eigh let herself into the apartment and heard Courtney's laughter coming from the kitchen as she hung her coat in the front closet. O'Hara was laughing, too, and the sound of their raised, cheerful voices sounded foreign and out of place. Laughter had been absent from her home in the month since Logan left for the cabin in the mountains.

Christmas had passed by two days ago with nothing to mark it, not even a Christmas tree or the garlands trimmed in ribbon that she usually draped across the mantel at Christmastime. The mantel was empty except for stacks of unread Christmas cards. She'd ordered gifts from the Neiman Marcus Christmas catalogue for Hilda, Brenna, Courtney, and O'Hara. She hadn't bothered with anyone else.

Somber silence had hung over her home like a giant pall, thick and heavy, but protective, too, insulating her from the need to talk, or express her feelings, or even acknowledge them. She no longer wept. She had no tears left, no feelings to burst to the surface and suddenly wound her. She was numb now, and safe. Quiet.

At this moment, however, that insulating buffer of quietude was being disrupted by laughing voices in the kitchen, and she followed the sound.

O'Hara saw her first and jumped up guiltily, almost overturning his chair. "Would you like some hot coffee?" he burst out. "We got company. Look who's here—"

Leigh stopped short, taken aback by the sight of Michael Valente, who'd evidently been playing cards with her chauffeur and her teenage neighbor. He stood up slowly, a solemn smile on his face—a man who knew he shouldn't be where he was, but who was determined to be there anyway. She read all of that, and more, in his expression as he walked toward her, but she felt unable to do anything except stand there when he stopped in front of her.

He lifted his hand, and she started to raise hers for what she thought would be a handclasp, but his hand bypassed hers and settled under her chin. With narrowed eyes, he turned her face slightly to the right, then slightly to the left, inspecting it, and she simply let him do it, her own eyes wide and unblinking.

He was an old friend, and by now she already knew the sort of murmured concerns that old friends—the true ones and the false ones—all said to her when they saw her. She waited for him to say "How are you feeling?" or "Are you doing all right?"

Instead, he dropped his hand and stood there, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the room, his deep voice tinged with a pretense of hurt feelings. "I haven't seen you in weeks. Aren't you going to ask me how I feel, Leigh?"

Her eyes widened in disbelief, and shock tore a forgotten response from her. Leigh laughed. She held out her hands to him, but her laughter dissolved as suddenly as it swelled to the surface, leaving behind a sudden, overwhelming impulse to cry. She clamped down on the impulse, and forced herself to keep smiling. "I'm sorry," she said. "How are you feeling?" It took her a moment to realize he was switching roles completely with her.

"I feel like hell," he said somberly, "I ache all over, but mostly inside. Everything I believed in turned out to be wrong, and the people I trusted betrayed me…" To her horror, Leigh felt tears flood her eyes and spill over her cheeks as he continued quietly, "I can't sleep, because I'm afraid I'll start dreaming…"

She reached up to brush the tears away, but he pulled her forcefully into his arms and pressed her face against his chest. "Cry, Leigh," he whispered. "Cry."

Moments before, he'd made her laugh; now she found herself sobbing helplessly, her shoulders shaking with the force of her pent-up anguish. She would have pulled away and run, but his arms tightened around her when she tried, and his hand cradled her face, his fingers tenderly stroking her cheek. "It's going to be all right," he whispered when the flood of tears finally began to recede. "I promise," he added, offering her a handkerchief with one hand.

She took it and leaned back in the circle of his arms, wiping her eyes, too embarrassed to look at him. "I don't think I'm going to be able to get over this," she admitted.

He put his hand beneath her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You aren't suffering from terminal cancer or any other incurable disease, so you can get over it. You have the power to decide how long, and how badly, you're willing to go on suffering for your husband's betrayals and your misplaced love."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I've gotten angry at times, but it doesn't help."

"Anger is nothing but self-inflicted torture."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, for your own self-respect, I think you might feel better if you fought back and got even with him."

"Fine!" she said tearily. "Get a shovel and we'll dig him up!"

He laughed, and pulling her close, he laid his jaw against the top of her head. "I like your spirit," he said with tender amusement, "but let's start with something a little less strenuous."

Self-conscious about standing in his embrace, Leigh stepped back after a moment and managed a halfhearted smile. "What do you recommend?"

"I recommend that you have dinner with me tonight."

"All right. I'll ask Hilda to fix—"

"Not here."

"Oh, you mean a restaurant? I don't think—No, really—"

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but she shook her head, appalled at the thought of having to face the prying eyes of strangers and the inevitable pack of reporters who would surely turn up before they finished eating. "Not a restaurant. Not yet."

"Here, then," he agreed.

"I'd like to shower and change clothes," she said. "Would you mind waiting for me for a half hour?"

The question seemed to amuse him. "Not at all," he said with exaggerated formality. "Please take all the time you need."

Disconcerted by the hint of mocking humor in his reply, Leigh headed toward her bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment.

Michael watched her walk away. Did he mind waiting a half hour for her?

Not at all.

He'd been waiting years for her.

Belatedly recalling that he'd been playing cards with O'Hara and Courtney Maitland when Leigh walked into the kitchen, he turned abruptly. Courtney was staring at him, transfixed; O'Hara was standing beside his chair, frozen in the same position he'd been in when he first announced to Leigh that Michael was there.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Michael lifted his brows and returned their stunned gazes in wordless acknowledgment of what he knew they were thinking.

Courtney finally reached for her purse and slowly stood up. "I have—" She paused to clear her throat. "I have to go now."

Her words seemed to release O'Hara from his own paralysis. "I'll tell Hilda to fix a nice dinner," he said, sidling along between the island and the kitchen counter, toward the rear hall.

Courtney started past Michael, then paused and looked searchingly at him.

"Yes?" he prompted her after a moment.

She shoved the strap of her purse onto her shoulder and shook her head at whatever she'd been thinking. "Good night," she said instead.

"Good night."

As she reached for the service door that opened from the kitchen into the elevator foyer, she glanced over her shoulder at him one more time, and when she spoke she no longer sounded like a flippant teenager. "Leigh told me once that she loves to sit in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace."