After crossing under the 405 freeway, Katie turned left, toward Santa Monica and her dollhouse-size bungalow. Traffic was lighter than it would be in an hour or so, as lawyers, accountants and financial types packed it in for the weekend.

Okay, yes, it was only two in the afternoon, and she really should still be working. But hey. She’d just landed a huge contract, been smiled at by one of the best-looking men in LaLa Land, and somewhere north of the city there was a cannoli with her name on it.

Inspired by the thought of dinner, she threaded her way through the growing congestion and made it home in about twenty minutes. After changing from her suit and high heels into a sleeveless dress and sandals, she grabbed a cardigan, the already-packed overnight bag, and headed for the bathroom. There she plucked pins from her hair until the shoulder-blade-length reddish-brown waves tumbled free. A scrunchy secured them at the nape of her neck. She paused long enough to slather sunscreen on every exposed inch. She might be half Italian, but she’d inherited her mother’s Irish skin. Just thinking about the sun was enough to start her burning.

On her way to the front door Katie glanced at her answering machine. No flashing light announced the delight of a waiting message. Obviously Zach Stryker had manfully resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to call her and beg her to return to his office where they would make love on his designer leather sofa.

Once in the driveway she stowed her luggage in the trunk, then slipped into her Sebring. The convertible top opened, then folded neatly behind the backseat. An adjustment of her radio from NPR to a rock station completed her travel ritual. It was time to go home.

By three o’clock she’d crested the hill that marked the line between L.A. and the valley. The exit to the 101 freeway was on her right. Katie slipped into that lane, all the while singing along with a song about broken hearts and holding on.