Tucker's easy smile shifted to sharp offense as soon as she brought up Rosier. She'd been angling for some sort of jab about why he was here, clearly, but that was easy enough to skip over when she impugned his reputation. "He's hardly my counterpart," Tuck sneered, as if he found the mere suggestion disgusting, though his lips lighted back into a (far crueler) smile in an instant. "Besides," he continued with a little gesture of his hand. "Of course you wouldn't see him around here. I'd imagine he doesn't come for the music, and you're hardly his type, are you?"
He tipped his head back slightly, draining that last of his vin coca in one gulp in preparation for his coming martini and setting the empty glass back down. "The law in Glynn, perhaps," he said, his smile shading back toward predatory. "But I don't believe for a second that you're welcome in Belailles. You're laying low. Waiting for, what, the scandal to blow over? Will it ever?"