Jennifer Morgan arranged the meeting documents around a large oval conference table. Gazing over the shiny, inlaid cherry and oak surface, Jennifer sensed a surge of anticipation. Her portable workstation, the high definition wall panel, and tabletop models had been meticulously arranged at the head of the table within her reach. Pausing for a moment, she took the whole room in. It was ready, as was she.

Jennifer's delicate, long fingered hands traced the double-breasted burgundy suit jacket, which complemented her slender figure by its fit as much as its color. From her purse, Jennifer pulled out a mirror for one last look at her make-up and hair. Her hand immediately engaged in nervous hair touch-ups that served more as reassurance than actual improvement.

Earlier in the morning, she had spent longer than usual getting ready. Given her porcelain skin, wearing make-up had always seemed something of an unnecessary burden, but today, she had attended to every nuance. She even had a hairdresser come up to the room. She loved wearing her hair down with its smoothness caressing her cheeks and sweeping over her shoulders, making her feel like a bird ready to take flight. For the presentation, however, she wanted the attention centered on her design, not her appearance, so her long, thick, brown hair was shaped into an elegant French braid up-do.

For the last three months, she and Peter McMillan, managing partner at Boston's Sloane & Bendek architectural firm, have juggled deadlines to accommodate this proposal for the new Donovan building in Florence. Located in the cradle city of the Renaissance, the building would house the architectural and engineering high-tech nerve center for Donovan's global operations.

Real-estate tycoon James Donovan's buildings were renowned for their opulence as well as their efficiency and profitability. Donovan lavished money on architecture, especially for buildings that housed his own offices, and this made him a prized client every architect dreamed of and every architectural firm stalked like wild prey. In architecture circles, Jennifer often witnessed debates about Donovan's buildings. Those who lost their bids became relentless voices of displeasure, but the buildings spoke for themselves by capturing the hearts of critics and scholars and the wallets of the lessees.

During the past twenty years, Jennifer completed dozens of commercial and residential projects. Still, the invitation to make a Donovan proposal astonished her, mostly because she would have to go to Florence to complete it.

She didn't know if she was ready to return to Florence, even after so many years. For days, Jennifer stalled the work on the presentation while Peter struggled to figure out her hesitation and encouraged her through it. She smiled. For three years they'd been a couple of sorts, and Peter bestowed upon her many professional and personal kindnesses, assuring her rise in the architectural world that led to the Donovan opportunity. She loved Peter. Still, Jennifer couldn't bring herself to tell him about her past, and he had no way of knowing that her reluctance to complete the project came from distant memories.

Hours on end, she sat in the sanctuary room in her Boston condo and trembled with the echoes of heartache that rumbled through her body like a springtime brook, threatening to flood the illusionary comfort of wintry time gone by. Florence gave her magic and hope, and as much of herself as she could ever know. The architecture alone would have been enough to transform her because every brick and crevice oozed enchantment of the clearest dreams. However, architecture was only one part of Florence that claimed Jennifer forever. David, her David, was the other.

David, a quiet man with sand colored hair, sat two rows in front of her on the far right side. He seemed to be one of those dreamy, introspective art types in Jennifer's summer painting class. She had just started attending the Florence Institute of Art after winning a scholarship at an international art contest in high school. One minute, she was a spindly youth with burning brown eyes that danced to the rhythm of her inner thrill, the next, she was an artist in Florence, where she could still hear the chisels, brush strokes, and verses of the Renaissance masters.

Time stood still in Florence, recording only the taste of wine, olives, cheese, and fresh baked bread. Then, the green-eyed classmate introduced himself while Jennifer sat sketching on a stone bench at the Belvedere Fortress. They went out in the evening, and the two nights following. By the end of summer, they were in love. It didn't matter that David was rich and his family spent summers in their lavish Florence villa, just as it made no difference that he had been warned to shun gold-diggers. After completing his summer class, David enrolled as a regular student in the fall so he and Jennifer would have another year together. Jennifer relived the year while considering the Donovan project.

After graduation, David proposed and asked her to stay in Florence through the summer so they could be married. Then he didn't show up after visiting his parents in Venice. He was going to tell them. When almost a week had passed with no word from him, Jennifer believed he had succumbed to his parents' influence after all. She finally summoned the courage to go to his house. David's father met her at the door in formal mourning clothes. He led her to a parlor where David's mother sat dabbing her tearful eyes with a tissue. In a suspicious, almost recriminating tone, the woman told Jennifer how David had been killed in a car wreck seven days before. An icy dismissal immediately followed to meet Jennifer's sobbing swoon. She hadn't even had a chance to ask about the memorial service; she'd never felt so helpless and alone.

Back in the United States a month later, Jennifer found out she was pregnant. Amilya, her love child, her gift from David, never met her paternal grandparents despite Jennifer's efforts to reach them. Just as Amilya's birth salved Jennifer's heartache twenty three years before, so Jennifer's love for her daughter helped her realize an added opportunity in the Donovan presentation. Amilya was on summer break after the first year in a graduate program at MIT, and Jennifer became elated about having Amilya join her in Florence. Perhaps, Amilya could finally get a true sense of her father by following her mother's footsteps in the great city.

Jennifer still yearned for David; the taste of him, the smell of him, the look in his eyes when he proposed in the Boboli Garden. David would have adored their daughter. More than anything, Jennifer wanted Amilya to be proud of the circumstances surrounding her creation and birth. Had it not been for Amilya and the Donovan assignment, Jennifer would have never summoned the courage to return to Florence. Still, she feared the looming heartbreak in her soul.

A knock at the door startled her from the musing. A tall man stepped in. Jennifer retreated a few inches when she looked into the disarming gaze of his blue eyes. Precisely combed, thick brown hair adorned his high forehead imprinted with two shallow lines of maturity. The square face and high cheek bones with the long thin nose descended to his delicate upper lip, which, by being a few degrees thinner than his lower lip, gave him a smile of mystery. He wore a custom tailored Berlin blue and white pinstriped silk suit that matched that shine in his eyes and suggested the agility of his athletic build.

"Ms. Morgan?"

His voice sounded oddly familiar, like a voice from the dreams she sometimes heard before waking up. Jennifer was speechless and nodded in response.

"I thought you might be in here getting ready. Do you have everything you need?"

She surveyed the room one more time. "Yes, thank you."

He crossed over, extending his hand. "I'm James Donovan."

Of course. She knew who he was, and she offered a hand in a handshake only to find her thoughts scattering. His firm grip frazzled her completely, but she somehow managed to respond. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm glad you accepted this challenge," he said.

"Thank you. We appreciate the opportunity." She was certain her voice was quivering, but he didn't indicate that he noticed.

"Are you comfortable in your hotel? Is there anything I can get you?" He spoke calmly, smiling.

"Ah, yes. The contract," she teased.

He eyed her for a moment. "We've already seen twelve proposals. Yours is the last. Your work speaks for itself, Ms. Morgan, but you do have pretty tough competition."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, and you'll see shortly what I will build."

"Oh, no. I won't be at the presentation. I have a prior engagement, I'm afraid." He didn't sound apologetic.

"I'm not sure I understand. You make the decision, don't you?"

"Yes."