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Being a regular visitor—the only visitor, she had assured him, and although he hadn’t asked for that, would never ask, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t flattered—to Phryne’s bed had not made Jack any better of a flirt.
“Looks like he found an equal and opposite reaction,” he’d murmur about a revenge killing. “Touché,” over a man found pinned by a rapier. Awkward and flamboyantly brainy was Jack’s brand. Phryne would roll her eyes and look put-upon, but her body always betrayed her by softening in a way only he would notice.
Jack saw no need for any improvement.