She held out her hand for Winston.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Winship.”
“Winston, please.”
“Winston? . . . Winston Winship?” She spoke the words reverently, mesmerized at
how, even as a question, the name rang with the chimes of history. As she
turned to leave, she knew he was staring after her.
She hadn’t meant anything by
uttering his name, she told herself later, other than how pleasant the
alliteration sounded, almost like it was a name plucked from a romantic World
War II movie featuring those handsome RAF pilots with the black wavy hair.
Actually, the guy had all the
makings of a spoiled prick—the overly confident demeanor, the moneyed good
looks. But the name wouldn’t go away. Winston Winship, she said to herself,
repeating it again and again.
It was making her feel she had just
slipped into a plush, royal purple bathrobe after doing thirty laps in the spa
pool high in the Swiss Alps and was about to take the first sip of a martini
before biting into a juicy steak.
Nothing sexual. Just a nice,
comfortable feeling that all was right with the world.
--From THE MOUNTING STORM, first novel
in the Kate Conway trilogy. ow.ly/s9SUB
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