"I didn't!"

"It's true. It's even been put into print that by the end of the century we may house the government workings out here."

The concept was preposterous enough to drive that nameless face from her mind and spark Serena to life. "Heaven forbid! Minneapolis is just fine the way it is. The last thing we need is an invasion from Washington-or any other area!"

"And how long did you say you'd been living here?" he teased. "You sound like a die-hard Minnesotan."

"Almost." She grinned, then lapsed into relative silence as her counselor delved into the business prospects of a governmental move, delighted with the fantasy. Serena interjected the appropriate uh-huhs and reallys, but again her mind had begun to wander.

She glanced once more at the next table. The man was engrossed in discussion with his companion, though he was listening more than speaking. With the first shock yielding to frustration, Serena studied his features in search of a clue.

His hair was dark brown, rich and full, the sprinkles of gray in his well-tapered sideburns putting him around the forty-year mark. His nose was straight, his lips firm, his eyes hazel, like her own. He wore a shirt and tie, blazer and slacks, presenting a dignified though sporty appearance that was far from riveting but totally masculine. That he was attractive was unquestionable, and, at the moment, irrelevant. There was something beyond his outward appearance that nagged at her. She stared helplessly at him as the spark of familiarity shot through her again. It settled in her gut in an inexplicable response that shook her complacency and rattled her self-confidence. Who was he?

As though in response to her silent plea he looked up. In a moment of inner cataclysm for Serena he caught her eye. She caught her breath. As placid as he appeared on the surface, the force of his gaze spoke of a deep inner fire. That was what seemed most familiar to her. Mouth dry, she stared, unable to look away as long as his gaze held hers. His expression held a question, perhaps even faint amusement. Strangely, though, he mirrored none of the recognition she so strongly felt. Could she be mistaken?...

When he finally returned his attention to his companion Serena felt drained. Facing Andre once more, she was too preoccupied to miss his fleeting uncertainty, but he talked on and quickly forgot her diversion. Slowly she finished her coffee. Once more she looked toward the next table; once more her gaze was met. Andre recaptured her attention with a witty review of the improvisational theater troupe he had seen the night before in Cedar-Riverside. But he lost her a final time to the nameless memory whose eyes shone brightly toward hers.

For Serena it was a disconcerting experience. She'd always been good with names and faces. It was necessary in her business, a small touch that her customers appreciated. But here was someone whose identity mystified her. Moreover, something kept her from alerting Andre to the man's presence, though he knew almost every distinguished face in the MinneapolisSaint Paul area.

And this face was, in its unpretentious way, distinguished, even aside from the quiet ring of authority in his gaze. Serena devoted a few final moments, as Andre studied the bill, to solving her mystery. Much as she tried, she could pin neither a name nor a place to this man whose interest was now mercifully centered on his woman-friend, granting Serena as free a perusal as convention would allow.

Then, quite unwittingly, he threw another wrench in the works by smiling. It was devastating in its intensity and totally unique. Had she ever seen that smile before Serena would have recalled it. No, she hadn't seen it, but she had seen him, of that she was certain.

"I'd watch out for him, Serena." Andre's warning was soft and spoken with a note of earnestness that stunned her.

"Whwhat?" Had she been that obvious?

"That man behind me-"

"You know him?" she interrupted on impulse.

"No. He must be new, perhaps passing through."

She frowned. "Then why the warning?"

Andre rose smoothly and came to stand behind her. Bending low in a proprietary attitude, one hand on either of her shoulders, he put his mouth close by her ear. Though Serena couldn't get herself to look up, she sensed his eyes on the next table.

"I have feelings about people. That one strikes me as an agitator."

"An agitator?" she murmured out of the corner of her mouth. "He looks harmless enough to me."

"Is that why you've been staring?"

She couldn't move without Andre's say-so; she was cornered in every sense. "He ... looks familiar. That's all. I'm sure I've seen him somewhere, but I can't place him."

Andre straightened, deftly pulling out her chair and drawing her up in one fluid move. "A mystery man from your lurid past?" he teased her lightly, but she cringed as she draped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, opting for sarcasm as a cover.

"No doubt." Her drawl wafted into the air as the hand at her back guided her from the restaurant. She hadn't had to look at the man again to have his face imprinted in her mind.

There it stayed, in living color, to torment her through the afternoon. Each idle moment brought forth the vision with renewed force. Where had she seen him?

