He took a flat, white box from the pocket of his greatcoat. “I guessed the latter, but if you don’t like it, I’m sure we can find you something suitable.”
She pulled the ribbon out of its knot and opened the box, revealing a wide bottle of pale perfume. The glass was unmarked except for a thin gold band at the base. Etched into the metal, she read the perfumer’s name: Alain de Nils.
“It’s an odd fragrance,” said Cyril, “but it reminded me of you. May I?” He held out a hand, and Cordelia surrendered the bottle, flattered but suspicious, thinking of the twelve-bit bottle of attar of roses she wore near-daily. She’d left it off this morning, in her hurry, and was suddenly glad.
“It’s not as sweet as what you wore the other day,” he said, confirming her fear. She pressed her lips together, ready to sling a bit of sass—who’d he think she was, a Harbor Terrace lady?—but he already had the bottle open.
When he waved the ground glass stopper under her nose, she jerked back, surprised. “Smells like a diesel engine.”
“Give it a moment,” he said, lifting her wrist to stripe the scent across her veins. “Let it settle for a while.”
“So,” she said, “why the perfume?” Oh, Ari was going to get a hiding tonight. What exactly did this swell expect from her?
“I can’t give a beautiful woman a beautiful present?”
She twisted her wrist, letting the shrinking wet streak catch the light. “You didn’t like what I usually wear.”
“Any woman can wear roses,” he said. “But I want you to stand out a little. And I think you wouldn’t mind it, either.”
She let her lashes drop and watched him through narrowed eyes. “Stand out where?”
He took a folded piece of card stock from his billfold. She opened it, read the name and the address, and barely kept her mouth from flapping open. “But this is … this is tomorrow.”
“The timing’s awful. I apologize.” Leaning close, he took a deep breath of the air above her raised hand. “There. Smell it again, now.”
Curious rather than obedient, she sniffed her wrist. “A little less like the shipyards,” she admitted. “More like … like burnt wood, and lemons.”
“Very good,” he said, looking genuinely surprised.
Pleased with herself, though she suspected she ought to feel insulted, she smelled the perfume again. “It’s nice,” she said. “Odd. But nice.”
“It gets odder,” he said, “and nicer.” He handed the bottle back to her. She held it in the cup of her hands. It was heavy, with all the weight of quality and cash.
“I got work,” she told him. “And I got nothing to wear. Not to a party like this. We get some pretty swell punters in the Bee, but even their tips ain’t gonna put me in an evening gown by tomorrow night.”
“However,” he said, “the generosity of a grateful friend just might.”
“I ain’t wild about charity, Mr. DePaul.”
“And I’m not wild about society musicales.” He stood, and offered his arm. “But I’m sure we can make the best of both.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
The Bee put on a show every night of the week but one, and that one did not coincide with I Fa’s party. It didn’t help the matter that Cyril asked Cordelia to accompany him on such short notice. In the end, she couldn’t get away much before one. Cyril was supposed to pick her up in a taxi at the front of the theatre. The cabbie let the meter run while they sat, for a quarter of an hour.
“Sorry,” she said, when she finally slid in beside him. “I was having some words with the boss.”
“Only cordial ones, I hope,” said Cyril, thinking of the gruff voice he’d heard on the other end of the telephone.
Cordelia snorted. He could smell the Alain de Nils perfume hanging around her like smoke, mixed with the musk of her sweat. Of course, she hadn’t had time to bathe after the show. Well, no one would notice; by the time they got to the party, the guests would be so steeped in hock they wouldn’t notice a dead wharf rat stuffed down their shirt.
“Busy night?” he asked. “Will you be up to much mingling?”
“Please.” She pulled a foot into her lap. “In these shoes? Point me to the sofa and put a drink in my hand.”
The pumps were turquoise suede, beaded in jet, and they had a fearsome heel. Cyril didn’t remember buying them—had no idea where one might go about buying them—and so concluded they must be something Cordelia had already owned.
“Careful,” he said, lifting her foot delicately from her knee, “or you’ll put a run in your stocking.”
“Sweetness,” she said, hiking her black satin dress up to her thigh. “I ain’t wearing stockings.”
Nor was she wearing a garter belt, or a slip. Just her own freckles. “Suppose it saves you time.”
“Boy,” she said, snorting. “Does it ever.”
He wondered what she thought he knew, or if she thought he’d just used Aristide as a pimp, a procurer. Actually, he had no idea what Aristide had told her, what he’d said, what he’d traded for her services. Or what she thought those services included.