m just as she cleared the estate gate

ed, keeping her pace

any greeting. "Someone just texted me that Dorr Randall is getti

usted her tote bag on her shoulde

ith outrage and disbelief. "You've been by his side f

en. It really

You don't have to put

gh. "Think about it. Dorr Randall has the face, the bank account, and-let's be honest-the stam

retched ov

d, her tone light, entirely devoid of bitterness. "I enjoyed the ride, and now

t somewhere between shock and deep admi

s to sort out tonight, but let's d

e waited, a black Bentley Mulsanne rolled past her, pulling over to the

er conversation with Gen about apart

here, Gen.

Bentley. The rear window was rolled halfway down. Even in the muted glow of the streetlights, Dorr's profil

en spike of fear. Just a fl

llowe

smoothing her skirt. "Good evening," she told the driv

ic. Bailey settled back against the upholstery,

t pulled away from the curb, sliding into the lane direc

er kept checking his mirrors, his

ation. "I don't want to alarm you, but I think that black car

e back window or let panic dictate her next move. Ins

her voice level and

e? Or I can try to lose him-take

k you," Bailey

oss the city. She refused to let Dorr make her feel hunted. If he wanted to shadow her, she would simply force the

window, scanning the

cted. "There's a cafe about two blocks up on the right.

re, miss? I

who hasn't quite grasped the conc

in front of a brightly lit, bustling street-side cafe. The warm glow of

tched the Bentley glide to a halt