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bullied. It took more to intimidate her than a mere disapproving scowl. “Look, I know he’s in town. So you might as well tell him I’m here.”
    The woman seemed to waffle, then released her hold on thedoor so it swung open. Ana grabbed the chance while it was there and slipped through the front door.
    The house was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside. The foyer opened to a living area on one side and a dining room on the other. Directly in front of the door, stairs led up to the second floor. Dark hardwood floors gleamed underfoot. The walls were painted a rich cream that complemented the pristine ivory upholstery. All of which was the perfect backdrop for the stunning collection of abstract art that graced the walls. She tried not to gape. And she definitely didn’t ask about them. She didn’t really want to know if that was an original Kline. And she really, really didn’t want to know if that was a Pollock.
    But she supposed this was what she got by invading the home of an icon.
    There was only one thing in the foyer more shocking than the millions of dollars worth of art. Sitting on the console right beside the front door, nestled beside a three-foot-tall, orange glass vase, sat a pair of oversize Burberry sunglasses. Exactly like the ones Cara Miller had been famous for wearing.
    As if Cara Miller had walked through the front door a few minutes earlier and dropped them there on her way past.
    Ana looked from the sunglasses to the disapproving housekeeper, who returned her gaze with a steely obstinacy. Even if Ana hadn’t seen countless photos of Cara in similar sunglasses, she could have guessed to whom these belonged.
    In general, housekeepers didn’t leave their sunglasses on the console by the door. And this was not the sort of woman to wear a two-hundred-dollar accessory.
    The sight of those sunglasses sent a fissure of unease skirting down her spine. She shouldn’t have seen them. There was something far too intimate about seeing Cara Miller’s glasses. They were such tangible proof of Ward’s grief. She had invaded his privacy as clearly as if she’d walked in on him half-naked.
    She shouldn’t have come here.
    But damn it, this was his fault, too. If he’d taken her call earlier, she wouldn’t have come. If he’d had the common decencyto talk to her and explain what she’d done to irritate him, then this all could have been avoided.
    She swept her gaze around the rooms once again, searching for any signs Ward might be there. She found none. The house was meticulously maintained, but there was a sterility about it. Other than the sunglasses, there were no signs that anyone might have been here in the past year, let alone the past few hours. There were no keys by the door. No half-opened mail. No dog-eared novel on the table beside the sofa. All the furniture sat at precise right angles.
    Propping her hands on her hips, she turned back to the housekeeper. “I suppose you were telling the truth. Ward really isn’t here.”
    The housekeeper shook her head and something sad flickered across her face. “He doesn’t stay at the house anymore when he comes to town.”
    As the woman spoke, her gaze darted to the glasses by the door. It was enough. Ana could read between the lines. Ward may still own this house, but he hadn’t lived here since Cara died.
    Ana nodded. “If you talk to him, ask him to call me.”
    She’d climbed back into her car already and was backing up, when she happened to glance down the driveway that ran alongside the house. In the back, set away from the house, was a two-story garage. She would guess at some point in the house’s long history, it had been a carriage house. Now, it was a garage with an apartment above it.
    “He doesn’t stay at the house, ” Ana repeated the housekeeper’s words. Not, he doesn’t stay here. But he doesn’t stay at the house.
    On a hunch, Ana turned her car into the driveway and drove past the house. She parked her car in