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answering machine? Did she have a cell? E-mail? She was incredibly hard to get in touch with, did she know that? Cassie watched this Nick Emmons unconsciously pull his cell out twice, both times punching in his secret code, opening up e-mail and text, before switching it off and slipping it back into its home, the pocket over his heart. He was a man who would not hold still.
    Cassie thought—and told herself not to think—of Jim. Jim, with his oft-disconnected landline, depending on how tight on funds he was that month. Jim, who, when everyone else went wireless, and Cassie mocked and cajoled him to join the modern age, had been resolute. Jim, who never shaved, and was close enough to fifty that she’d never dared ask how many years he had on her, who didn’t own a suit, and showered only when absolutely necessary. Cassie didn’t exactly miss him, and she knew that ending things had been the right, if painful choice. But with the arrival of this well-dressed, good-smelling, nosy, busy man, she found her mind retreating to that unmade bed on the floor of Jim’s studio, his paint-stained fingertips playing scales up her spine.
    “What do you want?” she asked bluntly, trying to push through this strange fog that seemed to have dulled her sensibility.
    “Oh.” Nick’s smile faltered. “Right.” He cleared his throat and lost his charge. “Could I come in for a bit?”
    They both saw at once that this would not be nearly enough to earn him entry. He tried again. “I’m here about your—an—inheritance.”
    So he was from the bank after all. Cassie felt her jaw clench. She wished she had some clothes on for this fight, but if the time to have it was now, so be it. “That money is mine fair and square. She left it to me. I know the house needs a lot of help, but she owned it outright, which means I own it outright now, and I may not look like I know much about money and houses and that kind of thing, but I do know you can’t just take it from me until I’ve had sufficient time to—”
    He waved his hand to stop her right there. “I don’t know anything about that. I’m here about money you’ve just, well, as of yesterday, you’ve inherited from someone—a relative?”—he seemed to be having a wrestling match with his own words, as if every one he uttered was up for debate—“someone”—he settled for that safe word, nodding diligently over it—“someone I’m not sure you’ve met…” He peered over her shoulder, into the darkness of the foyer, then tilted his head as he met her eyes again. He looked surprised when their gazes matched, as if she’d scalded him. “I’d really love to come in.” He cleared his throat. “To fill you in.” He gained confidence, rivering his fingers over the brass filigree that lay around the doorbell, then looking back at her with unbridled enthusiasm. “I had no idea you live in such a treasure. This should be on the register.” She frowned. He reined himself in. “Can I…can I come in? It’s important.”
    No, she thought, no, you can’t, I’ll be the one who decides what’s important. But maybe the house wanted him, because, before Cassie said yes, she knew she was going to say it. When a gentleman came calling, you learned his business over a pitcher of lemonade served in the front parlor; that had been her grandmother’s way.
    “I don’t have anything on,” Cassie said. A quick blush touched Nick’s cheeks, just as Cassie caught the scent of him again. A third note, something like juniper, hit high in her nasal passages, where it would linger. She clutched the bedspread. She felt her face grow hot, unexpectedly hot. She’d meant to say, or should have meant to say, something appropriate, like “Fine; just give me a minute.” She turned abruptly in to the house. Blind in the dark foyer, she waded through the snowdrift of mail, cringing at the crinkle of paper under the soles of her feet. The pile of correspondence had reached an untenable