In reality he was a single woman’s nightmare. He was self-centered, irresponsible and sometimes even faintly, subtly cruel.

“Was dating.” Tony navigated the traffic with infinite patience.

She nodded. “He threw me over just before lunch today.”

“Yeah? Tough break.”

“For a bra model.”

“Even tougher.”

“I announced it to everyone on Fifth Avenue.” She explained about the phone call and the carolers, and turned sideways on the seat to watch him. He had such a great face, saved from being too pretty by a slightly crooked nose caused by an old hockey injury. His mouth was the sort you kept staring at, helplessly, as though it were a Godiva chocolate truffle.

“You’d better not be laughing,” she warned him.

“I would never do that. Why would I laugh about something that’s hurting you?”

She shifted her gaze forward and concentrated on counting the evergreen swags strung from the streetlight poles. This was a particular talent of his—saying something sweet and sincere just when she needed it.

“So, did you love him?” Tony asked.

“I’ve never been in love,” she blurted out, then covered her honesty with a laugh. “Look, I’m all right. Byron wasn’t that...special. I suppose I tried to make him seem that way, but the two of us simply didn’t have it.” She despised the way that made her sound. Superficial. Shallow. Heartless.

Honestly, what must he think of her? Dumped on Christmas Eve, robbed by her latest best friend, and here she was behaving as though she had missed a hair appointment. The fact was, she had put such thick layers of insulation around her emotions that nothing could penetrate anymore. Not the hurt—but not the joy, either.

“You don’t have to downplay this, Elaine,” he said. “You’re entitled to feel like crap, at least for a while.”

“That’s a total waste of energy, and it’s not going to fix anything.”

He draped his wrist over the arch of the steering wheel. “How much of a hurry are you in?”

She glanced at her Gucci watch, a little token of appreciation from a client. Then she glared at the silent phone. Well, here was a choice. She could spend the afternoon fretting about the St. James affair. Or she could surrender control for once in her life. She felt a glimmer of...something. Possibility?

“Actually, none. Everything is under control for tonight. Thanks to Byron, I have no last-minute gifts to buy. Why do you ask?”

“I need to make a stop.” He swung into a spot marked Official Vehicles Only and came around to the passenger side. He held the door open for her as she stepped out, batting her eyelashes against snow flurries. The giant, gaudy Prometheus sculpture, aglow in floodlights and drowning in the blare of Christmas carols, marked the entrance to the ice rink at Rockefeller Center.