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crammed against one another on either side of the street. But not Emma. She loved the colorless blocks of stone that encased the city's financial heart. It didn't matter to her that their straining skyline blocked out all but the hardiest rays of the ineffectual sun.
    When she wanted sun, she went to her summer house in Manchester-by-the-sea. When she wanted anything else, she went to Wall Street.
    Eagerness to begin the day quickened her pace. At 29

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    the corner of Broadway and Wall she looked up to check for traffic, and was surprised to find the street almost deserted.
    Fools, she thought of her peers. She didn't let a little thing like foul weather stand in the way of getting to work. That's why she had succeeded where so many had failed.
    Grasping her skirt and heavy gossamer overcoat in one gloved hand, she hurried across the street toward the Smitherton Guaranty and Trust Bank.
    In front of the bank she stopped just long enough to adjust the tilt of her high-crowned Rainsford hat. Her fingers slid hesitantly toward her forehead, and she immediately frowned. A riot of blond curls had broken free of their moorings and were now wisping freely across her forehead.
    Disgust thinned her lips. The curls always ruined her appearance. No matter how much water she slapped on her hair to straighten it, the tiny corkscrews broke free. It was important that she look her best for bank president Eugene Cummin. She and Eugene had been engaged in a discreet, businesslike affair for nearly a year. Not an ordinary affaire de coeur, of course; Emma didn't believe in love, and she was fairly certain that he didn't either. More of an ... economic and social liaison. A relationship that suited both of them to perfection—at least, it suited her well. She had never thought to ask Eugene whether it was equally satisfactory for him.
    He would have found it odd if she had. They rarely talked about personal things. Even their bedtime talk was strictly business. Oh, occasionally they'd laugh, or tell a joke. But not often. Life on the streets of New York had given Emma an unconventional and practical
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    opinion of sex. She'd learned long ago—too long—that everything she had was either an asset or a liability, and sex was no different.
    Her relationship with Eugene gave their business dealings a spicier, more intriguing edge. And, most important these days, it pleased her. She actually rather enjoyed giving the priggish ladies of the Four Hundred something to gossip about.
    He wasn't much to look at perhaps, but his financial skills more than compensated for any lack in his physical appearance. They were a solid money-making team. She had even considered the possibility of merging their fortunes when the time came for her to have children. Heaving a sigh that strained the starched white pleats of her shirtwaist, she smoothed the intricately coiled Roman knot at her nape and plucked up her skirt. Climbing the massive pile of steps that led to the bank's entrance, she stared at the huge wooden doors that would any moment be flung open in greeting.
    They stayed shut. Her smile faded. Surely the idiotic doorman didn't expect her—her!—to open the door for herself. Disgusted, she drew herself up to her full height of five six, threw her shoulders back, and barreled up to the closed door. She waited one-tenth of a second for it to open, then snapped her umbrella shut and rapped sharply on the portal's small window.
    From behind the door came the sound of rushing feet, and then the door was whisked open. The doorman's watery eyes took one look at her and bulged in surprise. Color crawled up his accordion-wrinkled neck. "I-I'm sorry, Miss Hatter. It's just that ..." His gaze plummeted to the brightly polished toes of his shoes. "I didn't expect you today." Emma swept into the bank. "For ten years I've been

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    here every Monday morning at precisely eight-thirty a.m. And you," she added with a