“Um… pardon?”
He advanced, stopping just short of her, and, to her shock, dropped down on one knee.
“Daughter of Zeus, justlookat your eyes,” he said ardently. “Erato, Calliope, Thalia—you are all the muses and more wrapped up in one divine package. You, fairest maiden, are the inspiration I have been searching for.”
“Thought I were your inspiration, Dunny,” a blond actress called out good-naturedly.
“Then ’e ’ad you and ’is inkwell ran dry,” her friend snickered.
“A pen wot keeps a hard nib ain’t easy to find,” the first one agreed, and they fell into each other, laughing and snorting.
“Dilettantes. Ignore them, my sweet one.” Dunn reached for Polly’s hand.
“Touch her, and you’ll regret it.”
Sinjin’s low warning dispelled Polly’s bemusement at the whole exchange. Her head swung in his direction; his aura was afire with possessiveness. A warm, tingling sensation spread in her belly.
Sighing, Dunn rose and dusted off his trousers. “He belongs to you, I suppose?”
“Um…” She darted a look at Sinjin’s predatory countenance, uncertain how to respond.
“She’s mine.” Sinjin’s reply was unequivocal. “Stay away from her.”
“Where do you ladies find such troglodytes?” Dunn held his hands up when Sinjin took a menacing step forward. “Easy there, big fellow. No need to make mincemeat of me over a jest.”
Polly laid a staying hand on Sinjin’s upper arm. Beneath the navy superfine, she felt the bulging power of his muscles… and her pussy gave a shocking, moist flutter. At the same time, she realized that her nipples had risen, stiff and throbbing, beneath her bodice. She blinked, wetting her lips. Sinjin’s gaze followed the path of her tongue, and his gaze grew heavy-lidded, as if he could sense her arousal.
Satisfaction smoldering in his aura, he took the hand she touched him with, pressing a brief yet proprietary kiss over her gloved knuckles before letting her go.
“See here, Dunn.” Ambrose took over with authority. “Do you know Nicoletta French?”
“No,” the playwright said sulkily.
“She likely went by another name,” her brother said. “She’s about five and a half feet tall, black hair, hazel eyes.”
Dunn pushed his spectacles up. “That describes half the doves that nest in this place, not to mention the flock of fly-by-nights who roost here now and again. You need to be more specific.”
“Her voice was on the lower end of the register for a female. She had a habit of twitching her skirts—a likely sign of nerves. Her accent is polished but from elocution lessons, I believe, as the Cockney is discernable beneath—”
“Egad, are you some sort of human magnifying glass?” Dunn stared at Ambrose. “You can’t expect that I would notice such obscure details.”
Frowning, her brother said, “You requested more specifics.”
“I meant about her, ahem,”—he cast a hasty glance at Polly and Em—“physical attributes?”
Ambrose inhaled, as if for patience. “Her build is on the voluptuous side.”
“Oooh, lovey, you got to be more precise than that. Most all o’ us fit that bill.” An actress with brassy ringlets sauntered over, her short pink dressing gown leaving little to the imagination. “The name’s Sweet Pea, an’ bein’ a warm-’earted sort, I’d be willing to ’elp you out.” She held out a hand, palm up. “For a small donation, o’ course.”
With a sigh, Ambrose took out his coin purse.
The money disappeared into Sweet Pea’s pink robe, and she emitted an ear-splitting whistle. “C’mon, doves, let’s show these nobs what The Cytherea ’as to offer!”
Like whirling dervishes, the actresses moved in a flurry of motion and color. When the dust settled, Polly saw that they’d arranged themselves in a line of impressive precision. Their poses were identical: each had their hands on their hips, their right legs jutting saucily forward. The women were so synchronized, so uniform in the front that they presented, that it took Polly a moment to recognize the principle by which they’d organized themselves.
A shocked giggle rose up her throat.
“They call it the, ahem, buffet queue. Everything on the menu, organized from a bite-sized aperitif,”—Dunn gestured to the woman with the scantest curves at the start of the line—“to a full-fledged entrée.” The woman on the other end wriggled her remarkably generous bosom and rump.
