It was, she discovered, physically impossible to tear her gaze from that broad-shouldered stance and easy smile, that air of assurance and electric sex appeal. Time had only deepened and sharpened the attributes that still sometimes haunted her dreams.

A classic Bob Marley tune filled the air.

“Elaine, what’s the matter?” asked Jenny. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Ducking her head to hide the flush in her cheeks, she set down her glass. “The ghost of Christmas past.”

Chapter Three

chapter three

“Whose past?” Jenny demanded.

“My past.” Shaken, Elaine propped her chin in her hand and continued to gaze across the room at the tall, unforgettable silhouette, outlined by frosty winter light streaming in through the wide window.

Memories flooded her, of a brief time when Christmas had meant more to her than juggling a social schedule with a business plan. Against her will, she remembered those nostalgic days when the softest, most vulnerable part of her had felt safe with an unexpected stranger.

They never should have met in the first place. She belonged to a social class governed by strict but invisible rules. One of those rules prohibited her from fraternizing with guys like Tony Fiore. He came from a different world entirely, and that world had rules of its own. He’d been raised in a large Italian-American family in Brooklyn that believed, as much as the St. Jameses did, in sticking to its own kind.

At eighteen, she was only just discovering the world outside her privileged, insulated life. He was definitely a major discovery.

Now an older, possibly even more interesting, Tony Fiore stopped at a crowded table across the room. He started talking to the well-dressed patrons there. Every face at the table turned toward him as he spoke.

Elaine’s friends followed the direction of her rapt stare. “Holy mistletoe,” Mel said. “That guy?”

“Who is he?” asked Jen.

Bobbi patted Elaine’s arm. “Whoever he is, he’ll make Byron seem like a bad dream.”

“His name’s Tony Fiore. We met a long time ago, when we were in college.” Their lives had intersected for the first time at the ice rink at Rockefeller Center during Christmas break. Tony was attending Notre Dame on a hockey scholarship. She’d never forget her first glimpse of him. Crowds of tourists and regulars had jammed the ice, yet Tony Fiore had glided effortlessly between couples and children and daredevil teenagers. His imposing profile and swift athletic strokes across the ice had caught her attention.

“Fiore.” Jenny studied him, her expression that of a jeweler inspecting a flawless gem. Elaine followed her gaze. Pale daylight flickered on his thick indigo hair, which lay in glossy, unruly waves that defied a conservative haircut. “I’ve never heard of him,” Jen continued. “How can that be?”