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The sound of an approaching car interrupted his thoughts and he turned. The limousine coasted to a noiseless stop about ten feet away. Gordon, his driver, climbed out, gave Nick a half salute, then turned and opened the rear door. That same tingle of anticipation pushed Nick forward as one slim leg, then another emerged from the car, followed by sunlit hair. Pleasure stirred deep within, surprising him by its unexpected strength. Smiling, he said, "Right on time."

She straightened and silvery green eyes met his. "Hello, Mr. Callahan," Claire said, sticking to the formal address they'd agreed upon in the company of others.

Nick immediately knew something was wrong. He could see it in her eyes, even as she made an attempt to smile brightly. But the effort fell far short of the genuine, warm smiles he'd already come to look forward to. Concern, immediate and strong, flooded him.

Gordon removed her bag from the trunk of the Lincoln and walked over to the waiting plane. Nick watched as the driver climbed up the portable steps and disappeared into the inside of the plane. Nick turned back to Claire. "Ready?"

She nodded but said nothing.

He stood at the foot of the portable steps and helped her up. His concern grew as he saw the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the weary slump to her shoulders. Yes, there was definitely something wrong.

Once inside, she made polite comments about the interior of the plane, which was devoid of the usual passenger seats and instead had been turned into one long, comfortable seating area with plush sofas, deep individual chairs with leg rests, and small conversational areas with tables, but he could see no real enthusiasm in her eyes. When he took her into the compact, fully-stocked galley, his particular pride, she said, "This is nicer than the kitchen in my apartment." But again there was no spark of real interest.

Nick sat opposite her, watched as she fastened her seat belt, then fastened his own. He picked up the hand microphone that connected him with the pilot's cabin. "We're ready, Captain," he said.

Within minutes the plane was accelerating down the runway and soon they were airborne and climbing. Claire stared out the window and Nick studied her profile. She looked tired and worried. "What's wrong, Claire?"

Her startled eyes met his. "Oh, I . . . I'm sorry. I was daydreaming," she said. "Did you say something?"

"I asked you what was wrong. Something's obviously troubling you." He kept his voice quiet and encouraging, the same tone he used when he was attempting to disarm a business opponent.

"There's nothing wrong," she said quickly. "I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

She was a rotten liar. He studied her faintly flushed face for a few moments, then said, "I'm glad that's all it is. But remember, if you
should
have a problem of some kind, I don't mind listening. I might even be able to help."

She nodded, giving him the first genuine smile of the day.

He smiled back. He wished she trusted him, but he guessed it was too early in their relationship for that. For the remainder of the flight they didn't talk. Claire leafed through the most recent issue of
Houston City
magazine or looked out the window, and Nick pretended to be engrossed in an article in
Engineering Monthly.
But occasionally he would steal a glance at her and each time he did, he would see the same troubled expression on her face.

Whatever was worrying her, it was serious.

Before the trip to New Orleans was over, he promised himself, he would find out what the problem was. He would also come to a final decision about her.

* * *

Claire walked into her suite at the French Quarter hotel where she and Nick were staying while in New Orleans. It was a beautifully appointed two-room suite filled with antiques. The bed was a four poster draped in pale peach satin and the bathroom was large and luxurious with all manner of amenities. Normally, she would have been thrilled to have the opportunity to stay somewhere like this. But nothing was normal today. For the past eighteen hours all she had been able to think about was the shattering news she'd received the night before.

Desultorily, she unpacked her clothes and put them away. What was she going to do? That one question had pounded relentlessly through her brain. But it didn't matter how many times she asked herself that question. There was no answer.

All last night, after Amy had given her the news of Pinehaven's rate increase, she'd gone over and over her options. Should she ask Peachey for help? Even though she knew Peachey would give her as much help as she could, Claire also knew she'd never ask. Should she go to Aunt Lily and Uncle David? They couldn't afford to do any more than they were already doing. A credit union loan? What would she use for collateral? And where was the money going to come from to pay the loan back?

