Page 51 of Ice To Meet You

I took a sip of my brandy and ran my fingers through my hair. “I don’t remember anyone calling you annoying, and while you do make wonderful coffee, you aren’t a boy, Matteo.”

Something flashed in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

I rolled my eyes. “What I mean is that you need to give yourself credit. Don’t underestimate your abilities. I think you’re perfectly aware of how charming you can be.”

He threw his head back and laughed, a throaty sound that made invisible fingers dance down my spine. “I don’t know about underestimating myself but never underestimate the power of squirrels. Marianne practically offered me a grant to write a research paper on the sacrifice of their tales for art. I told her once they’d removed the hair, the monks kept them in a special enclosure, feeding them nuts and honey until the end of their days.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Well, at least it’s your intelligence she’s interested in. She seems hell bent on marrying me off to someone who can ‘support me’ in the gallery. Like I can’t manage on my own.”

Matteo winced and placed his glass on the side table. “I did notice that. But if you ever need someone to defend your honour or fend off nosy customers, I’m your man.” He leaned back on the cushions, running a hand across the back of his neck. “But I had a thought earlier, when you and Alessandro talked about money. Technically, you’re only employing me for my grandfather’s investment. Does that make me a gigolo?” His eyes glinted and the dimples he’d apparently inherited from Gio appeared on his cheeks.

I huffed a breath. “Matteo!”

“What? I don’t mind. Few men my age can say an older woman has used them for nefarious purposes. There must be some bragging rights.”

My shoulders sank at the reality of his words. Wasn’t that exactly what I’d done? Used him for nefarious purposes? I’d let him stay for dinner so he could charm and distract a woman while I secured a financial commitment from her husband. It wasn’t wrong, per se, but it left a sour taste. A taste I couldn’t entirely blame on the brandy warming my throat.

And then he’d mentioned my being older. A passing comment, perhaps. Casual. But it stung more than I cared to admit.

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the clink of ice filling the silence between us. My gaze wandered over the planes of his face, taking in the firm lines of his jaw and the shadow of stubble. Then lower, to the golden skin of his chest, and the light dusting of dark hair teasing its way from his shirt. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a glossy magazine.

He was infuriatingly good-looking; the kind of man women threw themselves at—young, carefree women without a shred of responsibility. But then, there were moments like this—when his eyes lingered on me, and a gravitational pull tugged me into his orbit whether I liked it or not.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I murmured. “How old are you?”

His eyebrows lifted for a second. “That’s a bold question.”

And one I’d dreaded asking since he arrived. “It’s just that I have no idea. In fact, I know very little about you at all. What you do outside of the gallery or where you go every weekend.” Matteo had disappeared both weekends he’d been here, and I’d seen no sign of a girlfriend.

“You mean you haven’t stalked me online?”

I swallowed. I’d forbidden myself to do it. “No,” I said. “It’s against my staff policy.”

Matteo leaned forward and picked up his glass, taking a sip. “Well, I can’t boast such restraint. I’ve read all about you. Esmé Laurent, patron of the arts. Artistic visionary and entrepreneur. A curator with an eye for groundbreaking talent.”

A cold shiver swept over my shoulders. Those were the words from an article that appeared in last month’sParis Matchmagazine.

He’d read about me.

“Writers often fabricate or exaggerate in articles.”

He shook his head. “I don’t doubt what the press says about you. Art is your passion.”

My face heated at the glow in his eyes. I shifted my position. “Well, seeing as I’m at a disadvantage, what doyoudo, Matteo? You know more than a little aboutmylife. Where do you go when you’re not here in Paris? What’syourpassion?”

His answer was immediate, as though he’d been waiting for the question. “Simple. I love speed. Snow. Danger. The exhilaration of being on the edge of control.”

I bit my lip. His response wasn’t what I expected, but the way his words coiled around my senses left my pulse thrumming. “Control?”

He nodded, his eyes sparkling. “I like to go fast. Scare myself a little.”

I didn’t know about being scared, but the way his lips curled into a smile was downright lethal.

"When was the last time your heart pounded in your chest?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat, his body heat meeting mine.

Was he kidding? My heart was racing out of control right now. I forced a laugh. "Do you mean in the life-threatening sense? Or just when my pasta machine decides to rust up?"

"Both," he said, his grin widening. "When was the last time you did something that terrified you?"

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