The Ice Princess (Princes #3.5)(8)

The big man Aphrodite had identified as Billy stood by the doors to the Grotto tonight. He eyed the small satchel Isaac carried, but merely nodded. "She's awaitin' you in 'er rooms."

Isaac gave the man a coin and entered the entrance hall. His heart beat like an ensign boarding his first ship. Hold hard, son, she's a whore, he reminded his surging libido. She might not entertain gentlemen in her rooms, but she certainly entertained them somewhere in the Grotto. She was the brothel's madam, after all.

Yet oddly the thought did not lower his anticipation. Whore or not, he was looking forward to seeing Aphrodite tonight. He ran up the grand staircase and strode down the long corridor, past giggling girls and men with stupid lust in their eyes--pray he did not wear the same expression. No one gainsaid him when he turned down the smaller corridor and entered the hidden passage, remembering to duck his head. He paused outside the door at the end and then knocked.

There was a moment of suspense when he wondered if she would insist on meeting him elsewhere, away from her rooms.

Then she opened the door.

Aphrodite wore a dress that was almost simple tonight, green, with a bodice that was very low, although it did cover her nipples. He didn't know whether to be grateful or mourn the loss of their distraction. The cold golden mask was firmly in place. Isaac realized oddly that he knew her—knew the grace of her slim arms, the delicate hollow at the base of her neck, the challenging way she tilted her head when she caught sight of him—knew all this, yet had no idea what her face looked like.

It irked him, like a pebble caught in his shoe, that knowledge that she refused to reveal that most basic part of herself to him.

"Do you intend to enter, Captain Wargate?" she asked, her tone acid.

He grinned and bowed. "I have every intention of entering your secret room, ma'am."

That surprised a short laugh from her. "Touché, Captain. Please come in."

He passed her, conscious that she stepped back so he wouldn't brush her person as he moved. "Call me Isaac."

"What a very Biblical name."

"What's yours, then?" He turned to look at her. "Your real name, not the one they call you here."

She hesitated and for a second he thought she might tell him, but she shook her head. "Would you like some wine?"

"Aye." He set his satchel on the square table before the fire. A man must be patient with a cat. She'd only drew near when he wasn't looking.

He heard the clink of the glass behind him as he opened the satchel and brought out the board. The pieces were in a soft leather pouch and he laid them out on the black and red squares.

"What is that?" She was closer than he'd realized.

He hid a smile. "What does it look like?"

She moved around him to set a glass of wine on the table. "A draughts board." She frowned down suspiciously at the game. "What did you bring it for?"

"I thought we'd play." He sat at one side of the table and picked up the wine glass, watching her.

"But . . ." She glanced about the room. "You came here to—"

"Play a game with you," he said softly. "That is if you wish to."

She debated that a moment and he'd have given all the winnings from last night to have seen beneath the flat golden mask. Then she lowered herself to the chair opposite his, her back as straight and rigid as if she were about to take tea with the king.

He nodded and moved one of his men. "You don't have wine yourself."

"I don't drink it while entertaining." She pushed a round piece forward. "Why draughts?"

He shrugged and made his move. "It's easy to play, but hard to master. I thought you might enjoy it."

"Enjoy it." She said the words as if tasting a strange meat. "You'd rather play a child's game than bed me?"

"Right here, right now, yes," he said and took the two pieces she'd played. "And it's not a game for a child."

She stared down at the board and he knew that under the cold metal mask she was frowning.

He made sure to keep his mouth straight.

"I don't think I like this game," she said regally and flicked a piece forward with her fingertip.

"That's because you're not used to playing it," he replied. "It takes but a bit of practice. A smidgen of thinking ahead."

"Thinking ahead in what way?"

He scratched his chin. "Draughts can be played in two ways. One can move the pieces at random, reacting to the plays of the opponent. That is how a child plays draughts." He pushed forward a round wooden piece, tempting her to capture it. "Or one can plan ahead, anticipate the moves the opposite player makes. The game is more complex then."

She stared at his lure for a moment and then moved a different piece forward. "It sounds like too much thought for what is merely a game."

"A game is what one makes of it," he said softly. "Much of life is a game. If played skillfully, with an intelligent and fascinating opponent, it can become almost like a dance. One challenges and moves, the other teases and skips away, only to dart forward later and strike a telling blow."

She looked at the board and then suddenly leaned forward and jumped two of his men, capturing them. She set the pieces neatly by her side of the board before looking up her green eyes flashing triumphantly behind the mask. "Perhaps I like this game after all."