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persistent throb in his pulse after the initial shock of seeing her in his office.
                  As he'd asked -- or rather ordered -- she'd kept her conversation limited to answering his questions, nothing about the past. He could do the same.
                  Stepping into Grace's bedroom, Rick took in the unmade full-sized bed. Katie walked over and began pulling the leopard print sheet taut, straightening the matching comforter.
                  A black bra strap hung out of the top of one dresser drawer; three pairs of stiletto heels cluttered the space between the dresser and the wall.
                  "Are any of her clothes missing?"
                  Katie stepped over to take a quick look in the closet. "No, I don't think so. And her suitcase is here."
                  He nodded. "Who did Tommy work for before he went to prison?"
                  "Another computer manufacturer. He worked with hardware back then, rather than software."
                  "Any friends who kept in touch after he was put away?"
                  "Not that I know of." Nervous energy poured off her. Her voice grew quieter with each answer.
                  Rick could see that she was trying to stay out of his way. Regret stabbed at that, but he didn't try to put her at ease. The more distance, the better. "Did Grace go see him?"
                  "Yes, at first. I don't think she's been in the last couple of months."
                  In here, it was easier to pretend Katie was just another client. In here, there was no danger of running into the past they shared.
                  He followed her into the hallway, paused when she halted in front of an open closet that housed a washer and dryer. A laundry basket full of clothes jutted out, and Katie reached to move it out of the door's path.
                  "Where does Grace work?"
                  "At a day-care center. It's by the airport. We drive to work together sometimes."
                  Rick nodded, not sure how to define the strange heat that pushed under his ribs. Katie had become a woman he didn't know; she had a life he knew nothing about.
                  "She's had this job for more than two years, and I think she's really getting her life together."
                  Grace didn't sound much different to him that she had when he'd known her ten years ago, but he said nothing.
                  "What number was Tommy? Which husband?"
                  Katie half-turned, eyeing him flatly.
                  "Number two, three, four?"
                  "Number three." She flipped the tail of a shirt into the basket, then suddenly made a strangled sound. Her gaze shot to his.
                  "Katie?" He stepped toward her, concern spiraling through him. His gaze dropped to the basket then the shirt she fingered. At first he scanned for blood, something to explain why she'd gone so pale. Then he froze as he recognized the crimson-and-white basketball jersey.
                  His gaze locked on hers. Panic, disbelief, memory rippled across her features. Two bright spots of red crested her cheeks. His stomach flipped like it had the first time he'd taken up a fighter jet.
                  His thoughts wheeled back to the day after the Oklahoma University basketball team had made the NCAA playoffs. His college team hadn't had practice that day; he had hoofed it back to the frat house, intending to shower and pick up Katie for supper. But she'd been waiting in this room, wearing his jersey-- this jersey -- and nothing else. Number twelve.
                  He swallowed hard, his gaze sliding over her before he could stop himself. Memories burst in his head like popping flashbulbs. The full curve of her breast