We don’t see Adele again until just before we’re ready to leave the house. She’s on her way out, too. She’s dressed in black slacks and a fitted white top, a pair of simple flats on her feet. She’s knotted a bright silk scarf resplendent in jewel tones at her neckline. She looks me over. “That gown is perfect for you.”

Her compliment pleases me. I realize that I want her to like me. It’s silly and makes no sense, but I want her to like me. I reach out and touch the scarf. “That’s beautiful.”

She smiles. “It was given to me by my mother. It’s always been one of my favorites.”

Lance asks, “Adele, would you like to join us for a drink before the party?”

She shakes her head. “No. But thank you for the invitation. It’s my bridge night. Can’t keep the girls waiting, you know.”

She leaves through the front door. Her manner is relaxed, untroubled. No furtive glances my way, no whispered reminders of our conversation earlier. There’s a big SUV waiting in the driveway. When the driver sees Lance silhouetted in the doorway, she waves. I make out two other females sitting in the back.

“Do you know Adele’s friends?”

Lance closes the door. “Most of them. Sometimes she hosts the game.” He touches my arm. “She’s right about this gown. I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.”

His hands slide up my arms, his fingers begin to slip the straps off my shoulders.

The passion in his face burns through his fingertips, rages through his thoughts, stirs my own. “Maybe we should skip the party.”

His lips are so close. I raise myself up to meet them. His kiss is all the answer I need. I let the gown fall in a silken puddle at my feet. I kick off my shoes and stand before Lance naked and trembling and in a frenzy to get Lance naked, too.

He’s stripping off his jacket when his cell phone rings.

“Don’t answer it,” I breathe, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

But he has the phone in his hand and by his expression, I know he recognizes the number. He pushes me gently away and puts the phone to his ear. He says nothing. In another few seconds, he snaps the phone shut.

“I’m sorry, Anna. We have to go. It’s important we’re not late.”

He stoops to retrieve his jacket.

“We have to go? This minute?”

But he’s reaching down for my dress. I snatch it up before he can. “Who was on the phone?”

He doesn’t answer the second question, either. I can’t get anything from his thoughts. I can forgive a lot of things, like the fact that he’s kept his true identity from me, but here I am, standing naked in front of him, and he’s pretending not to notice. The first time that’s happened. Embarrassment yields quickly to anger. I turn my back and yank the dress back up.

Lance makes a noise in his throat. “Talk about coitus interruptus, huh?” He traces a finger across my shoulders. “I am sorry, Anna. We’ll pick this up when we get home, okay?”

Something has changed. He’s trying to be flippant, but his thoughts are troubled. Irritation tempers to concern.

I face him, slipping into my shoes. “Was that Stephen on the phone?”

Still no answer. Instead, he holds out a hand. “Let’s get going.”

Now I’m wildly curious. Who could be so important that Lance would drop everything (meaning me) to hustle us out of the house? And why did his mood change so abruptly?

Once we’re on the way, I don’t jump right in and insist that Lance tell me who called. My instincts tell me to be patient even though patience is not one of my strong suits. I’ll go in the back door if I can’t get in the front. I try probing, to read his thoughts, but bump up against the steel curtain drawn around them.

Lance senses my concern, shifts into tourist guide mode as if to distract me. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we head to the restaurant, calling my attention to points of interest along the highway. He may be doing it for his benefit as well as my own. In any case, it works because by the time we pull into the parking lot, a little of the anxiety has faded from his mind.

But not from mine.

I remember my conversation with Adele and anxiety comes flooding back. I wish now I’d asked more questions. Was it something Lance said that prompted her concern? Or did she pick up on Stephen’s reaction to hearing I’d be accompanying Lance to the party? I glance over at Lance, wondering if he’s listening to my thoughts. But his attention is on the valet hurrying over to greet us. His mind is closed to me. Whatever worries he’s harboring, he’s determined to keep them to himself.

The valet comes directly around to the passenger side of the car, but Lance is quicker. He’s out of the car and opening my door before the valet or I can do it myself. For once, I don’t disparage the old-fashioned act of chivalry. I take his hand and let him help me from the car. He bends over my hand and kisses it. I feel like a schoolgirl on a first date. Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I am. I’ve always been the aggressor in relationships. I’m surprised at how nice it feels to let someone else take the lead.

Perhaps it’s the place itself that’s inspiring such romanticism. Melvyn’s is located on the property of the Ingleside Inn, tucked off the main route so it seems isolated from the bustle of Palm Springs. It’s a Spanish style masterpiece, redolent with lush greenery and resplendent with flowers. A riotous array of flowers, the scent of jasmine so potent it makes the senses swim.

Once inside, the maitre d’ greets Lance like an old friend. The rest of our party has yet to arrive, so he suggests we wait at the bar.

I throw Lance a pointed look. We left because you said we shouldn’t be late. So where is everyone?

Lance shrugs, squeezes my shoulders. I’ll make it up to you.

He orders champagne. He’s more relaxed again, his smile easy and confident.

Melvyn’s is a great place to people watch. The bar is dark and intimate, the walls lined with pictures of the rich and famous who have visited here. There’s even one of Lance—his arm around a gray-haired man.

I point to the picture and raise an eyebrow.

“The owner, Mel Haber.”

I’m suitably impressed. Lance whispers names in my ear as he recognizes locals who stop by our table to say hello. Humans. Mostly geriatrics. I wonder how long it will be before he will have to give up such a public existence in a place where he does not age. For the time being, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

The champagne works its magic. By the third glass, I’ve forgiven him for rushing us out of the house. He’s no longer apprehensive. He’s laughing. His hand finds its way under the tablecloth to stroke my thigh through the silk of my gown. He inches his chair closer. Soon I feel his touch on my bare skin, his fingers dangerously close to sparking a reaction that is bound to get us thrown out of the restaurant.

He’s watching, eyes flashing, feeling my body’s rising heat. He’s enjoying this.

I lean toward him, my own hand finding its way under the table. Careful. Two can play—

The words get choked off. My breath catches. My stomach twists into a knot. I jerk back and away from Lance and my eyes search the crowd.

Something is here. Something threatening. Something evil.

It’s happening again. Just like when I was with David in that bar. This time, Lance is the one reacting with shocked alarm. He feels it, too, through me.

“Anna, what’s wrong?”

I don’t know. My heart is pounding. I feel sweat break out on my face. I want to stand up and run, but I can’t. I can’t even articulate the numbing fear that’s bringing the animal so close to the surface.

“We have to get out of here.”

Lance is on his feet. “Let’s go.”

I’m weak with relief at his response. I push back my chair and let him take my arm.