When a man who never talks at breakfast clears his throat meaningfully at eight o’clock on a Monday morning, it’s an even bet he has something momentous to say. Jill Franklin looked at her husband to signify her attentiveness then waited for him to speak. He cleared his throat again.

“I’ve been a bit of a prat.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“What sort of a prat?”

“The usual sort.”

“With?”

“Secretary.”

Jill fought the sudden temptation to throw the contents of her large cappuccino in his handsome face. Instead, she sighed.

“That’s such a cliche. Middle-aged man. New young secretary. I find myself insulted.”

He had the grace to blush.

“Yeah. I suppose you might at that. Look. I’m sorry. But it gets worse.”

“Worse than rank stupidity?”

“Much worse. She wants to marry me. And her uncle is Maximilian Shaw.”

“Jim. You are beyond idiocy. Whatever possessed you to…