Chapter Seventeen
Ward leaned against a wall, a glass of David Nicholson 1843 in his hand. He appreciated that every bar at every one of Michael’s events, both private and corporate, was stocked with the obscure, mellow caramel liquid simply because he knew it was Ward’s favourite.
He sipped, letting the handcrafted Kentucky bourbon warm his throat before he swallowed, and observed the milling crowd.
As with everything else Michael touched, the corporate office’s Christmas decorations were magnificent but tasteful. Ward glanced at the giant evergreen – real, just like the carved mahogany fireplace it sat beside, which Michael had cannibalised from an English manor house. Michael’s decorator, Ward mused, must have used a hundred yards of rich green and burgundy ribbons to festoon the bra