Claire closed her eyes, resting her head against one of the bedposts. A dull headache throbbed at her temples.

The state hospital.

How could she?

What else could she do?

My whole life is falling apart.

Tears burned behind her eyelids, but Claire refused to give way to the temptation to cry. Crying solved nothing. She'd learned that long ago when she had first received the news of her father's death and her mother's prognosis. She'd cried buckets of tears, and in the end she was still faced with the same problems.

She massaged her temples wearily, then stood. She had to try to put this problem out of her mind. She didn't know what she was going to be expected to do here in New Orleans, but the worst possible thing she could do right now was not give her full attention to her job. More than ever, she must be an exemplary employee. Nothing must jeopardize her only source of income. Perhaps if she did an outstanding job on the article about Nick, she would get a raise.

Nick. He had been so sweet today, had seemed so genuinely concerned about her. For one instant there, when his blue eyes had captured hers with such sympathy, she'd been tempted to confide in him. The burden of her knowledge and fear had been so great, she had almost weakened. But she'd caught herself in time.

He was her boss. It was important to her future with Callahan, International that she keep their relationship businesslike and professional. If she told him her personal problems, her status would change in his eyes. Also, she didn't want him to pity her. She didn't want anyone to pity her. The only thing holding her together right now was her pride.

But it
was
considerate and kind of him to ask. She wondered if all the stories she'd heard about Nick were true. They must be true. No one attained the wealth and power he had without a strong streak of ruthlessness. But after that first stubborn insistence that she take the assignment, he'd been nothing but kind and considerate to her. And he'd also been very compassionate in the face of Heather Ripley's angry and rude remark Saturday night. She wondered which was the real Nick Callahan—the steely and determined power broker or the kind and sensitive man she'd glimpsed today. Perhaps he was both.

Thinking about Nick reminded her that she had four hours before they were supposed to meet for dinner. She may as well take advantage of the free time. She decided to take a long, hot bath filled with some of the scented bath salts she'd noticed earlier. Then she would put on one of those thick terrycloth robes provided by the hotel and rest until it was time to dress. She hadn't lied to Nick about that; she really hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. For the remainder of the trip she would try not to think about Kitty or money or anything except her current assignment.

When she returned to Houston was time enough to deal with everything else.

* * *

Nick worked in his suite until six. Then he shaved, took a quick, hot shower and, wrapped in the thick maroon robe provided by the hotel, poured himself a crystal tumbler of J&B. He sipped at the drink and gazed out the window at the busy street below. He was looking forward to the evening ahead. He hoped Claire was feeling better; he wanted her to enjoy herself tonight.

The minute he saw her walking toward him in the lobby of the hotel forty-five minutes later, he knew her spirits were greatly improved. She looked beautiful tonight, he thought. She was wearing a wool dress with a deep vee neckline and softly flaring skirt in a shade of dark forest green, the perfect complement to her fair hair and delicate complexion. Over her arm was the silver fox jacket she'd worn Saturday night. She'd done something different to her hair, too. It looked fuller and fluffier, framing her face like a golden cloud. She reminded him of pictures he'd seen of the young Grace Kelly, with her combination of classy elegance and hint of sexy mischief.

He saw the way eyes followed Claire's progress through the lobby and felt a surge of possessiveness. "You look lovely tonight," he said as he helped her with her coat. A light, flowery scent teased his senses. "Did you have a chance to rest?"

She smiled and he was gratified to see that the smile reached her eyes. "Yes, I did. And I feel much better for it."

"Good."

The cab ride to Antoine's was short, and they didn't talk on the way, but the silence wasn't unpleasant. Claire was not only beautiful, Nick decided, she was restful to be with. She didn't have that compulsion to chatter so many of the women he knew seemed to have.

Later, after they were seated in the restaurant and had placed their order, she gave him another smile. "This is my first visit to New Orleans," she said.

"Really? And you've lived in Houston all your life, haven't you?" He knew she had. He'd memorized her dossier.

