The gown was simple, cream-colored, with a neck that was square and deeply cut. When she slipped it on, it reminded Lara of a picture she’d seen of a Renaissance noblewoman in a history book. She looked…nice. But not like herself at all. And there was nothing she could do with her hair, so she gave it a good brushing and let it flow loose down her back.

She didn’t have time for anything else because Tanner was knocking on the door. She swung it open to see him dressed in a tuxedo and looking very elegant. “I did the best I could. But I don’t look like myself. It isn’t important anyway. Why should I care how I look for Kaskov?”

He looked her up and down. “Very nice. Exceptional, really. Everything fit?”

She nodded. “Even the shoes. You do have a good eye. I’m glad they’re flats.” She turned toward the door. “I’m not sure I could handle heels.”

“You can handle anything.” He put out his hand and stopped her. “Stand still for just a minute.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “I want to take your photo.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Stop frowning. You don’t have to smile, but don’t look as if I’m beating you.”

“What?”

He took the photo. “That was almost a smile. Now I’ll just send this…”

“Where are you sending it?”

He opened the door. “To Maria. Considering the life the two of you have led, I thought there was a good chance she’d never seen you looking like a princess. I thought she’d like it. I’ve heard mothers get soppy over stuff like that.”

I’ve wanted to do things for you, and with you, like a normal mother. Maria’s words suddenly came back to her.

And this must be exactly what Maria had meant when she’d told her that. How had Tanner realized that about Maria?

“I’ve heard that, too,” she said huskily. “Thank you for thinking of her.”

“Necessary. I had to show her that I was obeying her instructions. That appears to be my role in life tonight.” He was whisking her out the door. “Now let’s go and get this dinner over with so that we can get down to business.”

*  *  *

The first thing Lara heard as they crossed foyer toward the open doors of the formal dining room was the sound of a piano, soft, melodious, playing the strains of “Impossible Dream.”

Then they were through the doors and being bombarded by sensory overload of gleaming tile floors, chattering guests, and black-clad waiters moving swiftly among the tables. The dining room was as faultlessly elegant as the rest of the hotel, and the tables were packed with equally elegantly dressed patrons. She saw the young man who was playing show tunes on a beautiful Yamaha piano at the opposite end of the long room.