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“Do you even know what that means?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Does it mean the colour will stain your skin when you sweat in it?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if he was serious or taking the piss.
I shook my head. “Fine. Next.”
The big black floor-length dress got a firm head shake.
“No. Hard pass,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“Yeah, yours if you keep this up,” I muttered as I hiked up my skirts and headed back into the fitting room.
“If you wanted someone to fawn all over you, you should have God sitting in this chair.”
Suddenly, I remembered why I was in Bieityn with a view to spend a lot of money.
“If I don’t see your God for the rest of the weekend, that would be fine by me,” I snapped through the door.
“Did ye want to talk about it?” he asked slowly as I came out in an emerald green sequin dress, and his jaw dropped.
It had spaghetti straps, hugged my figure tightly, and had a massive split up one leg. It was a little more spangly and sparkly than I’d usually go for even when the aim had been to seduce Valen.
“Fuck me,” Marco breathed as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. It echoed the sentiment I’d thought upon seeing myself in the mirror.
“What?” I teased, checking myself out in the larger mirror. “No comment that I look like a radioactive asparagus, or look like an extra from a seventies movie?”
He shook his head. “Nah, missus. Not this time. You look proper lovely. Got a do in mind?” he asked as he leaned back again.
I shook my head. “Probably too garish for Christmas. Although, I’m sure Archer would approve based solely on the price tag.”
Marco grinned. “Aye, but Mr Callahan also thinks that big fancy bar in his ballroom is the height of sophistication.”
I snorted. “Are you questioning Archer Callahan’s taste?” I joked
Marco held up his hands in defence. “I wouldn’t dare question a sitting council member of the Nameless, missus. But I would question the basis of God’s so-called taste.”
“Your tastes are more simple, are they?” I asked, honestly wanting to know more about him.
He shrugged. “Us Angels come from different stock. Those like the Kincaids have money to spare, but we all live differently. Our idea of decadence is different. We don’t want our women draped in pearls and diamonds.”
“What would you prefer them in? Leather and tattoos?”
His smile was wide, and both teasing and companionable. “Whatever she wants.”
“I get the feeling this is an O’Malley thing. The Kincaids sure don’t seem to appreciate women. Theirs or not.”
“Aye. They’re a different breed again. Most of us at least appreciate our own, even if we don’t much care for anyone else’s.”
I gave him a rueful smirk. “And what about your God’s woman?”
His smile widened further, and he huffed a rough laugh. “Aye, missus. Most of us appreciate our God’s woman, too. We’re contractually obliged after all.”
“Oh, well. If you’re contractually obliged,” I teased, and we shared a friendly smile.
“You’re different, missis,” he said gently.
