Pondering my predicament—expensive champagne; can I really say no?—I watch the waiter approach as he’s intercepted by an older man. Bowing differentially to whatever is said, old bovine-lashes turns back the way he came. The stranger, smiling widely, heads my way.
‘Allow me, my dear.’ His avuncular tone does not put me at ease.
‘No, really, I’m good thanks.’ I raise my arak in indication, but he doesn’t answer beyond peering down a blade-straight nose as he continues to peel the foil sleeve. ‘Anyway, my mum told me never to accept drinks from strangers.’
He laughs—a sound like suede. He’s good looking, if you have a thing for older guys, which I don’t: dark hair with a touch of distinguished at the temples and deep, brown eyes. Stylish, too; very monochromatic Armani. Dark slacks and a fine knit sweater, cashmere, I’ll bet.
‘Your mother is obviously very wise.’
My mother is a pain in my arse. And I don’t have daddy issues. I’m about to tell him so when Kai reappears looking very dark and broody eyed.
‘Abi.’
The tiny word sounds like an insult, the stranger’s head turning slowly toward Kai’s. My own swings comically between the pair as they stare at one another, one set of eyes blazing, the other quite benign.
‘Katherine.’ Kai doesn’t look at me, his eyes unmoving from the stranger. ‘May I introduce my father, Faris Al Khalfan.Abi, this is my friend, Katherine.’
