Thief of Light by Denise Rossetti Page A

were shut tight until a big hand enveloped hers.
    “Are you all right? You’re very pale.” A firm grasp on her elbow, a gentle tug. “Sit down, Prue.”
    Gathering her wits, Prue sank into the armchair near the fireplace.
    Erik poured tisane into one of the elegant cups. “Drink.” He molded his warm palm over her fingers until she had the cup securely in her grasp.
    Gratefully, she sipped. “Have you had good houses this week?” she asked stiffly.
    Erik had been piling delicacies onto a pretty dish. “Eat and I’ll tell you.”
    Prue looked at it blankly. “That’s too much for me. You have it.” She leaned forward to hand the plate back. “I’m not very hungry.”
    “I’d lay odds you haven’t eaten since early morning.”
    “I was busy.”
    “With my account books, I know. But for now, you’re going to eat every scrap. If you don’t”—his teeth gleamed very white—“I will sit you on my lap and feed you with my own hands.” He refused to let her look away. “I trust you believe me?”
    Her mouth dropping open, Prue stared, a vision flashing before her mind’s eye, clear in every devastating detail.
    Herself, curled up like a happy child, safe in Erik Thorensen’s arms, smiling as he popped a delicious morsel into her mouth. The tender, lustful gleam in his eye as he nuzzled her neck. Her lashes drooping with pleasure, her body boneless, buttressed by all that easy strength.
    Oh, gods! A few, precious moments of utter relaxation. Nothing else to do, nowhere else to be.
    If she defied him . . .
    For a split second of insanity, the temptation was so great her whole body trembled, flushing with heat. Then she came to her senses.
    “That won’t be necessary.” She took one of the spicepuffs.
    “Pity.”
    Caught midbite, Prue choked on an unwilling huff of amusement. Erik chuckled as he refilled her cup. With perfect self-possession, he began talking about the Unearthly Opera Company, his voice deep and unhurried, strangely soothing. Slowly, she allowed herself to settle back in the chair.
    If he gave up music, he could make a living as a storyteller, she thought dreamily, her lips twitching as he described missed cues, wardrobe malfunctions, triumphs and disasters. Worlds and people she’d never seen and never would see. A life she found difficult to imagine but all too easy to envy—sailing across the cold reaches of space in a Technomage starship, watching the gossamer-thin slingshot sails deploy, their star-shine the faintest gleam in the endless dark.
    His voice gave her the same feeling of sensuous comfort as a dark blanket made of soft, plushy velvet.
    Rising, he removed the plate from her unresisting grasp. “Well done, love,” he murmured.
    Prue sat up straight. “Are you, by any chance, patronizing me, Master Thorensen?”
    “Erik,” he said, unperturbed. “And no, you’ve done very well.” With a grin, he waved the empty plate about under her nose.
    So she had. Prue took a moment to tilt her head back against the back of the big chair. On a sigh, she said, “I should get back to work.” Even to her own ears, she sounded reluctant.
    “Not just yet.” A fleeting touch on her arm. “Mistress Prue, I—” Erik broke off to clear his throat. “I owe you an apology. The Opera’s accounts are in a terrible state. I knew that when I asked you to look at them.”
    Prue snorted. “You made the right decision—either your bookkeeper’s cheating you or he’s not right in the head. I haven’t decided which yet.”
    “True enough.” Erik’s lips curved as though at some secret joke. “The man’s a fool, that’s for sure.” Slipping a hand inside his shirt, he withdrew a small, flat package wrapped in a square of unbleached linen and laid it on her knee. “I want you to have this—by way of apology.” The charming smile reappeared.
    “If it’s a gift, I can’t accept it.”
    A brow rose. “Can’t or won’t?”
    “Both.”
    Erik dropped to one knee on the rug