Running Sweet Serenity provided some respite, deflecting her attention to her customers. However, with the help of Nancy, who left to fetch her teenagers at three, and Monica, a teenager who arrived soon after from school, much of Serena's time was free for "decorating." Her hands were kept busy, carrying out the directives of her mind, while the latter was free to wander.

Inch by inch and working backward from the present, she scoured the years in an attempt to locate that empty slot crying out to be filled. Her past five years had been spent here in Minneapolis, building Sweet Serenity from scratch with the money she had unexpectedly inherited from her maternal grandfather. Even now, as she looked around the shop with pride, she recalled the surprise with which she'd received the bequest. Following her father's disgrace, her mother's family had been less than supportive. The fact that a grandfather she'd barely known had entrusted her with such a substantial sum after her father had squandered both dollars and trust had been an added incentive for making a success of the shop.

Five years in Minneapolis. The occasional trip to Seattle to visit her mother and younger brother, Steve, with whom the older, sadly defeated woman lived. Periodic trips to Chicago to attend gift shows or negotiate directly with her suppliers. Had there been, during this time, any man such as the one whose presence had struck such a jarring inner chord today? To her knowledge-no.

Traveling further back, she reviewed the two years she'd spent in Boston managing the Quincy Market boutique that had been the original inspiration for Sweet Serenity. During this period she had found herself, gaining self-confidence as a creative and capable woman, self-supporting for the first time and slowly beginning to rebuild her dreams. They were dreams different from those of the naive young girl she had been so long ago, but they were lovely in their own way.

Two years in Boston. Customers coming and going. The occasional date for dinner, a concert, or a show. Many familiar faces, mostly friendly. A landlord, several interesting tenants. A doctor, a dentist, and, of course, the members of the racquetball club. Were there any faces among the lot that resembled this April Fool's Day apparition? No.

The four years she had spent in North Carolina as an undergraduate student at Duke were even harder to examine in detail. Not only was the time more distant, but she had been thrown into the passing company of many, many more people. Students, teachers, house mothers, administrators. Closing her eyes tightly against the peace of Sweet Serenity she envisioned her college life, scanning the crowd of faces in her memory for the one whose hidden fire had seared her consciousness today. Nothing. The age was wrong. The face was wrong. Nothing!

In an uncharacteristic fit of frustration Serena crushed the bow she'd been attempting to shape for a crystal martini shaker filled with liquor-stuffed mint olives. Who was he?

Intuitively she knew his was no face seen merely in passing at some random point in her life. His gaze had affected her too deeply for that. He had been someone-someone important. In retrospect she felt a strange defensiveness, a need to protect herself-though from what she simply didn't know. Perhaps she had to go further back. But each year's regression was more painful.

Seeking escape, she tossed the ruined ribbon into the wastebasket, left the countertop at which she'd been working and rescued Monica from the clutches of long-winded Mrs. McDermott, a regular fan of cognac cordials. After Mrs. McDermott came several clusters of adolescents intent on splurging on one of the exotic flavors of jelly beans or-the current rage among them-gummy bears. Personally, Serena couldn't stand the things. For that matter, she rarely ate any of her wares, sampling them only for the purpose of describing them to customers. Mrs. McDermott, for instance, a sprightly senior citizen, would not have been terribly pleased when the gummy bears stuck to teeth that Serena suspected were removable. On the other hand, it was the mature patrons who could appreciate the rich milk chocolate of the imported candies as youngsters could not. So much of Serena's service involved learning and respecting the tastes of her clientele. It was for this reason that so many had become habitual indulgers since she'd opened her doors.

"Mrs. French!" She burst into a smile as a favorite customer entered the shop. "How are you?"

"Just fine, Serena," the attractive woman replied. "But I need your help."

"What's the problem?" Over the years June French had had "problems" ranging from office parties to Little League banquets to numerous get-well gifts and other more conventional items.

"How about a sweet sixteen sleepover? I need party favors for seven teenaged girls, all of them fighting acne, baby fat, and eleven o'clock curfews!"

"I remember too well," Serena quipped. In truth she had never been to a sleepover, much less a sweet sixteen party. At that particular point in her life she had been a loner. But acne, baby fat, and curfews-those she could relate to. "Let me think...."

Slowly she looked around the shop. Along the left-hand wall ran the stacks of oversized canisters whose transparent glass faces displayed goods on sale by the pound. Along the right were shelves of decorative boxes and containers, a sampling of which were filled and wrapped for instant sale.

