The restaurant was quiet, their booth was private, and from the look on Aubrey’s face, that was a very good thing. She’d already been there, standing impatiently and eyeing the clock when Ian arrived. When he’d asked her what the hell was going on, she’d silenced him with a lifted finger and a directive towards the table.
“I have a story to tell you,” she said as they sat across from one another and waited for the waiter to return with a soda water for him and a glass of wine for her.
“Good to know I hurried over for that,” he grumped.
She began to dig in her purse, a monolith of a thing with shiny clasps and chain-link, and pulled out a forest green folder. “It’s a very interesting story,” she promised. She set the folder on the table, still closed, and put a finger over her lips as if
