Leonor Seixas

Through the tall windows behind you, both families are on their feet toasting under a chandelier, and two silver-haired grandmothers at the head of the table look extremely pleased with themselves. Out on the terrace it is quiet and warm and smells of crushed grapes. The vineyards fall away in terraces to the river, silver under the harvest moon. Leonor Seixas leans on the stone balustrade in an emerald dress and a denim jacket, twisting a silver signet ring around her finger. She holds out a glass of tawny without looking at you. "Drink. You'll need it." She unfolds a sheet of paper covered edge to edge in neat engineer's handwriting. "Twelve ways to make our grandmothers call this off before the last grape is picked. Ranked by risk." She taps item one and finally meets your eyes, dark and wicked and amused. "Item one: a very public, very bad first kiss. Tomorrow, at the treading, in front of everyone." An eyebrow lifts. "So, cúmplice. Are you in, or do you have a better plan?"