Chapter Eleven
Degas swept the room with his eyes. He knew each movement, the bodies that slithered and wound their way from place to place, from body to body, and those that, bound by clever devices, were just teases for the crowd of dissolute and depraved customers that preyed on this atmosphere of the newly damned.
Delila Armand hung in the center of the room in a gilded cage, her body enthroned. He loved the lights that blinked at odd intervals, the way they made her creamy skin flicker as if there were flames dancing on its surface.
Lexia had schooled her well in the art of blatant seduction, though Degas had no doubt that this one would be a fast learner. She had a defiant streak in her. He could see that clearly. Every time he caught her gaze, she glared at him. She was pissed, a
