Richard

"Thanks, Mary," I say, patting the head servant fondly on the shoulder. "And the red from France, the one — yes, you know it."

I turn from the kitchen, ducking out toward the deck — and stop dead. A pair of figures, laughing, is stumbling up from the natural pool below. I recognize Blake Tanner first. And then, somehow —

"Georgina."

The two halt abruptly on the cobbled walkway. Georgina is unmistakable in that dress. She's drenched head to toe, shivering violently, heels in one hand.

When she sees me in the light of the open kitchen door, her eyes go huge, irises lined in white. Blake's arm is around her waist.

"Mr. Platton," says the pool boy, with telling haste. "I was just — "

"I'll take it from here," I say, my voice made of steel. Barely my own. My hands at my sides are clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Thank you, Blake."

The pool boy has the audacity to look at Georgina, as though for permission. She nods once, stoically, and Blake hurries past me and into the kitchen.

"I can