She’d thought it would be good for her. The people, the elegance, the celebratory atmosphere. It had done no more than show her that she didn’t want to be in Rome exchanging small talk and drinking wine. She wanted to be home. Home, though it surprised her, was Philadelphia.

She didn’t long for Paris and her odd little flat on the Left Bank. She wanted her fourth-floor apartment in Philadelphia where there were memories of Blake in every corner. However foolish it made her, however unwise or impractical it was, she wanted Blake.

Now, flying home, she found that hadn’t changed. It was Blake she wanted to go to when she was on the ground again. It was to Blake she wanted to tell all the foolish stories she’d heard in Enrico’s dining room. It was Blake she wanted to hear laugh. It was Blake she wanted to curl up next to now that the nervous energy of the past few days was draining.

Sighing, she tilted her seat back and closed her eyes. But she would do her duty and go to her mother’s suite. Perhaps Monique’s little party was the perfect diversion. It would give Summer just a bit more time before she faced Blake again. Blake, and the decision she had thought was already made.

B.C. ran a finger around the inside of the snug collar of his shirt and hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. Seeing Monique again after all these years—having to introduce Lillian to her. Monique, my wife Lillian. Lillian, Monique Dubois, a former lover. Small world, isn’t it?

Though he was a man who appreciated a good joke, this one eluded him.

It seemed there was no statute of limitations on marital transgressions. It was true that he’d only strayed once, and then during an unofficial separation from his wife that had left him angry, bitter and frightened. A crime committed once, was still a crime committed.

He loved Lillian, had always loved her, but he’d never be able to deny that the brief affair with Monique had happened. And he couldn’t deny that it had been exciting, passionate and memorable.

They’d never contacted each other again, though once or twice he’d seen her when he was still actively working in the business. Even that had been so long ago.

So, why had she called him now, twenty years later, insisting that he come—with his wife—to her suite at the Philadelphia Cocharan House? He ran his finger around his collar once again. Something was choking him. Monique’s only explanation had been that it concerned the happiness of his son and her daughter.

That had left him with the problem of fabricating a reason for coming into town and insisting that Lillian accompany him. That hadn’t been a piece of cake, because he’d married a sharpminded, independent woman, but it was nothing compared with the next ordeal.

“Are you going to fuss with that tie all day?” B.C. jumped as his wife came up behind him. “Easy.” With a laugh, she brushed the back of his jacket, smoothing it over his shoulders in a habit that took him back to their honeymoon. “You’d think you’d never spent an evening with a celebrity before. Or is it just French actresses that make you nervous?”