BOOK 8

For one gut-wrenching moment Matt thought that the woman walking toward him was Adriana. Same dark curls and olive skin, same compact figure, same ridiculously high heels tapping across the airport concourse. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was standing beside him while she anxiously scanned the crowd gathered around the arrivals gate.

He scowled. He really must get a grip. Close up she was nothing like Adriana. The curls were softer and shot with chestnut streaks, and her skin was honey-colored with a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose. What was the matter with him that he thought every small, dark-haired woman was his wife? Why, this one wasn’t even dressed like Adriana. Instead of high gloss and sparkle, she was wearing varying shades of beige. The slouchy trousers and T-shirt, as well as the thin sweater tied around her shoulders, were obviously aimed at travel comfort rather than elegance. Only the shoes, copper- colored sandals with a four-inch heel,