Picking Up the Pieces. Barbara Gale

in the flesh.” He watched her spin round, startled. Her look of chagrin made him smile.

      “Ah, sweet Althea, is that sigh for me or in spite of me?” he asked, stifling his disappointment. He watched her turn away, her pointy chin high as she tugged her fur coat snugly round her elegant shoulders.

      Althea’s brown skin might hide her blushes, but he couldn’t know how wildly her heart was beating, how she strove to conceal her shock at meeting him. “Do I know you? You don’t look familiar. You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

      “It might be ten years, but I’d know you anywhere, sweetheart. You haven’t changed a bit. Not your face, nor your sweet disposition.” He grinned.

      “Nor yours, Harry,” Althea returned, hiding behind a veil of contempt, her sharp eyes sharp taking in his shabby denim jacket and unkempt appearance. Looking tired and in desperate need of a haircut, still, he was as tall as she remembered, as blond and handsome—and just as annoying, judging by the taunt in his voice.

      “You don’t approve of my sartorial splendor?” Harry mocked, following the drift of her eyes. If only she knew how ill he had been, how exhausted he was at that very moment, wondering how long his legs would last, perhaps she would be more forgiving. But then, they always had fought over the silliest things, and now, after ten years, here they were together two minutes and at each other’s throats again. Oh, well. Giving himself a mental shrug, Harry tried for philosophical. “You look great, Althea. Traveling alone?”

      Althea shrugged. “And you?”

      “As always,” he said with a lopsided smile.

      “Always? You mean you never married?”

      “Nope. Married to my career, maybe. So,” he said, switching gears abruptly, “are you looking for a cab? In case you haven’t guessed, every available snow-plow is busy clearing the runways. They won’t get to the streets for hours. I guess that makes me the man of the hour.”

      “I can wait,” she said softly, watching the snow fall hard and furious. Althea knew Harry was speaking the truth, and with every snowflake, she felt her plans slip away. Now that she thought about it, the dark night was as menacing as the snow, and she supposed she was lucky to have landed on the tarmac in one piece.

      “What a good idea,” Harry drawled. “I’ll join you. We can wait out the storm together.” He picked up her bag.

      “Hold on, Harry. I can take care of that myself.” Spend four hours with the only man to ever leave an imprint on her heart? She didn’t think so! But the challenge in Harry’s overly bright eyes gave Althea pause. Turning back to the road, all she could see was the swirl of snow intent on burying the city. Where once she might have appreciated its pristine elegance, now she was simply annoyed. She couldn’t even make out the sidewalk. Ridiculous.

      “Now that I think about it,” Harry asked, ignoring her comment, “what are you doing out here all alone? Where are your bodyguards? Shouldn’t there be a limousine waiting for you, princess? Come to think of it, Allie, where is your husband?”

      She winced at his use of her nickname, but Harry only laughed. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. All right, Madame Boylan, where is that ambassador husband of yours?” he repeated, all trace of humor gone.

      “Let’s have it, Allie. What are you doing state-side? I seem to have missed something, here. Why, pray tell, are you here on the wrong side of the Atlantic, Allie? An ambassador’s wife doesn’t just wake up one morning and grab a flight to New York, not even for the winter sales at Saks.”

      “Daniel is in Paris, if you must know,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried back into the terminal, her long stride an elegant testimony to her modeling days. And that is all you must know, she vowed silently.

      Harry frowned as he chased after her. “Damn it all, Althea, you know you shouldn’t run around unescorted. Does the ambassador know you’re here by yourself?”

      One look at her face told him everything. He clasped his hand on her elbow and effectively trapped her. “Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, giving her legs a long glance, “those are custom-made shoes on your lovely feet. Given the weather, you don’t seem to have prepared very well for your trip. What’s going on, Allie?”

      Standing toe-to-toe, Althea could feel Harry’s soft breath on her hair. She marveled that the touch of his hand could still make her shiver, that he could so quickly elicit a response from her, that ten years could make little difference. She tried to pull away but Harry’s grip was as firm as the glare in his eyes.

      “Leave me alone, Harry. I know what I have on my feet,” she said crossly. “If I’d had time to listen to the weather report, I would be wearing boots. But I didn’t.”

      No boots, no taxi, just Harry Bensen. Poetic justice, after her mad dash from Paris. Shrugging free of his hand, Althea stepped back and stared up at him proudly. “This is Kennedy Airport. A taxi will turn up eventually, so don’t waste your time on my behalf. I can take care of myself.”

      “Nobody knows that better than I do,” Harry agreed crisply. “But those pretty shoes, it would be a pity to ruin them, don’t you think?”

      “I can always buy another pair.”

      “Ah, yes, now that’s my old Althea. Buy, buy, buy. Everything to be had for a price.”

      “Not everything,” Althea snapped. “Oh, of all the airports in the world… Honestly, Harry, I wish I hadn’t met you.”

      “Your good luck,” he snapped, “if only you knew.”

      “Harry, why don’t you simply turn around and walk the other way?”

      “And forget I ever saw you?” Harry snapped with an amused smile.

      “Something like that.” Althea’s eyes were hopeful as she forced a plaintive smile to her lips.

      “I thought so. Well, it’s too late, darling. Your ambassador husband would be furious—and rightly so—if I left you alone like this.”

      “It doesn’t matter what my husband thinks,” Althea retorted. “I prefer to wait alone.”

      “Wait for what?” Harry asked as he held open the terminal door. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee. I’m freezing.”

      Althea’s anger was evident as she rushed past Harry, rudely brushing him aside. But Harry was unimpressed. Feeling the onset of a headache, a sure sign that his fever was rising, he wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Playing this one close to the breast, Allie?” Watching her flinch, he guessed that his remark hit home. “Ah, the rich and famous at play.”

      “This is not a game. I do not play games.”

      “Then times have changed,” he retorted, suddenly too tired to take her on. Too bad she didn’t understand the facts, or she would appreciate his foul mood. Four months photographing a South American rainforest would exhaust anyone, but one hour with Althea Almott would be just as exhausting. Maybe he should take her advice and move on, pretend he never saw her. The mysterious infection he was fighting that was turning his insides out would be a handicap in dealing with her. And the damned snow was rotten luck when he was weak as could be with no energy to fight the elements. He should have flown to Cancun the way the doctors suggested and slept on the beach until summer.

      And the good news was that no reporter was around to take notes. He could just imagine the headlines: Ambassador’s Wife Snowbound with Lover.

      Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just look how she sat, perched on the edge of the plastic chair, trying to hide behind those huge rhinestone sunglasses—at three o’clock in the morning, for Pete’s sake. As if any reporter worth his salt wasn’t going to spot the world’s most famous black model—or anybody, for that matter—wrapped in a fifty-thousand-dollar fur coat.

      Ex-model, he corrected himself.

      Wife,