“Vexed with herself, Cassandra took a handkerchief from the congealed pocket of her dress and pressed it hard over a new trickle of tears. After a minute or two had passed, she became aware of someone ascending the stairs in a measured tread.
Embarrassed to be caught crying on the steps like a lost child, Cassandra struggled to rise.
A low voice stopped her. "No... please. I only wanted to give you this."
Through a blur, she saw the dark form of Tom Severin, who had come to stand a step below her, with two glasses of iced champagne in his hands. He extended one to her.
Cassandra began to reach for it, but hesitated. "I'm not supposed to have champagne unless it's mixed with punch."
One corner of his wide mouth tipped upward. "I won't tell."
Cassandra took the glass gratefully, and drank. The cold fizz was wonderful, easing the dry tightness of her throat.
"Thank you," she murmured.”