Her relationship, tenuous at best, didn't survive that first meeting. At sixteen, the pampered daughter of a wealthy diplomat and industrialist probably didn't have the reserves to combat such profound disappointment. In the years since, she armored herself against that memory. It's what survivors did. He didn't probe for more information about her mother. The memory, a defining moment for her to be sure, also proved a distraction. A truth hidden behind another truth—and he couldn't fault her. He trusted few, that every instinct and shred of research he turned up on Lady Hardwicke added fuel to the trust his gut already held for the woman aside—she was right that he revealed his hand to get her to reveal hers. By the time he pulled off at the first Pasadena exit and found a quiet side street to park on, she stared out the window. Slipping the car into park, he tapped her leg lightly. “Let's see how your face is…” She turned and he could almost feel the weight of her gaze despite the sunglasses shrouding her eyes.
