Gabriel kissed the proffered cheek. “Did your husband let you out of the house dressed like that?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Not again.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Sarah’s husband worked for a clandestine department of the Secret Intelligence Service that carried out politically sensitive black operations. Service regulations forbade him from discussing any aspect of his work with his American wife. She never knew where he was, when he was coming home, or when he might be leaving again.
She escorted Gabriel and Chiara across the terrace and into the warm embrace of Julian Isherwood. He looked at the glass in Gabriel’s hand with an expression of mock horror.
“Sparkling water?”
“I have to keep my wits about me for the interview.”
“Nonsense, petal. Have a glass of the Bollinger instead. I think you’ll find it’s a performance-enhancing drug.”
Niles Dunham hailed a waiter and exchanged Gabriel’s mineral water for a glass of champagne. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to do this,” he said. “Needless to say, I am forever in your debt.”
“Other way around, Niles.”
“I have something for you, if you’re interested.”
“If you could afford my services, we wouldn’t have to hold this fundraiser. Besides, I’m booked for at least a year.”
“Who’s first?”
“I am,” said Sarah. “A lovely Grand Canal scene by Bellotto.”
Niles rolled his eyes.
“You disapprove of Bellotto?”
“Chocolate box.”
“Nonsense.”
A murmur went through the crowd, and heads began to turn.
“Is that Alice?” asked Chiara.
“No such luck,” replied Gabriel.
It was only Olivia Watson, the former fashion model who now ran a wildly successful contemporary art gallery in King Street. Gabriel knew Olivia’s dirty secrets too.
“Bitch,” whispered Sarah over her drink.
“Now, now,” said Gabriel.
“Did I miss something?” asked Niles.
“Long story,” replied Julian, his tone cautionary.
A chime sounded, summoning the guests to dinner.
“Saved by the bell,” said Gabriel.
Sarah frowned. “Unless the lovely Ms. Watson and I happen to be seated at the same table.”
