"I had an appointment with a client." He lifted his brows. "Did you get a new car?"

She fit a nozzle into the car's tank. "No. I'm borrowing this one. Mine was broken into."

"Broken into! When? Where?"

She told him about Daisy's window and the missing cds, where the car was parked at the time, but not about the gym bag.

"That's awful. I can't believe it." Finishing his transaction, he slipped between the pumps and nudged her hand away from the nozzle, taking over for her. "So whose car is this?"

She felt a blush rushing up her neck. "Um, it's Logan's. Logan Woods."

He said nothing at first, the censure in his stare speaking for him. Finally he looked out at the street bordering the gas station. "I thought you were going to stay away from him."

She clasped her hands together.

"How did he even know about your car?"

"I called him."

He gave her a sharp look. "Why didn't you call me? I live right there. I could've gotten to you in minutes."

She looked down. "I've asked myself the same thing. There are any number of clients I could have called."

"He's a reporter, Rylee. And I want you to stay away from him."

"I know you do."

"But?"

She shrugged, opting not to answer. Not sure she even could.

Sighing, he slipped the gas nozzle back into its housing. "So how 'bout some lunch?"

She blinked. "Lunch?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Tilting her head, she smiled to take the sting out of the rejection. "You know why, Karl. I don't date clients."

"But it wouldn't be a date." He screwed the gas cap on. "We didn't arrange it in advance. I haven't come to pick you up. We can each pay for our own meal. And I won't be expecting a kiss at the end." Leaning close, he gave her a wicked grin. "But I'm certainly willing, if you want to bend the rules a little."

She glanced at her watch. "I don't know. . . . I really-"

"Come on. You have to eat." He looked around. "How about there? The Souper Sandwich Shop. We'll be in and out in no time."

She bit her lip. She couldn't afford to eat out. But he'd done her a huge favor by offering to help George. He was an old family friend. And maybe she could find out for herself why George didn't accept the offer. Logan might think Karl incompetent, but she knew better. "Okay. But I pay for my own."

Smiling, he opened her door. "See you in a minute."

It wasn't there anymore. The Sebastian charm. Rylee realized it halfway through the story Karl was telling about the travails of a client trying to recover on a bad investment. It was meant to be funny, and it probably was. He looked good telling it, too. The sparkling eyes, the inviting smile, the tone just this side of familiar, like he was letting her in on a little secret.

Not long ago she would have melted. She wouldn't have trusted herself alone with Karl, would have been afraid of breaking her no-clients dating rule. Not anymore, though.

"You shouldn't be telling me any of this," she said. "What about attorney-client privilege?"

He stopped in midsentence. "Well. It's kind of hilarious, though."

She decided to change the subject. "So have you heard from your dad at all?"

He hadn't, but the longer they talked about his father, the more critical Karl sounded. She hadn't realized their relationship was strained, but clearly things were not good between them.

Grant Sebastian, however, was the closest thing to a father she had. He'd set her up in the house on Folly Beach. He'd attended her high school graduation. Brokered the sale of her house three years ago and went with her the day she admitted Nonie to Bishop Gadsden. She wasn't about to sit here and listen to Karl badmouth him.

"So what's up with George?" she asked, changing the subject yet again. "He turned down your offer of representation? Why would he do something so crazy?"

"What offer? I never made one."

"But I thought-"

"I know I told you I would, but here's the thing. Five minutes talking to him, and I already knew. The man is guilty."

Her heart stopped.

"He's the one you walked in on, Rylee. Breaking into my house. So there was the conflict of interest, for one thing. But that's not why I wouldn't represent him. When I thought about what he could have done to you, if you'd walked in a moment sooner-"

"He would never hurt me," she said, softly.

"Don't be naive, Rylee. The guy's a low-life. He confessed to everything, and I don't want you anywhere near him."

"Confessed?" She reared back in her chair. "Isn't that a breach of confidentiality, telling me that?"

"Don't stick up for George Reid," he said. "He's a foot soldier for one of the dirtiest crooks in town."

"You mean Marcel Gibbon?"

He gave her a piercing stare, like he was surprised she knew the name. "That's right. The same guy Logan Woods is so chummy with. And because Woods is a foot soldier, too, he's shilling for George in the paper, but it's Gibbon who pulls the strings."

"You're wrong about-"

"Which is why you need to steer clear of Woods. He'll bring you down-don't you see that? He's using you for a story, Rylee. And you're just letting him."

He snatched the bill off her tray, eluding her unsuccessful grab.

"I said I wanted to pay for mine."

He stood. "Listen to me. Whatever he's told you, it's a lie. So, stay away from him."

He strode to the cashier stand, leaving her to clean up his mess.

