Crowley is arrested for a moment by the nearness of him, the almost tangible feeling of his eyes wandering over her face, and his voice, low and secretive and suggestive.

She swallows hard, then tries to regain some of her aplomb, chuckling. "About time some of my wicked ways rubbed off on you." She stands up, gets her coat. "And sure, why not. Not too long, mind, it's much too blessed cold out there. What sort of an idea? More ways to interfere with art and culture?"