The thought brought her up sharply. Whatever was she doing, lying here at six in the morning, woolgathering about Joseph Duggan when she was engaged to marry Paul Hildebrandt in three months?

Paul. He'd promised to make it to the wedding today, and she was holding him to it! Why couldn't he get it through his flawlessly groomed head she didn't give a tinker's damn whether or not they had a furnished living room by the time they got married? Or even the house he'd insisted was a prerequisite. He was living in it already-so proud of the fact that he'd managed to provide it for her even before the big day. But the house wasn't enough for Paul. He'd taken on contract work to earn extra money for all the worldly goods he told her she deserved, and had installed a computer terminal in one of the three bedrooms, where he often worked Saturdays and evenings, rapping away at the keyboard that produced all the mysterious solutions to problems she could not grasp, in a language she could not understand and in methods that made her feel ignorant when he tried to explain them to her.

But he'd promised: today he'd be with her at the wedding and the dance.

With that reassuring thought she got up, concentrating on Paul and the pleasant surprise in store for him when he saw her in the ultimate dress. If he complimented her today-and he'd better-she promised herself she'd accept it at face value and not search for ulterior meanings.

The day was clear and sunny, but by ten in the morning the March winds had picked up again. The bridesmaids were all meeting at McLean's Beauty Shop to have their hair done into Gibson Girl hairdos.