Mercy's Danger: Montgomery's Vampires Trilogy (Book #2) (Montgomery's Vampires Series) by Sloan Archer Page A

all the textures and colors, but it worked on Leopold because he owned his look. His slight stature didn’t hurt, either. If he were taller, the clothes might have looked like a costume.
    “Looks like your vanity hasn’t changed as much as your house,” Robert teased.
    By way of formal greeting, Robert and Leopold embraced the way old friends do. Leopold kissed Robert on the cheek and then Robert kissed him back without hesitation. It was far more graceful than a handshake or rowdy high-five. It wasn’t often that I got to see two male associates pecking. It was a lovely, old-fashioned act that spoke of more gentile times when men weren’t exceedingly concerned with appearing macho. I liked it.
    “Better to look the bomb than the bum,” Leopold smirked.
    Robert shook his head.
    “Is that still hip to say, Mercy? It’s ‘the bomb?’ Fast cars are the bomb . . . Rock-and-roll music is the bomb . . .” Leopold’s posh tongue did not sound right uttering slang. The two complimented each other about as well as hammers and chocolate ice cream. “I’m not up with the speech trends of young humans these days.”
    Since when did I become the “it” girl of trendy human colloquialisms—Marlena with her BFF inquiry and now Leopold with the bomb? I bit back a smile. I didn’t have the heart to tell Leopold that declaring something the bomb was as outdated as men wearing cravats.
    “Oh?” Robert chided. “Have your supermodel girlfriends not yet learned to string together complete sentences?” He clasped his hands together and then splayed them apart, wiggling his fingers. “Maybe you could try hand gestures? Shadow puppets. Picture books.”
    Leopold furnished him a dour look, but he was laughing. “Har-har.”
    “Leopold, anything you say will sound cool.” It was the most diplomatic thing I could think to say. I tugged on his sleeve. “And look at you! Is your whole outfit Seraphim Blythe or just the pin?”
    “You have an eye for detail!” Leopold beamed. He looked down at his clothes and dusted invisible lint of his lapel. “The Jacket, pin, and trousers are by Seraphim. The cravat is old—I’ve had it for about a hundred years.” He was being serious about the cravat. “Not sure where the tee is from. Can you see?” He pulled up his collar so I could make out the tag.
    “Ooh,” I said indulgently. “Givenchy.”
    “Is it?” he asked, as if he believed he might have gotten it at Target. Fat chance.
    I nodded. I didn’t show him the tag of my shirt, which actually was from Target.
    “While we’re on the subject, did Robert tell you that I’ve booked you an appointment with Seraphim?” Leopold asked.
    “He may have mentioned it,” I said coyly. I managed to get a hold on myself before I peed my pants and followed up with, “Woo-hoo! Hell yah he did!”
    “Are you familiar with her designs? You must be if you recognize her logo.”
    “It’s all Mercy has been able to talk about since I told her,” Robert answered for me. I was mortified because what he’d said wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
    “Seraphim is my favorite designer ever!” I gushed. “She designs for all females, which is genius. She can make any woman look beautiful—not just stick figures. And I don’t care what anyone says.” I placed my hands on my hips defiantly. “I think Smokescreen was fabulous.”
    Leopold chuckled. “Ah, the great Smokescreen debacle of twenty-ten! I’m surprised that you’re familiar with the look—it came out so long ago. And those who do remember it try to block it from memory. If you ask me, it was one couture look that should have stayed on the runway. But do tell Seraphim that you liked the collection when you meet her. You might be the only one in the world who did.”
    I said, “That can’t be true.” But it probably was.
    “I’m sure it was as horr ibly received in America, but the British press tore her apart for that one. I can’t say I blame them.” Leopold looked