Tapping a tapered forefinger against her lips, she deliberated. "Of course! The obvious." Several short strides brought her to a shelf that held small, hand-painted tins! Kneeling on the low-pile green carpet, she gathered a selection of tins together. Then she turned to the opposite wall. "Lo-cal suckers. They're fun. Here"-she plucked one of the wrapped candies from its canister and offered it to her customer-"try this. It's tangerine. There are also licorice, raspberry, butterscotch, lime and rum. We can fill each tin with a mixed sampling and tie a different colored bow around each. When the candy is gone the tin can be used for earrings, pins, you name it."

The nod that accompanied Mrs. French's grin vouched for her delight. "You've done it again, Serena. I only wish all my problems were so easily solved."

So did Serena ... with respect to her own. For as the hours passed and memory persisted in failing her she grew more agitated.

Returning to work behind the counter, she let her mind drift further back to those years she'd spent with her aunt and uncle in New York. Those had been her high school years, right after her father's fall from grace. There had been anonymity in New York, something she had craved after the harrowing experience of stigmatization left her bruised and sensitive. She had spent those years quietly, her peers indifferent to her past. Only one, Michael Lowry, had used it against her, and the memory still hurt.

To hell with this strange man's identity. It wasn't worth the effort of rehashing those years. If she was ever to learn his name it would be destiny that chose the time and place. She'd done everything she could to ferret it out from the annals of her memory, with no success whatsoever. Enough! She had Sweet Serenity, today and tomorrow. The past was done!

Buoyed by her newfound determination, she lent Monica a hand with the steady flow of customers during the predictably busy late afternoon hours. Then, when the rush had finally eased, she started packaging the telephone orders they had received in the course of the day. There were several orders to be sent to area hospitals, several to be delivered to private homes. These would be handled with care by the local delivery service she retained. There were also several orders to be shipped long distance. Each required careful and extensive padding with the bright lime tissue she always used when wrapping or cushioning sales. In those cases where more glass than usual was involved she dug into the stack of newspapers in the back room to supplement the gayer tissue as padding.

Standing behind the counter, she could absently supervise the activity in the shop as she worked. Nonchalantly she reached toward the newspaper, which she crumpled loosely and eased into one of the boxes before her. Three, four, five times she repeated the process until the package was closed, sealed, and its shipping label affixed. Then she began on the next box. She reached for a piece of newspaper, crumpled it- Reynolds. The name leapt up from the half-crumpled newsprint, slamming her with the force of a truck, freezing her hand in midair, halting the flow of air in her lungs as her heart beat furiously. Reynolds. With unsteady fingers she straightened the paper, pressing the creases out with her palms, nervously spreading the sheet atop the counter. The name had been there, buried deep in the recesses of her mind. It took a minute of searching for her to locate the article and she was filled with trepidation as she read it.

MINNEAPOLIS, March 20. The Tribune has learned that its major competitor, the Twin City Bulletin, has been bought by Thomas Harrison Reynolds of the Harrison Publishing Group. Originally from Los Angeles, Mr. Reynolds takes the helm after months of negotiations, during which he bid heavily against two eastern corporations for ownership of the Bulletin and its subsidiary press. Initial reports filtering from Bulletin executive offices indicate that the staff will temporarily remain intact as Mr. Reynolds studies its effectiveness. The new publisher has vowed to improve the quality of reporting and ...

Reynolds. Thomas Harrison Reynolds. A name for the face. And a place. Los Angeles. A time. Sixteen years ago. Tom Reynolds, the cub reporter who had first broken the story that eventually led to her father's indictment on charges of embezzlement.

It had to be a hoax. Serena reread the small article and moaned. Knees weak, she slouched against a high stool for support. Why here? Why here? Minneapolis was her home now. Here there was nothing to haunt her. She had a happy present and an optimistic future. Of all the places into which Tom Reynolds might have dug his journalistic claws, why here?

Tom Reynolds. It certainly explained the gut response she'd had earlier. Even now his name stormed through her, leaving tension in its wake. The last time she had seen him had been in court. Thirteen at the time, she had been vulnerable and impressionable. And Tom Reynolds had impressed her as being hard, ambitious, and ... wrong.

As she struggled to assimilate the fact of his presence in Minneapolis, her eye fell on the calendar she'd changed just this morning. April 1. April Fool's Day. Was this all an ugly gag?

