“Knock, knock?”

Kingsley sighed. Blaise’s gentle voice came from the door. He waved his arm tiredly at her, beckoning her in.

“He’s not here,” Kingsley said.

“I wasn’t looking for him, I promise,” Blaise said.

“Are you swimming?”

“And mess up my hair?” She tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. “No, I’m checking on you.”

Blaise crawled up on the chaise longue next to him. Kingsley looked her up and down as she settled in next to him.

“You’ve outdone yourself with this ensemble,” he said. “You look like... What’s her name? That pretty blonde actress. The dead one with the hair. River? Ocean? Pool?”

“Veronica Lake. And that’s what I was going for. See?” She held up her leg to display her seamed stockings that disappeared under her pencil skirt. She had her hair coiffed in a forties peekaboo style.

“Why do you dress like this?” he asked. Every day she wore some new vintage outfit that put one in mind of old Hollywood.

“The world is sadly lacking in glamour. I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. And not all of us are as naturally gorgeous and eye-catching as you are, King,” she said, tapping the end of his nose. “Some of us have to work for it.”

“You like the attention. You’re the girl in the room who dresses like she forgot what decade she’s in.”

“I’m trying to forget what decade I’m in. The nineties need to shape up fast. You know what people are wearing now? On purpose? Flannel. I saw it on MTV.”

“I shudder.”

“Me, too. Awful. There is nothing glamorous about flannel.”

“You don’t dress like this to be glamorous. You dress to be remembered.”

“So? What’s wrong with being memorable? Even if someone forgets my name, they still remember the girl in the seamed stockings.”

“Nothing’s wrong with being memorable. Except when someone’s trying to forget you.”

Blaise sighed and laid her head on his chest.

“I knew you were in a funk,” she said. “You always get like this when you drink.”

“I drink all the time.”

“You’re in a funk all the time. I thought it would get better when your friend turned up. Where is Søren anyway?”

“I pissed him off. He left.”

“Well, un-piss him off. I like him.”

“The last thing we need is a priest hanging around this house.”

Blaise’s mouth fell open.

“He’s really a priest? That wasn’t a joke?”

“I wish.”

Blaise laughed so hard the chaise longue shook.

“I can’t believe I did kink with a priest. I can’t wait to tell—”

Faster than either of them expected, Kingsley rolled up, grabbed Blaise and put her flat on her back underneath him. He grasped both her wrists and slammed them down by her head.

“King—”

“Shut up. I mean it.” He tightened his grip on her to the point of pain and stayed there. “Not a word to anyone that you did anything with a priest. Do you understand me?”

Blaise looked up at him in fear—real fear.

“Fuck, fine. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’ve never seen me this serious before, have you?”

Blaise shook her head. “No.”

“There’s a reason for that. You will tell no one.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I swear.”

Kingsley held her down another few seconds, long enough to make her nervous and long enough to get him aroused.

“Good girl.” He bent his head and kissed her before letting her go.

He rolled on to his back again, crossed his legs at his ankles again, watched the light dance again.

Blaise sat up and looked down at him.

“You scared the shit out of me.” She put her hand over her heart.

“Good.”

“For someone who says he doesn’t like Søren, you’re awfully protective of him.”

“Love him or hate, he’s one of us. We take care of our own.”

“I can’t get him in trouble, you know. I only know his first name.”

“Actually, you don’t.” Kingsley laughed to himself. Søren had introduced himself as “Søren” to Blaise, not Marcus Stearns. There was no “Søren” on anyone’s records anywhere. If she tried to find a Catholic priest in the United States named Søren, she’d be searching forever. So that’s why Søren told her his real name? That fucking brilliant blond monster. Now it all made sense.

“He told me his name, remember?” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, how much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to put me in the mood, but not enough to ruin it. Now I’m going to get very drunk so you should go unless you want to make yourself useful.”

“Maybe I want to make myself useful,” she said, lifting up his shirt. She pressed her lips into his stomach, and the soft curling tips of her hair tickled his skin. Yes. This. Right now he needed this. Distraction. Desire. Anything to keep from remembering. “I like it when you scare me like that.”

“And that,” he said, caressing her cheek, “is why you are my chouchou.”

She kissed lower, deeper, and with one hand she unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He wasn’t hard yet, but if she kept doing what she was doing, he would be any second now. She took him in her hand and massaged him lightly. When he stiffened, she bent her head and licked the tip. For a few minutes it was all she did, kissing, licking, teasing, focusing all her attention on that one part of him. Blood rushed through him, and he grew hard in her hand. He sighed softly as she stroked him before bringing her mouth down on to him.