Quentin didn't look back to her when he muttered his unimpressed sounding: "Hmm, better... " It wasn't an answer, though. It didn't confirm for Zoey whether she was safe or not. He hadn't okayed it, more just expressed that he was pleased with her attempt, and underwhelmed at its outcome.<br/><br/>He leaned back in his chair in that familiar way to think. His hands fell together in his lap and folded into one another loosely, while his head rolled back to study the ceiling, as though for inspiration. His bright eyes flickered and his white-shirt-clad torso moved with each breath, as he considered her immediate fate. On the one hand it would be good PR to have her service everyone who entered his home, better yet considering who her father had been. That and, well, the fact that she was too proud to be a willing party irritated him, so perhaps a little lesson would be good for her. On the other hand he did feel terribly and personally possessive of her, and imagining whoring her out *too* much enraged some well hidden part of his psyche.<br/><br/>He mulled it over for a few minutes, veering toward first one side then the other. Eventually, inevitably, his head moved forward to stand in its usual proud stance and he looked down toward her. There was a final little grip of uncertainty, but he shook it off.<br/><br/>"No, I am not convinced. You can write, can't you? I will give you a list of names, I want you to write an invite to each of them, complete with the promise of dinner hosted by myself, and with illicit details of everything you will be available for... Which is everything, but they'll appreciate specifics. Details." He waved a hand toward a beaureau in the corner, topped with a pen (a rather recent replacement for a quill and feather) and headed letter paper.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>