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“We try to move with the times.” She snorted, which amused him. “Do you find Caleva backward, then?”
“It’s a weird mix of modern—like your geothermal energy plants—and, er, traditional— like your king.” She shifted in her seat.
“And our dukes.” He couldn’t resist the dig.
“The dukes seem pretty harmless.”
He laughed. “So you don’t mind nobility as long as they have no actual power.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“But you’re wrong. As a duke, I can be elected to the Consejo de los Señores. I think you’d call it the Council of Lords. We draft the laws that the Consejo de los Ciudadanos—the Council of Citizens—votes on and the king executes.”
“Have you drafted any laws yet?”
Her tone was not sarcastic, yet he felt a sharp jab of guilt. Here was a way he could help his uncle. If he ran, he was virtually guaranteed to be elected in his district.
However, even the minor task of dealing with a delegation of whining nobles wrapped him in a thick, gray fog of boredom and despair. The vision of a future filled with an endless succession of such meetings was mind-numbing. He didn’t take delight in the political maneuvering his uncle and cousin savored like a fencing match.
Nor did he have the skill to be effective, in his opinion. Why Luis had given him this job confounded him. There had to be some other task he would be more suited to. Even a position that involved working with numbers. Like many musicians, he was good at mathematics.
“I am not a member of the consejo, so I have no laws to my credit…or discredit.”
She fell silent, so he couldn’t tell what she thought of his response. He was surprised to be so concerned about her good opinion.
However, he was beginning to like this woman who could keep her own counsel.
Chapter 7
Quinn heard an edge of unhappiness in the duke’s response, so she decided to change the subject again. She pointed to the right. “Isn’t that Mont Ridée, where the second King of Caleva dodged a French ambush by escaping down a lava tube?”
“You are well versed in Calevan history,” the duke said.
She turned her gaze back to the duke and his fast, sexy car, which she wished she had the nerve to drive. Although watching his strong hands wrap around the wheel and his thigh muscles flex as he shifted gears was quite a pleasure. She also enjoyed the occasional stolen glance at his profile with that strong, sharp nose, sensually curved lips, and dark, waving hair.
A girl could look, just not touch.
What were they talking about? Oh, the mountain and its lava tubes. “I’m auditing a class at the university.”
“With Professor Ortiz, by any chance?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you know her?” Safe ground at last. She managed to keep the conversation on the university and Calevan history until Gabriel turned off the highway to wind along the coast road. There the scenery was a legitimate topic of conversation because the French region had the most beautiful beaches in the country, with silver sand that glittered in the sunlight, masses of the vaho hibiscus, and old houses built of pale gray stone with red tile roofs.
Gabriel downshifted with a growl of the engine and turned into a driveway with a discreet sign reading Auberge du Serpent de Mer.
“Are we going to eat or be eaten?” Quinn asked.
Gabriel gave that low, velvety vibration of a laugh. “You speak French too.”
“It’s not tough to translate ‘sea serpent.’” She’d learned a smattering of several languages under her father’s tutelage. He had said the knowledge would come in handy, and he hadn’t been wrong. However, his idea of how to use his linguistic skills was very different from hers.
Gabriel pulled up at the front door to the charming stone building. A valet raced up and waited while the car’s butterfly doors rose in unison. “Monsieur le duc,” the young man said as he literally bowed.
Gabriel tossed the key fob to the valet. “Take good care of her, Henri.”
He started around the car while Quinn twisted to haul her handbag out from behind the seat. By the time she had retrieved it, Gabriel stood beside her, his hand outstretched to help her out of the low vehicle.
She remembered her look, don’t touch admonishment and braced herself. Not only did she have to touch his hand—the heat and silk of his skin sending a ripple of electricity up her arm—but she stood up so close to him that she saw the faint shadow of shaven whiskers along his jawline and smelled a subtle waft of bergamot and vetiver. She stepped back and banged against the car’s roof.
