Peter Harding stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window without seeing the panoramic view of Denver spread out below him or the distant Rocky Mountains acting as frame. What he saw, what he always saw, was the reflection of himself.
The handsome man, flawlessly turned out in a custom-made silk suit of softest gray, was still a stranger, though a pleasing one. The hair flowing thick and sleek from a high, proud forehead, and the kindly gray eyes, were his, though the blond hair color came from a bottle. The patrician face, newly restored to vigor by a visit to the plastic surgeon, and that gave him the air of a statesman, had become his own years ago. He liked to think it was the way he’d always been meant to look. He hadn’t changed, just trimmed away the rough e
