Kipp was exhausted by the time we disembarked from the jet in San Francisco. Even though the Cessna was mine, that didn’t make the trip from our private island in the Fijis pass any more quickly, especially considering the refueling stops we’d been required to make.
“Armitage said she’d have a car waiting for us,” I murmured in his ear. My personal assistant was a jewel beyond price.
“I’m glad.” He sighed. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, do we?”
“I thought we’d have dinner in our hotel room, then perhaps shower and go to bed.”
“Sounds good. I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket.”
“Never that.”
“But I know you wanted to go to that photo exhibition.”
“That’s tomorrow evening.” An up-and-coming photographer, Peabody Grant, was making a name for himself, and if I liked what I saw, I
