You're a woman, Miss Wainwright. Give me your honest opinion." Sam Stark paused briefly to drink from the glass of brandy in his hand. "Do you think it was the prenuptial agreement that spooked her?"
Desdemona Wainwright followed Stark's gaze. His attention was fixed on an object two floors below his study window. She had an uneasy feeling that he was brooding on the three large ice swans that were presently melting on the lawn of his austere garden.
By now her staff had probably finished clearing away most of the evidence of the abruptly cancelled wedding reception. Fifteen pounds of cold tortellini salad, two hundred...