Lynne DeVane was returning several more empty moving boxes from her new apartment to the hallway when she heard a loud crash and thud, followed by some very creative, vivid language. Whoa. She'd been a lot of places with a lot of jaded people but she'd never heard that particular combination of words before.

She dropped the boxes she was carrying and rushed through her open door into the hallway of the lovely old brick building in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where she'd just rented an apartment. Boxes were scattered everywhere around a man--a large man--she noted, who was just rising to his feet and dusting off his dark suit pants. A golden retriever stood close by, nosing at the man with apparent concern.

"Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry," she began.

"You should be." The man cut her off midsentence, his blue eyes on his dog rather than her. "The hallways aren't a repository for trash."

She was so stunned by his curt response that she didn't know what to say next. And before the right words came to her, the man groped for the frame of the open doorway directly opposite hers. "Feather, come." He didn't look back, but as she watched him fumble for a second with the doorknob, she felt concern rise.

"Hey, wait! Are you all right? Did you hit your head?"

Slowly, he turned to face her as the dog disappeared inside his home. "No, I did not hit my head. I banged the hell out of my knee and scraped my palm, but you don't have to worry about being sued."

"I--that wasn't it." She was taken aback by his abrupt manner. "You just looked as if you might be dizzy or disoriented and I was concerned."

"I'm fine." Now his voice sounded slightly weary.

"Thank you for your concern."

He turned and found the doorknob again. But as he turned the knob and carefully moved forward, a realization struck her.

Her new neighbor was blind. Or, at the very least, significantly visually impaired.

The man vanished inside and the door closed with a definite clunk.

Well, cuss. That was hardly the way to get off on the right foot with your closest neighbor. She began to drag the offending boxes down the back stairs to the trash receptacles at the rear of the building, where she'd seen a cardboard recycling container. If she'd had any idea her neighbor couldn't see, she'd never have left boxes lying around in the hallway.

Even through her lingering chagrin, she remembered that he was extremely attractive, with dark, curly hair, a rough-hewn face with a square jaw and a deep cleft in his chin. The dog clearly had been anxious, and she wondered if it was a guide dog. But if it was, why hadn't it been guiding him? And if it wasn't, wouldn't he have been using a cane? Maybe she'd been wrong and he wasn't blind at all, just clumsy.

It didn't really matter. She owed him an apology. With cookies, she decided. Very few men could stay mad in the face of her grandmother's chocolate peanut-butter cookies, a family recipe bestowed on Lynne the day she graduated from high school. Neither of them could have guessed that it would be almost ten years before Lynne was able to eat those cookies again.

She hiked back up from the cardboard container and returned to her floor for a second trip. Maybe her neighbor would come out and she'd get another chance to apologize. But the door opposite hers was closed and it appeared that it was going to stay that way.

After the fourth trip she took a break and hung her grandmother's large mahogany-framed mirror above the sideboard in her dining area. She caught sight of her reflection as she stood back to admire it, and was momentarily taken aback by the stranger in the mirror.

The woman she saw was a slender, washed-out blonde with her hair twisted up in a messy knot. The woman she still subconsciously expected to see had a headful of layered, permed coppery hair and she was thin. Not just slender but really, really skinny. And she wouldn't be wearing ratty old jeans and a T-shirt. Instead she'd be in something unique from a top designer's fall collection.

More than a year had passed since she'd walked away from a major modeling career. Her timing was professional suicide. Even if she ever wanted to go back, she'd burned all her bridges completely. She'd just finished her first Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition when she'd made the decision. The only place to go from there had been up, but she'd opted out.

"But why?" her agent, Edwin, had asked in frustration. "You're the hottest thing since Elle MacPherson, honey.Your name could be bigger than anybody out there. Just think of it." He'd sketched a mock billboard in the air. "A'Lynne. Just a single name. The face of...Clinique, or Victoria's Secret, something major like that. How can you even consider quitting?"

"I'm not happy, Ed," she'd said quietly. And she wasn't. She was tired of hopping flights to God-knew-where for photo shoots in freezing-cold surf. She was tired of having to monitor every tiny bite she put in her mouth so that she didn't gain weight. She was sick of the casual hooking up and the partying that went on at so many of the functions she was required to attend.

