ALMS TO LOVE
Fiona didn't glance at him—but her glare was so loud it spoke in a language of its own.
They locked eyes with each other, their mutual hatred blazing just beneath their very skin. Fire and ice, dancing an impossible waltz.
Then Jamaica reclined in her throne-chair, tapping her fingers on the rim of her cup.
"Well then," she declared. "That's settled. Wedding in a month. Garden wedding. Fiona, dress like you didn't start out with money—but that money wept when it laid eyes on you."
Fiona hacked painfully into her napkin.
Charles gulped the last of his wine as if it were vodka.
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