It was only because she had felt weak and vulnerable, and he had felt so strong and safe by comparison. And she wanted to trust him. The deepest, most private part of who she was had existed in emotional isolation for most of her life. But in that one moment of weakness she had wanted to drop those shields just to feel the comfort of another soul next to hers for a little while.

The sound of his low, rough voice was warm in her head as she stood in front of her bathroom mirror.

It’s all right. . . . This shoulder has been cried on before.

She ached all the way through at the memory of how much she had needed to hear someone say that.

Now she pushed the feeling away as something impractical and a waste of time. She had things to do and needing was not high on the list of priorities.

The Thomas Center was a collection of white stucco buildings that had been a private Catholic girls’ school from the early twenties into the sixties. Modeled on the style of the old Spanish missions, the buildings formed a courtyard between them with a fountain at its center and stunning, simple gardens rambling along the stone walkways.

It was a beautiful place by daylight. By candlelight it was magical. Hundreds of tiny flames seemed to dance on the dark night air. The courtyard was nearly full. Franny had scoped out the scene before Anne got there and had chosen a spot with the optimum potential for eavesdropping.

“This is my entertainment for the evening,” he said as she joined him. “I’m giving up Miami Vice to be here.”

“Well, I hope for your sake a car chase ensues at some point,” Anne said.

“I’d settle for a Don Johnson sighting. Or a sighting of your Mr. Leone,” he suggested, raising up on the tiptoes of his Top-Siders to survey the crowd. “What were you doing out there in the woods all that time, Anne Marie? A little horizontal hokeypokey?”

“Oh, yeah. In a shallow grave,” Anne whispered. “Have some respect, please. We’re at a vigil.”

“We should hold a vigil for your vagina if you take a pass on the Italian Stallion.”

A couple of heads swiveled in their direction. Anne grabbed his arm and pinched him hard. “Behave yourself!”

“I liked the way he put his hand on your back,” he said. “Very proprietary. BIG hand, I might add.”

Anne shushed him and told herself the flush of heat that washed through her was embarrassment and had nothing to do with the memory of Vince Leone touching her.