LITMIR.BIZ

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under her body, and settled the quilt around her. Then she tapped the space bar, and the screensaver dissolved.

      She quickly logged into her company mail through the mail server. There were half a dozen virtual Christmas cards sent by people too lazy to send the real thing, and a couple of “see you next year” e-mails from colleagues.

      Next, she logged into her personal mail. There were fifty-two messages.

      The spam filters had caught most—but not all—of the special offers, the free money, the Viagra substitutes, and the Genie Bras. Stephanie scrolled down the screen, quickly deleting the remaining e-mails without opening them, and then rolled on to the next screen.

      New e-mail from robert.walker@R&KProductions.com.

      Stephanie was unsurprised.

      Sitting in the chair, she stared at the e-mail for a long time. There was no subject, and it had been sent at 2:43 a.m., but that was his local time, Eastern Standard Time. Stephanie glanced at the clock. About fifteen minutes ago.

      She could delete it. It would be so easy. Just highlight it. Click Delete, and it would be gone. She clicked once on the e-mail, and then she rested her hand on the keyboard, index finger brushing the Delete key.

      There was nothing Robert could say to her, nothing she wanted to hear from him. . . .

      But she was also curious. What had happened when he and Kathy got home? Had they argued, reconciled? . . . How had that terrible Christmas Eve finished?

      She hit Enter, and the e-mail opened.

      Dear Stephanie,

      I don’t know what’s happened to you. I am desperately worried. I’ve tried calling you at the house and on your cell, but it goes straight to voice mail. You’ve just disappeared.

      Please get in touch with me. Let me know you’re okay.

      I even went over to the house earlier this morning. I let myself in. I’m concerned there’s no sign of you, and yet I know you haven’t gone away. I looked in the closets, and your clothes are still there.

      I am at my wit’s end.

      I have no idea how to contact your friend Izzie, and I realize I don’t know any of your other friends. If I don’t get in touch with you soon, I might try to contact Charles Flintoff. I’m half thinking I should contact the police and report you as missing.

      If you get this, then please, please, please contact me.

      I love you.

      Robert

      “Oh shit!”

      Stephanie’s first reaction was one of anger—how dare he attempt to contact her, how dare he invade her home in the middle of the night, how dare he rummage through her closets, how dare he even think about contacting Charles Flintoff, her boss! And how dare he say that he loved her!

      There was a tightness in her chest; she could feel her heart pounding hard enough to make her body shake. Her stomach clenched and boiled and, for a moment, she thought she was going to vomit.

      Why couldn’t he just accept that they were finished? That their affair was over?

      When she had stood at her door earlier that day and watched Robert and Kathy climb into their cars, she never expected to see or communicate with Robert again.

      Obviously, she’d been wrong.

      Somewhere in the back of her mind, an alarm bell was ringing furiously. Barely a few hours after they broke up, not only had Robert attempted to contact her, he’d been inside her home.

      A sudden smile curled the corners of her lips.

      It was brought on by the thought of Robert’s desperately attempting to get in touch, failing, then rushing to the condo to find it abandoned. All her clothes, her shoes, even her computer were still there. He’d no idea where she was; and he obviously imagined the worse. Was he arrogant enough to believe that she’d been so upset by the course of events that she’d done something stupid like thrown herself into the Charles? A lovelorn suicide. She realized—not for the first time either—that he didn’t really know her at all.

      She read the e-mail again, and the smile faded. The last thing she needed was for Robert to talk to her boss or to the police.

      She’d have to talk to him.

      A sudden thought struck her, and she checked the time of the message again. Maybe he was still online. She could IM him in Google Chat. Stephanie glanced at her father’s desktop and laughed. Like most people his generation, Stephanie’s father subscribed to AOL. She smiled at the distinctive yellow walking-man icon at the bottom of the screen and clicked on the Safari icon next to it. She logged into Google and waited while her personal contacts loaded into the address book. She knew the chances of finding Robert logged in on Christmas morning were probably slim indeed. . . .

      Online: robertwalker.

      Stephanie moved her mouse over the name, but didn’t click on it.

      Online for nineteen minutes.

      Well that, if nothing else, told her something about the state of affairs in the Walker household. She grinned at the unfortunate phrase. What was he doing on his computer so early on Christmas morning?

      Stephanie double-clicked on the name, and the message box popped up. It was divided into two halves: Outgoing messages were written in the bottom half, while the response appeared in the top half of the screen. She hesitated, looking at her name glowing on the screen: stephanieburroughs, then her fingers moved lightly across the keyboard, four characters:

      Yes?

      Almost instantly, she saw a note appear on the bottom of the screen: robertwalker is typing. A moment later, Robert’s text appeared on her screen.

      Thank God. Are you all right? I was worried sick.

      I’m fine.

      But where are you?

      I’m fine.

      Are you not going to tell me where you are?

      No.

      Tell me you’re all right?

      I’m all right.

      Stephanie, please talk to me. We have a lot to talk about.

      We’ve nothing to talk about. I want my key back. Don’t go near the house again. Stay away from my boss. I don’t want to see you again.

      It doesn’t have to be this way.

      Actually, it does.

      Please. I need to talk to you. About today. About the future.

      We have no future together. Go back to your wife, Robert Walker.

      Stephanie hit the button that signed her out of Google Chat. She knew Robert would get a message on the other end, saying that stephanieburroughs was offline. Jesus, the arrogance! The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of the man.

      “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

      Stephanie jumped. She looked up to find her father standing in the door. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

      “I’m sorry, Dad. I couldn’t sleep. I was just checking my e-mail.”

      “Anything important?”

      “Just spam.”

      CHAPTER 8

      “I’m fine, Mom. Seriously I’m fine.”

      Stephanie Burroughs was sitting up in bed, her hands wrapped around a bowl of steaming soup.

      “You don’t look fine.” Toni Burroughs sat on the edge of the bed and carefully

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