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CHAPTER SIX: DEAL WITH GOD
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HELEN WORE HER FAVOURITE evening dress to the races, the sky blue one that cinched at her waist and flared around her hips in soft silk. The neckline was made of intricate lace, descending down her arms in long sleeves covered by a coat of the palest pink, so light it was almost cream. Despite her soft demeanor — from her clothes to the way she had pinned back her hair with an ornate silver pin (she'd deliberately chosen not to wear her usual one, with the blade and its secrets tucked away at the back of her vanity) — her lips remained a harsh shade of crimson, a statement in itself, a Siren's song luring in the damned with each word and every breath.
Patrick Godfrey might've been a true gentleman, but even he could not draw his eyes away from her mouth for the life of him. By the time they arrived at the races in Patrick's car, his cheeks were almost as dark as her lipstick, the vibrant blush burning from the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears.
Damn you, Christ, for cursing me with this hair, he thought, for the sudden change in his regular, pale complexion could not have been more obvious when Helen's date happened to be a redhead. She smiled at him, then raised a brow when he failed to move from his seat.
"Well? Aren't you going to open the door for me?"
He was at her side in an instant, offering her his hand while holding the door with the other. Grass crunched beneath her feet, and Helen paused.
Up close, Patrick smelled like Woodbines and citrus, dressed nicely in a freshly pressed suit, his hair gelled back but nevertheless, it was stubbornly curly. Helen had only known him for two weeks, and yet she had started to recognise the small things about him as their 'tour' of Birmingham quickly became an excuse just to spend time with each other. Helen understood the way Patrick squeezed her hand, how his eyes glinted as he smiled. The sharp intake of breath when he was nervous, followed by a cough to smother his woes. How he kissed her knuckles in greeting, and curved an arm around her waist whenever they were out in public. A silent display of interest.
Piece-by-piece, she built him up in her head; before she knew it, she had created a whole other version of Patrick Godfrey that fitted into her perfectly. A man who could love her how she wanted to be loved, a man who wanted her and couldn't help but show it every time he looked at her.
It was all in the eyes.
Helen had been to the races before, but it had been a few years. It took her a moment to regain her bearings, to lead the way towards the entrance. As expected, Patrick's hand came to rest on her back as they lined up behind a group of laughing men who had women hanging from their arms like sunken, dressed up dolls. Helen had seen this type before, and her lips pursed in wariness, shoulders bunched until they were inside and had moved to the opposite end of the room.
