Only when I was seated did Soren do that stupid undoing his coat button thing that shouldn’t have been so sexy, but somehow was, then take his own seat.

“I see you already have the blueprints,” I said, spying the hint of blue peeping out of the folder in front of him.

“I do. And I have to admit, it’s the perfect property for a nightclub.”

“I have my concerns about the staircases,” I told him. “I can’t imagine heavily intoxicated people—some wobbling in their heels—and steep staircases are a good idea.”

“The liability would be high, yes. But I didn’t intend to have the balcony open to the general public.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A VIP section open only to private parties or drop-ins from celebrities who would prefer to party in private.”

“Wouldn’t that only increase the liability? Celebrities equals money equals great lawyers.”

“Not if there is a private elevator installed here,” Soren said, producing the blueprints and pointing to a spot just stage left. “That would exit right into the small alley between buildings, which exits—if I am not mistaken—here,” he said. His finger traced along the blueprint. I was supposed to be looking at the alley. All I could do was look at that finger, thinking of it tracing down the column of my neck, over my clavicle, down between my breasts, under the swells, up to circle my nipples…

A shiver racked my system at just the thought.

“Miss Amato?” Soren called.

“Yes,” I said, my voice breathy. I cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s correct. It’s a long, narrow alley that could use some cleaning up, if we are expecting celebrities to be willing to walk there, but it leads to a back road, where a car could be waiting.”

“Miss Amato,” Bastian said, appearing at my side with a large mug of coffee. It was the perfect cup: lightweight fine china, a solid sixteen ounces, with a wide, square handle.

“This is nice,” I said before I could keep the thought inside. “It’d be nicer with some sort of detail on it, though.” God, what was wrong with me? What successful businesswoman would comment on something as simple as a coffee mug?

“Mr. Vale makes me order cases of them,” Teresa explained, warm and familiar, like I was a friend, not a complete stranger. “Claims he spent years trying to find the right mug, and he doesn’t want to run out in case any of them get a chip. If you need us, we will be one buzz away,” she went on, touching Bastian’s arm to usher him out of the room.

“Oh, my God,” I groaned at my first sip. I immediately regretted it. Until I saw a flame lick in Soren’s dark eyes.

“I also import the coffee. Teresa has things to say about that as well.”