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“It was in the Whitcombe file.”

Relief is immediate and irritatingly strong.

“Right,” I say. “Of course.”

Ross notices something in my reaction. I can see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

I give him nothing else.

“You’ve done well,” he says.

“I have,” I say as a matter of fact.

There is no modesty in my answer because I have no reason to offer him any.

Something changes in his expression. Not surprise exactly. Recognition, perhaps. He is looking for the younger woman he remembers and discovering that she does not exist anymore.

Good.

Let him.

“How long have you been with the firm?” Ross asks.

“Several years,” I reply.

“And San Francisco suits you?”

“Yes.”

“Better than New York?”

“Differently,” I reply.

His gaze holds mine.

“You always did like difficult answers.”

I feel the old rhythm trying to slip between us and shut it down immediately.

“It wasn’t difficult,” I say. “It was accurate.”

The faint movement at his mouth disappears.

Good.

He understands.

We are not doing that.

We are not stepping backward into some familiar private language because he looked at me across a gallery and my body betrayed every ounce of common sense I have accumulated since the last time he touched me.

Ross nods once.

“Fair enough,” he says.

I take another sip of champagne even though I no longer want it.

He has not asked if I am married.