"I am sorry!" They both cried at the same time, extricating themselves from one another.

"Miss Boothe!" The fellow was tall and a bit stocky, gray-haired with a darker mustache, about her father's age. He now smiled at her. "Have I hurt you?"

They had been briefly introduced the previous evening after supper. Annabel scrambled to recall his name. "Mr. Frank, no, you have not."

"You have finished dinner already?" he cried in disappointment, his smile fading.

"I am afraid so," Annabel said, preparing to walk around him. "If you will excuse me?"

"Miss Boothe." He detained her by his tone of voice. Then he swallowed. He was beginning to flush. "I would like to say that I so enjoyed making your acquaintance last evening, and I had hoped, the weather permitting, of course, that you might join me for a stroll along the beach later, or perhaps in town, if that is your preference." He smiled at her.

Annabel stared in dismay. Thomas Frank was interested in her? She recalled now that he was a widower. "I am not feeling well," she said quickly. "But thank you." And she lifted her pale, striped skirts and hurried from the room.

Relief filled her once she was in the large lobby. There the floors were dark oak and strewn with Persian rugs, the walls were paneled and covered with works of art, and three large crystal chandeliers were hanging from the high ceiling. Soft sofas and chairs in brocades and damask with occasional tables made the room very inviting, and it was usually filled with hotel guests, engaged in quiet conversation or sitting alone and reading. Through the tall windows, Annabel saw that it had indeed begun to pour, and in the drive outside, she saw a large, gilded carriage arriving. There were two liveried footmen standing in back, and watching the conveyance, drawn by four blacks, halt in the downpour, she felt sorry for the servants.

Annabel sighed. She had no headache, and hardly felt like locking herself up in her room. She plopped down on one red damask sofa, picking up yesterday's copy of The Sun, a New York daily which had been left lying about and which the hotel provided for its guests. She had barely scanned the headlines on the first page when she heard voices on the threshold of the lobby, behind her. A woman was talking, her Italian accent very pronounced. "How good of you to accommodate me and my staff with such short notice," she was saying. "I can hardly believe we have made it in this weather. I feel like a drowned eat." She laughed, the sound husky and pleasant.

"Contessa, I am so sorry that you had to endure such weather today, but please, let me assure you, anything you desire, it shall be yours."

Annabel openly regarded the woman as she entered the lobby with the hotel manager, whom Annabel recognized. She was a small woman fabulously dressed in gold velvet, but when she turned, Annabel saw that she was a gorgeous redhead with a perfect porcelain complexion. So this, she thought, was the infamous countess Lizzie had referred to earlier.

"You are too kind to me, darling," the countess purred. The manager bowed over her hand and kissed it before the countess could even remove her gloves.

And then he barked out orders. Annabel watched with some amusement and some fascination as trunk after huge trunk was carried by both the countess's staff and the hotel's through the lobby and into the elevators.

"My dear Contessa, you need not linger in the lobby. I have sent champagne and caviar to your suite, should you wish a bit of refreshment, and of course, we will keep the dining room open for you."

"You are too kind," she cried and, gold skirts swirling about her, she disappeared into one of the lobby elevators, followed by several ladies who were undoubtedly her maids.

Annabel watched the brass elevator door closing. Briefly, her gaze met the countess's just before the door closed.

She looked up at the dial above the elevator. The hotel had eight floors. The big arrow went from one to eight. But of course the countess would have a suite on the top floor.

Annabel was laughing softly to herself, unable not to be amused by the entire display, when she heard footsteps from behind her in the entryway, followed by the doorman's "G'day, sir." The lobby had settled down now that Guilia Rossini had gone to her rooms and was once again filled with quiet. Annabel reached for The Sun.

"I believe you have a room for me," a male voice said, the accent perfect, patrician, and British.

Annabel's head whipped up and she felt as if someone had punched her so hard that the air had been knocked from her lungs. No! This could not be-she was making a mistake.

Annabel could not move. She stared.

"The name is Wainscot," he said in that unforgettable voice of his.

Annabel slowly came to her feet. His back was to her. He was tall, slim, dark-haired. And she was not deluded. She did not have to see his face in order to recognize him. Even from behind, this way, she would recognize him anywhere.

Oh, dear God.

He bent over a register now, signing it. Annabel became aware of the alarming rate at which her heart raced, and the deafening roar in her ears. She felt faint.

He straightened, pushing the register at the clerk, turning slightly, so that Annabel could see both his profile and his hands. He was smiling. And she would never forget his hands.

Those incredible, capable hands.

"Mr. Wainscot." The hotel manager had appeared and was introducing himself and wishing Braxton an enjoyable stay. Annabel really did not hear. It was him. Braxton. The man who had taken her heart-and then thrown it back at her.

Annabel stared, not hearing his reply. Aware now of a huge and terrible anger-and also aware of the hurt. Incredibly, it had never fully gone away.

Suddenly his shoulders stiffened. Annabel knew, in that instant, that he had become aware of watched.

Braxton turned. He saw her instantly, and their locked.

Chapter Six

He seemed to recognize her instantly. Braxton appeared to be even more severely shocked than she. His blue eyes were wide and his visage was white. Annabel remained frozen, in disbelief.

His mouth opened and closed. As if he wanted to say something, but abruptly changed his mind.

Annabel realized that she was shaking. Like a veritable leaf. He was here. How could this be? And why was she reacting like this, as if he were still important to her? What had happened had been so long ago-and she had long since recovered. She should not care that they were face-to-face!

"Your keys, Mr. Wainscot. Your rooms are on the third floor. But let me remind you that dinner is now being served, and the dining room is closed from four o'clock until seven in the evening, when it reopens for suppertime."

Braxton came to life, smiling and facing the manager. "Thank you, my good man." He handed him a coin. "My valet will need some help with my luggage."

"Certainly." The gent bowed and strode briskly back to his office, around the corner of the front desk.

Which left Annabel and Braxton quite aione in the lobby, except for the clerks.

He turned toward her, his regard level and steady, his gaze impossible to read.

Annabel clenched her fists. The urge to strike him was overwhelming. Instead, she remained immobilized. All her instincts screamed at her not to make a scene-that to do so would be a dire mistake.

He moved first-toward her-his strides long and sharp. And he dared to bow. "I do believe we are acquainted, Miss, uh, Miss Boothe, is it not?" His blue eyes held hers.

Acquainted. Annabel was as sick as she was furious. "Are we acquainted?" Even to her own ears, her tone dripped sugary sarcasm. "Oh, yes," she said in a rush. "We met, oh, when was it? It is so hard for me to recall!"