“She’s been inquiring, relentlessly I might add, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. At least it gave me what I needed most. Cooperation.”
“No, my friend that is called blackmail.” Ramsey shook his head. “She’s more of a menace than I gave her credit for, which is saying a lot.”
“She’s a good girl,” Heathcliff added in her defense. “She’s not a wilting English flower, and I don’t wish to break her spirit. It’s her defense, and while I could press the issue—I am her guardian—I don’t wish to destroy her free will and strong spirit.”
Ramsey turned to his friend. “Growing soft in your old age?”
“Apparently.” He shrugged.
“Well . . . at least you have her cooperation.”
“I’ll take the victories I can win without much fighting. I’ll save that for Westhouse when I can finally give him the facer he deserves.”
“Me first,” Ramsey remarked, then turned his attention back to the dancers.
Me first.
