Stepping back from the mirror, I grinned and applied a coat of mascara and lip gloss. This was how I used to look when basking in the light of Valentine’s love. Now that he was out of my system, I could bask in the light of my own happiness.
Valentine’s limo wasn’t anywhere on Grosvenor Square, even though I felt the distant presence of a brooding vampire.
I walked down Duke Street and continued down Oxford Street, which was heaving with shoppers. Outside Selfridges, I caught the 390 bus, which took me down to John Lewis—also on Oxford Street—and walked the back roads of Soho until I reached Souk.
London was a mass of contradictions, crowded landmarks and highways crammed with tourists and shoppers and workers, then as soon as you ducked into the backstreets, it was the epitome of peace.
Souk’s exterior consisted of a burgundy sign and awning that shaded its tinted-glass front. Six-foot-tall menus stood before the window, and behind them, glowing red lights hung down from the ceiling like they were floating in midair. It was four-thirty, which meant happy hour had already started.
I stepped into its warm interior, letting the mingled scents of tobacco smoke and herbs engulf my senses. The strains of exotic string music played over the speakers with a techno beat, soft enough to allow the patrons to hear themselves talk.
I glanced around red walls decorated with gilded paintings of smoking celebrities, including one of the Mona Lisa smirking around a pipe. Along the edges of the bar, they’d arranged low cushioned seats around circular tables topped with carved leather.
At this time of the afternoon, the place was only half-full, with mostly students nursing half-priced drinks. A quartet of girls sat at the closest booth around a glass hookah, watching their friend suck tobacco out of a long pipe. Pale liquid bubbled at the base of the pipe as she blew out white streams of smoke from her lips.
It wasn’t something I had ever wanted to sample. At least not outside the supervision of Istabelle, who made a tobacco-free blend that could help a person achieve altered states. All I’d seen when I inhaled her herbs were flames, which I thought reflected hell.
Beatrice rose from a bank of seats behind the circular bar and waved.
I raised my hand, headed toward the bar, and ordered an extra-large jug of marrakechia. It was Souk’s version of a sangria but made with red wine, pomegranate seeds, cardamom, Grand Marnier and triple sec.
Unlike most places where it was a red wine watered down with lemonade and chunks of fruit, Souk’s sangria was more like spiced wine.
After paying for the drinks, I brought the jug and two glasses over to my friend’s seat. Instead of the usual suit, she wore a double-breasted, tailored dress that skimmed her curves, making her look like she was dressed for a hot date.
Beatrice’s mahogany hair flowed over her shoulders in loose waves, and her deep-red burgundy lipstick was striking against her dark skin. Despite the glamor, I still saw the pain in her red-rimmed eyes.
Her pretty face broke out in a grin, and she bounced on her cushion. “I stopped by the shop this lunchtime with a hot chocolate. Do you know what I heard?”
I set down the jug and glass on the table and lowered myself into the seat. “Sorry I wasn’t around.”
She batted my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew devastatingly handsome supermodel types who bundled girls into limos?”
My eyes narrowed. “Istabelle told you that?”
“No, Jonathan.” She rolled her eyes. “Would you believe he was sitting in the book corner, waiting for you to arrive? As soon as I stepped in, he barraged me with questions about your mystery man.”
I pressed my lips together, suppressing a frisson of annoyance. What was it with this guy? Istabelle would have offered to take over my sound bath session, the same way I stood in for her when she was running late.
Picking up the jug, I poured her a generous portion, slowing the stream so only a few pieces of fruit and cloves and cardamom plopped out into the glass.
“Sorry for the interrogation,” I said with a groan. “Would you like me to order you something to eat at the bar?”
She waved away the apology and picked up her drink. “Absolutely not. You’re going to tell me about this man and why you’ve kept him a secret. Does he have a friend? A distraction like him might help me get over that two-faced wanker.”
I huffed a laugh and poured myself a glass of sangria. Christian was a mere annoyance compared to the years-long mind games of Valentine Sargon.
“Who was he?” she asked. “The ex you never talk about?”
My gaze met hers, and I caught the expression. It was the kind of hunger for vicarious excitement I used to feel for her juicy details. I wouldn’t push if she wasn’t ready to talk about Christian.
“It was him,” I murmured. “That first year we met, I was too much of an emotional mess to tell you what happened between us.”
She brought the glass to her lips and hummed. “That’s why I didn’t press, and when you seemed better, I didn’t want to bring up the subject and drag you down.”
I turned to my friend and met her warm brown eyes. They didn’t sparkle as they usually did, and I hoped the pain of Christian’s betrayal wouldn’t linger. “If it wasn’t for you and Istabelle, I’m not sure I could have emerged from how that relationship ended.”
Beatrice leaned toward me, her lips parted with a question.
Inhaling a deep breath, I scrambled for a way to skirt around the most salient points, such as our true age difference, and the fact that he was royalty and a vampire.
“He was older…” I lowered my gaze to the table. “My boss, I suppose.”
Beatrice whistled. “Sexy?”
“To an eighteen-year-old with no experience of life.” I raised a shoulder. “He really made an effort to dazzle me, which wasn’t difficult, considering I’d never had any luxuries.”
My throat dried. Maybe I wasn’t so over Valentine as I’d thought. He’d swept me into a whirlwind of sweet words, fun dates, fancy dinners, and passionate kisses, culminating in a marriage proposal.
“He gave me an engagement ring, and I gave him my virginity.” I gulped. “Shortly after, he denied that we’d ever even had a relationship.”
“Bastard.” She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a long breath. “What is it with men and their conquests?”
“Maybe they miss the days of hunting woolly mammoths and instead hunt women?” I asked.
Her eyes opened, and she flashed me a broad smile. “You could be right about that. Perhaps the way to get rid of that Jonathan stalker is to say yes.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Somehow, I think my hunter theory only works on the alpha types.”
We both took long sips of our marrakechia. The spices hit me first, followed by a whiff of fresh pomegranate. Beneath the heady flavors was a fruity merlot—on the opposite spectrum to the dense, savory Châteauneuf-du-Pape I drank with Valentine.
Beatrice waggled her brows. “So… what did he want?”
I shook my head. “Who knows? The man was so cryptic, it almost sounded like another game.”
“Will you play along?” she asked from behind her glass.
I reared back and stared at my friend as she swirled her drink. “Whatever for?”