“I don’t like it, Portia,” Gregor growled over dinner one evening. “What’s he doing with all that information he got about Quinn?”
“We haven’t heard anything about what happened when we were in France in 1980.”
“Huh? I mean, excuse me?”
I met his eyes across the table.
“You know why I refused to deal with M.Bauchet after that.” The man was a chauvinist, both nationally and sexually, and while I’d allowed him his perception of me as an American socialite who dabbled in wines, the hurt he’d caused my son when he’d forbade the friendship between the two boys put him beyond the pale.
“He believes that French boy was his one love.”
“Still? I’d hoped…” I sighed. If that were so, it was no wonder why none of his relationships with women over the years had lasted longer than six months at the most.
However, none of what I learned led me to believe that Mark Vincent intended to put my son’s life in danger, and so I filed it all away.