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her career had taken. As a wife and mother of a new baby, she had been satisfied running a catering service that allowed her to set her own hours. But after her divorce from Jack, she had realized that in order to make some serious money, she had to set higher goals for herself. And that meant opening her own restaurant, a dream she’d had since her first day at the Culinary Institute.
    At first, the thought of taking such a risk had been overwhelming, but little by little, as she took inventory of her talent, her determination and her finances, fear turned to excitement. She could do this. She would do this.
    Using the money from her divorce settlement plus what she had managed to save over the years, she financed part of the venture and convinced her banker to loan her the rest. The first year hadn’t been easy. Or the second. With so many well-established restaurants in the Princeton area, Campagne was slow in catching the attention of the public. But thanks to a few good reviews and word of mouth,
    Campagne was now one of the hottest eateries within a twenty-mile radius.
    Unlike some owners of French-country restaurants, she had resisted the temptation to clutter the dining room with the expected terra-cotta pots, lavender sprays and other country artifacts. Instead, she had gone to France and brought back several bolts of souleiado, a Provencal cloth that came in tones of blue, red, green and yellow, and had turned them into tablecloths. The dishes, brilliant ocher pottery, were also from the south of France, as was the bubble-glass stemware. Except for an antique tapestry she had unearthed in a local flea market years ago, she had left the saffron-colored walls bare. The effect was nothing short of spectacular.
    “All right, girl,” she said, stuffing the money pouch into her purse. “That’s enough gloating for one night. Time to go home.”
    Humming softly, she walked from the dining room, through the kitchen, turning off the last light switch before going out the back door.
    She had almost reached the Acura when a figure stepped out of the shadows.
    Abbie held back a cry of alarm. Holding her purse against her chest, she reminded herself that Princeton was one of the safest communities in New Jersey. In the three years she’d had the restaurant, she had never had a reason to be afraid, even at this late hour.
    It wasn’t until the stranger took another step forward and came to stand directly under the lamppost that she recognized him.
    The man from the ballpark.
    With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she looked around her. The parking lot was deserted. She was alone. A true gentleman, Brady had repeatedly offered to stay with her
    until closing and walk her to her car, but she had always turned him down. Now she wished she hadn’t.
    “Who are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “What do you want?”
    The obvious answer was money, yet she sensed this was more than a robbery. If money was all he wanted, what had he been doing at the ballpark? The thought she might be raped brought a quick burst of panic, but did not render her helpless. If that’s what he was after, he would have one hell of a fight on his hands. Thanks to a course in self defense she had taken after her divorce, she knew how to take care of herself.
    “What’s the matter? You look nervous.” As he talked, the stranger reached inside his shirt pocket and took out a cigarette and a Zippo lighter. Without taking his eyes off her, he tapped the cigarette gently on the lighter’s flat side. The gesture was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place it. Or the man. “You’re not scared of me, are you, Abbie?”
    He knew her name. Was that good or bad?
    Acting braver than she felt, she inspected him closely, trying to remember when and where she might have run into him. At the restaurant, perhaps? Back during her catering days? Now that he was closer, she saw that his eyes were either dark brown or black. His hair was