"Yes, but somehow, although I always meant to come here, I never did."

"Well, we'll have to make sure we get some sightseeing in then."

"Oh, don't worry about that," she said hurriedly. "We're here on business. I don't expect—"

"I know you don't expect it." He smiled. "Perhaps I'd enjoy showing you the city. I haven't acted like a tourist in years. It might be a nice change."-

"Just what
are
we going to do here?"

"I have a number of meetings scheduled and I thought it might be informative for you to attend them with me," he said smoothly.

"Oh, all right."

Their salads came and Nick was pleased to see she didn't pick at her food, but ate it with obvious enjoyment. For the rest of their meal he worked hard at keeping that relaxed look on her face and felt he was succeeding. He even had her laughing at one point.

Over dessert, she said, "Did you grow up in Houston?"

"No. I'm from Boston."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? You don't have an accent."

He smiled. "I worked hard to lose it."

"Why?"

"Because when in Texas ... at least that's my philosophy."

"How old were you when you moved to Houston?"

"Fifteen."

"Were your parents transferred here?"

"Something like that." Like an ever-changing kaleidescope, memories of several sets of foster parents clicked through his mind. He never talked about his childhood. He rarely ever thought about those years. The memories were too painful and they served no purpose. But maybe later, when they knew each other better, he would tell her the truth.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Too quickly, Nick thought. He enjoyed Claire's company. She was delightful to look at, intelligent to talk to, and charming. To extend the time before he had to take her back to the hotel, he suggested they go to the Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets.

"Even though I've never been to New Orleans before," she said, laughing, "I
do
know what beignets are and I can't handle another dessert tonight."

"Well, you can just have coffee and
I'll
have beignets," he insisted. "Come on," he added, "everyone who visits New Orleans has to go to the Cafe du Monde at least once, and preferably several times." He hailed one of the horse-drawn buggies. "And we're going in style."

Her eyes glowed with pleasure as he helped her into the buggy and they began the slow ride through the Quarter toward Jackson Square. Nick enjoyed watching her face as she took everything in: the narrow, cobbled streets; the throngs of people on the sidewalks; the lights and gaiety of the fabled neighborhood; the wrought-iron grillwork on the balconies of the buildings; and all around them the sounds of music and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves.

"This coffee is wonderful," she said later as they sat at one of the small tables in the covered patio.

"Aren't you glad I made you come?"

She smiled. "Yes."

Too soon it was time to go. Within minutes they were back at their hotel, walking through the lobby, riding up in the elevator. Claire's suite was on the fourth floor and Nick's was on the fifth, but he exited with her. "I'll just see you to your door."

"Well..." She turned to face him outside her door. "Thank you for a lovely evening. I enjoyed it more than I can say."

He studied her upturned face: the barest trace of pink on her cheeks, the soft gray shadowing her eyelids, the halo of silky hair surrounding her face, the rosy lips tipped into a sweet smile. His heartbeat quickened as their eyes met. Very slowly, her smile faded, and he sensed the acceleration in her breathing. The moment of awareness stretched, and he wondered if the expression in his eyes had given away his desire to kiss her.

No,
he told himself.
It would be a grave tactical error to give in to this urge.

"Good-night, Claire," he said softly, taking her hands in his and pressing gently. "I enjoyed it, too." He let go of her hands and backed up a step. "Pamper yourself in the morning. Order a room-service breakfast."

"Okay." The pink on her cheeks had deepened and her eyes held a faint trace of bewilderment.

"Let's plan to meet downstairs in the lobby at eight-thirty. My first meeting is at nine."

Deep in thought, he walked slowly back to the elevator.

* * *

The meetings had been interesting but tiring, Claire decided late the next afternoon, but they had certainly accomplished one goal: she hadn't thought about her problem all day. Now that she was back in her suite at the hotel, though, her mind inevitably turned to Kitty. She decided to call Pinehaven and check on her mother.