Dead brown leaves tumbled across the lane in front of Chance’s Jaguar, chased by a brooming wind out of the north. He slowed as he approached the house. There were no cars parked in front of it, indicating that if any of the neighbors had stopped after the funeral, they’d already left. Which meant Flame would be there alone. He’d debated long and hard about the wisdom of coming out here today. According to Matt Sawyer, Flame was scheduled to fly back to San Francisco tomorrow. He wondered if he should have waited to contact her after she had returned to the city where they’d met, but he didn’t think so. The timing now was ideal, too. Sobered by the ritual of the funeral this morning and the opportunity to reflect afterward, she was bound to be more receptive than she might be another day. And, dammit, he wanted to see her. She was his wife. He parked the car in front and climbed out. The brisk north wind whipped at his hair and sent more leaves scurrying across the lawn as Chance stared at the house he’d once lived in.
