Keegan wasn’t in the mood to argue, and he didn’t want to disrupt the easy, unhurried conversation he found himself in. He’d been drinking too much whiskey lately, just to hammer himself to sleep, but this wine—whatever its subtle chemistry—had given him a languorous, lazy buzz that felt comfortable and mellow, like a Sunday afternoon on a porch swing. “So, what’s the biggest drawback about being rich?” he asked.

“Romance,” Eve said plainly, as though she’d already given it a good deal of thought. “That’s the hardest thing of all, isn’t it? For everyone, I suppose. But when you’re rich, it’s impossible to know if someone loves you or just the things your money can bring him.” She held the teacup by its handle, giving it a gentle swirl. “Most men find a woman’s money bewitching or emasculating. It’s like there’s no in between.” She’d been looking down into her teacup, but she lifted her head and seemed to focus on him. “Not you, though, Jim Keegan,” she said. “It doesn’t seem to faze you at all.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with that observation, though it felt like a compliment.

“Money turns most men into boys,” she said. “So, there it is. Problem number one: money makes true love difficult. Poor me.”

She was making light of herself now, but Keegan could sense he’d drawn out something serious—something true in her she kept from others. He didn’t want to slight her with what he said next, but he also didn’t want to shrug off the heady ease he was feeling in her company. He chose his words carefully. “You’re young yet,” he told her. “Nobody your age has really known love. It’ll happen.”

“Oh, it happened,” she said. “Once…” Her words trailed off. Then—like a poorly edited movie scene—her mood changed abruptly. Some spell was broken. She dropped her feet to the floor and sat upright in her chair, smiling playfully. “And this is where that particular line of conversation comes to an end.” She stood and swept past him towards the kitchen. “And where our next round of Bordeaux begins.”

EVE WAS CLOSE by as they headed down the hill towards Ormsby’s back gate. He could feel her body lean into him as they walked. When they passed through the gate into the darkly scented garden, she took his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. Keegan wanted that to mean something, but they’d both had a half-bottle of wine and that was as good a reason for the closeness as any other. But, God, that lavender smell of her hair—it belonged in this garden on this balmy August night. Moonlight played upon the groomed hedges and shimmered on the surface of the swimming pool. Far behind them, up in the cottage, the radio was playing ‘Stardust’, and the tinny sound of it carried down to them. Beside a garden wall…