Behind her, her mother laughed softly.
Patricia Mitchell looked me over with open disgust.
“Get her out of here before she ruins the pictures.”
Her husband, George Mitchell, didn’t even bother making eye contact.
“And check her bag before she leaves.”
His voice was flat.
“Wouldn’t want anything missing.”
I swallowed.
Not because I was frightened.
Because I was furious.
Only fifty feet away, inside the house, my son Ethan Carter was speaking with investors who had flown in from Dallas, Atlanta, and Chicago.
He hadn’t seen me arrive.
I hadn’t wanted him to.
I’d come alone.
No driver.
No security detail.
No designer clothes.
No jewelry the business magazines would recognize.
No famous last name.
For one simple reason.
I needed to know exactly what kind of woman my son intended to marry.
Vanessa had just given me my answer.
A young waiter cautiously approached carrying a folded linen napkin.
