Page 112 of Scandalous

“Of course I would!” She threw the crumpled paper at him, and he caught her wrist, holding it gently.

“You would?”

“You must be the stupidest man alive.”

He opened his mouth.

“No, shut up. You’ve already had your chance. Now it’s my turn.” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “I’m here because of you, and I’m not leaving—that is”—for the first time since entering the cabin her confidence seemed to falter—“unless you don’t want me?”

Martín groaned and cast his eyes toward the ceiling before shoving her onto the padded bench and taking the seat across from her.

“Who helped you with . . . this?” He waved his hand, unable to find the words.

“You mean this?” She ran both hands down the sides of the mannish coat she wore, the gesture emphasizing the very unmannish body beneath it. “Are you telling me you don’t recognize it?”

Martín looked away from her delectable body, which was—inexplicably—clad in the same clothes she’d worn the first day they met, and massaged his temple as if that would somehow assuage the swelling in his pants.

“Martín.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

He looked up and found her standing in front of him, her right hand at the top button on her coat. She opened the button with a practiced flick.

Moisture flooded his mouth, as if he were a starving man confronted with a banquet.

Her finger released a second button.

He swallowed. He should stop her and see to getting her off this ship. But maybe he could wait a moment and do so after she—

“I am a woman grown, Martín. Or haven’t you realized that?” She flicked another button open.

Her expression was serious, and he realized she was waiting for an answer.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat, his eyes already on the next button. “I have realized that.”

“Good. Then you should know I like to make up my own mind, just like an adult. So, I want you to ask me a question.”

“A question?” Martín couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the button—the third to last. Her hand came beneath his chin and tilted his face up.

“Martín?”

He blinked. “You want me to ask a question?”

“Ask me if I want to stay with you.”

He groaned. “Oh, Sarah. I don’t think—”

“Ask me, Martín.” Her face became stern—it was her Egyptian queen expression.

He gazed into her beautiful brown and gold and green eyes. “Do you want to stay with me, Sarah?”

Her features shifted from serious to shy and girlish, her cheeks tinting a rosy pink. And then her fingers resumed their journey.

“Yes, Martín, I do.”

She released the last button and gave a slight shrug. The movement pulled the jacket open and exposed what she wore beneath: nothing.