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As always, he heard her coming a few moments later. And was perhaps too grateful to turn from his thoughts to watch Molly as she moved in and out of the halos strewn across her path. Then stepped onto the terrace that had lanterns everywhere, casting her in a golden glow that seemed to beat back the night sky.
For glow she did. Still. Perhaps always.
Her blond hair swirled all around her and the dress he had chosen for the evening was a splash of a deep blue that made her look almost otherworldly.
“Your dress-up doll is reporting for duty,” Molly said. Then executed a sharp pirouette, swirling around before him in a manner he knew she meant to be mocking.
But he did not feel in the least bit mocked. Because the way this particular dress clung to her was a revelation. The fabric clung and swung, both calling attention to and yet concealing everything at the same time.
Constantine had discovered that the more she was dressed or undressed according to his whim, the more possessive he became. And he enjoyed knowing that she wore nothing but the dress, as he had requested.
As if he might, at any moment, have his hands all over her. He liked her to spend a lot of time, every day, thinking about that possibility.
He knew he did.
“I apologize that my sartorial selections do not live up to those of a woman renowned the world over for her style,” he said dryly. “Which, as far as I can tell, involves wearing extraordinarily ugly things as a measure of defiance.”
“You’re not wrong,” Molly agreed. She drifted closer to him and accepted the glass of wine he handed her. “But fashion is a self-conscious art by its very nature. Style is innate.”
“Now you sound like one of those dreadful magazines. I thought you were more often seen draped across their covers.”
Molly took a sip of her wine and, not for the first time, he was struck by her total lack of self-consciousness. She was disarming, this stunning woman who should have been prostrate in her room, weeping at the cruelty being visited upon her here. Instead, she seemed effortlessly charming—as she had been each and every one of the past ten days.
As a strategy, he was forced to admire it. Because she chose to engage with Constantine as if he was her host. Not her jailer.
When she was naked, it was easy to remember their actual roles here. But these dinners blurred the lines. They made him almost forget why they were really here—and he knew he couldn’t allow that. He should put a stop to any part of this that did not serve his vengeance.
But though he told himself the same thing every night, he kept on with these dinners anyway.
He chose not to ask himself why.
Molly was studying him, her gaze cool but not unpleasant. It was clearly a part of her charm offensive—and he assured himself he was merely learning how she operated. Her weaknesses and fragile spots. Her surprisingly effective weapons.
“When you wake up of a morning,” she said, “I doubt very much that you preen about in front of your mirror until you have achieved exactly the right level of casual chic. Mixed liberally with contempt at the very notion of casual chic, obviously. I think you likely...just get dressed.”
“I pay other people to worry about my wardrobe,” he replied. And smiled. “I already know I will look good in it, after all.”
She lifted her glass in a mocking toast. “There you have it. Innate style. If you were fashion conscious, there would be more preening.”
“You can’t possibly be suggesting that you pay absolutely no mind to what you wear,” he objected, mildly enough. “When you might happen to find yourself on a red carpet at any moment.”
Her blue eyes looked something like merry. “No, of course not. What I’m saying is if I chose to wear a garbage bag to a red carpet, I would do it with such élan that garbage bags might very well become the rage afterward. That’s style.”
Constantine looked down at her and couldn’t shift the same brooding mood he’d been in since his conversation with Balthazar.
“You’re not the girl who lived here all those years ago,” he said, in an abrupt growl. “Sometimes it’s hard to imagine you could possibly be one and the same.”
Her expression changed. And he had a quick, uncomfortable bolt of recognition at the sight, because it was instantly clear to him that she was acting a part. The charming, artless version of her was a role. Perhaps it really was a part of her, too, but it was a part she used for her own devices. Why did Constantine find it so difficult to remember that she could not possibly have scaled the heights she had were she not capable of working a room? Just as he was.
That did not sit well. At all.
“Did you expect me to be sixteen, then?” she asked quietly. She gazed at him with those sharp eyes of hers, and Constantine suddenly felt exposed. The lantern light washing all over him didn’t help. Her mouth curved. “Oh. You did. Let me guess how you thoughtthatwould look. You expected that there would be weeping. Maybe even a tantrum or two, since I was always accused of throwing those, though I never did. You expected me to turn bright red every time you deigned to look at me directly. And best of all, pick up where we left off, with me whispering my secrets into your faithless ear so you could use them against me.”
That was as good a description of what had happened between them as any, Constantine knew. So why did he dislike it so intensely?
“If I’d wished for you to be sixteen again, I would hardly insist on your nudity,” he pointed out. “It would muddy the retroactive teenage waters, don’t you think?”
“Constantine.” And Molly shook her head at him as if she’d expected better. “How could you possibly imagine that the same approach would work on me twice?”
