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evoked a stunned response from even its most worldly visitors, which would certainly include Laurel. (Annie was convinced that “worldly” was quite an appropriate description of her mother-in-law, though perhaps Max might not appreciate some of the nuances involved.)
    In the moonlight, the Moorish influence was evident. Three-story, crenellation-capped stucco walls glistened with whitewash. Sharply pointed towers loomed at either end. A golden flood of light spilled from enormous arched windows onto the luxuriant gardens below. Annie made a mental note to bring Laurel back in the daytime when she could truly appreciate the scope of the gardens. The azaleas were beginning to bloom and by April would be in full flower, dazzling masses of pink, lavender, rose, and crimson. The plantings, like those at the famed Magnolia Plantation, were planned for year-round color. Camellias, canna lilies, crape myrtle, daffodils, day lilies, dogwood, forsythia, gardenias, hibiscus, honeysuckle, hyacinth, jessamine, oleanders, pittosporum, bougainvillea, rhododendron, and wisteria bloomed in season.
    “No one can say the Yankee robber barons were the only Americans to engage in unmitigated conspicuous consumption,” Max observed wryly.
    “Oh, but it’s
lovely,”
Laurel cried and she skipped aheadof them, holding up the long skirt of her satin gown. In the pale wash of moonlight and the glow from the windows, Laurel’s smooth hair gleamed like a golden cap. As she sped along with unselfconscious and enchanting grace, she was a figure from the heroic past, a Diana, a Helen of Troy.
    For the first time in her life, Annie was struck by a foreboding, a distinct sense of imminent disaster. (Generations of had-I-but-known heroines would have understood.) She reached out, gripped Max’s arm, and almost urged him to run after Laurel, catch her.
    Then what?
Her practical mind intervened. Laurel had her heart set on going to the Valentine party. What could Annie say? And now it was too late to turn back. Laurel had reached the floodlit front steps.
    “What?” Max asked.
    Annie hesitated. The huge bronze front door swung open. More light blazoned a welcome. Laurel turned and waved for them to hurry. Other guests, the women in bright dresses, the men in tuxedos, were arriving.
    “I stumbled,” Annie said. She gave her husband’s arm a squeeze and quickened her pace.
    The moment passed.
    The Cahill mansion was no less imposing inside, with its colorful tiled floors, enormous marble columns, hanging tapestries, ornate bronze sconces with lighted candles, and enough priceless antiques from all around the world to fill a small museum. The Cahills greeted their guests at the base of the majestic marble staircase that curved to second- and third-floor balconies. A suit of knight’s armor glinted beside the staircase. Someone had taped a bright red heart on his metal chest.
    Sydney Cahill stood on the first step, her husband, Howard, on the second. Sydney was breathtakingly lovely tonight. Her raven black hair was a lustrous frame for magnolia-soft skin. She wore a long-sleeved dress of pleated ivory silk, two swaths falling from her shoulders to cross over her breasts, creating a plunging neckline. A glittering necklace, intertwined strands of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, emphasized the delicate grace of her neck.
    Howard Cahill was darkly handsome, a smooth, oliveskinnedface, eyes so brown they looked black, black hair touched with silver. His face was memorable, a broad forehead, once-broken nose, blunt chin. Annie immediately decided she would have cast him as Philip Marlowe for a movie. He greeted his guests formally, with a quick nod and observant dark eyes, but without warmth. There was an aura of power about him, a reserve that forebade familiarity. Only an insensitive clod would ever clap Howard Cahill on the shoulder.
    As the line inched forward, Annie glanced from the Cahills to the armor. Light from the glittering chandelier rippled