My brain short-circuited, as I studied her face, so familiar, and yet, almost a stranger’s without those big glasses she usually wore.

“You only just noticed that they were missing?” she asked coyly, sidling closer, sipping at her wine. “I would have picked the Son of Satan to have better observational skills than that.”

I cleared my throat, my eyes falling to the soft curves of her breasts, far too enticing beneath those little swinging chains. My fingers twitched, aching to touch her there.

“I was … distracted … by other parts,” I admitted ruefully, scrubbing a hand over my face.

She giggled and patted me on the arm. “You might be the Prince of Hell, but you’re still just a man, aren’t you?” Her grin was that of a bat who had just gotten its teeth into the forbidden fruit.

My suspicion was roused. “Why do you seem so … smug … tonight?”

She waltzed past me, the dress skimming her mid-thigh, hugging that round arse. I bit the inside of my cheek until she turned and took her seat, still smirking.

“No reason. I suppose I’m just … very grateful, to have this opportunity to be here. To see this art. To share a meal with you.” She sipped again at her wine, her eyes darting across the tabletop. “Speaking of sharing a meal … where are the menus?”

I stifled a wince. I wasn’t ready for the big reveal yet. I was honestly quite shocked she hadn’t yet demanded to know what the catch was in her task this evening.

“Drinks first,” I managed, seating myself and pouring more for both of us.

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Satan Junior?”

My hand twitched on the bottle, almost spilling on the white tablecloth. “You needn’t drink at the same speed as I. But it’s … customary, where I am from, to share a libation while seated, before we progress to eating.”

Such a lie. If she ever shared a meal with Father and Hellen and me, she would see that there was no civilized chitchat over drinks. There was tearing into food while Hellen and I insulted one another, and Father continued to place unfair expectations on me while simultaneously reminding Hellen that she was the useless spare.

Not that I would ever, in a million lifetimes, let either Hellen or Father anywhere near Jemma Bliss.

Until her soul came to Hell upon her death … and then I would have no control over what was done to her … or by whom.

I downed my second glass.

“Well, I wouldn’t want the denizens of Hell to think I had bad manners,” Jemma said with a large helping of sarcasm as she took a gulp of her wine. “How did you know that Riesling is my favourite?”

I cocked an eyebrow and managed to curl my lips slightly.