‘A dress,’ he said. ‘She was wearing a dress.’
‘Long? Short?’
‘Medium.’
‘What colour was it?’
‘Her dress? Does it matter?’
‘Humour me, Alexander.’
He hesitated. ‘I think it was red.’
‘You think?’
‘It was definitely red.’ He still sounded unsure.
‘Was her hair up or down?’
‘Up?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Mallory asked.
‘It was up. What does it matter?’
‘Was she wearing perfume?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Mallory…’
‘You’re a werewolf. Perfume is something a werewolf would notice.’
‘In that case, no,’ he replied. ‘She wasn’t.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Probably. I’m not sure.’
Mallory exhaled. ‘You weren’t attracted to her at all.’
‘I’m a man! I don’t notice things like clothes or hair or perfume.’
‘Alexander,’ she said, trying to hold on to her patience, ‘you dress impeccably. How much did that suit cost?’
‘This old thing?’
She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Even if you weren’t the type of man who cared about clothing, if you’d fancied Cathy you would have paid attention. At the very least you’d be able to conjure up an image of what she looked like last night.’ She nodded decisively. ‘But that’s okay. This is something we can work with.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘It is?’
‘Absolutely. There’s a week until the Wolf Ball so that gives us plenty of time.’ She pursed her lips and tried to estimate when she could spare a few hours away from Chester Longchamps’ problem. ‘Tonight,’ she said eventually. ‘Hirsel Street. Let’s meet at eight o’clock by the fountain in the centre.’
‘Hirsel Street? I assumed you’d had enough of alcohol and partying after the full moon.’
‘There will be no alcohol whatsoever, not for me or for you.’
‘Why do I have to suffer?’ he asked, with a glint of amusement.
‘You need a clear head and alcohol will impair your judgement. And this certainly isn’t about partying, this is business.’
