Miranda sighed gustily and turned to her mother.
“Code,” she said clearly. “Come on, Mom, you know what I’m talking about. It’s the third film based on Christopher Pace’s ‘Code’ books. Remember? Code of Dishonor? Code of Silence? Code of Steel? I told you that was what Jessica and I were seeing tonight.”
Savannah nodded in apology. “Yes, I know you did. I remember now.”
The film was rated PG-13, which had given Savannah a bit of concern until Miranda had pointed out that she was, in fact, thirteen. Besides, Miranda had reminded Savannah, Michael had already seen the film. And both of them had seen the previous two releases on video at a friend’s house and they really weren’t that bad. Just a little violent, she’d said earnestly. Maybe a little bad language. But nothing she hadn’t already heard in school.
After being assured by Jessica’s parents that the movie wasn’t any worse than the usual cops-and-bad guys film, and was actually much better written than most, Savannah had agreed to the outing.
“So you enjoyed the movie?” she asked, trying to pay more attention to her daughter as they headed up the stairs.
“It was great! Christopher Pace is, like, the best writer ever. His movies are funny and exciting and really cool. He’s been on a whole bunch of TV shows lately—you know, promoting the film? And he’s really good-looking. Jessica thinks he ought to star in his own films. She says he’s even better than Chris O’Donnell. I think he’s cute, and funny—he made Oprah laugh so hard her eyes watered—but he’s sort of old. About your age, maybe.”
“Thank you very much,” Savannah said dryly.
Miranda giggled. “Oops. Sorry. I didn’t mean you’re old, of course.”
“No, of course not.”
“So, anyway…”
They had just reached the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang, interrupting Miranda’s prattle.
Savannah looked behind her and sighed. “I’d better see who that is. I’ll be right back.”
She was aware that Miranda remained where she was, watching as Savannah hurried back down the stairs.
“Who is that?” Ernestine asked, standing in the living-room doorway.
“I don’t know, yet, Mother,” Savannah replied with forced patience. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Not this late.”
Savannah thought immediately of Michael, and fervently hoped that nothing had gone wrong with the backyard camp-out. She opened the door quickly.
The yellow porch light illuminated a face that had featured prominently in Savannah’s fantasies for almost two weeks. For one stunned moment, she wondered if she was dreaming again.
“Kit?” Her voice came out in a whisper, hardly audible even to her own ears.
His dark eyes swept her face, and his expression was somehow both smug and uncertain, all at the same time.
“You forgot to say goodbye,” he said in the deep, whisky-smooth voice that had murmured to her in her dreams.
Savannah couldn’t quite believe that she wasn’t imagining him—she’d missed him so very desperately. Without thinking, she reached out to touch his cheek.
He felt very real. Warm and solid, exactly the way she remembered him.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she murmured. She was unable to hide her pleasure at seeing him, and for one long, shimmering moment, everything else was forgotten.
His eyes locked with hers, Kit caught her hand and pressed a kiss against her palm. “I missed you,” he said with devastating simplicity.
“Savannah?” Ernestine spoke impatiently from behind her. “Who is it?”
Savannah gasped and pulled her hand from Kit’s, abruptly brought back to reality.
Kit was here! This man she’d met so briefly on vacation, this man whose last name she didn’t even know, this man who was little more than a total stranger to her—with the exception of a few spectacular shared memories—had
somehow followed her home. And now what in the world was she going to do with him?