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
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