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“Your kaftan seems to have survived last Saturday’s accident.”

“It’s copped a lot worse in its life, but it’s a favourite. How was life in the trenches tonight?” She sensed he was doing battle with those books.

“I may finally have got my head around the connection between location, suppliers and customers.”

“Does anything about property development excite you?”

His nose scrunched in concentration reminding her of her youngest sister with her hand caught in the biscuit jar at midnight.

“The annual architecture awards produce some exciting designs. Char House in Victoria has wonderful curves and uses charred red ironbark for its façade. It suits its environment. For city architecture, often the best they can do is sustainable materials and energy ratings.”

She accepted the change of subject. “Do Hunter’s designs excite you?”

“His apartment is brilliant. He remodelled the back of my parents’ place a few years ago.”

“Is there a role for design in property development?”

Didn’t he understand how every misdirection he gave revealed how unsuitable he was for any role in managing property?

“There can be.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How was dinner tonight?” He changed direction again.

Why? Because he was unhappy about the future he was contemplating, or he wasn’t prepared to share that part of his life with her? They both threw up barricades. She was keeping secrets. Inexplicable, really, when if she told him the truth, there’d be no more chance of kisses.

“Fine,” she said. Not exactly correct. Conversation had been more interrogation than a sisterly catch-up.

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No.”

“You’re not convincing me.”

“My sisters invited me for dinner.”

“More information, please. You have four.”

“My married sisters. Camila last night, Daniela tonight.”

“That sounds okay. I often eat at Zahra, my married sister’s house.” He had a family, a close family. He might have insights.

Bea lifted the mug of hot chocolate to her nose and inhaled, letting the aroma tease her before taking another mouthful. She rolled it around her tongue—rich, satisfying and comforting in the way being with Casildo was comforting. “Does she pump you?”

“About what?”

“Your innermost thoughts. Your secrets.”

“Spanish Inquisition stuff?” He smiled, and just like that she was remembering his kiss. “You can say no.”

“Lost that battle when I was about ten.”

“Ah! They think you’re a pushover.” He abandoned his drink, switched to the sofa, and rested his hip against hers. “Practise on me.”

“Practise what on you?” She’d lost her train of thought—hip, thigh, knee—his warm body pressed against hers, and her breath hitched.

“Saying no.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and cuddled her closer.