She’d seen Ashley Wakefield enter the offices of Touchstone Communications and would have followed her, but then she saw something as disturbing as anything she’d yet witnessed.

Lillian Parker had pulled up to the Touchstone Communications building in a cab. Famous news-woman, heiress, best friend of actress Judith Land. Countless times Lillian Parker had been offered a fortune to tell her version of the Judith Land story. Each time she had refused. Her friendship with Judith, she said, was not for sale, at any price.

Had Lillian Parker recognized the tiara and choker?

Shocked, Sarah had retreated. She was more convinced than ever that she should have never contacted Ashley Wakefield personally. She hadn’t weighed the facts, considered the consequences of what she was doing. She had simply acted. It wasn’t like her.

Except, she thought unhappily, where her father was concerned.

“Hello, Sarah.”

Giles Smith eased onto the bench beside her, and she looked at him in resignation, too worn out even to register surprise. He was such a hulk. He wore one of his T-shirts, dark raspberry. She had been to bed with Giles twice, six months ago, and had seen him little since. Motivated by simple sexual curiosity—would someone with his build be better than average in bed?—she had found the experience unexpectedly dull. The first time, Giles had hammered into her for three minutes—she’d had nothing better to do than time him. Then he’d collapsed and fallen asleep. Convinced that was a fluke, Sarah had gone to bed with him a second time. It was a repeat nonperformance. Meanwhile, she’d discovered Giles entertained romantic as well as sexual fantasies about her. He’d sent her awful poems, but she hadn’t had the heart—or the guts—to tell him she wasn’t interested. Instead, she’d simply been ignoring him.

All along, she’d known he was doggedly loyal to her father.

She squinted at him in the sun. “Hello, Giles.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Sarah. Your father’s worried about you.”

“Daddy?” She checked herself. Even when she’d been a baby, Andrew Balaton was never Daddy, but always Father or sir. “He sent you here?”

“He’s the boss, Sarah.”

She sank in the slat seat, defeated, and horribly, she felt like crying. “Just go away, Giles. Please.”

He studied her, edging close to her, and the thick skin around his narrowed beady eyes made them seem even smaller. “It’s not my decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“Daddy’s calling the shots. Always does, doesn’t he?”

She wanted to scream. She couldn't let him see her cry. “What do you want me to do, Giles?”

“It’s easy, Sar. Your father’s in New York. He wants to meet David Wakefield.”

“David Wakefield? Why?”

“You don’t think he told me, do you?”

It was a rhetorical question, but she said, “No, of course not.” She looked down at the pigeons pecking at the bread crumbs, always ready for more. Her eyes still lowered, she said, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Invite him to dinner.”

“Why not Ashley?”