he interior of Angelini's restaurant was invitingly "hip," with exposed brick and mortar on parts of the walls and beautiful frescoes depicting the Tuscan countryside on others. The tables were dressed with fine linen, beautiful Italian pottery, tapered candles, and lavish bowls of fresh flowers. Trellises with flowering vines had been placed at strategic intervals to bring a cozier, more intimate atmosphere to what was actually a very large restaurant.

Business was definitely booming, with customers waiting at the maître d's desk and stacked three deep at a long, raised bar at the far left of the entrance. Michael handed their coats to an attendant; then he put his hand on the small of Leigh's back, guiding her through the crowd.

Near the rear of the restaurant, there were three empty tables in a row beside a frescoed wall. "This is perfect," Leigh told him as he sat down across from her at the table in the center of the three. As she reached for her napkin, she noticed the design on the colorful charger in front of her. "There's a little village on a mountaintop in northern Italy where pottery like this is made," she said, recalling being there with Logan. By then, after two weeks in Italy, Logan had already run out of patience with everything, even the architecture of the medieval church in the center of the square. He'd hated to travel anywhere outside the U.S. because he felt too far removed from his business interests. "I've been there," she added.

"So have I."

"Really. How long were you in Italy?"

"A month, the last time," he said, pausing briefly while a young man filled their glasses with ice water. "I combined it with an extended business trip to France."

It was easy for Leigh to imagine him now as a world traveler. Leaning back in his chair, with his forearm resting on the table and a thirty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe wristwatch peeking from beneath the monogrammed cuff of his shirt, he was the personification of relaxed masculine elegance, power, and wealth.

She started to ask him about his travels, but her concentration was derailed by the excited voices of four people at a table across the aisle who'd just recognized them and were discussing the article in the News. Leigh's spirits sank a little. "We've been spotted," she said, even though she knew perfectly well Michael could hear them.

"It was inevitable," he said, lifting his wide shoulders in a shrug that dismissed their audience as if they were mere specks of dust on the floor. His attitude amazed and dazzled her. She was an actress; she could pretend, but he wasn't pretending indifference. He was indifferent. He was accountable to no one but himself—the self-appointed master of his own destiny.

Their waiter, a jovial, heavyset man in his sixties, bustled up to them with a bottle of red wine that he put down on the table while he shook Michael's hand and was introduced to Leigh as Frank Morrissey.

"I'll tell Marie you're here," Frank told Michael. "She's in the kitchen arguing with the chef." He pressed the corkscrew to the bottle's cork and began expertly twisting it while he proudly explained to Leigh, "I knew Hawk before he was old enough to use a fork. In fact, I was there when he decided to have his very first glass of wine."

He glanced at Michael and chuckled as he drew out the cork. "Do you remember how old you were when I caught you and Billy with that bottle of wine?"

"No, not really."

"How old were they?" Leigh asked eagerly, noting Michael's pained look.

"I can't tell you exactly how old they were," Frank confided with a grin, "but they were too short to reach it without climbing on a stool."

Leigh laughed, reveling in the almost-forgotten feeling of being lighthearted.

"Leigh," Michael said with amused exasperation, "please don't encourage this."

Ignoring him, she looked hopefully at Frank and raised her brows. It was all the encouragement he needed. "I was also there when Hawk and Billy decided to take Billy's uncle's car out for a spin," he said, pouring some wine into Michael's glass for him to taste. "Billy snuck the keys outside, and Hawk got behind the steering wheel. He was only about five, so he had to stand up to see over it."

"What happened?" Leigh asked, looking from him to Michael.

"I started the engine," Michael said dryly, "and Billy turned on the siren."

"You were trying to steal a squad car?" She laughed.

"We weren't going to steal it; we were going to borrow it."

"Yeah," Frank interjected, "but a few years later—"

"—a few years later, we stole it," Michael provided with a sigh of frustration.

Leigh covered her laughing face with her hands, looking at him through her fingers. "My God."

