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hundred-year-old saint. Anne had lost control the moment she’d seen him at the party. Mature?
    She loved that man. And she heartily wished that he’d never come back.

Chapter 3
    At midmorning, Anne stepped out of her office with a sheaf of papers in her hand. The trust department of Yale Bank and Trust was carpeted in teal blue and paneled in dark walnut; the mood of the place, particularly on the second floor, was efficient, quiet and formal. It suited Anne. Yale was an old-time, small, well-established bank, not in competition with the major conglomerate banks of the metropolitan area. Its specialty was trusts and estate planning; its assets were varied and closely guarded; and its stock was so zealously held that shares were rarely for sale. Conservative was the name of the game.
    Anne had a nice block of that stock, and in the six years she’d been with the bank had acquired more. Trust officers were typically over fifty and balding, a stereotype that was important, actually. Authority and experience were critical to gaining the customers’ trust. Fred Laird would never have given her the title two years ago, no matter how much he respected Anne, if she hadn’t demonstrated her ability to bring in the high-powered accounts that the bank specialized in. Gil Rivard had been her first estate. Jake’s grandfather. Anne had wanted to do that work for him, but had been uncomfortable when he later sent his friends to her. She had too much pride to want anyone’s help, and she wished to owe no one favors.
    She no longer needed favors from anyone. Anne was conservative, inventive, knowledgeable, and could find loopholes no one else had ever heard of in the tax laws. One customer had told her jokingly that she was more concerned with his security than he was. True.
    Between her peaceful bailiwick and the noise of the new computer at the opposite end of the second floor, there was a central room where three assistantss worked, flanked on three sides by filing cabinets. In principle, the computer was supposed to reduce the number of files required, but banks, Mr. Laird had once told her wryly, have an intrinsic need to justify any transaction they make ten times over. Throwing away anything was anathema, a no-no. The computer regularly spit out reports someone was dying to file, even if they were never read again.
    A gross exaggeration, Anne admitted dryly, but judging from the pile of paperwork on Marlene’s desk, not far enough from the truth.
    “You need something, Miss Blake?”
    “Just a report copied.” Anne waved the brunette back to her chair. “I’ll do it myself—I can see you’re swamped.”
    “Typical Monday,” Marlene admitted.
    A half-hour later, Anne returned from the first floor’s photocopying room, juggling the folders and two cups of coffee, one of which she left on Marlene’s desk. The girl looked up with a surprised thank-you, but Anne was already passing.
    It was not, for Anne, a typical Monday, but she was trying to get through it. At work she invariably projected a smooth, quiet-voiced serenity; she never flaunted her authority, but it was there. She’d earned it. No one could conceivably tell by looking at her that her calculator had come up with whimsical figures all morning, that she’d lost three files, that she’d read and reread emails in her inbox and still didn’t know what was in there. She had snagged her panty hose. Being Anne, she had a replacement pair in her desk drawer, but she spilled coffee on them on her way back from the photocopying room… The day was just not going well.
    Distractedly, she pushed open the door to her office. Her eyes were instantly drawn to the silver-wrapped package with its gay streamers of pink ribbons. Frowning, she set down the files and her coffee and closed the office door. An unsteady pulse throbbed in her throat as she slowly started to undo the bright wrappings.
    Memories of other surprise gifts through the years raised the color in her