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cocked her head, even more bird‐like and her nostrils flared. She set off on a collision course with the pimply teenage waiter standing closest to the big speakers near the stage. Honeysuckle perfume lingered like it didn’t want to follow.
    Christina hid a smile with her wineglass. Across the room, Richard Clay’s grey head kept an empty chair company, and as her eyes rested for a moment on her father, even that smile faded. She didn’t blame Saffah for leaving her father alone today. He was a bear with a sore head at weddings, too.
    “CC sweetheart. Is that you hiding under that hat? What idiot wedding planner hid you all the way over here?”
    Her heart sank.

    Lily Malone
    Dry lips brushed her cheek and if Abraham Lewis noticed the way she stiffened in her seat, he gave no sign. She stifled a sneeze. Bram always used too much Old Spice; he said voters liked it. He laid both hands on the back of the vacant chair and his fingers tapped chrome — wedding ring gleaming in the candlelight, nails blunt as his jaw. His tie drifted forward, the knot not quite central at his throat. He was still handsome, she decided, sandy hair just starting to recede. More time in the sun would do him good.
    “Look at you—gorgeous as ever—and here I am getting fat and lazy. I sit too much. I sit in parliament. I sit in committees. I sit so much, someone should paint me.” He laughed and patted the burgundy shirt stretched over his stomach, a little tighter than last time she’d seen him.
    “I heard you made the shadow ministry, Bram. Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”
    “Shadow Minister for the Arts and Shadow Minister for Transport. Now we just have to win the next election so I can stop being a Shadow.” He pulled out the vacant chair and sat. “Maybe you could paint me , CC? I hear you throw a great paint party.”
    She dropped her elbow to the tablecloth and squeezed the skin of her forehead between her thumb and fingers. “Who told you about that?”
    “My Clay family birdie.”
    “Bloody Saffah never could keep a secret.”
    Brown eyes, gold‐flecked in the candlelight, glanced over her shoulder and she sighed inside. She couldn’t remember when that started. They didn’t always rove. When she first knew Bram his eyes were her favourite feature. Then he caught his father’s political bug and his eyes started searching, seeking people with more power, more influence. Making sure he didn’t miss any likely target who might donate to the Liberal party coffers.
    “Saff said you made Lacy’s wedding dress.” His eyes returned to her face, slipped to the indent at the base of her throat, the green pendant hanging there. He poured Clay Wines Handcrafted 2008 Shiraz into a glass. “And what about that concoction you’re not quite wearing? Is that one of your originals?”
    Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. “I’m not a politician’s squeeze any more, Bram, I can wear what I like.”
    There was a hitch in the flow of wine pouring from the bottle in his hand, the only sign her barb hit home. Around them, waiters served alternate main courses: beef fillet and swordfish. The scent of coriander vied with red wine and Old Spice. Bram buried his nose in his glass. Sniffed. Swirled. Checked its colour by holding the glass to the light.
    Christina thought he was full of shit.
    He took a sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth. “That’s opened up beautifully. I get blackberries on the nose, what about you, CC?”
    Wine wanker . “Since when did you like wine?”
    “Parliament has a superb cellar. I’ve developed a taste. I could put in a good word for Clay Wines if you like. Get you more sales.”
    A fillet of beef landed in front of her, red juices running rare. Rivers of blood soaked into the bed of sweet potato mash. She swallowed hard against the rising lump in her throat.
    “We don’t have enough wine for our current clients. Thanks anyway.”
    Bram waved the waiter away before he