James smiled widely in return. "I have heard you are a premier player, Miss Boothe. But I should be honored to have you test my mettle, so to speak."

Annabel attempted a coy smile. "Let's do speak on the morrow, for undoubtedly it shall be a pleasant day.

They are expecting good weather, I have heard."

James bowed. "On the morrow, then," he said, and he took his leave of their group.

Annabel felt quite smug, could feel Braxton's gaze on her back. Then she realized that Lizzie and Adam were regarding her very oddly. Melissa and John were also watching her. Melissa said, "Well! He has certainly changed his tune! It must be the gown."

Lizzie glared. "He has merely come to his senses," she said. She took Annabel's hand. "You are acting more strangely than ever. You were flirting with him! And I know you, Annabel Boothe. You would never give someone who has cut you a second chance. Whatever is going on?"

Annabel was as demure as she could possibly be. She lifted her eyebrows innocently. "I do not know what you are talking about."

Lizzie stared.

Annabel smiled at her and turned to see if Braxton continued to watch her. He did not. He was staring intently in the opposite direction, at the doorway of the salon.

Annabel followed his gaze. Her heart slammed to a stop.

The Countess Rossini had paused on the threshold of the room. She was so lovely, so striking, that everyone else in the room seemed to disappear. In fact, all of the guests had immediately noticed her appearance, and they were all staring-conversation had dimmed and ceased. Annabel also stared. The countess wore a stunning, narrow, extremely bare black lace gown, with the most spectacular diamond and ruby necklace dripping from her long, elegant neck. Annabel felt as if, in that one moment, she had been turned by a witch into ugly black stone. The countess, in contrast, was probably one of the world's most beautiful women.

The contessa smiled at the room at large and entered it, followed by two couples and her escort, a very attractive blond, mustachioed gentleman. She nodded and smiled at those she passed.

Annabel tore her gaze from the countess's overwhelming presence to Braxton. He seemed as mesmerized as everyone else. Slowly, he looked from the Italian redhead to Annabel.

Annabel felt like sticking her tongue out at him. How childish she would then seem-when in reality, he must think her a child in comparison to the stunning and worldly older woman. Annabel could not believe how upset and unnerved she was. It struck her then that she was a complete fool. That she still harbored feelings for Braxton, strong ones, or she would never be so concerned about the other woman.

"Miss Boo the? Good evening."

Annabel was about to turn and respond when she saw Guilia Rossini stop and stare at Braxton. She made no effort to disguise her interest. He, in turn, smiled at her and bowed.

Annabel inhaled, stabbed with hurt.

"Miss Boothe? Might I mention that you are quite breathtaking tonight?"

Annabel watched Braxton purposefully approach the countess. Although she could not hear him, clearly he was introducing himself. The countess was smiling. He was smiling. She extended her hand and he took it to his lips.

Miserably Annabel turned away, to face her admirer, the ancient Thomas Frank.

As the hotel staff had forecast, that next day was clear. It was far too early in the morning to tell if it would be warm and sunny, for it was not even nine o'clock, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were lifting. Annabel paused beside a sprightly tree, not far from the beach. Behind her the path she had followed led to the Acadia 's back lawns and tennis courts; ahead, it led to the swimming inlet on the beach.

She leaned against the tree, digging into her simple straw bag, trying to forget last night. She had made a fool of herself, she had no doubt, allowing Thomas Frank to escort her into supper and walk with her afterward in the galleria. Annabel grimaced, extracting a small box and from that a cigarette, hearing in her mind the gossips giggling over the old maid and the old man. She stuck it between her lips, digging deeper for a matchbox, wishing she had not behaved like an idiot. But then, how could she have not done so, when Braxton had danced attendance on the Countess Rossini all night long, until the countess's escort had exchanged such sharp words with him that the two men had nearly come to blows? Oh, how the countess had seemed to enjoy that!

As her fingers finally slid around a small matchbox, there was a sharp hissing sound behind her. Annabel whirled.

"May I?" Pierce St. Clare said with a smile.

She was so surprised by him that the cigarette fell out of her mouth. She caught it against her chest as the man she had no wish to see, not now, not ever, continued to hold out the flaming match. Trembling, angry, Annabel jammed the cigarette back in her mouth. She inhaled deeply as he lit it for her.

He watched her closely, shaking and dropping the match. "Since when did you become a smoker?" he asked.

"Oh, sometime after the abduction," she said tartly, between puffs.

"There was hardly an abduction," he returned, his tone as pleasant as hers was not.

"That is not what society says." She waved the cigarette airily.

"And since when have you ever cared what others think? It is a part of your vast and unique charm, Annabel."

For an instant she believed that he was sincere, then she caught herself and blew smoke as directly as she could at his face.

He waved it away with his hand. "It's quite early in the morning for a stroll. Much less a smoke."

"I rise at six," she retorted. "And I have come down to the beach for a swim." That wasn't true, but Annabel was beyond analyzing herself. She wanted to do battle, and badly.

He grinned. "The ladies are not allowed to swim before two," he said mildly. "But then, I imagine you already know that."

"I do." She puffed harder than before.

"Does the kindly Thomas Frank know about this habit of yours?" There was laughter in his tone. "I don't imagine he would allow his wife to smoke."

Her eyes widened. "I beg your pardon. Nothing has changed in two years. I am hardly interested in marriage."

He stared, remaining silent.

Annabel felt herself blushing. He was clever, and he probably knew that no one would have her even if she did wish to wed. "I would certainly never marry that old man, kind or not."

"I know," he said.

Her heart turned over, numerous times. "You know nothing. And you followed me," she said sharply, unnerved.

"Yes, I did."

"What's wrong?" She was snide. "Did the countess throw you out of her bed before breakfast could be served?"

His gaze was searching. "Your jealousy is showing." "I am not jealous," she flashed, throwing down the cigarette.

He eyed her, then ground out her smoking butt with his heel. "You could have fooled me, Annabel." "It is Miss Boothe to you."

"Actually, I am flattered, that after all this time, you still care enough to be jealous of another woman."

"I do not care at all!" she cried, turning her back on him and starting rapidly down the path.

He fell into step beside her. "Well, in truth, I have not been in the countess's bed, although I doubt you would believe me."

"I don't."

"You also have nothing to be jealous of." Annabel snorted.

When he did not reply, merely kept pace with her, she had to look at him. If only he were ugly. "She is probably one of Europe 's reigning beauties."

"Probably," he agreed.

Annabel wished he had denied it, "so her stride quickened. She could see the two of them entwined. It more than upset her-it infuriated her and it hurt her. What was wrong with her? How could she still care?

"Ten years ago," Pierce said, his tone conversational, "I would have enjoyed the attentions of a woman like Guilia Rossini, but call me jaded if you will, she offers little for a man like myself now."