And she should be glad. She should even identify him herself. She could be the one to send him to prison. It would be her vengeance and his due. But instead, she was worried over his being discovered. It was preposterous.

"Annabel? You are miles away. Whatever is wrong?" Lizzie tugged on her hand, her dark eyes filled with worry.

"I am going upstairs to my room," Annabel said, forcing a smile. "I will be fine. I will see you all before supper." But she did not think she would be fine for a very long time-and certainly not for as long as Braxton remained on the same premises as she.

Lizzie nodded uncertainly. Then, before Annabel could leave, she plucked her sleeve. "Dear, I am so sorry about that boorish James Appleton Beard. He is hardly good enough for you anyway."

"I had forgotten all about him, to tell you the truth," Annabel said honestly, for her thoughts were consumed with Braxton now.

"I do think Mr. Frank is very set on you." Lizzie's tone was hopeful. "He seems so kind, Annabel."

Annabel blinked, finally focusing completely on her sister. "Liz, he is old, and kind or not, he is a bore."

Lizzie's face crumpled and she bit her lip. "You just won't give anyone a chance," she cried. "Sometimes I think you are pining for that thief-and waiting for him to reappear in our lives!"

Annabel could not believe her ears-or the utter irony of what Lizzie had just said. "I must go," she cried, kissing her sister's cheek. She paused. "And you are wrong, Lizzie, so very wrong. That is ancient history. Truly."

Lizzie regarded her sadly.

Annabel gripped her striped skirts and rushed up the stairs, her gait hardly ladylike or genteel. Lizzie was wrong. She did not continue to harbor misplaced affections for a man who had abandoned her two long years ago. On the other hand, she wasn't quite sure she wished

to condemn him to a life of imprisonment, either-and something was surely wrong with her for not wanting to see him in jail. Annabel glanced down the hall on the second landing. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she expected to see Braxton lurking about, lying in wait for her, eager to speak with her.

But the long, plushly carpeted hall was vacant, except for one uniformed housemaid with a cart of cleaning tools.

Annabel's room was on the fourth floor-the hotel had eight stories in all. She quickly let herself in and found herself locking the door. Then she unlaced and kicked off her kid shoes and flopped on her back on the bed.

Tears shamelessly filled her eyes.

Oh, God. Annabel flung one arm over her brow. It was impossible to believe that she still felt such anguish over that man and what he had done to her. She had been the one to seduce him. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been, or that afterward, he would abandon her, without even a good-bye.

Annabel wiped the tears from her eyes. Maybe Lizzie was right. There was a stubborn part of her heart that just refused to give up her love for Pierce St. Clare, aka Pierce Braxton. But how could that be? And how could she have fallen in love with an absolute stranger in less than twenty-four hours?

Poor, poor Annabel Boothe. With her wild, reckless ways.

Annabel wanted to clap her hands over her ears to drive away that too familiar refrain, but it was just like her suddenly to go off half-cocked, whether her passions were stimulated by a voyage to India or a con artist and a thief.

There was a knocking at her door.

Annabel sat up, her heart lurching with dread. Of course it was not Braxton. Undoubtedly it was Lizzie, bringing her a dinner tray, or Missy, come to scold her. Or it might even be a hotel maid. Annabel stood up slowly, wetting her lips. Her pulse pounded. She turned to glance at her reflection in the mirror over the Chippendale dresser.

Her pale hair was spilling out of its chignon, her high-necked gown was wrinkled, and her face was very pale. In contrast, her eyes were so blue that they almost seemed black. Annabel walked to the door in her bare feet, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Braxton stared at her.

She had known it would be him. For one moment Annabel looked into his eyes, and then she hit him with all her might. The slap sounded loudly in the room and the hall outside her door.

Immediately Braxton stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. In the blink of an eye, he had locked it and pocketed the brass key. "Now that we have gotten that out of the way, hello, Annabel," he said.

She was trembling, with rage, she supposed. "Get out. Before I am ruined twice."

He continued to regard her very intently, but his eyes gave no clue as to his thoughts or feelings, and it was not at all like her dreams-she saw no sign of regret upon his features. "You have not changed," he said after a long moment.

"Have you?" she asked caustically.

