“What are you doing here?” he whispered, his voice low and angry.

“I was invited, Graham,” I said, pulling my arm gently but firmly from his grip.

Gloria walked over, her eyes scanning my simple black dress with clear disdain.

“You look like you are going to a funeral, Jocelyn,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “And you are late. We have been waiting.”

“I had to put the girls to bed,” I said.

“The girls have a nanny for that,” Gloria said, tapping her fan against her palm. “Did you bring the papers? The gold pen is in Graham’s pocket.”

“I left the papers at home,” I said.

Graham’s face flushed red. “We told you noon tomorrow was the deadline. If you think you can play games with my mother’s money, you are sorely mistaken.”

“I am not playing games,” I said.

Before Graham could reply, the heavy brass chimes rang through the lobby, signaling that dinner was being served.

“We will discuss this at the table,” Gloria said, turning her back on me. “Come, Graham. We are at table twelve.”