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“Clark? I thought that was you.”
Finnoula O’Hara, daughter of the Irish prime minister and, for one night many moons ago, a willing play-toy of mine. She practically runs towards me, holding her floor-length gown in one hand. She takes me turning to face her as a signal to put her hands on my chest and lean in for a kiss. I kiss her cheek almost on reflex, but it doesn’t alleviate my temper.
“I’m here with Poppa. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
I nod. “I’ll make sure I say hello before I leave.”
“You’re going?” Her voice is high and screechy. Her hands are back on my chest, groping unnecessarily at my pecs. “I thought I might get a dance, now that you’re single and all.”
I peel her hands off me, and she locks her fingers in mine, holding me as I try to tug back. “Finnoula, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood for dancing tonight.”
She looks up through heavy lids, her head on one side, still not letting go of my hands. “Well what are you in the mood for, Clarky?”
