At the center of the private chef's courtyard lay a pool as pristine and clear as a mirror, its surface reflecting a dim palace lantern hanging from the eaves and a sky as dark as splattered ink.
Adrian stood beneath the gallery, his sharply handsome features obscured in shadow, those long, cold black eyes casually sweeping across Serena.
His gaze slid, bit by bit, to Jasper Grant, who was holding her.
Jasper was dressed in a meticulously formal suit, gold-plated cufflinks and lapel pin lending him an air of refined elegance, his deep blue tie gleaming with a subtle luster, knotted precisely with a Windsor knot.
He looked every inch the gentleman—proper and polished, an old fossil, dull and uninspiring at a glance.
The private chef's lighting sketched more than it illuminated; there were no bright overhead lights, only a few thoughtfully placed low-level lamps.
Stone lanterns, recessed floor spotlights, and lantern boxes hanging from the galleries and eaves.