In her heart she knew it wasn't, even before she looked toward the front of the shop when she heard the bell. There at her door stood none other than the man in question, Thomas Harrison Reynolds.

2.

For a fleeting moment Serena was back in that Los Angeles County courtroom, with Thomas Harrison Reynolds standing boldly among the throng of press personnel covering the trial. He had been sixteen years younger then and his appearance had reflected it, from the shaggy fall of hair across his brow to the faded corduroys and worn loafers above which a blazer, patched at the elbows, seemed a begrudging concession to courtroom convention.

Now the corduroys had been replaced by gray wool slacks, the loafers by polished cordovans. Today's blazer was navy, immaculately cut, well-fitted. Sixteen years had handsomely matured his skin and dashed the silver wisps she'd noticed earlier through his hair. But his eyes and the depth of his expression hadn't changed a bit. On their power she was hauled forward over the years.

Tom stood at the door, Serena behind the waist-high counter. Twenty feet separated them, twenty feet charged with waves of electricity. Caught in the middle was Monica, looking from one face to the other, instantly sensing something unusual astir.

Serena would never know why the shop had suddenly grown quiet. Where had the customers who had been milling around moments before disappeared to?

As though to further the developing nightmare Monica, seventeen and infinitely perceptive, slipped softly past her. "I'll unload those late deliveries, Serena," she said, then was gone.

For the first time in recent memory Serena didn't know what to do. One part of her felt like that frightened thirteen-year-old back in Los Angeles; the other part was a poised and successful twenty-nine-year-old businesswoman. Somewhere in the middle of the two she waffled. Why was he here? What did he want now?

Paralysis seized her; she was helpless to function. In the span of what seemed hours, yet could have been no more than a minute or two, she felt raked over the coals for a crime in which she'd had no part. Tom's gaze grilled her with the persistence of an inquisitor. Beneath its force the knot in her stomach spread slowly through her system.

Then, as though in partial answer to the prayer she hadn't had the presence to offer, the door opened and another customer entered the shop. Tom moved easily to the side, stopping to lean casually against the wall by the door.

A flicker of annoyance passed through Serena that he should post himself so confidently on her terrain. The thought was enough to stiffen her backbone. If it was a demonstration he wanted, a demonstration he'd get. This was her turf. Satisfying customers was her specialty. That Thomas Reynolds should presume to intimidate her in her own shop galled her.

Only he could see the fire in her eyes as she left the safe haven of her counter to approach the newcomer. In her determination to ignore him Serena missed the hint of a smile that both curved his lips slightly and sparkled in his eyes.

As much in defiance as in deference to the customer, she put a purposeful smile on her face. "May I help you?" she asked the middle-aged woman who, from the moment she'd entered the shop, had been entranced so by the cheery array of goodies around her that Serena's approach startled her.

"Oh! Uh, yes!" She looked up quickly, then was drawn helplessly back to a dainty, hand-sewn pocketbook, child-sized and filled with individually wrapped suckers. "This is adorable. I want to pick up something for my granddaughter. This might be just the thing. Today's her birthday."

"How old is she?" Serena asked, noting out of the corner of her eye that Tom had straightened and begun to look around the shop himself.

The older woman grinned. "Just seven, God bless her!"

Tom moved slowly in their direction, idling nonchalantly before various items, but moving onward nonetheless. Serena grasped at the escape hatch opened by her customer. "Seven. How wonderful! May I make a suggestion?"

"By all means."

"I could fill that bag," she pointed to the small pocketbook that had charmed the woman, "with Jelly Bean Hash." Without waiting for approval she retreated toward the rear of the shop, as far as possible from where Tom had paused to pick up and study an oriental lacquered box, to the crystal cookie jar set prominently on a corner of her work counter. It was filled to the brim with Jelly Bean Hash.

"Jelly Bean Hash?" the woman echoed Serena, her question echoed in its turn by Tom's dark brows, which rose as he looked Serena's way in wry amusement.

Serena concentrated on the sale. Lifting the lid of the cookie jar, she removed one of the cookie-shaped candies with the scoop left nearby for the purpose. "Assorted jelly beans dropped into a white chocolate 'batter.' Kids adore them. The purse will hold perhaps half a dozen. I could wrap them in colored plastic wrap to match the fabric of the bag, if you like."

Beaming, the woman nodded. "I would like that. Thank you. It sounds perfect."

