Chapter 7: Jonas Hartwell

The window seat looked out over the lit-up harbor road, and it was the only chair in the ballroom that nobody had touched all night.

Leigh sat down.

The man in the gray coat did not sit.

He stood a half step behind her chair with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes went around the room once, slowly, and stopped at each door.

She turned the cup in her fingers.

"Who are you?" she said.

"Jonas Hartwell."

Her hand stopped.

The coldest bachelor in Sleridge owned this hotel and eleven others.

He had a reputation for firing men in the elevator and for never being photographed with a woman.

"You offered my grandfather your ballroom," she said. "Before I'd even called him."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because it has the best exits in the city," he said.

That did not answer her question at all.

Before she could ask again, a shadow fell across the table.

The shipping heir was back, with a fresh smile and a fresh glass of champagne.

"Ms. Aldrich, I hoped you'd let me show you the harbor from my yacht on Sunday."

"She's busy on Sunday," Jonas said.

The heir blinked at him. "Mr. Hartwell, I didn't realize you two were acquainted."

"You have a fiancée in Miami," Jonas said, in the same quiet voice. "She's expecting you for brunch."

The heir's smile died.

"I never said..." he began, and looked around, and walked away without finishing.

The surgeon arrived next.

"Ms. Aldrich, I'd love to take you to dinner. I'm very good with my hands."

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