Return Of The Lost Dragon

The Dinner:

Back in New York, the night slipped in cool and easy, a balm for the nerves that had frayed for weeks. Keith propped himself against the polished black Mercedes, the low growl of the idle engine humming under the hush of the street.

He felt the familiar weight of his hands in the pockets of the new jacket, the little flick of his gaze landing on the townhouse door every two breaths.

Tonight, for the first time, he had played chauffeur, rolled up the hill himself instead of sending the usual car, because a simple evening called for a personal touch, for a quiet toast to the numbers on the last quarterly, and maybe for a whisper of what neither had named.

At last the door opened a slow inch, and one of Bella’s longtime hands appeared, a grey head bowed in the old-fashioned way that spoke of years and respect.

“Sir Keith,” came the servant’s measured tone, “Miss Bella asks for another few minutes.”

Keith arched one brow, a faint, knowing smile appearing. “Another few minutes?” he re