Just then a man at the table across the aisle made an audible remark about Leigh being "a very merry widow," and she dropped her hands, sobering.

"I'll be taking care of you myself tonight, just like you wanted," Frank said. "I'll tell your aunt you're here." He turned to leave, but Michael said something to him in a low voice, and he nodded.

Leigh watched him walk away; then she looked at Michael. "The 'Billy' in those stories was Trumanti's nephew, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't Frank know how he died?"

"Of course."

"Then, I don't understand why Frank would bring Bill up, when he clearly has a deep affection for you."

"That's why he does it," Michael said, anxious to move to another subject before her mood was irreparably darkened. "It's his way of proving that he has no doubt that what happened between Bill and me was an accident. Put differently, Frank thinks that the act of hiding something implies guilt—or in his case, a belief in the guilt of another."

"That makes a kind of sense—" Leigh began; then she faltered as she noticed two waiters marching down the aisle carrying a large piece of lattice about four feet wide and eight feet high that was covered with silk ivy. They deposited it on the floor directly beside the table of diners across the aisle who'd been talking about Leigh moments before. It completely blocked the group's view of Leigh, but it also crowded the other table enough to make one of the men complain that he couldn't move in his chair.

"Is that better?" Michael asked.

Leigh tore her gaze from the ivy-covered barrier he'd just had installed, then she looked at the man who'd arranged for it without a qualm or concern for the paying customers' rights or comfort. It hit her then why there were still two empty tables on either side of theirs, even though at least fifty people were still waiting to be seated. She had no doubt that Michael had provided the money for the restaurant, and that if Logan had been in Michael's position, he, too, would have felt bad that she was uncomfortable. However, he would never have done anything that might have had negative financial repercussions, including offending four customers. She looked at her self-appointed protector and felt a surge of gratitude and poignant tenderness that she didn't attempt to hide. "Thank you," she said simply.

Michael looked into those candid, long-lashed eyes and marveled anew that fame and success hadn't changed or hardened her one bit. She could walk past a battalion of reporters with the poise and grace of a queen, but when he'd joked about their pictures on the front page of the Daily News, she'd hidden her laughing face against his chest and clung to his lapels. Seated across from him wearing a sophisticated black sheath and expensive gold choker, she was still as artlessly provocative as she'd been in blue jeans, chasing oranges. He smiled at the memory and said, "You're very welcome."

Leigh registered a new, subtle change in his voice, but instead of recognizing it as intimacy, she chose it as a topic. "I can understand why I didn't recognize your face when we met at the party, but I still can't believe I didn't recognize your voice. I should have begun to realize who you were while we were speaking. You had—have—a very distinctive quality to your voice."

"What kind of quality?"

She glanced away, trying to describe it for him, oblivious of any double meaning he might infer from her choice of words. "Very smooth. Very… sexy. Very, very deep."

Leaning back in his chair, Michael let his eyes drift over the elegant curve of her cheek and the soft swell of her breasts, his finger slowly stroking the curve of his wineglass.

NEARLY two hours later, Leigh declined dessert while Mrs. Angelini again urged her to have it. "I can't swallow another bite of food," Leigh told her. "I really can't." The meal had been wonderful and so had Michael. He didn't try to make her forget her problems, but he made her feel as if she were completely safe from them—as if nothing could wound her or touch her because he wouldn't let it. It was more than a feeling, it was a fact. Leigh knew it was, as surely as she knew she did not want to examine the reasons for any of it.

Mrs. Angelini leaned down and gave her an impulsive hug. "It is so good to see you smiling. Michael knows how to make you happy, and you know how to make him happy. Life is good."

During their meal, she had appeared at the table several times, hovering over them as if she could not tear herself away. She hesitated again, knowing they were leaving. "Long, long ago, when Michael went to see you in that play, I told him he should tell you how he felt."

With her senses delightfully dulled by fine wine, rich food, and cozy candlelight, Leigh's only reaction was one of surprise that Michael had seen her in a play "long, long ago."

