Sarah Balaton sat on the monstrous pale pink couch in her ultramodern condominium in a high rise near Galleria. For the first time since her adolescence, she was biting her nails. She should never, never, never have called Ashley Wakefield. How could she have been so emotional? So impulsive? So stupid?

Her father wasn’t speaking to her. He had left for New York last night—on business, his personal secretary had said. Crockett Industries had a corporate condominium in Manhattan, and her father went there frequently, both on business and for pleasure. But this trip seemed too sudden. Too coincidental.

She sobbed silently to herself. What have I done?

Perhaps her misjudgment had come in contacting her father, not Ashley Wakefield. Sarah realized she should have known he would refuse to acknowledge the similarities between the jewels on the cover of You and the jewels in the photograph of the Countess Balaton’s portrait. “The Balaton jewels are a myth.” Well, they weren’t.

She had debated showing him the photograph of Judith Land wearing them at the Christmas ball in Vienna. They must have been smuggled out of Hungary—by her father? No, it didn’t make sense—and ended up with Judith.

Maybe her father had blotted out that night. Maybe it was too painful to remember.

But how had Ashley Wakefield ended up with them?

Sarah’s thumb throbbed. She pulled it out of her mouth and surveyed the damage. It amazed her that she was still this vulnerable where her father was concerned. Was she still the little girl who adored her absent father and chewed her fingernails to shreds every time she did something to disappoint him?

She jumped up. A walk would do her good. A “blue norther” had come down and pushed out the humidity that had gripped South Texas in an oppressive, smelly haze and sticky heat for two weeks. The air was clear now, and delightfully warm, the sky high and cloudless. A perfect Sunday morning.

She took the mirrored elevator down to the showcase lobby. Her building was filled with people who were like herself—at least on the surface. They were wealthy, educated, upwardly mobile professionals. They were the doers and the risk takers.

And yet Sarah didn’t think there was anyone like herself. Wherever she went, she felt like an alien. She didn’t belong.

Suddenly, fervently, she wished there was someone in her life she could trust, wholly and without question, someone she could turn to, knowing he would be there. Then, perhaps, she could begin to feel she belonged somewhere.

She snorted in self-disgust. “Don’t be such a simp.”

But was it so wrong to want to love and be loved? What was she betraying?

As she moved to the double doors, a man in a navy blue suit fell in beside her. “Good morning, Ms. Balaton,” he said smoothly.

Her eyes widened as she looked up, but she said nothing. There was no need. He was a security guard for her father—a competent, loyal bodyguard.