Hair and makeup finished, Rylee padded into the bedroom to confront a dilemma. Liz wanted her to wear the red dress, but Rylee wasn't so sure. The red nipped in at the waist, with cute little button tabs, but wearing it would make it a capital-d date, while her blue jersey not-too-mini dress would keep things a lot more casual.

She held each one up in front of the mirror. She never had much of an occasion to wear the red. And Liz thought that was the one she should go with. She hung the blue back up.

Logan knocked just as she slipped on her high-heeled sandals.

She paused, hand on the knob, then pulled the door open.

"Well, hello," he said. "I mean, really."

She widened the opening. "Come in."

Liz's instincts had been dead on. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a white button-up shirt. More importantly, he wore a cotton jacket, midnight blue, that fit him just right across the shoulders.

The buttonholes were outlined in crimson thread, which was so cute it just about drove her crazy.

They stood by the half-open door. He leaned close. "You smell nice."

"You, too." She could feel his breath on her skin.

Closer now, his mouth brushed her neck. She stood stock-still.

When he pulled back, he gazed at her lips until a tremor ran through them.

He was close enough to touch her with his voice. "We could always . . . stay here."

Well, hello.

She stepped back. "I didn't get all dressed up to stay here. And Nonie's really looking forward to meeting you. She said she had some ground rules to go over."

"Ground rules, huh? I guess we'd better get going, then."

She grabbed a pair of flats off the bar.

"What're those for?" he asked.

"I found out at the last minute that the Davidsons were leaving town. So I have to walk Toro at some point tonight. I can do it after you bring me home, but I thought I'd grab these just in case we end up on that side of town."

He groaned. "Toro?"

" 'Fraid so."

A teasing light entered his eyes. "I was sort of joking, you know, when I said you could sic the dogs on me and all."

Laughing, she held up the flats. "Don't worry. No rollerblades tonight. You'll be safe."

In the parking lot, he rested his hand at the small of her back. Daisy sat next to his car, passenger window intact.

She returned his keys. "Thanks for taking care of Daisy's window and for letting me use your car. I really appreciate it."

Hitting the automatic unlock, he slid his hand to her waist and gave it a squeeze, then opened her door. "Anytime."

She sank into the passenger seat. As he circled around, she said a little prayer. Nothing fancy, just the same mantra she'd been repeating all afternoon, the same heartfelt plea.

Let her be lucid, Lord. Let her be lucid.

When they passed through the Commons, Logan seemed a little shell-shocked. "I'd heard Bishop Gadsden was upscale, but I had no idea. I was expecting, maybe, a hospital with carpet and nice wallpaper. But this is like a resort. I can't wait to get old."

She shushed him with a smile. "It's more like what you're thinking here in The Cloister. Nonie needs twenty-four-hour care now. She has for a long time, but I've been fighting it."

They pushed through a set of thick double doors and approached the nurse's station. Nurse Melanie was on duty. She looked up from a paperback romance, recognition lighting up her face.

"Everything quiet tonight?" Rylee whispered.

Melanie nodded. "Who's your young man?"

Rylee made the introductions. She was showing him off, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he turned on the charm, practicing for the main event.

"I brought him to meet Nonie. How's she doing?"

The nurse leaned forward confidentially. "Well, honey, I tell you what. She's just been so sweet today. I was talking to her earlier, and she was like a little girl." Noting Rylee's frown, Melanie patted her arm. "No, baby, in a good way. You go on in and see her. She's been waiting."

They paused outside the door to Room c5.

She took a deep breath. "Ready?"

"Let's do it."

Lord, let her be lucid.

Rylee tapped on the door, then slipped inside.

Lit by lamplight, the room seemed especially cozy. Nonie sat up in bed, the covers arranged just so, the serenest of smiles on her face. Everything perfect. Even the gauze wrap on her hand looked fresh and neat. She raised the good one to beckon them forward.

"Come closer and let me see you."

Logan crouched at the bedside, letting her take his hand. On the nightstand, a stack of photo albums had been specially arranged, showing just how much their visit was anticipated.

"Nonie, this is Logan," Rylee said, her voice trembling. "Logan, this is my grandmother, Flora Monroe. She . . . raised me."

Her hand rested in his, cool and weightless, translucent skin stretched tight over bones of birdlike delicacy. A glance at her other hand, already in bandages, and he applied only the slightest hint of pressure as he squeezed.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

She held him with surprising vigor, using the grip to pull herself closer. Her pink-rimmed eyes inventoried the details of his face, as if she were searching for genetic artifacts from people she might once have known.

"Who're your people, young man?" The timbre in the old lady's voice put him in mind of lace doilies, dust, and chintz. But her eyes were piercing. As if she could see straight through to his soul.

"My people?" The question threw him. Like the voice, it seemed to come out of the distant past. "My last name is Woods, ma'am."