To Serena's temporary relief Tom had gone back to his studies. She set to work wrapping the hash in deep red plastic to match the bag her customer had chosen, then tied a vibrant yellow bow around the whole. "There!" She held up the finished product for inspection before sinking it in a bag. "How's that?"

As the woman expressed her pleasure and paid for her purchase Tom silently nodded his approval, too. Even this peripheral participation in the exchange rattled Serena, who seemed to spend longer fumbling for the correct change of the twenty-dollar bill the woman offered than she'd spent recommending and wrapping the item.

With each step the woman took toward the front door Tom moved closer to Serena, who grew increasingly uneasy. She had never felt so awkward. Could she treat this man as simply another customer? Could she pretend, after the intensity of their exchanged glances that she had never seen him before?

The shop was quiet, with only the intermittent rustle of Monica working in the back room to break the silence. Despite the absurdity of the situation Serena couldn't quite find any words with which to break the ice. As she lifted her eyes from her clenched hands, her own fear and resentment clashed in silent battle with the curiosity and confusion in his gaze. Why didn't he say something? What was he up to? If only Monica were out here with her to serve as a buffer. But that was the cowardly approach, she chided herself. Then, once more, she was saved by the bell.

"Serena!" A tall bundle of knee-length rabbit fur and shimmering red-gold tresses surged through the front door, crossing the room before the jangle of the bell had died. "I need Red Hots! You've got some, haven't you? Oh, excuse me-" Cynthia Wayne came to an abrupt stop beside Tom, her striking blue eyes wide. "I can wait, if you're busy." Her gaze didn't budge.

"No, no, that's fine," said Serena, enthusiastically recovering the use of her tongue. "It's good to see you, Cynthia." She would never know how good! For the first time in the four years that she and Cynthia had been weekly racquetball partners Serena actually welcomed Cynthia's very blatant sensuality. Anything to sidetrack Thomas Harrison Reynolds from his enigmatic quest. "You sound desperate," she teased her friend. "Any problem?"

Cynthia faced her and grinned mischievously. "Nothing a pound of your spicy little Cinnamon Red Hots can't solve." Narrowing her gaze at the assortment of Chinese-style takeout containers on a shelf behind the counter, she pointed to one. "I think that blue-and-white-checked job over there should blend just beautifully with his office."

Though Serena was uncomfortably aware of Tom following the conversation closely, she couldn't resist a soft-spoken jab at her friend's humor. "Now, now, Cynthia. Who is it you're trying to burn?" Behind Cynthia, Tom smirked.

"My boss, as it happens." She tilted her chin up in revolt "He's been really short with all of us today. I'd like to see him take a handful of these and stuff them in his mouth with his usual greed. Then he'll have something to bark at!"

"He'll be breathing fire," Serena warned her lightly.

"He deserves it," the other woman shot back. Full lips curved into a seductive pout, Cynthia tossed a sidelong glance at Tom. His eyes, however, were firmly trained on Serena.

If Monica had been perceptive beyond her years, Cynthia's insight was a product of hers. Had she not been in a rush to get back to the office she might have been tempted to stay and chat with her friend. Had this man, whom Serena had notably failed to introduce to her, not been standing by waiting patiently for an unknown something from Serena, Cynthia would have lingered even in spite of her boss's decree. She was a born flirt; but she also knew when a man was irrevocably indifferent to her charm. And this man was. Her provocative appearance hadn't sparked him in the least. With a sigh she took her purchase from Serena's outstretched hand.

"Thanks, love," she murmured in answer to her friend's feeble excuse for a smile. Both women walked to the front door.

"Go easy on him, Cyn," Serena quipped when she knew they were out of Tom's earshot. She was unprepared for her friend's retort.

"On him? What about you?" Her whisper stopped as she glanced back over her shoulder at Tom. "What's going on with him?"

"Nothing."

"He's gorgeous."

"I really hadn't noticed." They stood now at the opened door, Serena with her back purposefully to the inside of the shop.

"Come on, Serena. I know you're not a wild dater, but he's not here for gumdrops." In the face of Serena's helpless expression, Cynthia knew she would get no information beyond what she had observed herself. There was definitely something going on between her friend and the dark-haired man in her shop. Perhaps Serena would tell her more when they played. "I'll see you at the club tomorrow night, love."

"Sure, Cyn."

"Take care!"

Despite the unmistakably naughty drawl in the redhead's voice, Serena watched her departure with reluctance. The furred form flew on down the stairs toward the street level of the plaza, then disappeared through a doorway to the outside world.