And then her face crumpled, and Sylvie leaned forward to put her arms around her.
Eventually, Rosie lifted her wet face from Sylvie’s shoulder and took a deep breath, swiping at her cheeks. She exhaled heavily. “I have to go out there and be Princess Rose. Quick, tell me something lighter. A joke. Ask the most inane question you can think of. Something.”
Because Sylvie’s brain was frequently a complete twat, what popped into her head then was a limerick she’d heard at her local pub. It involved both Rosie’s grandfather and the Archbishop of Canterbury’s penis, and might as well be subtitled “How to Hand Dominic This Entire Contract in One Smutty Poem.”
In lieu of that option, she went with Thought B. “Our initial meeting was understandably kept well under wraps. And very separate.”
She emphasized the last word.
Rosie had pulled out a hand mirror and was dabbing face powder under her reddened eyes. “As you noted, my schedule is busy. This was more time-efficient.” Despite her residual sniffles, her voice was back to very calm Trained Royal. She looked straight at Sylvie—then, fleetingly, her gaze flicked over to the adjoining door, where the others had gone. “And now, somehow I don’t think you mind having to share the space.”
Pollyanna couldn’t have presented a more innocent front.
Even the busy, beleaguered, worried princess appeared to have noticed Sylvie’s increasing desire to climb Dominic like a fireman’s pole.
Marvelous.
Before she left the little meeting room to rejoin Dominic and Pet, Sylvie hesitated with her hand on the door and looked back at Rosie. “Rosie. It’s going to be okay.”
Rosie had fully adorned her armor now. She nodded slightly, her chin held high, eyes very straight.
But in their depths, buried beneath protocol and pride, remained something small and scared.
As Sylvie walked with the De Veres back out into the wind-tossed rain, Dominic looked at her with a frown. “Everything all right?”
She turned and looked up at the pretty stone building, the tinted windows, the guards at the door. “I hope so.”
Chapter Twelve
The Starlight Circus
Round two.
The clowns are multiplying.
This time, the doorway into hell set off a crescendo of fox screams. Darren Clyde was mixing up his playlist.
He’d also switched around the décor. The glowing stars on the ceiling were now purple, the previously white rug on the floor had turned pink and shaggy, and he’d put red bulbs in the floor lamps. Behind the counter, an oversized Union Jack hung from gold chains.
The whole room was overheated, the temperature immediately bypassing comfortable warmth and raising sweat along Dominic’s neck.
“If you ever wondered what Austin Powers’s sex dungeon would look like,” Sylvie remarked conversationally at his side, “ponder no more.”
He snorted, his hand going to her back without prior decision. He played absently with the end of her plait, running it through his fingers.
She moved slightly into his side. “Brace yourself,” she informed him solemnly. “Your best buddy has a gal pal.”
Dominic had already seen that particular horror. Wherever Clyde had obtained his demonic clown, the evil had spawned a companion. Same leering face and wide hypnotic eyes. Distinguishable by its earrings and painted-on spikes of mascara.
“It sort of looks like a possessed Betty Boop,” Sylvie said. Accurately.
“Let’s get these bloody drinks and get back to work.”
It had been almost four by the time they’d left the meeting with Rosie and Johnny, so he’d told Pet to clock off and dropped her near Oxford Street at her request. He and Sylvie had plans for the remainder of the day that involved a takeaway service at the Starlight Circus and another round of flavor trialing.
When they joined the line to place their orders, Sylvie suddenly swore. Her expression evolved from deeply meditative to wrathful. “Unbelievable. He’s mocking up a whole new menu on the . . . the fucking fruits of thievery.”
In a new glass cabinet, an array of desserts now included a so-called Midnight Elixir cheesecake.
“And I expect he’s used my Sorceress emulsion in that, too.”
“I’d imagine so.”
She spun on her high-heeled boots. “He’s profiting off my work. Is that acceptable?”
“It is not.”
“It’s outrageous. It’s probably illegal. He’s done this one too many times now.” She raised a finger. Not the one she’d undoubtedly like to direct at Clyde. “And do you know what I’m going to do about it?”
Leaning against the mechanical bear, Dominic crossed one ankle over the other and regarded her with great interest. When she poked him lightly in the chest for emphasis, he caught her finger, hooking it with his own. “What are you going to do about it?”
Sylvie glared at him, before she yanked her hand back with an exasperated gesture. “Nothing. I am probably going to do nothing about it, because at the first sign of confrontation, I generally fold like a bad round of poker.”
They’d reached the front of the queue.
Without a pause, she said very politely to the server, “Eight Midnight Elixir drinks and two slices of Midnight Elixir cheesecake to take away, please. And if you could package that order in two halves—four drinks and one cheesecake each—that would be great. Thank you.”
Then she again looked at Dominic as if he were responsible for every ill that ailed her and snapped, with extreme crabbiness, “My treat.”
It was probably slightly perverse to feel that growing warmth in his chest as she directed her list of grievances at him.
And yet here they were.
The more Sylvie stared daggers at him, the more inclined he was to pull her in.
For a fucking cuddle, no less.
She was increasingly bringing out parts of him he’d thought were long gone.
“We’re actually eating the cheesecake?” he asked mildly, tapping his fingers on the mechanical bear’s head.
“Clearly, you’re still not one hundred percent on the makeup of my Sorceress emulsion, and I’m missing one ingredient that you’re smugly keeping to yourself. Maybe it’s more obvious in the cheesecake version.” Sylvie hunched her shoulders and muttered ominously to herself. Stick her in front of her cauldrons and it would be like a Weird Sister from Macbeth had gone walkabout in twenty-first-century London.
Confirmed: increasing instinct to cuddle.
He could be disingenuous and wonder what the hell was going on with them, how things had come to this—but he’d never spouted naïve bullshit, even to himself. He hadn’t been living in a bubble. It might not have ever happened before, but it was pretty fucking obvious what was starting to happen to him now.
It had been over thirty years now since he’d put out a hand and had it impatiently pushed away every time. He had very low tolerance for irrational behaviour and he considered it a complete waste of time to dwell on regrets. Which was exactly why he’d always despised the fact that the small creeping shadow of that early lesson had burrowed so deep. That he’d let people who’d long since lost his respect, let alone any chance at love, leave even the smallest scar. And that he couldn’t deny it had chipped something away from even the most casual of his other relationships.