Samantha watched Amelia walk away, her blood practically boiling beneath the fabric of her perfectly chosen designer outfit. The nerve of that woman. Strolling into Alan's home at this hour as though she owned the place, then breezing past without even the courtesy of a polite greeting. It was an insult Samantha could not swallow, no matter how much she tried to keep her expression serene.
The moment Amelia disappeared from sight, Samantha plastered on her polished society smile, the kind she had practiced for years in mirrors and in photographs, and turned toward Samuel.
"So, Samuel," she said, her voice airy, her tone almost playful, though her knuckles had gone bone white around the strap of her purse. "Who exactly was that? I do not believe we have been introduced."
Samuel's face revealed nothing, as if it had been carved from the coldest marble. "A friend of Mr. Blake's."
