“I feel responsible for ruining the last one,” Mitcheson said, his voice uncertain.
Riley undid the top button of her dress, then sipped more wine, her eyes on his. “Don’t worry — I’m sure you’ll make up for it somehow.”
She undid more buttons, revealing a froth of pale blue lace, and swung her foot to and fro. Mitcheson stood very still, mesmerised.
Two more buttons popped and the dress whispered apart. She flicked the material aside, allowing Mitcheson to see her all the way down.
“Maybe,” Mitcheson’s voice was strained, “maybe you could make it to San Francisco.”
“Who knows?” Riley shrugged her shoulders and the dress slid to the floor. She stepped towards him and placed her glass on the table, then did the same with his. She took his fingers and held them against her. “I may be an independent sort of girl,” she breathed softly, releasing his hand. “But the last bit really is up to you.”
In the glove box of her Golf, Riley’s mobile was ringing. After six rings the answering service took over and recorded a message. It was from Donald Brask.
“Riley, sweetie,” he intoned heavily. “Get off the nest, there’s a good girl. I’ve got a job for you. Riley? You there?”