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Bianca swung towards the mirror.

They’d grown up in the same house with the same parents—a father whose word meant little, a mother who adored him anyway—but somehow only she, not Alessandra, had benefitted from the lesson such an existence provided. And she had no idea why. Perhaps it was Alessandra’s more even disposition. Her calmer temperament.

Whatever it was, Bianca had learned what her sister hadn’t.

Yes, of course, people had emotional reactions to things, but what was the advantage in giving in to those emotions? Emotion only made you more vulnerable, and vulnerability was dangerous.

It left you open to pain, and nothing good could possibly come of pain.

The psychologist who’d worked with her—seeing a shrink was part of what you had to do to complete the grad program—had at first shaken his head at her attitude about what he called emotional self-concealment, but he had to admit it seemed to work for her in her professional capacity as a brand new clinician in a small, very successful practice.

The practice—five psychologists plus a psychiatrist-consultant they turned to when they they needed prescriptions written—dealt almost exclusively with clients others had failed to help. “Difficult cases,” they were called, which was an understatement.

Her family didn’t know any of that. Why tell them? Her sisters would go into lecture mode, her brothers into protective mode. There would be a BIG CONFRONTATION, caps all the way, and she’d end up telling them that she loved them all but she was an adult and they had to mind their own business.

As it was, she regretted telling Alessandra about the patient who’d somehow learned her private cellphone number and phoned her in Texas. Alessandra had been upset. She’d wanted to tell Tanner and everyone else what had happened, which was why Bianca made light of the incident, convinced her it wasn’t worth mentioning—and never added that there’d been more than one call and that each call had been more disturbing than the last.

Anyway, she’d had her number changed so it wouldn’t happen anymore.

Admittedly, some of her cases made her shudder. The guy who dreamed about his mother’s death even though she was very much alive. The eighteen-year-old who’d served three years as a juvenile for murder and who’d stopped showing up for appointments with her as well as with his parole officer.

Her work could be tough. Draining. But she loved it, the challenge of listening without judging, and helping put torn lives back together.

“Someday,” her shrink had said, “you might want to try to heal your own wounds,” but he was wrong. She had no wounds. What she had was a logical approach to life. Those who didn’t had no place in hers.

And that, she thought as she stared at herself in the mirror, brought her straight back to Chay Olivieri, a man whose life was all about emotion.

What else could you call it when he reveled in danger, risk, and adrenaline? She had to admit it did make him exciting, but quicksand was also exciting and no sane person would deliberately step into quicksand…

“’Scuse me. Could I get to the mirror?”

Bianca blinked. One of the teens was trying to peer over her shoulder.

“Oh. Oh, of course. Sorry.”

She stepped back, ducked to the side so she could still get a glimpse of herself and made a face as she tried to flatten her hair.

“What you should do,” the girl said, “is bend forward and run your hands through it.”

Bianca raised her eyebrows.

“Your hair. You know. Fluff it. Get those waves even looser. Wish I had hair like that. It looks great.”

What her hair looked was awful. Wild. Untamed. Uncontrolled.

“No,” Bianca said emphatically, trying to smooth it down again. “It doesn’t.”

“Mannaggia, B,” Alessandra snorted. She grabbed he comb and dumped it into her purse. “If we don’t get out there soon,” she said, grasping her sister’s hand and pulling her towards the door, “the guys will have given up hope, ordered pizza with garlic and anchovies, and we’ll have to choose between pretending we like garlic and anchovies or just sitting there and stuffing our faces with bread.”

The teens giggled. Bianca tried for a smile, and what choice did she have except to let Alessandra hurry her out the door?

Anyway, the evening was almost over. Supper would be quick. Chay wouldn’t want to spend any more time in her company than she wanted to spend in his, and despite their so-called truce, she suspected things wouldn’t be very comfortable for anybody. So they’d eat, make an attempt at polite conversation. Then they’d all say “goodnight”; the lieutenant would get on his Harley; she, her sister and Tanner would climb into the truck, and that would be the end of it.

The restaurant, already busy when she and the lieutenant had arrived, had crowded up. The place was evidently a weekend destination, probably because of that three-piece band on a raised platform in the rear of the room.

Music, Bianca thought disconsolately. Just what she wasn’t in the mood for.

And what had happened to their table? The lieutenant and her brother-in-law were no longer sitting where they’d left them. That space was now occupied by six women.