“No.”

But he spied a tray with decanters on a table in the corner. He walked without haste to the table and poured himself a brandy. Returning to the bed, he raised his glass to her. “See-you were mistaken. Would you like some?”

“No, I would not,” Isolde replied in quelling accents. “Kindly inform me of this bargain of yours so we may both be on our way.”

Since his intentions weren’t entirely clear or rather of a chrysalis nature, he climbed back into bed, took a seat beside her, and said, “First tell me why I’m here-because clearly the man Malmsey hired is not.” Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank half the brandy.

Good God, he isn’t the actor! “I have no idea on either score,” she tersely said, rattled by this unexpected turn of events. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here annoying me and some anonymous actor would have long since left.”

“An actor?” Oz grinned. “Did the poor man know what he was getting into?”

“I’m sure he did. He was well paid for his role.”

“Apparently he was,” Oz drolly noted, “considering he didn’t show up for his performance.”

“Obviously, there was some mistake. But,” Isolde mockingly added, “since you performed well, all turned out in the end.”

“If I agree to accommodate you.” The word perform was triggering rather explicit images.

“You already have.”

“Not completely.” This lady along with her story piqued his interest. Or maybe he’d become bored with Nell.

“If it’s money you want,” she said with a touch of impatience, “just say so and we can stop playing games.”

Oz lifted his glass to her. “I haven’t even begun playing, Countess,” he silkily murmured.

“I find your innuendo shameless and irritating,” Isolde snapped, bristling with indignation, her ready temper on the rise. The man was equally shameless in his nudity; he didn’t even attempt to cover himself.