They didn’t seem the slightest bit suspicious as we ate and drank our way through a feast of Cuban food on a festive deck overlooking the water. Everyone seemed in high spirits this evening. The atmospheric restaurant, colored lights strung overhead, and upbeat, sultry music coming from the live band—along with plenty of cocktails—promoted laughter and loud, enthusiastic discourse at our table. Townsend had even gone back to talking and joking with Beck, their brief conflict over Pippa’s biscuit seemingly forgotten. The tables on the dockside bar were long, rectangular wooden things, and I was seated on one side with Beck and Laurie, wedged right between them, which was making me slightly nervous. Nervous, because Beck didn’t seem to be nervous at all, occasionally sneaking his hand behind my lower back and giving me a quick stroke with his finger above the hemline of my pants. I’d give him a wide-eyed, warning glance, but he’d just grin at my discomfort, like he was enjoying it.
