She had to hand it to him, Dara thought. Stefan Cassadine stood in the middle of her living room with all the comfort of someone who lived there.
He had taken off his heavy winter jacket and folded it neatly across the back of a nearby chair. His customary black suit fit him impeccably. As always. “Come,” Stefan said, with a gesture toward Dara’s plush couch, “Sit.”
She did not attempt to keep the look of disbelief from her face. Dara realized that Stefan was no doubt accustomed to being in control of his surroundings. But there was no way she would allow him to treat her as a guest in her own home. Not without calling him on it.
“For the record, Mister Cassadine,” Dara’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “you are on my turf. You should try to remember that.”
“Forgive me.”
The words were uttered simply enough, but Dara doubted their sincerity. She was beginning to think that every word and deed of this encounter with Stefan Cassadine held some deeper meaning.
Though her face might have been impassive, her mind had been racing with conjectures and conclusions. For just as surely as Stefan Cassadine had been observing her, so had she done the same.
Dara’s years as an attorney had taught her many things, two of which she tried to live by. The first was to never accept anything at face value. The other? To always be on guard.
