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dreams—the kind that woke you up with your heart in your throat. In the dreams, she always drove down Poplar Hill one second too late. Steve always died in her arms while Kieran McClintock stood over them and smiled.
    But that night her meeting ran long and it was after ten before she got home. All in all, it had been an exhausting day. Maybe she’d be too tired to dream.
    She pulled into the complex parking lot, gathered her books and papers and purse and groceries and made her way to her second-floor apartment.
    And, there, on her elegantly lit landing, she came face-to-face with a man she had thought she’d never see again.
    The smiling man of her terrible dreams.

CHAPTER THREE
    K IERAN WAS SHOCKED by how different Claire looked. How much older.
    He hadn’t seen her in two years, but still…
    Part of it was her hair. She had beautiful hair, a deep, shiny brown. She used to wear it almost to her waist. When she taught, she just whisked it up into a casual twist that always had adorable bits and pieces escaping from it. Now it was cut in a sleek, chin-length bob that fit like a helmet.
    And her outfit. It was the pencil-thin uniform of a corporate lady-shark. What had happened to the flowing cotton jumpers and soft pastel T-shirts?
    But most of all, it was her face. Even in the worst days of her first grief, she hadn’t looked this tight and closed-in. Her brown eyes, round, large and long-lashed, had always reminded him of some gentle woodland creature.
    Not any more. Now she just looked tired and strangely distant. She didn’t even seem interested enough to be shocked to see him standing on her front porch.
    â€œKieran,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
    That was a damn good question, actually. What the hell was he doing here? Back in his hotel room, he’d told himself a thousand times to quit being such a fool, put down his car keys, order room service,raid the minibar, turn on the television, anything. But none of it had stopped him.
    â€œI’m in town for a conference.”
    She shifted her packages so that she could see him better over the groceries, but she kept her fist tightly closed around her keys. She seemed to have no intention of opening that door.
    â€œNot here in Richmond,” she said. “I meant here. What are you doing here? ”
    â€œI wanted to say hello.” Was that true? Actually, he had no clear idea why he had come. He’d just opened the telephone book, found her name and found himself getting a map from his laptop. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
    She shifted again, her keys clinking against a glass bottle, or maybe a can. “I’m doing fine.”
    No, you’re not, he wanted to say. Any fool could tell she was lost. But he didn’t have the right to say anything like that. Hell, he didn’t even have the right to be standing here.
    One date. That was all they’d ever had. One night when he’d sat across from her, eating salmon and salad and some stupid little bonbon dessert, and quietly going wild with wanting her.
    One night—compared to Steve’s death, for which she had always blamed him. No, he’d say he had pretty damn few rights in this situation.
    â€œI just—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I thought maybe we could talk for a while. Maybe I could take you out for coffee. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. I just got into town. Are you hungry?”
    She looked at him with those shallow eyes. “We don’t really have anything to talk about, Kieran. Wedon’t have anything in common except Steve. And I don’t talk about Steve.”
    You don’t? Oh, Claire…that’s not healthy. But of course he didn’t say that, either. He just looked at her sober face in the silvery light from the carriage lamp and wished he could go back two years and start over. God, the things he’d do differently!
    â€œIt’s been