I spot Tamara coming towards me, but her head is bent, and she is limping badly. What the fuck? I leave my drink on a table nearby and walk quickly to her side. “Are you all right?”

She looks up at me, the movement is unfamiliar and unlike her. “Not really. Can we get out of here? My broken ankle is killing me,” she says in a whiny voice.

I take a rear back and stare at her in horror. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but the woman standing in front of me is not Tamara Honeywell. My eyes quickly sweep over her body. Her breasts are much bigger and obviously fake, and the rest of her is horribly malnourished. Almost skeletal. I return my astonished eyes to her face. Even from under the mask her nose looks dangerously over-worked.

“Your ankle is broken?” I ask slowly.

Her eyes narrow. A look of uncertainty comes into them. “I thought you knew that.”

“I was under the impression it was sprained.”

Something flashes in her eyes. Fury. Not the kind of fury I’m used to seeing in Tamara’s eyes. This fury is vindictive and malicious. These are not the eyes I know. I take a step forward and whip the mask off her face.

She blinks with surprise, then, tries to smile.

I scowl at her fiercely. “I don’t give a damn who you are or what kind of sick joke this is. All I want to know is where is the real Tamara.”

She lifts her nose. “I am the real Tamara,” she announces grandly.

Of course, she is. This woman is everything I feared she would be: a proud, spoilt, plastic brat. Everything makes perfect sense now. The one I love is the imposter. I feel a flash of pure joy. All those horrible rumors weren’t about my girl.

“And who is the other girl,” I ask softly.

She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “No one. She needed a job so I helped her out.”

I stare at her for moment, my face deliberately cold. “Does she have a name?”

“Cass something,” she replies sulkily.

Cass. Yes, the name suits her. An image flashes into my mind. Cass riding Thunder, sunlight in her hair. Cass. Yes. My Cass.

“Where is she now?” I ask sternly.

She shrugs. “Who knows. Gone back to wherever she crawled out from.”

What a sneaky bitch. She didn’t fancy spending a month mucking out horse stalls so she hired a lookalike. “And you don’t know how to get in contact with her?”

“Nope.” Her voice is spiteful.

This is easier than I thought it would be. “Fine, I’ll just ask your father.”

The change in her is instant. She becomes red with fury. “My father? Who the hell do you think you are? You think my father has the time to get involved in your pathetic sex life? Mind your manners or I’ll make sure you’re thrown out on your ear.”

I look at her curiously. “Who do you think I am?”

For the first time, she looks unsure of herself. “One of the ranch hands?” she asks hopefully.

“Nope.”

Her forehead furrows then her eyes suddenly widen when the penny drops. “Lars…Oh, fuck. You’re not. Noooo.”

I nod slowly. “Afraid so.”

Another change comes over her. She starts simpering like some nineteenth-century heroine. “I’m so sorry I was rude to you. I thought you were one of the ranch hands.” She licks her lips nervously.

I laugh. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t Daddy know that you got an impersonator to take your place?”

“No. Please. Please, don’t involve Daddy. He’s got enough worries on his plate already.”

“Bullshit,” I say harshly.

She flinches at the hard threat in my voice, but I don’t soften my expression. I need to know where my girl is.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t tell my dad, okay?”

“I’m going to have to tell your dad either way, but you can make it easier for yourself by telling me where she is.”

“If there’s nothing to be gained by telling you, I won’t bother to. I know how to work my father, let’s see how you find that little tramp without my help,” she says, a taunting smile playing about her lips.

I want to grab her and shake her.

“Her name is Cass Harper and she works for a lookalike agency called ,” a voice behind us says.

I turn around and see an elegant woman dressed in a deep red suit standing a few feet behind us. She has gray hair and that kind of daring chic that you only find in Paris.

“How dare you interfere, you stupid old bitch?” Tamara screeches.

“This time you went too far,” the woman says in a calm dignified voice.

“This time you’re fucking fired,” she hurls back furiously

“Good,” the woman says softly, and turning around, walks away.

I spend one second more looking at Tamara Honeywell’s flushed, frustrated face, then I go after the gray-haired woman. She and I have unfinished business.

I need to know where my Cass is.