Bethie held out her basket, thinking now would be a good time to say something clever, but distracted by the bright, burning light in his eyes, the impact of his smile. "I fixed a picnic lunch," she stated and instantly felt foolish for the obvious comment.

"Wonderful."

She nodded, still feeling self-conscious. She returned her attention to the picnic basket. " Champagne, caviar, Brie. I didn't know what you liked."

"I like champagne, caviar, and Brie." He reached for the basket, and his hands lingered on hers. He stood very close, handsome this morning in tan slacks and a deep blue cable-knit sweater. Sandalwood and lemon, she thought and wondered if she'd given herself away by inhaling too deeply.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his fingers lightly brushing hers.

"Yes. And you?"

"I didn't sleep a wink. I was too busy looking forward to seeing you."

She flushed, but couldn't repress her smile. "Very smooth," she conceded.

"Is it? I practiced all the way over." He grinned. Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She was still reeling when he straightened again and took the picnic basket from her arm.

"In all seriousness," he said as he popped the trunk, "I have not looked forward to a day as much as I've been looking forward to this one in a very long time. We are going to go someplace marvelous, Bethie. We are going to have an ungodly amount of fun. Are you with me?"

"I could do ungodly amounts of fun."

"Perfect!"

He closed the trunk, then returned to get her door. The little red roadster really was commanding. Beautiful rounded lines on the outside. A striking black-and-chrome color scheme on the inside. It looked like something a movie star should drive, say Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Bethie was almost afraid to touch it. Tristan, however, took her hand and without hesitation, helped lower her into the low-slung black leather seat.

"You know what?" he said suddenly. "You should drive."

"Oh, no. I couldn't – "

"Yes, yes, absolutely. Everyone needs to drive a sports car once in her life and today, it's your turn."

He helped her back out of the car. She was still protesting when she found herself in the driver's seat, holding a small, rectangular key fob and wearing a very silly grin. The sleek chrome gauges winked at her. The rounded chrome gear stick felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. Tristan climbed into the passenger's seat. She barely looked at him. She hadn't even pulled away from the curb, and she was already in love with this car.

"See the little silver button?" He pointed to a small button on the corner of the key fob in her hand. "Push it."

She did and the tiny silver key shot out of the side of the box like a switchblade. She startled, almost dropped the key, then laughed. "Oh my goodness, who thought of that?"

"Probably somebody in marketing. Pure gimmick, but highly effective. Now love, put it in the old ignition. Here's the lights, here's the windshield wipers, and here's the hand brake. Give it a whirl."

She stalled the car in first. Jerked them into second as she tried to get a feel for the clutch, then finally spluttered down the road. It had been years since she'd driven a standard, not since her college days. But she quickly discovered that some part of her had missed the feel of a gear stick in her hand, the sense of controlling the vehicle as if it were a high-spirited horse, the surge of power as she felt the zippy car respond. She went around the block, grinding the gears painfully, but Tristan didn't seem to care and she found herself laughing breathlessly. She liked this car. She liked this man. She could do this.

"Listen to this, Bethie," Tristan said. "I got it just for you."

He pushed a silver panel on the dash. It rose to reveal a myriad of stereo buttons. Two more jabs with his finger, and Miles Daviss " 'Round Midnight" poured out of discreet Bose speakers and flowed all around her.

"You remembered."

"Bethie, of course."

Miles Davis's trumpet began to wail. She found the proper rhythm for the gears, and the roadster began to purr. Tristan was right, she thought. Everyone should drive a little red sports car once in her life, and this car drove like a dream.

She took the on-ramp to 1-76, feeling the roadster gather beneath her feet. First, second, third, pushing the tachometer all the way up into the red zone. The second turbo kicking in and pressing her back against her seat. Twenty, forty, eighty miles per hour, and still as smooth as silk.

"There you go," Tristan said approvingly. "That's how you drive, Bethie. Go after the road like a speed racer, don't let anything hold you back."

She smiled. She pressed on the gas. She hit one hundred miles per hour and let the wind gather up her dark blond hair and the sun beat down on her upturned face.

"We're off like a herd of turtles!" Tristan roared over the rushing air.

She laughed, she drove faster, and she never bothered to mention that that was one of Mandy's favorite expressions. Ilove you, she thought. God, I am so happy!

Tristan was still watching her with that intent look in his eyes. He had pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. He ran one gloved finger down her cheek.

"Bethie," he said after a moment. "Tell me about your second daughter. Tell me about Kimberly."

The Olsen Residence,Virginia

It took Rainie four tries to find Mary Olsen's house. The first time, she didn't even notice the narrow driveway off the heavily wooded road. The second time, she spotted the driveway, but couldn't see any sign of a house through the trees. The third time, knowing she had to be close, she drove halfway up the driveway, saw a freaking mansion perched on top of a circular drive, and hurriedly backed down before some butler loosed the Dobermans on her. The fourth time, she parked alongside the road, got out of her car, and went over to the discreet black mailbox on its ornate wrought-iron post to read the house number.

"You're kidding me," she said to no one in particular, then flipped open the file of background information she had gathered on Mary Olsen, and scanned the material one last time. "Huh. Who the hell is a twenty-five-year-old unemployed waitress sleeping with to get a house like that? And does he want a mistress?"

Who, turned out to be a neurosurgeon, which Rainie learned when she drove back up the driveway and made it to the front door. Dr. Olsen had already left for the day, but an oil portrait of his grandfather was the first thing she was shown when the butler – yes, the butler – led her into the cavernous marble foyer. He left her to stare while he went to fetch Mrs. Olsen.

Rainie amused herself by price-checking the interior. One gigantic round crystal table, centered in the middle of the foyer, bearing a Lalique stamp. She figured twenty grand. One highly polished side table constructed from bird's-eye maple with black walnut trim and legs straight out of a Louis XIV wet dream – probably fifteen grand. Sixteen-foot draperies of peach velvet with gold satin lining and miles of gold cord. Twenty thousand, maybe even thirty; custom window dressings weren't her strong suit.

At any rate, the room seemed to have a fifteen-grand minimum, which put Rainie way out of her league, as the last she knew her entire body was worth a whopping buck eighty-two, or something like that.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Mary Olsen stood at the top of the circular staircase, looking down into the foyer. As she was half-expecting Scarlett O'Hara at this point, Rainie found her first impression of Mary disappointing. No hoop skirt. No big hair. Just a frightfully young-looking girl in a blue-and-yellow flowered Laura Ashley dress, leaning over the gilded railing and looking at Rainie expectantly.