Xavier’s knuckles whitened against his booster seat. “Mummy—is that father motorcade?”
“Unlikely.” I snapped my compact shut, though the aftershave notes cutting through the Bentley’s recycled air—vetiver and crushed ice—were unmistakably Rafayel’s. “Your father considers Range Rovers frightfully nouveau riche.”
Raymond’s eyes locked onto the rearview. Without preamble, he wrenched...