---

---

Before this, I'd assumed Natasha's father was at least fifty.

The man across from me looked nothing like that.

Even the most well-preserved wealthy men didn't look like this. Tailored suit. Sharp features. A full head of dark hair.

I'd never done anything like this before, and I had no idea how to start.

"I wouldn't have guessed — you look so young. Forty at most."

He glanced up at me. "Thirty-three."

"I'm sorry?"

"Thirty-three years old." He pressed his lips together.

"Oh." I took a sip of coffee to cover my embarrassment, then, for reasons I still can't explain, blurted out: "You must have started very young."

He was quiet for a moment. His fingertip touched the rim of his glass. "Actually, I'm not her biological father."

It took me a beat. "You're her stepfather?"

"More or less." He looked down at his drink.

"That explains the age, then."

He exhaled slowly, gave me a measured look, and reached into his jacket. He set a business card on the table between us.

"My name is Dominic Kingsley. Let's get to the point."

He pulled his hand back.

"I want to hear everything about Natasha and your husband. All of it."

I tightened my grip on my coffee cup.

"All right."