When she was almost sure she could, she walked back out.

He was waiting for her. Taking her arm, he led her to a table in the rear, where they could talk without shouting.

“I think we should go. There’s no use staying when you’re so angry with me,” she began, but he merely scraped back her chair.

“Sit.”

She sat.

“When were you going to tell me about your family?”

“I don’t see it as an issue.” And that was true enough. “Why should it be? This is only the second time we’ve gone out.”

The look he sent her had her jiggling a foot under the table. “You know damn well there’s more going on between us than a couple of dates.”

“All right, yes, I do.” She picked up her drink, then set it down again, untouched. “But that’s not the point. You’re acting as though I deliberately hid something from you, or lied. That’s just not true.”

He picked up the fresh drink he’d ordered. “So tell me now.”

“What? Didn’t you run a make on me?” His narrowed eyes gave her some small sense of satisfaction. “Okay, Detective, I’ll fill you in since you’re so interested. My family owns McNee-Holden, which, since its inception in 1873, has expanded from still cameras and film to movies, television, satellites, and all manner of things. Shall I have them send you a prospectus?”

“Don’t get smart.”

“I’m just warming up.” She hooked an arm over the back of her chair. “My father heads the company, and my mother entertains and does good works. I’m an only child, who was born rather late in life to them. My father’s name is Roger, and he enjoys a racketing good game of polo. My mother’s name is Susan—never Sue or Susie—and she prefers a challenging rubber of bridge. What else would you like to know?”

Despite his temper, he wanted to take her hand and soothe her. “Damn it, Bess, it isn’t an interrogation.”

“Isn’t it? Let me make it easy for you, Alexi. I was born in New York, spent the early part of my childhood on our estate on Long Island, in the care of a very British nanny I was extremely fond of, before going off to boarding school. Which I detested. This, however, left my mother free to pursue her many charitable causes, and my father free to pursue his business. We are not close. From time to time we did travel together, but I was not a pretty child, nor a tractable one, and my parents usually left my care up to the servants.”

“Bess—”

“I’m not finished.” Her eyes were hard and bright. “This isn’t a poor-little-rich-girl story, Alexi. I wasn’t neglected or unhappy. Since I had no more in common with my parents than they had with me, I was content to go my own way. They don’t interfere, and we get along very well. Because I prefer making my own way, I don’t trumpet the fact that I’m Roger K. McNee’s little girl. I don’t hide it, either—otherwise, I would have changed my name. It’s simply a fact. Satisfied?”