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glasses of Caymus Reserve Cabernet. Rory stood near the door, determined not to stretch out on her buttery leather couch this evening.
    Sylvia brought him wine and ran the daggers of her nails through her hair, a gesture he’d previously found provocative. Tonight, he thought it looked practiced.
    “Now, tell me about you and Mariah Grant,” she demanded in a no-nonsense tone.
    “I told you I had business with her.”
    “Monkey business.” Sylvia drank without apparent appreciation for the wine. “I know you almost married her once.”
    He set his glass on the counter. His long-ago interlude with Mariah had been hushed up, the only time John Grant and Davis Campbell had agreed on anything.
    “Where did you hear that?”
    “You remember that dinner Daddy threw last month? Where I was talking with your mom?”
    “I saw the two of you together and wondered what was afoot.”
    “I made the mistake of telling her I was thinking of snagging you.” Sylvia’s head was high. “She said I’d better hurry because Mariah Grant was back in town.”
    He sighed. After his divorce he had thought Sylvia perfect for him, a wild spirit who didn’t want to light. That had been true awhile, but now he realized his mother was right. He took a single regretful sip of Caymus, trying to think of the best way to break this off.
    “I saw the way you looked at Mariah,” Sylvia accused, “like she was some goddess.”
    Her expression was of genuine hurt, but it was nothing like the mix of promise and pain in Mariah’s eyes.
    “Sylvia, I’m sorry,” he said. “You and I both know this isn’t working.”
    Her chest heaved, the soft-looking leather gapped to expose the rounded tops of her breasts. That the sight no longer moved him reinforced his need to get out of here.
    He started toward the door, having to pass her on the way. She blocked his path, the bright sheen of her eyes beginning to burn at him. He sidestepped her and continued his retreat.
    “Get out!” Sylvia shoved at his back. “Everybody in this town knows you’re best at exit scenes.”
    Rory went down the stairs to the parking garage, and her door slammed. Through the panel, he heard a crash and the sound of glass breaking.
    Maybe there could have been a better way to extricate himself, but it was done. His father would have to give up his dreams of matchmaking.
    Out on the street, cars cruised past, the North Beach weekend nightlife heating up. He could go to a bar or club, but the thought of the meat market scene disgusted him this evening. Instead, he drove his Porsche toward the Golden Gate and across the brightly lit span. Then on darker winding roads, he let speed, precision, and focus free his mind.
    An hour later, he was sitting at the brink of a cliff at Point Reyes. The headlights illuminated a rising mist, beckoning him into the infinite night. It reminded him of when he was a kid, and his father pointed a flashlight at the heavens, saying beams of light traveled forever in the void of space.
    All those foolish little boys with flashlights, victims of a cosmic conspiracy that had them thinking they were signaling someone … rather than alone in the universe.
    Just over a week since he’d seen Mariah at April’s end, and, despite her cool reception, he’d felt the click of connection, a sense of being no longer alone. Beside the sea cliff, Rory closed his eyes and admitted time had not healed the raw wound of their past breakup.
    Nor would more time bring relief.

CHAPTER 3
     
    M ariah drank bitter office coffee and stared at the morning sun’s reflection in the mirrored building across Market Street. On her desk lay a sheet of paper headed “Notes for Monday Meeting.” The rest of the page was blank.
    Seeing Rory at the Marriott had shaken her more than she cared to admit. Lyle Thomas, with his enthusiastic penchant for gossip, had pointed out that Rory and Sylvia were “a match made in heaven, or at least somewhere over their heads.”