What Mason wanted was a steak. A large, juicy slab of well-marbled beef with a glass or two of a 1945 Mouton Rothschild.
The benefit dinner he just left behind featured food cooked by one of his favorite chefs. There would have been steak. And wine. Certainly not pizza.
He’d also left behind his date, for reasons he still could not explain.
When it became clear to him there was no way he could leave Ines sitting alone on the steps of the building waiting for a taxi, he’d texted Lilli that he had an emergency conference call with his people in Hong Kong.
“You eat pizza?” Ines said, looking at him doubtfully.
The first and last time he'd had it was five years ago when a well-meaning girlfriend practically shoved a piece into his mouth. He could still remember the grease sticking to the
