line of heir for the reigning Emir has been an issue for many. That there is only me causes further concern. If I were to die, or become incapacitated in some way that prevented me from serving as Emir, the title would pass to a distant, distant cousin.”
“I can’t even imagine what your world must be like,” she said thoughtfully. “How you must have grown up and the issues you’ve had to address. You must have been so isolated.”
