Jean was no mere stranger. She was growing more certain by the minute. And Jean was not her real name. She could sense that much. But her memory failed her, hard as she flipped through it. There was only that memory of Jean in France, when that handsome blond man had been watching them carefully from afar. She remembered nothing of what they'd said to each other--only that she had been filled with the greatest joy and sadness she'd ever known at the same time. She remembered holding Jean's cheek in her palm, and the pained, loving look Jean had given her.