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He laughed, but it was a strangely discordant sound. As though he didn’t have use for his laugh very often, and was out of practice. “I respect your decision not to speak of your mother. I too have known this grief and understand it is a private matter, above our separate positions in life.”
She leaned forward. “Sir, I am happy to work for you. And to work very hard for you. But despite your ‘position’, I don’t believe we have separate entitlements and rights.”
He was almost unmoving in his chair. “Really? Do go on.”
“Well,” she said seriously, “you’re a Prince in your country. And you’re used to people doing what you say, when you say it. But where I’m from, no one gets that kind of special treatment.”
“Yet you make a living from giving people this special treatment.”
“Within the bounds of what I deem to be respectful, yes,” she responded tautly. “I will not sacrifice my self-worth for any client.”
“You do not find this hypocritical?”
“No.”
He leaned forward in his chair, and though they weren’t touching, she felt as though his fingers were lightly grazing her flesh. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. “I am not accustomed to people saying no to me.”
“That’s unsurprising.”
“What is surprising,” he mused almost as if to himself, “is that you feel so comfortable disagreeing with me.”
Chastened, she forced a small smile to her lips. “You said you wanted distraction. Am I not distracting you?”
He nodded slowly. “Very much so.”
Olivia wasn’t sure if he felt the strange charge in the atmosphere, or if it was just her inexperience muddling things up.
“I don’t usually interact with my clients to this degree. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes sort of person.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?” He was appraising her. Olivia had a feeling that she was an object he was holding in both hands, weighing her and sensing her at the same time.
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I couldn’t say.”
The air between them was thick with thoughts and opinions. Lights from the strip barely penetrated the magical-seeming moment.
“How old are you?” He repeated his earlier question with his silent confidence. His accent was thicker at times than others; when he spoke now, it coloured each and every word, rendering them husky and mysterious.
She settled back into the chair with an appearance of relaxation, but her insides were zipping with adrenalin. “I’m twenty four.”
His nod was slow and deliberate. “I had thought you to be younger.”
How many times had she heard that? “Why?”
His eyes sparkled with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Amusement? Mockery? Cynicism? “Are you seeking a compliment?”
“No.” She smiled softly and shook her head. “I didn’t take your comment as flattery so much as an observation.”
“It was intended as both,” he promised with concentration.
She chose to ignore the tingle of interest that his words sparked. She was no fool; getting involved with a man like this would be stupidity and career suicide rolled into one deliciously tempting packet.
“And you?” She pushed, endeavouring to change the subject onto safer ground.
“Yes?” He ran a hand over his stubbled chin and Olivia couldn’t help but be distracted by the gesture. Her eyes followed his fingers, then lingered on his mouth.
“You’re young, and yet you have a role that is demanding and unique.”
“Tell me, Olivia Henderson, what it is you know of the demands that are on me?”
