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!"

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.