“It’s harmless fun. People seem to be enjoying themselves.” A lot. Part of her envied the crowd’s ability to let loose. Tomorrow’s hangovers aside, they were having a grand time. While other people relaxed as they imbibed, Hannah hated the artificial lack of control that came with alcohol consumption. It made her feel blunt instead of sharp, as if she were trying to cut a ripe tomato with a plastic knife. Hannah’s control was her security blanket.

Timothy huffed. “Speaking of tacky, here comes Herb. I know the man can afford a decent suit. Why does he dress like a thug?” His backhanded snootiness irritated her. His willingness to use the other man’s talent with money and simultaneously insult him felt traitorous.

With a manicured hand, Timothy set his glass on a nearby tray.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder to see Herb walking toward them. She couldn’t picture him getting a manicure or standing for a custom suit fitting. She turned back to Timothy.

He checked the time on his watch. “Oh, look at the time. I’d better go. You’ve put in your obligatory time. You should feel free to leave, too. Honestly, I can’t believe you showed up. You are far too classy for a place like this.”

“I’m glad I had the chance to see the famous Carnival.” Plus, invitations from important clients were obligatory. She smiled, but the muscles of her face felt tight. Timothy made her sound as snobbish and uptight as him. Was she? She hadn’t come from his upper-crust background. She was a military brat. She wore expensive clothes, but only because that was what was expected in her profession. A corporate attorney had to look successful to attract clients. The first thing she did when she went home was change into her oldest jeans. She couldn’t do anything about the tension in her posture. That was both inborn and ingrained. Being raised by a decorated army ranger and colonel left its mark.

“Hello, beautiful,” a voice said over her shoulder.

Hannah turned. Herb Fletcher, CEO of Fletcher Properties, grinned over a glass of whiskey. Despite his unassuming attire, or maybe because of it, the sixty-year-old pulled off gray hair and blue eyes with Paul Newman appeal. “Staying for the samba competition, Tim?”

“No, I’m sorry. I was just leaving,” Timothy said. “Perhaps we’ll see each other on another deal.”

“I’m sure we will.” Herb sipped his drink. His eyes went cold. He knew exactly where he stood with the British investor: good enough for his money but not his social circle.

Timothy turned to Hannah. “Royce said you’re going to London next?”