"Oh, you make it sound scandalous," Don Juan said, his tone mildly chiding but also decidedly appreciative. He was enjoying the connotation that he might have a tattoo that felt Italian, and all of the various things that might mean. Italy was a country with a long history, so really it could mean anything, but he doubted very much that she was imagining he had a tattoo of Corinthian columns. What would she imagine he associated with Italy? Wine, women, art? There were quite a few operas written in Italian; maybe a soprano. Sopranos had a reputation, of course — second only to being assumed to have wonderful singing voices, they were always assumed to be the mistresses of rich men. Maybe that was what she was imagining, that he had gotten entangled with someone and had her likeness tattooed over his heart.

"Nothing so exciting. It's in Italian," he clarified. "I'd show you, but — this isn't that kind of party," he added in a suggestive tone. He could have just told her what it said; there was nothing especially ornate about the tattooed phrase that required it to be seen in order to be appreciated. But he liked the idea that she had let her imagination run wild on the idea of what constituted an Italian tattoo. If he could get her likewise trying to imagine precisely where his tattoo was that he couldn't reveal it at this sort of party... he enjoyed the mystique. Though if he did manage to talk her away from this party and into somewhere more private, she was probably going to be disappointed by the revelation that it was only three words, and in so innocuous a position as his bicep.

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