"You are angry." He did not move. He stood against the door, inches away from her. "You wanted to be ruined, Annabel, or have you conveniently forgotten that?"

"I have not forgotten anything," Annabel flashed, clenching her fists. She had the wild, nearly uncontrollable urge to hit him again. While a crystal-clear memory of their lovemaking swept through her mind.

"Then why are you so angry? Because I left without a good-bye?" He studied her.

How to answer? Two long, painful years had gone by, and maybe Lizzie was right, maybe she had been pining for him, and God only knew how many more years might pass after this single encounter. Annabel said, "When a man makes love to a woman, at least a good-bye is in order."

"I am sorry," he said. "But a good-bye was not wise. For many reasons."

She folded her arms tightly across her breasts. "But then, you did not make love to me, did you, Braxton? Naive idiot that I am, virgin that I was, I mistook your passion for some amount of feeling, of caring. So a good-bye was not in order, now was it?" Her eyes felt hot. She would kill herself if she cried now, in front of him.

He tossed the key onto her bed and walked past her to the window. Appropriately, her view was of the back lawns and the Acadia 's three tennis courts. Beyond that, one could see the other side of the inlet, a peninsula of black rock and green pines sticking out into the Atlantic Ocean. "I am sorry." He did not face her. "I never meant to hurt you. I did what I thought was best."

"I do not believe you. I do not think you are a repentant man. Not in any circumstance," Annabel flared. "And you did what was best for you."

He turned slowly and their gazes locked. Annabel almost fell over because she saw regret now, and it was vast-and identical to the expression he had worn in all of her fantasies. "It was not easy for me," he said quietly. "You see, you were not as naive as you think you were. I was very fond of you, Annabel. And I am a good judge of human nature. I had already summed you up- and knew you would impulsively seek to join me in my adventures. I did what was best for us both, Annabel."

"Don't you dare claim that you know me," she retorted, but she was shaken anew. He was right-she would have insisted upon accompanying him instead of returning home. But more importantly, had he meant what he had just said? Had he been fond of her then? She had no intention of ever trusting him again. If he had cared at all for her, how could he have abandoned her the way he had? And what about now-what about the present?

Annabel wet her lips. "How arrogant, how presumptuous, to make my choice for me."

"You are not the first to accuse me of arrogance," he said with a wry smile.

Annabel trembled. It did not seem like two years since she had last been with him, damn it. It seemed more like two days or two weeks. She did not want him standing there in her room, just a few feet away from her, with that smile and those eyes and his damn charisma. "I make my own decisions," she said. #

"Few women, especially unwed ones, make their own decisions," he returned evenly. His gaze had slipped to her left hand, which was bare of rings. "Is your father here?" he asked abruptly.

Her cheeks felt hot. Foolishly, Annabel hid her hand in her skirts. "So that is why you have come," she said, unable to disguise her bitterness. "No."

His jaw flexed as he stepped forward. "I do not wish to go to jail," he said. "And that is only one reason I have come."

She was aware of him coming even closer. Annabel hoped he would not see how she was trembling. She tilted up her chin. "You want to know if your secret is safe with me."

He smiled. Annabel could hardly stand it. She backed away from him until her shoulders hit the door. "Actually, I already know that my secret is safe with you," he murmured.

"Even I know no such thing," she huffed.

"If you were going to finger me, my dear, you would have done so forty-five minutes ago." He continued to smile. But his gaze had dropped to her mouth.

"I hate you," she heard herself hiss. But she was thinking about his kisses. She had stopped remembering them long ago. She did not want to remember them now-or to despair because she would never be in his arms again.

"I don't blame you. I should have refused what you offered. I did try. But I admit, I did not try very much, Annabel. I do not think you have any idea of how unusual a woman you are. Few men could be strong enough to resist you if you set your cap for them."

He was thoroughly wrong, no man wanted her, but his words affected her so much that she pounced on the bed, grabbed the key, rushed to the door and began to unlock it. "I want you to leave. Now." He had been sincere and she was certain of it.

His hand caught hers, covering it, stopping her from opening the door. And their gazes connected wildly once again. "You haven't changed, and I am glad," he said, smiling slightly. "You are still bold and courageous, and more beautiful than ever." His smile was gone. "I would hate to see you subdued by society and men like your father."