“Would you please stop worrying? Let the professionals do their jobs, Jeff. Your only role tonight is to be the perfect host.” Lady Patricia slid an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. She wore a navy blue organza gown designed by Karl Lagerfeld, and diamond earrings matched the necklace, the stones glittering in the bright lights and contrasting with her tanned skin.

Sir Jeff was startled, then he wrapped a big arm around Pat and hugged her close. Gave her a smile. “You are beautiful tonight,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” she replied happily. “We’ve had many parties, Jeff, but this is at the top of the list.”

Lady Pat looked around. Busy, efficient people were working hard to make the evening work perfectly. “So why are you worried?”

“Something Kyle said a few weeks ago,” her husband replied.

“Oh my God, Jeff. Listen to Kyle Swanson when you need to kill somebody, not when you are seeking social advice.”

There was a small laugh behind them and Sir Jeff looked over. Delara Tabrizi, their thirty-year-old personal assistant, a refugee from Iran who was now a British citizen, was standing there with a thick notebook of checklists, a personal radio-telephone in her ear, a small computer in her hands, and a big smile on her face.

He glared at her without effect. The two women in his life were not afraid of him.

“Lady Pat is right, sir. It would be a vision of hell for Kyle to figure out a seating chart, and where to place that beautiful wife of the foreign minister of Israel for maximum effect, or to plan a menu that would be memorable for Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike. That, sir, would indeed be funny.”

Pat asked, “See? So what did he tell you that has gotten you so jumpy?”

Delara Tabrizi cocked her head and poked a finger in her ear to push the radio receiver deeper for better reception. She tapped her keyboard then looked up. “Excuse me, Sir Jeff, but you wanted a status report?”