“Hello, Jenna, dear. Sit down, please. This is Noah Armstrong.”
Jenna shook hands, trying to decide if the androgynous individual in a fluid silk suit beside her aunt was male or female, then settled for, “A pleasure, Noah.” Living in New York for the past four years—not to mention a solid year plunged into Temple life—had been an education in more ways than one.
“Ms. Caddrick.” Firm handclasp, no clue from the voice. Noah Armstrong’s eyes were about as friendly as a rabid pit bull challenging all comers to a choice cut of steak.
Jenna ignored Armstrong with a determination that matched Armstrong’s dark scowl, sat down, and smiled far too brightly as Cassie Tyrol poured wine. Cassie handed over a glass in which tiny motion rings disturbed the wine’s deep claret glint. Jenna hastily took it from her aunt before it could slosh onto snowy linen.
“Well, what a surprise, Cassie.” She glanced around the elegant restaurant, surreptitiously tugging at her short skirt to be sure nothing untoward was showing, and realized with a start of surprise there were no reporters lurking. “Gawd. How’d you manage to ditch the press?”
Her aunt did not smile. Uh-oh.
“This was not an announced visit,” she said quietly. “Officially, I’m still in L.A.”
Worse, oh, man, she’s gonna let me have it, both barrels . . .
“I see. Okay,” she sighed, resigned to the worst, “let’s have it.”
Cassie’s lips tightened briefly. The redness in her eyes told Jenna she’d been crying a great deal, lately, which only added guilt to an already-simmering stew of fear and defensiveness. Jenna, wishing she could gulp down the wine, sipped daintily, instead, determined to maintain at least a facade of calm.