“DID YOU ENJOY YOUR pasta, Emily?”
Daniel—Dan—Morgan eyes my empty plate with approval. The seafood ravioli was divine, and if his own cleared plate is anything to go by so was the pizza Napolitana. James has made short work of his chicken with olives and radicchio and between the three of us a bottle of Chianti has seemingly evaporated.
“Yes, it was wonderful...” I start. “But—”
“Coffee? Or would you like the dessert menu?” James is already summoning our waiter.
“No, really. I’ve had enough. I...I should be going.” So far I haven’t been called upon to make much conversation, but I know not to push my luck.
James’ smile is polite, but neither brother shows any inclination to leave. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t think—”
“We need to discuss hypocrisy,” insists James. “And double standar
