“Our boy is showing signs of life. Can’t blame him, though.” Riggs grins into his drink. “Those legs would look great wrapped around my neck.” “Winnifred Ashcroft,” Riggs’s date provides readily, glad to be of use. “She’s an actress. Came here with her agent. Well, our agent,” she amends, a brittle bite in her voice. “Chrissy has her favorites, obviously.”
