The stairwell is no longer pleasantly echoing with Irish jigs and reels.
“It’s drowning frogs out there,” Emma says, crossly, shaking out her umbrella. Her shoes are soaked. “Did you hear the thunder going?”
“Yes, I did, and just look …
Is there anything more civilized than a winter lunch at a warm, quiet, leather-clad club with Corelli on the hidden speakers? Emma sighs, nibbling on savory house-baked crackers. The soup is superb, a deep brown beef stock redolent of onions. …
His name is not Ha Neol Ahn. Not any more.
It rattles her. That name came out of the research she did before their prizewinner showed up, when she was trying to get some grip on where their first chair …