Pete wandered over to the buffet table, took a plate, and wondered what the devil he was doing at this party. He’d told himself he was worried about the Porsche, but he knew that was baloney. The horrible truth, he decided, was that he’d had an intense, irrational craving to see more of Louisa Brannigan.

It was a frightening revelation. Even more frightening was the fact that he didn’t have a clue why he was so attracted to her. He couldn’t find anything redeeming about the woman, although she didn’t look bad in the silky suit. He loaded a plate with slivers of fresh fruit and a mound of tiny sandwiches. He snaked his way back through the crowd and handed the plate to Louisa. “Eat up.”

“I don’t-”

He popped a sandwich into her mouth. “Chew.”

“Mmmmmph.”

One of the media people sidled up to Pete and introduced himself. “I heard you were in town,” he said. “I heard you were doing something big, something controversial.”

“We’ll see,” Pete told him. “It’s still in the research stage.”

A man with a video camera appeared from nowhere and trained the recorder on Streeter. It drew more people.

Louisa felt a hand tug at her sleeve. It was Nolan. “Who is this guy?”

“Pete Streeter.”

“What’s he doing here? Did you invite him?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, get him out of here. Now! Take him somewhere and keep him there. He’s insulted Sam Gundy, wiped out the pâté sandwiches, and he’s monopolizing the press.”

“Right.”

“And find out where he got the tux jacket.”

“Yes sir.”

Half an hour later, Pete pulled the Porsche into Louisa’s designated parking space and cut the ignition.

“Maybe this is all just a bad dream,” Louisa said. “Maybe today never happened. I’m going to go to bed now, and maybe things will be better when I wake up.”