“They better be,” Toria said, “because now you owe me a drink.”
Rather than lead her to the dance floor toward the aft of the Lunar Queen, as Toria expected, Archer escorted her to a smaller lounge with a view out the front of the ship. Moonlight glinted off the water, and the room was smoky with the scent of cigars.
“I’m not dressed for this,” Toria said under her breath. But the other patrons, still wearing evening garb from dinner, gave them little more than a passing glance. “And this doesn’t really strike me as your scene.”
“Everyone knows we’re in the Delacours’ suite,” Archer said, pulling out a chair for Toria next to a large window. “We can wear whatever the hell we want. And do you hear that?”
Low classical music drifted in from invisible speakers, barely audible over the low
