Matthew was beginning to believe that Rosabella wasn't a clothing company; it was a coven of sadists that made nightwear designed to torture men.

Him.

Specifically, to torture him.

Matthew couldn't stop thinking about that damned nightgown. During qualifying the next day, he imagined bunching the sheer black fabric in his hands. When he took Isla to see Parc Güell

afterwards, he thought of untying the flimsy ribbons. As they wandered the Gothic Quarter, Matthew wondered if the nightgown would rip easily.

The churros had been the worst.

There was something strangely erotic about watching Isla lick chocolate off her fingers. It had done things to him. Things Matthew wasn't strictly comfortable with.

It had almost been a relief when they were chased out of the café by a pack of fans. At least then, Matthew had an excuse not to look at her face.

Fortunately, Matthew was an expert in converting frustration to first-place finishes; he stormed through qualifying with a second-place finish and then went hell for leather on Sunday. Lucas had been favoured to win, but he'd had engine troubles and was forced to retire the car halfway through the race. Matthew had sailed right past him and won.

He smirked. Served Saint Lucas right.

Matthew wasn't the only one to do well; Cedro had finished with an impressive fourth place. Noah — who had spent most of Saturday morning vomiting up spicy chicken wings and had botched qualifying — placed sixteenth.

Alek was pleased.

"Strong driving," he'd said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder. "Clean and smart. No dangerous manoeuvres. Keep it up."

It wasn't victory. Not really. Matthew had yet to beat Lucas fair and square, but he'd get another chance in Monaco next weekend. It was the biggest race of the year; what better time to beat Walsh to the finish line?

And Matthew would win.

He had to.

Now, Matthew unclasped his watch, casting it onto the dresser. Exhaustion swept through him. It felt like a month since he'd stood on the podium that morning, spraying champagne into the crowd; a year since the Ferrari celebratory dinner at a beach-side restaurant, since strolling with Isla along the white sand.

Matthew yanked off his shirt. Isla had done well tonight; he'd been worried that seeing Lucas at the dinner would upset her, but she hadn't seemed to mind. She'd chatted with reporters. She'd asked a blushing engineer about his work. Hell, she'd even made Alek smile, which was more than Matthew could say.

She'd been a star.

No, a triumph.

Matthew might have won the race today, but it was Isla that glowed the brightest; every man within a square mile had been staring at her.

He yanked off his shoes. Which was fine. Obviously. They weren't actually dating, although Matthew couldn't deny that he'd felt...

Uneasy?

Protective?

Before Matthew could examine it too closely, the bathroom door opened. Isla stepped through it, wearing a very silky white nightgown.

Suddenly, Matthew was wide awake.

"That one," he said, his voice slightly strangled, "is different than the other night."

Isla looked amused. "Well spotted."

"It's very white."

She rubbed floral-scented lotion on her arms. "That's the idea, yes."

"Right," Matthew said. "Well, I suppose we should..." He reached for the lamp. Paused. Flicked it off. Climbed into bed. "Good night."

Isla nestled in beside him. She smelled of night jasmine and citrus, of something tantalizingly sweet. Her voice was a silver star in the darkness.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "You forgot to take off your jeans."

"Oh. Right." Matthew felt flustered. He was never flustered. "Grand. I'll just..." He hopped up, fumbling in the darkness. It took him a good minute of yanking and cursing to get them off. "There we go."

He got back into bed. There was a long, drawn-out pause. Then Isla snorted.

"What?" Matthew demanded.

"That wasn't very sexy, was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it wasn't." Isla waved a hand, her silver bracelets flashing in the darkness. "I can't believe that's how you take off your jeans. You look like a baby deer learning to walk."

"I believe the word you're searching for," Matthew said, with great dignity, "is fawn."

"Whatever." Isla paused. Snorted again. "I just can't believe it. When I imagine you getting naked with some girl, it's always much smoother than that."

He smirked. "Do you often imagine me naked, Red?"

A few days ago, Isla would have blushed. Now, she merely rolled her eyes. It seemed, Matthew thought regretfully, that she was growing immune to his innuendos.

Damn.

"Don't change the subject," she said.

"What was the subject, exactly?"

"Seduction."

"Ah," Matthew said. "But you're forgetting one crucial thing."

"What?"

"I wasn't trying to seduce you," he said.

"Really?"

She sounded skeptical. Matthew was almost offended. No, screw that; he was offended. He rolled on to his side to face her. "If I wanted to seduce you, Red, you'd already be underneath me."

"Fine," Isla said. "Show me, then."

Matthew could count on one hand the number of times he'd genuinely been floored. This was one of them.

"What?" he managed.

"Show me." Isla shrugged, pillowing her arms behind her head. "Pretend I'm one of your conquests. Seduce me."

He stared. "You don't mean that."

"I really do." Isla propped her had up, and auburn hair spilled around her in waves of fire. "Come on, Matthew. How would you start? Would you kiss me?" She tilted her face up, as if inviting him to try. "Would you ravish me on this bed?"

A hot rush of blood went through Matthew. "Stop talking, Isla. I mean it."

"I bet you'd be rough," Isla continued, ignoring him. "I bet you'd try to rip my nightgown off straight away."

That was the last straw.

Matthew liked to think that he possessed some self-control. But there was a beautiful woman in his bed, dressed in the world's sheerest nightgown, looking up at him with heat in her eyes and asking him to seduce her.

Even the most devout monk couldn't have resisted.

"Wrong," Matthew said softly. "All wrong." He leaned closer, his breath whispering over her neck. "I'd take my time with you. I'd start here." He ran a finger down the shell of her ear. "This is one of the most sensitive parts of the human body. Criminally underutilized, but it makes your whole body ache when you get it right."

He heard her breathing change. "And then?"

"Then I'd flip you on to your back," Matthew murmured. "Just like this." He guided her on to her stomach. "I'd kiss you here." His fingers traced a lazy circle on the nape of her neck. "Then I'd follow the curve of your spine."

Her voice hitched. "And then?"

Matthew's mouth found her ear. "Then my fingers usually get involved." He skimmed them over her body, light as a feather. "I'd touch your breasts first. Then your stomach. And then..." He spoke against her skin. "Well, you know what comes next."

She shivered. "Matthew..."

"Yes, Isla?"

"I want..." She looked up at him, her eyes glazed. "I want..."

He knew what she wanted.

Matthew could feel his blood pounding in his veins, every part of his body demanding the same thing. Kiss her. Touch her. Take her. But there was another sensation, too; a foreign one. It took Matthew a moment to identify it.

Shame.

He drew back sharply, as if she had burned him. Or maybe he was afraid of burning her. "We should get to sleep. I've kept you up long enough."

Isla's face changed. He caught several emotions — surprise, confusion, hurt — and then it was gone, wiped blank in an instant. This was her Dr. Morris face, Matthew realized; a professional mask that he couldn't penetrate.

The thought was oddly chilling.

He forced himself to draw away from her, to retreat to his chilly side of the bed. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Sheets rustled.

"Matthew?" Isla asked.

"Yeah?"

"You're good at what you do," she whispered.

Isla rolled over, stuffing the pillow under her head. And Matthew stared up at the ceiling, a strange, hollow ache blooming in his chest.