"What play did you see?" she asked.

"Constellations."

Stunned, Leigh burst out laughing, and looked from Mrs. Angelina's happy face to Michael's unreadable one. "I don't have to ask him how he felt about that play; it was awful! That was my first professional appearance as an actress."

"The play was bad," he said impassively. "You weren't."

The odd timing finally hit Leigh. "But—but that was back when you were working at the store. I didn't know you liked the theater. You never said you did. Of course," she added with an accusing smile, "you never said you didn't, either. In fact, you never said much of anything to me, period."

Mrs. Angelini looked up at a signal from a waiter and nodded. "I must go in a moment," she told Leigh. "You must stop in the store tonight before you leave."

"We already did. I should have bought pears there" Leigh added. "There's only one other place in New York that has pears as good as yours always were, but they're very expensive."

"Dean and DeLuca?" Mrs. Angelini asked.

"Yes, that's right—"

She nodded. "That is where your pears always came from."

"What do you mean?"

"Every week, Michael went to Dean and DeLuca to buy your pears." She shook her head, remembering. "He was going to school, and he had no money, so he stretched every penny like this—" She made a motion as if she were pulling on a rubber band. "But he wanted you to have the best pears. For you, only the best would do."

Leigh's gaze bounced to Michael, who was leaning back in his chair, an indescribable expression of resignation and amusement on his face, then she said good-bye to Mrs. Angelini and watched her leave.

When she looked at Michael again, he was still lounging back in his chair, but now his gaze was leveled on her, his fingers on the stem of his wineglass, slowly turning it in a circle.

"You went to Dean and DeLuca and bought pears for me?" she uttered.

He nodded imperceptibly, his inscrutable gaze unwavering.

Leigh could not believe the only explanation that came to mind: He'd bought her those pears, and gone to see her in Constellations, He remembered their first meeting in the store, right down to where it had occurred and what she had been wearing. Fourteen years ago, he'd rescued her from an attack on the street that he shouldn't have been able to see from inside the store—unless he'd gone to the door to watch her. Or watch out for her? She'd always wondered about her amazing good fortune that night. And now he'd come to her rescue again, at the worst time of her life.

Her heart gave a little lurch at the only possible explanation, but she tried to spare them both embarrassment by pretending confusion when she looked at him. She was, after all, an actress.

"I don't understand," she said.

His deep voice was quiet, but his reply forbade further pretense from either of them. "I think you do."

"No, I'm not sure—"

He didn't like her continued attempt to evade the issue, and he made it clear by putting his napkin on the table and saying, "Are you ready to leave?"

"Michael, please!" She felt admonished, ashamed, wrong. She leaned forward. "You can't expect me to believe you—you had some sort of crush on me?"

In answer, he lifted his brows and regarded her in silence.

Leigh still couldn't believe this was possible. She stared blindly at a tree in the fresco beside her, wondering how the man she'd married could have cared so little for her that he regarded adultery as a recreational sport. While the man she was with had—

Across from her Michael said quietly, "Haven't you had enough lies and deception in your life already?"

She nodded, but focused on a point just to the right of his shoulder because she couldn't quite meet his gaze.

"There's nothing to gain by arguing with me about something that you yourself already know to be true, is there?"

She shook her. "No."

"On the other hand," he said with a smile in his voice, "it was a long time ago."

Leigh suddenly felt silly for making so much out of ancient history. "Yes, it was." Drawing a shaky breath, she shoved her hair back off her forehead and smiled one of those breathtakingly warm smiles that always made Michael want to lean forward and cover her lips with his; then she added, "Thank you for insisting on honesty, and thank you for tonight. It's been a lovely, unforgettable evening in every way."

Michael's body, as well as his intellect, made the decision for him. "The night isn't over."

"What do you mean?" she asked as he got up and came around the table to pull back her chair.

"I'd like you to see where I live."

Leigh's heart slammed into her rib cage.