Oh, God, he’d come to a stop in the doorway to the dining room and was looking at her, apparently waiting for an answer. ‘Daydreaming,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was just saying you could see the oldest merchant house in Amsterdam out that window’ – he nodded – ‘if you’d like. We’re helping with the restoration funding.’

‘I would,’ she said, to be polite.

He looked amused. ‘No you wouldn’t.’

She grimaced. ‘Was I that obvious?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I like to restore buildings.’ He smiled. ‘Most people aren’t any more fascinated with the idea than you are. Let’s find our chairs.’

The room was enormous, embellished in rococo abandon with every costly architectural flourish. Gilded panels in dove grey, mirrored alcoves to display fine sculpture and reflect the light, Versailles parquet flooring favoured by palace architects throughout Europe, a ceiling mural of mythological subjects amusing themselves by playing at love – a subject much admired in the amoral culture of the eighteenth century.

Now, pristinely restored, the reception room used for royal levees in an earlier time served a more prosaic purpose. The table set for twelve was dwarfed by the space. A row of wine glasses sparkled at each place setting, splendid bouquets of spring flowers and white tulips marched down the centre of the table, the china and silver gleamed under the light of glittering crystal chandeliers.

Dominic led her to a chair, then sat to her left at the head of the table. As the others found their places with the help of handwritten name cards slipped into gilded frames, he chatted casually with her about the usual trivialities: the weather, the traffic, the more interesting sights in Amsterdam. Inconsequential small talk that matched his bland expression. He had no intention of seducing Miss Hart under twenty rapt gazes.

Especially since the toasts began the moment everyone was seated, a certain unrestrained foolishness was predictable and he didn’t want it directed at him. One toast followed another, each as effusive, or more effusive, much of the praise directed at Kate. She blushed each time, took a sip of her champagne and blushed some more. Really, this custom was not for the shy or retiring, she decided. Although Nana would have loved it. She drank her vodka straight.

But hours later, with the level of inebriation high and the meal coming to an end, someone sang out, ‘Time to initiate Miss Hart!’

The chant was taken up by everyone except Dominic in a playful, rousing chorus.

At Kate’s questioning glance, Dominic leaned close so he could be heard above the clamour. ‘Feel free to say no. It’s a silly ritual. And as you can see, no one mentions it until they’re roaring drunk.’

‘Mentions what?’

‘A tour of Amsterdam’s red-light district.’ He lifted one brow. ‘It can be a shock.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said on a choked breath. ‘I think I’m too sober to … er … enjoy or … ah … be comfortable—’

‘I agree.’ He stood to gain everyone’s attention. ‘Miss Hart is going to politely decline.’ Then he sat down.

‘No, no, no, no!’ Wild dissent in English and Dutch. Loudly, then very loudly.

Greta smiled at Kate across the table. ‘It’s an experience you might find interesting,’ she said, raising her voice above the crowd. ‘We’ll protect you,’ she added with a wink.

Kate turned red.

Dominic smiled at Kate. ‘Ignore them. We’re the only sober ones.’

She’d wondered at his moderate drinking at dinner. He’d not indulged much. ‘I’m afraid I’m slightly out of my depth when it comes to red-light districts. That’s what comes from being raised in a small town, although I’m sure there are small-town people who are sophisticated – sorry, I’m babbling on. Anyway, everyone’s been quite wonderful tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s for me to thank you for your expertise.’ He looked up with a grimace as someone began banging the table and chanting to leave. ‘Lord, they’re bloody loud,’ he said with a sigh.

But their drunken colleagues wouldn’t be deterred, no matter how many times Kate politely refused or Dominic scowled. They wouldn’t take no for an answer. Kate was reminded of college when her friends would pile into her apartment, three sheets to the wind, and drag her off to the pub when she was trying to study. She rarely won those battles either.

Dominic could have put an end to it. Why he didn’t was unclear. Max asked him as much as they followed the crowd in its exuberant passage down Amsterdam’s red-light district.

Dominic flashed him a wry glance. ‘If I knew I’d tell you.’

‘This is pretty hard-core for her.’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘I do. I vetted her. Small-town girl, studied hard, didn’t play much, made it to the big time because she was smart.’

‘What do you mean, didn’t play much?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I find it does.’

‘Jesus, Nick, are you regressing?’

‘Depends what you mean by regressing.’

‘I mean, asshole, are you looking for a semi-virgin?’

Dominic laughed. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘She’s damn close, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Are you her defender?’