Rhys had always been a huge film noir fan, and the reporter clearly remembered that. I liked her better for it.
He put one hand flat on the table and the other across my shoulders as he moved into the mike, similar to what Doyle had done. But Rhys knew how to play to the camera better because he'd been doing it longer. He took off the fedora and shook his hair out, so it fell around his shoulders in thick white curls.
"I loved being a detective in L.A."
"Was it like in the movies?" someone asked.
"Sometimes, but not very much. I ended up doing more bodyguard work than actual detective work."
The next question was interesting. "There were rumors that some of the stars you and the other guards protected wanted more body than guarding?"
That was a hard one, because a lot of the clients had asked or indicated a willingness for sex. The men had either ignored the invitation or said no. So technically the answer was yes, but if he said yes, then all the semi-famous, or even famous, for whom Rhys had bodyguarded would be in the tabloids tomorrow, and it would be our fault. Our former boss, Jeremy Grey, deserved better than that from us. So did our clients. And the right kind of clients would stay away from Grey's Detective Agency, and the wrong kind would come and be disappointed.
I leaned into the microphone, and said suggestively, "I'm afraid that Rhys was too busy bodyguarding me to bodyguard anyone else."
That got me laughter and distracted them all. We were back to sex questions about us, and those we could answer.
"Is Rhys good in bed?"
"Yes," I said.
"Is the princess good in bed?"
"Very."
See, easy questions.
"Rhys, have you ever shared a bed with the princess and one of the other guards?"
"Yes."
Then the reporters started working together. The first reporter tried to ask who with, but Madeline said he'd had his question. The next reporter she picked asked, "Rhys, who did you share the princess with?"
He could have tap-danced around that one, but he chose truth, because why not?
"Nicca."
The cameras and attention turned to Nicca like lions spotting a newly wounded gazelle. This particular gazelle was six feet tall with deep brown skin and rich chestnut hair that fell to his ankles, thick and straight, held back only by a thin copper diadem. He was naked from the waist up except for the rich gold silk suspenders that graced his chest and caught the faint yellow pattern in the brown of his suit pants. He had two 9mm guns in the front of his pants, because no one could figure out how to get him in a shoulder holster, or how to strap on his armor, or his swords, without damaging his wings.
They towered above his shoulders and a little above his head. They swept out and down to his calves, so that the edges of them almost brushed the floor. They were huge moth wings, as if a half-dozen different kinds of giant silk moths had had sex one dark night with a faerie. Only two days ago the wings had been a birthmark on the back of his body, but during sex the wings had suddenly burst forth from his skin and become real. The back of his body was now one smooth brown piece.
He moved to join us while the cameras made us go blind again. Rhys stayed with me, as Nicca stood beside us, towering over us both. He looked out at the crowd, his face puzzled. He wasn't accustomed to being front and center for the queen, or me.
"Nicca, do you really sleep with the princess and Rhys?"
He bent over toward the mike, so he was on one side of me and Rhys was on the other. The wings fanned out above my head. "Yes," he said, then stood back up.
The cameras clicked and reporters shouted questions until Madeline picked someone. "How did you get wings?"
Good question. Unfortunately, we didn't have a good answer. "You want the truth?" I asked. "We're not sure."
"Nicca, what were you doing when the wings appeared?"
When Nicca knelt back over, the wings flexed so that for a moment I was backdropped against one of them. I couldn't see anything but flashes. "Having sex with Meredith."
The reporters did everything but giggle like junior high school kids. The American reporters, and some of the European, had never quite gotten used to the fact that the fey, as a whole, don't see sex as bad. So admitting to sex with someone, unless it makes your lover uncomfortable, isn't bad, or scandalous.
"Was Rhys with you?"