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lasting.
    Sighing, she turned and continued down the hallway. She could hardly blame her family for not taking her new career seriously; she had claimed to be equally committed to opening her own restaurant, modeling, and becoming a personal fitness trainer. Each had lasted less than a year.
    In time, they would realize this was different.
    And she would have time. Plenty of time. In two weeks she would have the surgery, and she’d be okay. There was nothing to be afraid of. Really.
    Holding tight to that thought, Celine glanced up as she passed under an arch, at another of the chateau’s decorations, her personal favorite: the entwined letters G and R, carved over every doorway.
    Family legend had it that one of the original owners of the chateau, a knight by the name of Sir Gaston de Varennes, was responsible for that bit of artwork.
    Sir Gaston, it seemed, had been quite a ladies’ man—until he had met and married his wife, whom he loved so much, he had had her initial engraved with his in every castle he owned. The romantic gesture appeared in several chateaux in the region. The wife’s name either had never been recorded or had been lost over the years, because the identity of “Lady R” remained a mystery.
    A wistful smile curved Celine’s lips as she turned down another hallway. As a child, she used to pretend that she was Lady R, that she rode with her handsome knight on a white charger through a world of pageantry and colorful tournaments and lavish banquets. And ladies with great hats.
    Her smile faded. Some dreams died hard. She was still holding out for that kind of man: gentle, sensitive and sweet, soft-spoken and thoughtful. The perfect, chivalrous knight, devoted to his lady fair.
    Not the sort of man who would leave her when the going got tough.
    This time the thought of Lee brought anger and determination as well as hurt. It hadn’t been fair of him to blame her for the incident in Lincoln Park. Maybe it had been her romantic, impulsive idea to go make snow angels at midnight—but if he hadn’t fought with that gang of armed teenagers who demanded his precious BMW, she might not have been shot.
    Carjacking , the media had called it. One violent moment that had changed her life and threatened to steal her future.
    Her vision suddenly blurred as she passed beneath another arch and glanced up at the engraved G and R. What if this were the last time she saw the cherished hallways and tapestries of Manoir La Fontaine?
    What if she weren’t alive to return next year?
    Celine ran the last few steps to her room. Blindly, she closed the door behind her and dropped her shoes, willing away the fear. Her heart was hammering again, and her head ached.
    She rubbed her temples. Sleep. That was what she needed. In the morning she would feel better. Stronger. Able to face the truth. Able to tell her family. She wouldn’t think about it now. Not tonight.
    She left the lights off, savoring the cool darkness after the bright lights and noise of the grand salon . Leaving her shoes where they lay, she crossed unsteadily to the dresser. She unfastened her earrings and watch and dropped them on the polished top.
    She could hear celebrations outside, in the streets surrounding the chateau, the citizens of the town of St. Pol singing and laughing and setting off fireworks. It must be almost midnight.
    Unpinning her hat, she stepped over to the windows, into the light from the full moon that poured in through the stained glass. Looking down, she watched the snow falling softly, the twinkling lights of the houses surrounding the chateau, the blinking neon that advertised night spots in the town below.
    There were a few dozen people perched atop the ancient, crumbling chateau wall, some holding cameras and telescopes aimed skyward. Celine leaned her forehead against the glass, letting the moon’s silver light wash over her.
    Silver. Gold. Below, she could see the chateau’s outdoor heated pool and tennis courts and guest