One Dangerous Lady [antikvár]

u T IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT A WIDOW IN possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband. Or so all my friends constantly tell me. Being such a widow, however, I'm a little more skeptical. Just as I'm skeptical of those who say that doing something once makes it easier to do a second time. That may be true of such things as skydiving or buying a couture dress. It is not true of murder. Believe me, I know. But let me begin where it all began again for me. My name is Jo Slater and I am happy to be back on top of the tiny, privileged world known as New York society—a hallowed, some say hollow place—from which I had been cast out for several years because of the treachery of my late husband (may he rot in hell). I doubt I will ever remarry, despite my friends' constant hopes and meddling. How could I ever trust a man again? But just because I don't want to tie a legal knot doesn't mean I've entered a convent. I'm open to trying my luck on the romance market once more, paltry though the pickings are in New York. That is especially true for women like myself, who are what my friend Betty Waterman calls "of an uncertain age." Romance was not the main reason I accepted Betty and Gil Waterman's kind invitation to stay with them in Barbados for the wedding of their only daughter, Missy. Betty was, after all, one of my very closest friends, and I had known Missy her entire life. Still, the possibility of romance was definitely alluring, and Betty had made a point of letting me know that among those she had in-