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himself—magic.
    It wasn’t magic two hours later, however, when Ricardo returned. He brought a gust of cold air in the door with him and the grin he gave her was good-natured and slightly cocky. He stood by the door and stripped his gloves off. “We’ve got your car going,” he said.
    “Oh good.” She walked slowly into the living room from the kitchen, trying to conceal her uneasiness. “How did you know where to look for it?”
    “Simple,” he replied. He came across the room, tracking snow all over the floor. “You said you were coming from the Notch and I knew you couldn’t have walked far. Not in that storm.” He unzipped his jacket. “It’s down at the garage in town. I’ll take you there after lunch.”
    “Fine,” she replied quietly, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat. You only have coffee and bread and butter.”
    He fished in the capacious pocket of his jacket and brought out a small brown bag. “Ham and cheese.” He handed it to her. “You can make some sandwiches.”
    She accepted the package. “All right.” He followed her into the kitchen, talking cheerfully about her car. She made the sandwiches, listening to him with half an ear and trying to deal with her own sense of shock. It was hard to believe that the tender lover of last night was the same person as this tall and obviously tough young man who was lounging carelessly at his ease, waiting for her to serve him. She put a sandwich in front of him. “I’m afraid there isn’t any mustard,” she said expressionlessly.
    “I eat out,” he said, and bit into his bread with strong white teeth. “Where do you go to school?” he asked after half the sandwich was gone.
    “Melford,” she answered, naming a very old and very prestigious women’s college.
    “I see.” He looked amused. “And are you studying political science so you can change the world?”
    She looked at him levelly. “No. I’m studying English literature.”
    “Ah.” He started on the other half of his sandwich.
    “What do you do?” she asked to turn the tables.
    He regarded her reflectively as he chewed. Then he said easily, “I play baseball. For the New York Yankees.”
    Her eyes widened and she put her coffee cup down. He had said his name was Ricardo. “You—you can’t be Rick Montoya?” she said breathlessly.
    “I can be and I am,” he replied. He grinned at her engagingly. “You don’t follow baseball, I take it.”
    “I knew your name.”
    He drained his coffee cup. “But not my face.” He got up, went over to the refrigerator and took a piece of paper from the top of it. “These are my addresses,” he said. “I’ll be in Florida for spring training until April.” He pointed to the Fort Lauderdale address. “The rest of the year I live in Stamford, Connecticut.” He looked at her soberly. “Let me know if you need any help.”
    She stared at him blankly for a moment and then brilliant color stained her cheeks. Her eyes fell. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.
    “Come on,” he said, “and we’ll go get your car.”
    “Yes,” she answered, and jumped to her feet. “Just a minute and I’ll get my coat.” Two minutes later she walked out the door with him and it slammed behind her, slammed forever on her night of magic.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Susan reached her mother’s house in Fairfield, Connecticut, by early that evening. Mrs. Morgan was surprised to see her. “You shouldn’t have traveled in all this snow, dear,” she said after Susan had kissed her at the door. “If I had known you were on the road, I would have been extremely worried.”
    “The highway was plowed all the way down,” Susan said with a smile. “It wasn’t bad at all. But I could use something to eat.”
    “Of course. Come into the kitchen.” Susan followed her mother and watched as she efficiently prepared a cheese omelet for her daughter. “Did you enjoy your skiing?” Mrs. Morgan asked as she sat down across from Susan at the