By Jove by Marissa Doyle Page A

watched, the girl threw her arms around his neck and stole his garland, put it on her own head and darted away, laughing back over her shoulder at him in a clear invitation to give chase.
    “It seems the wine’s been flowing for a while, doesn’t it?” Grant agreed. “You see why I say we’re still recovering from Marlowe’s time with us at the institute?” He halted and turned Theo to face him. “Speaking of garlands, take that thing off. You’re more beautiful without it.”
    Theo put her hand up to touch the crown of oak leaves. “I can’t. It would be an insult to Julian.”
    “Even better, then.”
    “Stop it, Grant. Not now.”
    He glowered at her, but held his tongue.
    “More wine!” Marlowe roared. Theo jumped; he had come to stand right behind her. “Ho, Theo. Don’t you know it’s bad manners to take mincing little sips of wine at a department symposium? Here, I’ll drink to you, and you must drink to me. You too, Grant. You should know better.” He refilled their cups from the bottle he carried, then held his cup up to hers for an instant before emptying it in one swallow.
    She laughed. “I have to match that, huh?”
    “As well as you can, anyway. I understand that you might not have my expertise.”
    “Or your hollow leg.” She raised her cup to him and took a long drink. “Julian’s wine,” she said with relish as a heady shiver rippled through her.
    “Of course,” Marlowe confirmed. “C’mon, Grant. Your turn.”
    His jaw tightened, but then he relaxed and nodded. However, Theo saw that he took the barest of sips. What was wrong with him tonight? This was fun—the elegant classical costumes, the candlelight, Julian’s wine, Paul’s music. No wonder it was considered an honor to be invited.
    “Don’t you like it?” she asked, watching him set his cup down on a table after Marlowe had wandered off.
    “No, I don’t,” he said shortly, glancing at his cup with a frown.
    “Because you don’t like the wine, or because you don’t like Julian?” she persisted.
    “Stop being so perceptive, please.”
    “Just behave yourself. We’re guests, remember? Now come on, admit that the wine is good and relax and let me admire you in your finery. Marlowe!” She gestured at him, and he hurried over with a fresh bottle and grinned his approval as she took another deep drink. The golden syrupy tingle seemed to spread clear down to her toes.
    “Careful, Theo,” Grant said. “I might have to carry you home to bed if you keep that up.”
    She laughed and looked at him sideways. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
    He frowned. “When I carry you home to bed some night, I don’t want you drunk on Julian’s wine.”
    Theo’s insides quivered at the intensity in his voice. Grant’s scholarship of humanities had improved somewhat of late. He was learning the joys of physical closeness: of holding hands under the table in the university coffee shop, of neck massages during late-night study sessions in the Great Room, of kissing with slow heat or swift ardor. That was as far as she’d taken it so far, until he seemed ready for more intimate contact. Not that she hadn’t thought about more. Had thought about it frequently, in fact. But she was waiting for a cue from him. Was this one?
    But no. He was still frowning at his cup. She sighed to herself and rubbed her toes on the floor. The tiny tessellae that made up the mosaic’s surface were of different materials—stone, glass, ceramic—and all differed subtly in texture under her bare feet. She had expected that the floor would be cold, but instead found that it was oddly warm—yet another delight to the senses tonight. She thought about pointing it out to Grant but his expression was still too forbidding.
    So she wandered from his side, enjoying the feeling of the floor under her feet as she walked, and joined the small throng that had gathered around one of the couches. As she peered past Di Hunter’s shoulder, she could see