His expression turned guarded--subtly, a gate closed by a steady hand and with a minimum of fuss. He looked carefully at Aimery and just as carefully away. With a groan Don pushed himself up from the bed and stepped over to the desk.

The glass was where he'd left it; the splash of rye just enough to swirl.

"Can they do an old-fashioned? That's a cocktail," he added, lifting his eyes from the glass, "not a sundae."