Dante had been watching Sera Montague for eleven years.
He had watched her take the company from her father's hands without dropping a single thing. He had watched her organize a marriage around a man who was not paying attention and then leave it without making a scene. He had watched her go to Milan and come back with yellow flowers and something restored that had been quietly disappearing for three years.
He was good at watching. It was the most useful thing he did.
He had been watching Roman Ashford for considerably less time. The past year had provided sufficient material.
He had watched Roman come to the estate gate on a Tuesday night in November and sit there for twenty-three minutes without once calling through to be let in. Dante had been at a different window than Sera when t
