‘Why me?’
‘And not the others? Can you seriously see those hirsute Neanderthals
being admitted?’ Daemon’s well-bred eyebrows rose, indicating the clutch of hard-faced
men, shuttered eyes fixed on the spinning wheel, diamond-décolletéed women at
their shoulders.
Chris knew what he meant.
But was not as convinced as Daemon of the superiority of this
perfumed-murmuring, money-cultured crowd. He wondered how many others wore hired
suits and false credentials – his at Daemon’s insistence.
A drawled ‘Lend me fifty, will you?’ told him why he’d
been invited. He’d refrain from punching him. Lacking the Neanderthals' inheritance
he still had much to learn.
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