His smile flashed, but it was twisted. Very quietly, he said, "I believe we met at a reception in New York City in honor of the mayor."

She was so very ill. "Oh? Then your memory apparently serves you far better than mine does me!" Tears were interfering with her vision. Damn it. Damn him.

"Miss Boothe." His tone was gentle. "In case you have forgotten, the name is Wainscot. Bruce Wainscot."

Forgotten-in case she had forgotten! "I have forgotten nothing," she cried harshly. "But I thought the name was Braxton!"

He stared, unmoving, mouth grim.

And Annabel, afraid she was about to burst into tears, turned and ran-crashing directly into her sister.

"Annabel! Are you ill? What is wrong?" Lizzie cried, steadying her with a firm grip on her shoulders.

Annabel looked blankly at her youngest sister, hardly assimilating her words. Braxton was here, in the hotel, by God. How could this be?

"I am so worried about you," Lizzie was saying, her brow furrowed in that familiar way she had.

Annabel could not help herself. She turned, but Braxton was gone. He had vanished as effectively as any ghost. Of course, he was no spirit from another world, oh no. "I do have a horrible migraine," Annabel managed, and it was the truth.

And suddenly an image Annabel would never forget raced through her mind: numerous wedding guests, her father, Harold Talbot, and her sisters and their husbands all crowding outside the front door of their New York City home as she looked up from the lawn, on her hands and knees, making the most fateful decision of her life.

Had Lizzie seen Braxton? Had Lizzie recognized him? *

"You never get headaches," Lizzie said, taking her arm. But her gaze lifted to the sweeping staircase. Following her regard, Annabel saw Braxton from behind as he disappeared on the next landing.

Annabel threw her arm around Lizzie and whirled her away from the stairs, her heart lurching. "I am going up to my room to lie down," she said. To lie down, and to think.

“Your room is the other way," Lizzie pointed out. "Annabel, you are acting so very strangely!"

Lizzie had not recognized Braxton or she would have immediately commented upon it. She had only glimpsed him for a moment, and that from behind. Annabel realized the source of her panic, and could hardly believe herself. She was insane to care if Braxton was recognized and carted off to jail like the very thief that he was.

Annabel studied Lizzie. Even if Lizzie did encounter him directly, she might not recognize him. But there was no way of knowing, not until such an encounter actually took place. And Annabel shuddered at the thought.

And there was also Melissa and her husband and Adam to consider. Missy was very sharp, unlike her dim-witted husband, and Adam was also clever. Annabel was dismayed. Someone would recognize him, the odds told her that.

And she should be glad. She should even identify him herself. She could be the one to send him to prison. It would be her vengeance and his due. But instead, she was worried over his being discovered. It was preposterous.

"Annabel? You are miles away. Whatever is wrong?" Lizzie tugged on her hand, her dark eyes filled with worry.

"I am going upstairs to my room," Annabel said, forcing a smile. "I will be fine. I will see you all before supper." But she did not think she would be fine for a very long time-and certainly not for as long as Braxton remained on the same premises as she.

Lizzie nodded uncertainly. Then, before Annabel could leave, she plucked her sleeve. "Dear, I am so sorry about that boorish James Appleton Beard. He is hardly good enough for you anyway."

"I had forgotten all about him, to tell you the truth," Annabel said honestly, for her thoughts were consumed with Braxton now.

"I do think Mr. Frank is very set on you." Lizzie's tone was hopeful. "He seems so kind, Annabel."

Annabel blinked, finally focusing completely on her sister. "Liz, he is old, and kind or not, he is a bore."

Lizzie's face crumpled and she bit her lip. "You just won't give anyone a chance," she cried. "Sometimes I think you are pining for that thief-and waiting for him to reappear in our lives!"

Annabel could not believe her ears-or the utter irony of what Lizzie had just said. "I must go," she cried, kissing her sister's cheek. She paused. "And you are wrong, Lizzie, so very wrong. That is ancient history. Truly."

Lizzie regarded her sadly.

Annabel gripped her striped skirts and rushed up the stairs, her gait hardly ladylike or genteel. Lizzie was wrong. She did not continue to harbor misplaced affections for a man who had abandoned her two long years ago. On the other hand, she wasn't quite sure she wished

to condemn him to a life of imprisonment, either-and something was surely wrong with her for not wanting to see him in jail. Annabel glanced down the hall on the second landing. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she expected to see Braxton lurking about, lying in wait for her, eager to speak with her.

But the long, plushly carpeted hall was vacant, except for one uniformed housemaid with a cart of cleaning tools.

Annabel's room was on the fourth floor-the hotel had eight stories in all. She quickly let herself in and found herself locking the door. Then she unlaced and kicked off her kid shoes and flopped on her back on the bed.

Tears shamelessly filled her eyes.

Oh, God. Annabel flung one arm over her brow. It was impossible to believe that she still felt such anguish over that man and what he had done to her. She had been the one to seduce him. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been, or that afterward, he would abandon her, without even a good-bye.

Annabel wiped the tears from her eyes. Maybe Lizzie was right. There was a stubborn part of her heart that just refused to give up her love for Pierce St. Clare, aka Pierce Braxton. But how could that be? And how could she have fallen in love with an absolute stranger in less than twenty-four hours?

Poor, poor Annabel Boothe. With her wild, reckless ways.

Annabel wanted to clap her hands over her ears to drive away that too familiar refrain, but it was just like her suddenly to go off half-cocked, whether her passions were stimulated by a voyage to India or a con artist and a thief.

There was a knocking at her door.

Annabel sat up, her heart lurching with dread. Of course it was not Braxton. Undoubtedly it was Lizzie, bringing her a dinner tray, or Missy, come to scold her. Or it might even be a hotel maid. Annabel stood up slowly, wetting her lips. Her pulse pounded. She turned to glance at her reflection in the mirror over the Chippendale dresser.

Her pale hair was spilling out of its chignon, her high-necked gown was wrinkled, and her face was very pale. In contrast, her eyes were so blue that they almost seemed black. Annabel walked to the door in her bare feet, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Braxton stared at her.

She had known it would be him. For one moment Annabel looked into his eyes, and then she hit him with all her might. The slap sounded loudly in the room and the hall outside her door.

Immediately Braxton stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. In the blink of an eye, he had locked it and pocketed the brass key. "Now that we have gotten that out of the way, hello, Annabel," he said.

She was trembling, with rage, she supposed. "Get out. Before I am ruined twice."

He continued to regard her very intently, but his eyes gave no clue as to his thoughts or feelings, and it was not at all like her dreams-she saw no sign of regret upon his features. "You have not changed," he said after a long moment.

"Have you?" she asked caustically.

"You are angry." He did not move. He stood against the door, inches away from her. "You wanted to be ruined, Annabel, or have you conveniently forgotten that?"