That was one of the things he’d liked about her.

Maybe she’d actually been mad that he hadn’t gotten her a separate room and had decided to show him she knew what he’d really had in mind. Or maybe it had bothered her that he hadn’t seen any problem with them being in the same room and she had set out to show him how wrong he’d been about her, that she wasn’t “good old Mallory” anymore but a hot little number.

Try as he might, he couldn’t have imagined Mallory going to bed with a man she didn’t respect. That was another thing he’d liked about her.

I love so many things about her.

No, loved. Past tense. He’d been wrong about her ethics, wrong about her need to respect the man she gave herself to, because it was clear she didn’t respect him at all.

He needed to move out of this suite. The St. Regis was still fully booked, but New York had thousands of hotel rooms. He’d assumed they couldn’t all be occupied by shoppers, theatergoers, and folks in town for a taste of a New York Christmas season.

But a blizzard had raged through the night. With all three airports socked in, all the hotels just might be fully booked. Where would he go? It didn’t matter. He’d sleep on a bench in Grand Central station. He had to move.

But to move, he’d have to pack. To pack, he’d have to fold everything that was lying around and sort through a thousand scattered pieces of paper.

He’d reimburse Mallory for the ornaments she’d insisted on buying, but he was taking the tree. He’d leave her the mistletoe to remind her of the way she’d tricked him into that first kiss.

Because he was carting the tree out, he’d have to take a taxi. Of course, the taxis wouldn’t be running today. The city would get the streets cleared by tomorrow, but it hardly seemed worth the effort just for the relief of getting away for a mere three days. A couple of weeks ago, when they were still speaking, they’d agreed to suspend the depositions for the holiday, go home to Chicago early on the twenty-third and start up again on the first Monday in January.

He’d have to find the hotel room himself. Brenda wouldn’t be back at the office until Monday. He’d have to figure out a way to get the tree from here to-wherever-without breaking its balls.

Or he could just lie here. That would be the easiest thing to do. Maybe Mallory would decide to move.

Wearing her original black jacket and pants, Mallory sat cross-legged on her bed organizing her makeup and toiletries. Carter would probably make fun of her, call it micro-organizing, but it wasn’t. Arranging lipsticks according to depth of pink was simply-organizing.

Anyway, he was the one who should move. All this was his fault. Since he didn’t seem to be making the slightest attempt to do the right thing, however, it seemed she would have to pack all her clothes, old and new, and roll her suitcases through the snowy streets to her new hotel room, assuming she could find one.

She could end up homeless, sleeping in a doorway. Her eyes filled with tears.

She drew herself up. She was taking the Christmas tree with her and that was that. Furthermore, she’d thought of two ways she might do it. She’d buy an ornament box and tissue paper or bubble wrap, wrap each ornament individually and put it in the box, then carry the tree in her biggest Bergdorf’s tote bag-she’d saved them all for reuse.

The other plan was somehow to shrink-wrap the tree, decorations and all, in plastic. She was certain it could be done. She just didn’t know where to find the closest shrink-wrap machine. So she’d better stick with the plan she could implement all by herself.

Could she carry all that on foot? It sounded like a lot of work, didn’t it? Just to save herself three days of living with the silent, accusing presence of Carter?

She’d see how she felt after she finished organizing.

But what if it was micro-organizing? Why was she doing it? Her gaze dropped to the Ellen Trent book, remembering what Maybelle had said about locking up her heart until she got her house clean. It was time to give up the Ellen Trent system and make room for a life. Grimly she rose out of bed, carrying the book in two fingers, and dropped it in her wastepaper basket.

She couldn’t say it made her feel good, just immeasurably better. Still, what was the purpose of getting a life if she couldn’t have it with Carter?

There was also the question of what to do with the navy-and-white-striped shirt she’d bought. She’d intended to give it to him for Christmas if she succeeded in her plan, which she clearly hadn’t done. Maybe Macon could wear it. She still had no idea what he was doing in Pennsylvania-except falling in love. Some people never changed. She almost wished she hadn’t. With a deep sigh, she added the shirt to her open suitcase, and saw a tear drop onto the gift box.

The real problem was that Carter had been right. She had set out to seduce him. What he didn’t know was that she’d done it because she loved him.

When the housekeeper arrived, Mallory peeked out to see if Carter was answering the door, and when she heard the sound of his shower running, she told the woman to start in her room first.

She went down to breakfast. Gazing blankly out the windows, she observed that the storm had blown itself out. It was now merely snowing, adding more to the piles that still covered the streets and sidewalks. With many thoughts running through her head, she broke one of her own cardinal rules-never use a cell phone in public-and called Maybelle’s office. “There’s not much point in seeing her again,” she told Richard, “but I’d like to come in this afternoon and settle the financial matters. My usual weekend time? Four o’clock?”

“Oh, dear,” Richard said, “she thought you wouldn’t want to see her and gave the president a double appointment so they could dig a little deeper into anger management and verbal communication skills. Could you come at six?”

“Sure. Why not?” Nothing else would be happening in her life. She’d do her shopping first, then see Maybelle.

Her shopping list was on her PalmPilot. She went to it, wrote in “ornament box” and “bubble or other wrap.” Scanning the rest of the list, she zeroed in on “condoms.”

She erased it so violently that the top section of her stylus popped off and landed on another table in somebody else’s oatmeal.

Carter heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner and speeded up the dressing process. When he’d pulled himself together, he warily stuck his head out into the sitting room. Not seeing Mallory anywhere, he came out more confidently. “I’m through in there,” he told the housekeeper, who was dragging the vacuum cleaner out of Mallory’s room. After giving the woman a wave, he stepped outside the suite.

The housekeeper had set a bag of trash just outside the door. Even Mallory’s trash was neat. On top lay a book. Carter swiveled his head to read the title. Efficient Travel by Ellen Trent. Trent? A relative of Mallory’s?

He picked it up. Stealing trash. That’s what he’d sunk to. Inside was a note that began, “Dearest daughter.” Ellen Trent was Mallory’s mother?

He took the book with him and went out into the snow, slogging along in search of one of those bookstores with a café where he could settle in with coffee and something unhealthy like a cinnamon roll. He had some reading to do.

“Richard?”

“Yes, Mr. Wright. Or I suppose I can call you Mr. Compton now.”

“Sure, sure,” Carter said into his cell. “Call me whatever you want to. I just wanted to confirm my three o’clock appointment today.”

“Oh, dear,” Richard said, “Maybelle thought you were too mad at her to want to see her again, so she gave the president a double appointment so they could go more deeply into-”

“The president?” Carter said.

“Not our president,” Richard explained. “Another president. Anyway, she can’t see you at three, but she could see you at six.”