But Sophia was different. He didn’t want her to leave, and he didn’t want to wash her away either. He held the bed-sheet to his nose. It smelled faintly of her. He should leave a note to housekeeping not to wash it.
Don’t get stupidly sentimental. You don’t know what Benjamin’s going to say.
The cold reminder stopped him in his tracks. He pulled out his phone. Nothing from Benjamin yet. It had happened seven years ago. Sophia might have been mistaken about the other car being a red Lamborghini. After all, she’d said a lot of things were sort of hazy. She could’ve confused a Ferrari or something for a Lamborghini. And she’d said it had happened in the evening. Harder to see at dusk…
He rubbed his face. There was no reason to think the worst—and such pessimism wasn’t like him. If Sophia had received five million dollars seven years ago, would she be in the dire financial situation she was now? Probably not. He should just wait and not spoil the happiness he’d found with her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dane would’ve preferred to keep Sophia away from the family mansion, but she was worried about Roco. So after sushi for dinner later that day, he drove them back to Salazar’s house.
“You know, Al’s very good with dogs,” Dane said.
“But Roco’s my responsibility. I’m sure he misses his mommy.”
Dane gave up. He wasn’t going to win against her sense of responsibility, and it was cute and endearing that she took her dog-parenting so seriously.
“Did you ever have a pet growing up?” she asked.
“We weren’t allowed.”
“Was it because your mother was afraid that they might break something?”
“No. Dad didn’t want any.”
“Oh.”
“There are a lot of things that he lets you do that we weren’t allowed to do.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Was that why you thought he and I were together?”
“Something like that. The Aston Martin you drove is very rare. Same model that Sean Connery’s double-oh-seven drove. Iain, Mark and Shane would all give their left nuts to take it out for a spin.”
“I had no idea.”
“I know.” He hadn’t believed it before, but now he did.
By the time they reached the house, it was a little past nine. Al as usual was waiting for them, his back ramrod straight. The man could teach posture to ballet dancers.
“Sir, a special courier came by half an hour ago to deliver this.” He handed Dane a brown envelope.
Dane glanced at the address. His heartbeat skittered.
Benjamin Clark.
Damn. That was fast.
Sweat dampened Dane’s hands, but he gave Sophia a smile. “I need to review this.”
He made a left turn to the family room with a few plushy armchairs and couches. After closing the door to make sure he was alone, he took a seat and ripped the envelope open. A slim report fell out.
This was it. The moment of truth.
He read it, his stomach in knots. The summary memo was succinct and to the point as usual.
November Seventh. Dane clenched his teeth at the date seven years past.
His Lamborghini had crashed into a taxi on its way to Charles de Gaulle airport. The other driver’s identity was unknown. The Paris police didn’t have a detailed record of the incident. All parties had settled amicably, or so the police claimed. The settlement amount was also unknown, but it had to have been significant. The cabbie had cut back on his hours after the accident, but was apparently still able to maintain his lifestyle.
The hospital that had treated the other driver had stated that in addition to the cabbie, there had been a young American woman. No name. She’d had injuries to her hip and dislocated a shoulder. The cab driver had suffered some trauma, although it wasn’t specified.
A chill spread over Dane as he recalled what Sophia had said. Her shoulder wasn’t normal anymore, and her hip had been injured. And those injuries were the reason her career had been cut short…seven years ago.
The hospital didn’t have any patient info beyond that. The woman had elected to go to a medical facility in America for surgery. The hospital didn’t know which one, and Benjamin had hit a dead end.
The same Parisian hospital had treated Dane as well, but he’d been in a different part of the building. A couple of days before the American woman’s release, he’d been moved to Italy at his grandmother’s request, to be treated by a private physician there. His records had gone with him.
The Italian physician had died two years ago, and his practice had been sold soon after. The new office didn’t have records for former patients.
Hands shaking, Dane shoved the file back into the envelope. He pulled up his phone and googled Sophia Reed. The Wikipedia entry should have the information about her competitive history. There it was. The final competition—The Trophée Éric Bompard. He clicked on it. His stomach dropped.