“I can respect an artist’s temperament about her work not being seen until it’s finished.” But he intended to see it, and soon. “Is it your first?”

“No.” She slipped the papers into a drawer and closed it. “I’d finished one and done part of another.”

“Then I’ll see the one that’s finished.”

“It’s gone.” Again she struggled to keep her voice neutral. “It was in the office.”

“Your work was lost.” He took a step to her, then framed her face in his hands. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Eve. I would think that whatever one writes is a part of one. Alive. To lose it would be devastating.”

She hadn’t expected him to understand. Writing, as any art, was emotion as much as skill or technique. Her heart, always open to him, absorbed. “It wasn’t a very interesting play,” she murmured. “More of a learning tool, really. I just hope I learned enough to make this one better.”

“I’ve wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“You once wanted to be an actress. Why aren’t you acting?”

“Because an actor has to do what he’s told. A producer calls the shots.”

He had to smile. “As simple as that.”

“Added to the fact that I’m a better producer than I ever was an actor.”

“And the writing?”

“Sort of a dare to myself.” How easy it was to tell him now that she had begun. There was no need for secrets or embarrassment. Not with him. “If I claim to know so much about the theater, what pleases the audience, how to stage and produce a play, why couldn’t I write one? A successful one,” she added before she drained the brandy. “The first attempt was so miserable I decided I could only get better.”

“You enjoy challenging yourself. The theater, fencing, your martial arts.”

“I learned, later than most, that challenging yourself means you’re alive, not just existing.” With a shake of her head she set down her empty glass. “And you’re spoiling things.”

“I?”

“Yes. You’ve got me philosophizing, when I was set to seduce you.”

“I beg your pardon.” His lips curved as he leaned back on the table.

“I suppose you’ve been seduced before.” Eve walked to the door, clicked the lock, then turned back.

“Countless times.”

“Really.” Her brow lifted as she leaned back against the door. “By whom?”

His smile only widened. “Mademoiselle, I was raised a gentleman.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she decided with a wave of her hand. “As long as it wasn’t that British blonde you danced with instead of me.”

He remained discreet.

“Hmmm. Let’s see. I’ve plied you with brandy. I’ve added the music. Now I think …” A gleam came into her eyes. “Yes, I believe I have just the thing. If you’d excuse me for just a moment.”

“Of course.”