Move to Strike by Sydney Bauer

finished, his eyes never leaving her own
.
    And then she laughed, a deep alluring chortle, throwing back her long pale neck, allowing her thick red hair to fall lusciously across her shoulders
.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day – during which I sat through endless sessions on corporate trust and communication issues. We even did therole playing thing – had to break off into little groups and try to guess when a fellow delegate was lying.’
    â€˜Which is why you suspected I was lying about my parents.’
    â€˜Something like that.’ She smiled, taking a long slow drink of her martini
.
    â€˜My mother danced nights in the casinos while my father made ends meet by working days doing the books for a local Vegas car dealer,’ Logan admitted, knowing he had her, and it would not matter in the end
.
    â€˜And you are ashamed of them?’ she asked, the slightest furrow in her brow
.
    â€˜They are not around to be ashamed of. They died in a car accident when I was a teenager.’
    He saw it then, the embarrassment in her eyes, the mortification at her own insensitivity, the regret at having ‘judged him too soon’
.
    â€˜I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I have had too much to drink, and as a result, have been uncharacteristically rude.’
    â€˜Apology accepted,’ he said, offering his right hand for her to shake as if they were agreeing to some sort of deal
.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she replied, her hand still firmly in his grip
.
    â€˜Are you doing anything after this?’ he asked after a pause, his agenda now firmly in place
.
    â€˜Not really,’ she said. ‘Are you?’
    â€˜Yes. I am taking you out to dinner.’
    â€˜Well then.’ She smiled. ‘I most gratefully accept.’
    â€˜In spite of the fact that my mother was a whore and my father a sap.’
    â€˜No, Jeffrey,’ she said. ‘Because of it.’

11
    T here was an old saying about Boston’s wealthy Beacon Hill and neighbouring Back Bay – something that went along the lines of: ‘Only real Americans lived on Beacon Hill and Back Bay – and they were Unitarians and medics and members of the Somerset Club with blood lines that dated back to the earliest of brave and adventurous settlers.’ And it was still true today, to a point, with Back Bay second only to Beacon Hill as the most expensive suburb in the city – its historic town-houses fetching around a cool three mill and the super-chic shopping strips of Newbury and Boylston streets screaming upmarket fashion with prices to match.
    The fact that the suburb was once literally a ‘back bay’ for Boston – a tidal waterway that was eventually filled following the construction of the old mill dam – did nothing to diminish its historical superiority as the earliest of New England architects took great care to line its streets with uniform and well-integrated three- and four-storey brownstones, stylish late nineteenth-century constructions which still stood firm today.
    So, as David and Sara climbed the stairs of Katherine de Costa’s well-preserved residence, giving the now standard ‘no comment’ to the handful of press who had been camped out front all morning, they had a feeling the décor inside would match the successful TV executive’s elegantaddress. And they were not disappointed when the attractive de Castro opened her door and led them into her stylish designer abode.
    â€˜Wow,’ said Sara, who was a big fan of minimalist chic. ‘Your home is beautiful, Ms de Castro.’
    â€˜It’s Katherine, and thank you,’ said their host, an exotically beautiful Latin–American with long dark hair and golden skin. She was dressed in all black – the only hint of colour was the myriad of brightly hued bangles that trailed up her slender right arm. They gave the otherwise conservatively dressed woman a