After about an hour of this psychological tug-of-war disguised as a business meeting, the atmosphere in the hotel suite shifted from professional posturing to something far more volatile. The expensive Scotch had done its work, but not in the way Isabel Myer had intended. Her face was flushed a deep, terrifying shade of crimson, and her eyes, once sharp and calculating, had grown vacant and glazed. Her speech, which had started as a sophisticated verbal dance, was now slurred and incoherent, the words stumbling over one another like a drunkard in the dark.
It was blindingly obvious that she had reached her limit. Her tolerance was nowhere near as high as she had let on, and as she swayed in her seat, I realized with a growing sense of unease that she hadn't invited me here to discuss ship
