Her interest in Ashley Wakefield as a person grew. But who was she? How had she come to have the tiara and choker Judith Land had worn the night she and Andrew Balaton had announced their engagement?

At the gift shop, Sarah bought a T-shirt and asked the young man at the cash register how she could get to see Ashley Wakefield.

“You won’t find her here,” he said. “Your best bet is to check at her offices down the road—Touchstone Communications. I might as well warn you, though: she isn’t going to see you without an appointment, especially this week.”

“Because of the You thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think she’ll see me.”

Sarah got directions and walked over to Touchstone Communications. It was a cool afternoon, cloudy and windy on the waterfront. She didn’t know Boston well, thought it a cramped, dirty, snobby city, but she liked the fresh colors and warmth of the Touchstone offices. She asked the receptionist, a tiny woman with fire engine red nails, if she could speak with Ashley Wakefield.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wakefield isn’t in today. If you’ll leave me your name and where you can be reached, I’ll see that she—”

“It’s urgent I speak with her today. As soon as possible, in fact.”

“That’s impossible. Perhaps our vice president—”

“No, I must speak with Ashley Wakefield.” She controlled her breathing, forcing herself not to hyperventilate, not to plead, not to collapse with nervousness. Give me a company to run, she thought miserably; that I can handle—but not this. “I understand she must be in great demand this week, but I assure you this is of the utmost importance and simply can’t wait. Perhaps if you called her and told her I was here?”

The young secretary shook her head. “I’m sorry. Even I don’t know where she is. I’d be happy to leave your name and number. Or perhaps you’d like to talk with our vice president, Caroline Kent?”

Sarah shook her head. “The name’s Balaton. Sarah Balaton. And I’ll be calling her.”

Jeremy took a cab from the Nashville airport to the Greek Revival mansion in Belle Meade that was the residence of Oliver and Nelle Milligan. He was mildly surprised to see the traditional house and trim landscaping: this was old Southern money. One never knew who Ashley’s friends were.

A girl about twelve answered his ring and gawked at him with her happy green eyes. “Hi,” she drawled, attempting coy already.

“Is your mother home?”

The girl straightened, calling on generations of breeding. “Yes, sir, I’ll be glad to get her for you. Would you care to wait in the foyer?”

Jeremy smiled his thanks, and just managed not to laugh when the girl’s eyes glazed over. He’d never fancied himself as a heartthrob.

He sat in a Windsor chair in the large, elegant foyer and glanced at his wristwatch. He’d give Ashley three minutes. If she didn’t come out of there, he was going in after her.