This time he interrupted her with a quick tickle to her side and leaned a bit closer when she squealed. “And what of your old-fashioned instincts, Nadya?”

She pulled away enough to glare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He jerked his head backward, toward the shop. “That reaction to Claire DuBois? How is that any different than my reaction to Paul? Should I accuse you of degrading us all with the feelings? Of being possessive of me? Of being ready to start a fight with the girl?”

She cocked her head to the side. This was why she’d yet to grow tired of Evgeni Marin. He had a way of calling her out—and yet making it clear he liked even her faults. “I could make mincemeat of her.”

He laughed. “In half a second. It’s one of the things I most admire about you. But if you do not like my fighting spirit so much . . .”

She drew her lip between her teeth. She’d spent so much of the last few years trying to prove to the men around her that she could fight every bit as well as they could. But that was another reason she’d found herself drawn to this man beside her—he never doubted her abilities. He just fought right alongside her. “All right, you caught me. Jealousy is, perhaps, a natural reaction when you have invested time and . . . and heart into someone. Maybe it does not necessarily make us cavemen.”

It was the first time she’d even mentioned such sentiments. It had seemed dangerous. She didn’t want to be one of those girls who fell in love with a fellow and threw her whole life away.

But at the same time, when she’d thought he was dead, the world hadn’t looked quite right.

He grinned at her. “As long as we share the same standards, correct? The injustice you balk at is if I were allowed to indulge my jealousy but still dally with other women. You would be right, then, to be angry. That said . . . Is it such a bad thing to want a bit of security with the one we’ve chosen to be with?”

She tilted her head to the side. Investing so much in another person was a risk. And yet, wasn’t it more of one not to invest anything? “I suppose I wouldn’t mind a bit of assurance that you’re not inclined toward dark curls and full lips, even when they offer you free olives.”

He chuckled. “You have nothing to worry about there. I have always preferred hair of spun gold. . . . At least until the brunette can offer chocolate. Or, better still, baklava. Now, if she had baklava—”