“My honor as a witch and as a woman requires me to deny you any claim to wardrobe mastery.” Angel didn’t need to look him over again to see the perfect cut of his suit or the cufflinks polished to a shine. His eye for quality, or at least his tailor’s, rivaled hers but she would keep that to herself, thank you. She met his suggestion with an imperious little smirk. “Nor have I shown you mine. Though you do have potential.” She turned toward the fire, tilting her head to display the earrings she couldn’t stand to part with now. “Your influence has my modiste hunting for smoke and gold silks and wondering if there is a new trend on the horizon. You should be proud.” The praise was patronizing, but her tone playful.

She dressed for herself alone, wealth and status in her fabrics, but independence and defiance in the colors and tailoring. She wore her gowns as armor and with pride, a reminder that since her husband’s death, she owned every inch of her body and controlled anything and anyone that would try to touch her. It was power. Taking his gift, wearing him, was a frightening gesture, but the thrill was worth the risk. It wasn’t as if she would ever tell Emrys Selwyn that.

“My dear pirate, that would require you to reveal your hand.” She let her fingertips ghost over the back of his hand, across his knuckles, and down his fingers lounging on the backrest. “I am sure there are some ways we could collaborate, but I would hate to surrender all of my advantages without some show of good will. That would be highly predictable of me.” She offered the last in that warm, breathy voice he would recognize from his late night owl.

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