“Owen said. “Sure.” The moment I heard his voice, a huge weight lifted off my chest. I’d called Signature Aviation at Woolwich Field, the close-in military airfield that the Queen, and others fortunate enough to have private jets and royal permission, uses. Lord Richard’s plane had landed at three. It was four-thirty—he’d been on the ground for an hour and a half. I’d been trying not to get paranoid or ticked. “Let’s go to Quentin’s,” I said. “They’re open on Sunday night.” “I’ll pick you up at ...six. I can’t wait to see you.” “Me too. I think I might have missed you a little bit.” “I’d call that progress,” Owen said. “I missed you a lot.” “So.” I took my first sip of an ice-cold martini. “Tell me. Was it great?” “Unreal. I wish you could have seen it.” His face was ruddy with windburn, and his eyes sparkled. “It was so cold I thought I would freeze to death, and Bertram was right, this group takes its fishing very seriously.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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