Morning light set the room aglow. Sanda sat up in bed. For a few minutes she stared at the open balcony doors, conscious of nothing but the sea air and the quiet. She hugged the satin sheets to her belly, her mind full of fuzzy white noise. It had been quite a party. Even Rita Maris had come, the grand matron of the Transnational Group.
Frowning, she rubbed her eyes. Her skin felt too tight. Who had she been with afterward ... "
"House," she called, her voice scratchy.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Detox, coffee, shower."
"The water is already up to temperature."
"Thank you, House. Are there any guests still here?"
"No, ma'am. Veronica Tausig and her gentleman were the last to leave, approximately half an hour ago. She left a note thanking you for the good time."
"Remind me this evening to call her. Who was I with last night?"
"I'm afraid I have no record, ma'am."
Sanda opened her eyes within a start. No record? Bad, very bad. Slowly, she pushed the sheets back from herself, away from the bed, and ran her palm over them; dried semen had left a few crusty deposits; there were traces between her legs as well and just the faintest scent of an aphrodisiac she couldn't quite identify.
She drew a deep breath and let it out shakily. Her stomach knotted. You're hung over, Sanda Mahler, it'll come back to you.
)
