But that wasn’t what was making her nerves jangle on the swift, thirty-one-story rise to the St. James apartment. Smiling tautly at the elevator man, she admitted to herself that the source of her apprehension was something—someone—altogether different.

There was no denying it. Just being near Tony Fiore, even the very thought of him, made her tingle with an awareness that was actually embarrassing in its intensity. She wasn’t a naive girl anymore, yet with Tony, she felt young and light and full of feelings she had long thought lost to her.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the smoke-tinted elevator mirror, she detected a splotchy blush on her neck. It was like a red map of the former Soviet Union rising up from the décolletage of her perfect cocktail dress. She hadn’t blushed like this in ages, though it used to be a common and embarrassing trait of hers. The red rash of rapture, she had once jokingly called it when her college roommate had asked her if she had a fever. Agitated, she raised the collar of her coat.

As they arrived at the thirty-first floor, the elevator man tipped his cap. “Merry Christmas, Miss St. James.”

“What? Uh, thanks. Same to you.”

Flustered, she stepped out of the elevator and into the place where she’d spent her over-privileged childhood. It was gorgeous as always, in the gleaming-marble, sleekly chic way of the city’s finest old money roosts. It had a special holiday sparkle imparted by the subtle, elegant touches of the floral designer she’d engaged for the event.

Graceful and minimalist, the seasonal decor avoided the usual swags of holly and mistletoe in favor of simple elegance. In the foyer, a pair of beeswax tapers flanked a single calla lily in a crystal vase, artfully displayed atop the Louis XVI side table. The living room had been arranged for conversation and dancing. She and the designer had talked her mother out of putting up the traditional twelve-foot tree because it would take up too much space. Instead, the designer had insisted that the “suggestion” of a tree—an abstract stainless-steel sculpture of a branch over the mantel—would suffice.

Elaine found herself wishing she had argued more with the designer.

Sinbad, who had no last name and whose talents were booked for years in advance, was warming up on the white Steinway. Elaine surrendered her coat to one of the caterer’s uniformed staffers, who bore it away to the guest room that tonight would serve as a cloakroom.

Elaine took a few moments for a quick tour. In the vast, well-equipped kitchen, Armand orchestrated the preparations like an air traffic controller. He paused only long enough to greet Elaine, assure her that everything was perfect and on time, and insist that she sample the tamarind-perfumed ceviche.

“Outstanding,” she assured him, savoring the lime-cured raw fish. Secretly, she yearned for Chex Mix and little cubes of cheese.