But when one of the producers of the SI shoot had looked at her critically and said, "Girlie, you could stand to lose at least five pounds," something inside her had snapped. Enough was enough. She was already too thin for her almost six feet of height. And she wasn't even sure she remembered her real hair color. Like most of her co-workers, she sported a distinctive hairstyle and color as part of her public persona. Unlike many of them, though, she had yet to resort to bulimic strategies, binging and purging, to lose the necessary weight. Was she anorexic? She didn't think so. If she weren't modeling, she was pretty sure she wouldn't feel compelled to eat so very little.

But she wanted to find out. "You might not be happy," Ed said, "but you're famous. And damned well paid. Who needs happiness when you're a millionaire?"

The thought that she might one day become that cynical was the scariest one of all. "I don't want to live like this anymore." Her voice grew stronger. "I won't live like this anymore. No more jobs. I'll finish what I'm contracted for, but then I'm done."

"But what in hell will you do?" Ed had asked, utterly perplexed. In his world, life was all about fame and wealth.

"Be happy," she'd said simply. "Be an everyday, ordinary person with everyday ordinary concerns and schedules. Eat what I like. Do volunteer work, go to church. Be someone who matters because of the good I do in the world, not someone who only matters because of how good the weirdest designs on the planet look on my body."

Yes, she'd definitely burned her bridges. She'd dropped the odd A that her mother had thought looked so sophisticated in front of plain old Lynne, and she'd begun using her real last name rather than her father's mother's maiden name. A'Lynne Frasier was dead, but Lynne DeVane was alive and well.

She'd moved back home to Virginia with her mother, gained back enough weight that she no longer looked as if she'd stepped out of a concentration camp and let her heavy mane of hair begin to grow back long and straight, although she wore it up and out of her face much of the time. With no makeup, her normal blond coloring made her forgettable enough that she'd managed, so far, to avoid recognition and the media harassment it would inevitably bring.

After a year, though, her sanity had demanded she find her own place to live. She'd decided on Gettysburg, just over an hour from her sister's home.

With luck, tucked away in a small town in the mountains of Pennsylvania, she would stay forgettable.

She crossed her fingers as she carried out yet another load of cardboard and stomped it flat before depositing it in the recycling container. If she didn't run into any hard-core SI fans, she thought she had a chance.

She was getting winded after the seventh trip so she walked around to the front and lowered herself to the front steps for a few minutes to enjoy the small-town atmosphere of her new home. Holy cow. She'd thought she was in decent shape, but those stairs seemed to be getting steeper with each climb. Lowering herself to the top step on the small brick porch outside the entryway, she took a couple of deep breaths. Under her breath she muttered, "Are those boxes cloning themselves? Surely I don't have that much junk."

"Am I going to fall over you or your stuff again?" Startled by the deep voice, she whirled around. Her grumpy neighbor had just opened the entrance door. His left hand was gripping the handle of a leather harness now, but the dog in the harness wasn't the golden one she'd seen earlier. This dog was big and black and distinctly bulkier. The leather-covered metal handle, along with a leash attached to the dog's collar, was firmly gripped in his left hand. She'd been right when she'd suspected he was blind.

Jumping to her feet, she opened her mouth to apologize again. And then she noticed he was smiling. Belatedly she realized his tone hadn't been angry, but rather wryly amused.

"Sorry," she said. "Just taking a breather. Those stairs are starting to make me wish I'd added a few more miles to my morning run."

He chuckled. "Good thing it's not a high-rise." She groaned. "Perish the thought. But if there was, there would be an elevator." She took a deep breath. "I really am sorry about the boxes earlier. I guess you noticed I moved them."

"I did." He smiled again, strong white teeth flashing, and she was mildly shocked by her instant reaction to the impish, bad-boy quality in the expression. It invited her to smile along with him, to share some unspoken joke. It also made him one of the sexiest men she'd ever met. And it was a heck of a contrast to his earlier behavior.

"I'm sorry, too," he said. "I'm usually not such a bad-tempered jerk. And I know better than to leave the apartment without my trusty eyes."

"Apology accepted..."