Her head tipped to the side, she smiled a coquettish smile and said something that made him dig in his pocket. He pulled out a small pouch, opened it, and got something out, placing it in her upturned palm which she instantly closed.
My breath stuttered.
Holy cow.
Her eyes lifted to my window, her face wistful and I stopped breathing altogether when her eyes met mine. The wistfulness left her expression and a knowing catty smile curved her mouth.
She lifted her hand and gave me a finger wave.
I quickly stepped away from the window and deep-breathed.
“Holy cow,” I whispered.
Here and in my world, hell, anywhere, I knew what she was.
I knew.
She was a prostitute and she was here for Apollo.
She’d also been here before and the activities they’d engaged in, she’d liked (a woman didn’t get wistful for nothing).
And they’d done them in this room.
I shook my head and moved further into the room, aiming my feet toward the dresser which had the decanter now filled with fresh wine. I pulled out the heavy crystal stopper and poured myself a heavier dose.
I stoppered the decanter, lifted the wine to my lips and took a sip (Valentine was right, Fleuridian wine really was superb), staring unseeing at the hydrangea blooms.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Apollo was a man. He’d have to get himself some.
But a prostitute?
And he’d put me in the bed he’d had her in?
“Good God,” I breathed, shaking my head and moving to the dressing table across the room.
I sat on the stool and stared at my reflection.
God had given me much even if he’d taken more away. But one of the few bounties that was mine to keep was my hair. It was auburn, had soft curls, some of them ringlets. It wasn’t kinky or coarse, it was thick but silky.
I’d always loved my hair.
God had also given me lovely skin, only a sprinkling of freckles across my nose that Pol wasn’t very fond of and asked (okay, demanded) I cover them up with foundation before we went out.
I did so he wouldn’t get angry, but I’d always thought they were cute.
So had my dad. He’d thought they were adorable. It was one of the few things he liked about me, or about anyone or, truth be told, anything.
What he hadn’t thought was adorable was me hooking up with a drug dealer.
He didn’t think that was adorable at all.
Mom either. Then again, Mom thought whatever Dad thought seeing as doing that was a lot less hassle.
I closed my eyes, shook my head, took a deep breath and opened them, taking another sip of wine.
I had nice enough features, I thought. I straight, slim nose. A decent jawline. Defined cheekbones. Dark brown eyes that had a lovely shape.
I was tall-ish, standing at five eight. I had ass. I had br**sts. They weren’t well-above average but you couldn’t miss that they existed. I also had a slim waist, so my booty and br**sts both were more pronounced.