His offer had been a desperate call to the wind—her simpleyesthe light of a lighthouse flickering to life on the shore. It had been a risky and near thing, but he’d escaped the gale force just before it tore apart his soul.
So if he’d nearly lost control, nearly let the tide of emotions break free of the dam of his control, it could be understood.
And by the way she’d responded to his kiss, her vow would be forgotten before they even arrived in Calla.
Even accounting for the sucker punch.
He grinned, allowing the expression as his mind raced ahead, plotting and planning his campaign, even as his stomach continued to roll.
The woman had an arm.
But she was naive and as clear as glass when it came to what lovers did.
She was completely ignorant of the rarity of the thing that had sparked between them. It was a feeling even he, as experienced as any respectable sailor, had never had before. And he could use that.
With the heat of their kiss still electric on his tongue and the elation of his success throbbing in his system, he gestured for her to sit, every inch the magnanimous host.
“Would you like anything?” he asked. “The galley is well-stocked. My chef can make virtually anything.”
She must have been feeling the beginning of hunger by now. A body that strong needed regular fuel. And even without the experience of sparring with her, the fact of her strength was impossible to miss when it was muscle tone that gave her body dimension, and, he observed, its hints of curves.
Had she not been the captain of the royal queen’s guard of Cyrano, he imagined she might have had the same willowy slenderness that her mother and aunt had been famous for in their heyday. It had been rare for his mother to speak of the past, but when she did, her best friend, Seraphina d’Tierrza, famous beauty, featured heavily.
Like her mother, Helene was tall and long. Unlike her mother, she had filled out, and incredible strength hummed under the pretty packaging like a high-performance racer.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Anything?”
His grin grew even wider. She doubted him.
He loved it when people doubted him. Their ignorance was his advantage.
“Dragon fruit,” she declared.
Throwing his head back, he laughed, the sound rich and warm and booming. The laugh was his father’s, famous among those who had known him, and just another feature on the long list of traits Drake had inherited from him. Everything but his open heart, it seemed.
“Easy. Try again.”
“Star fruit.”
He snorted, nodding without bothering to answer.
“Pickled herring.”
He tsked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head. “I am ashamed at you, Helene. We might be high-class, but we’re still sailors. Of course, we have pickled herring.”
Chuckling, she challenged, “Durian.”
He stopped laughing, gave her a stern frown and pointed a finger at her. “That’s cheating.”
She nodded, smiling, gemstone eyes sparkling like freshly cut and cleaned diamonds.
“No durian. Too smelly. Despite our spacious and luxurious accommodations, it is still a confined space.”
This time she tsked at him. “And you said anything...” At ease, exactly as he’d intended, her voice was all smiles when she said, “A glass of water would be wonderful, please.”
That she was comfortable enough to ask him for something was more significant than he thought she realized, but music to his ears. “Certainly.” He smiled. “I don’t even need to call for that.”
He walked to a set of bookshelves and pressed a small button, then a shelf of books slid to the side, a quiet swoosh the only sound as the secret shelf-door revealed a crisp minibar. Filling a chilled crystal glass, he asked, “Bubbles?”