That throwaway observation meant that he didn’t recognise me from our encounter in the Bull’s palace all those years before. It had lasted only a few seconds so that wasn’t completely surprising but it meant that, despite my white hair and eye colour, he hadn’t connected me to my father. He’d pegged me as one of the lower-class Sidhe, probably from a minor Clan. My chances of success had just quadrupled.

‘I don’t get out much,’ I told him. Then I crossed my legs. It was deliberately calculated body language to give off the vibe that I wasn’t interested. ‘Hard to get’ would win the day.

Byron beckoned the bartender, who’d finished serving the annoying Cockney. He gave a deferential bob of his head and poured him a neat whisky without asking what he’d like. I guessed that this wasn’t Byron’s first evening here. And he probably took a different girl home with him every night. As long as I was that girl tonight, nothing else mattered.

‘One for the lady too,’ he purred. ‘But make it the really good stuff.’

Shite. ‘I’m good with what I have.’

‘I’m sure it’s nice. I happen to know, however, that there are wonderful vintage bottles in the cellar. They only bring them out on special occasions.’

The last thing I wanted was for the bartender to pop a cork right in front of us. ‘Well,’ I said lightly, ‘this occasion isn’t that special.’

Byron’s eyebrows shot up. ‘In that dress? I’d say it was very special.’

Watch it, I thought. You’re verging on sleazy now. ‘I’m not wearing this because I’m looking for attention,’ I said, coolly. ‘I’m wearing it because I like it.’

His eyes glittered. ‘You like hot pink?’ he asked, emphasizing the word ‘hot’ so it was laden with innuendo.

‘I do,’ I replied, irritation flashing down my spine.

Byron appeared amused. ‘Then make that bottle pink champagne, Timothy,’ he instructed the bartender, who nodded again and walked off, no doubt to the famed cellar. So much for my bribe then. I had to admit, though, that it was interesting Byron had taken the time to learn the man’s name. I hadn’t.

If I protested any more, I’d end up going too far. Beaten for now – at least in the alcoholic stakes – I caved. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

His eyes held mine. ‘You can thank me later.’

I shivered. ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I’ll thank you now.’

Byron threw back his head and laughed. ‘Very well. Thank me by telling me your name.’