Peter was wholly bemused.
It was past midnight. He’d shed his jacket and his tie and sat in the middle of the Central Hall on a low sofa.
Across the coffee table, Geneviève Beauchamp was the only remaining guest. Frank and Beatrice had retired to the far end of the Hall to guard unobtrusively while the woman massacred him on the Scrabble board. Maybe he should retreat back to playing on-line, as there he pretty much dominated. Too bad he couldn’t play in the National Championships without actually attending.
Her silvered jacket was unbuttoned, but still draped upon her shoulders. Her hair, pulled forward over one shoulder, flowed in a lush dark wave. She leaned forward to study the Scrabble board, so that a small Chinese medallion she wore spun and sparkled with each movement. She was a
