I glanced over my shoulder to find he had come to an abrupt halt a few yards from us. One foot was still in the air, and his mouth was working although no sound emerged.
“The music is about to start again. May I have this dance, Mrs. Mann?”
“Thank you, Mark.”
“Quinn, take my glass.” It was a champagne flute. My son looked at it, and then frowned at Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow, and a slow, intimate smile lit his face. “I’ve only had a sip.” He offered me his arm in an old-world gesture and said to Quinton, “Why don’t you let the good senator know your mother has a dance partner?”
The expression on Quinton’s face was entirely too pleased, although I had no doubt that by the time he confronted Wexler, it would have been wiped smooth.
I took Mark’s arm and let him lead me onto the dance floor. “I was under the impression that you were allergic to champagne.”
He was coolly studying the couples on the floor. “Allergic? To champagne? Not a chance! Who told you that?”