Richard

Lewis's familiar silhouette is framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His shoulders are a rigid line, hands buried in the pockets of his nice navy suit. His auburn hair, duller than Georgina's, is slicked back stylishly.

Thunder sounds over the ocean, seeming to quake the island, rain lashing in violent strokes against the glass.

"You must have flown all night," I say, as mildly as I can manage.

Lewis turns stiffly, eyes narrowed and black with rage. "You son of a bitch."

Damn. I sigh, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "So. You know."

"I had one fucking request."

"Your sister is a grown woman," I say, any guilt I may feel eclipsed by annoyance. "I did nothing untoward."

"Untoward? You're fucking your assistant!"

"Lewis."

We both turn to find Georgina, dressed but still obviously sleep-mussed, framed in the parlor doorway. Her face is pink, full of contrition.

"Pack your things," Lewisorders her. "You're coming back to San Francisco."

Georgina sighs softly, as though disappointed. "Lew