“Drink, darling?” Dante asked, patting the red velvet chair beside his.
“I’ll have a drop of their finest red, if they’ve got some spare.”
Dante clicked his fingers and I seethed with anger as the barman came running.
“What can I get you?”
“Miss Patrick will have your finest bottle of Barolo.”
“A bottle, sir?”
“Yes, yes, she can drink. It’s the Irish in her.”
I must have blazed a fierce rouge myself because Cornish moved awkwardly in his chair, suggesting, “I should leave you both to it.”
“Perhaps you should,” I agreed.
My plan was already blown out of the water.
“Oh, are you sure?” Sinclair stood and extended his hand at the same time as the footballer did.
“I’ll only risk the contract if I don’t keep curfew,” Cornish smiled, glancing at me but with no lust whatsoever.
Well, a
