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She gasped, a whisper of hot air against his neck

And then she did it again, a curling of fingers in that one spot that wound him up tight.

His breath caught and held because he would do nothing—nothing, God, not even breathe, even if it led to his ultimate suffocation and death—to force her along at this moment.

But…where was this going?

Slowly she pulled back, her face wet with tears and her breasts heaving with uneven panting that sounded, to his confused ears at least, like passion rather than pain. Then she raised her lids to stare at him with wet eyes that glittered with every conceivable shade of brown, from amber to deepest mahogany. And then…

Was he imagining this? Was this a dream after all? A hallucination?

And then she leaned closer…tipped up her chin, just a little…and waited.

Disbelief pinned Beau right where he sat, dazed and frozen, and he could swear he felt his skin vibrate with leashed tension that strained away from his control.

She had to know that he would swallow her whole right now.

Was that what she wanted?

Could he get this lucky? Was this a test? Did anyone really expect him to let this opportunity pass him by when he’d prayed for it for years?

He wanted to do the right thing, but he’d be damned if he knew what that was. “Jillian?”

There. He’d been honorable and raised the question, dumbass that he was. This was her chance. If she wanted this train to stop so she could hop off and run away, now was the time. Run while you can, Jill.

Books by Ann Christopher

Kimani Romance

Just About Sex

Tender Secrets

Road to Seduction

Campaign for Seduction

Redemption’s Kiss

ANN CHRISTOPHER

is a full-time chauffeur for her two overscheduled children. She is also a wife, former lawyer, and decent cook. In between trips to various sporting practices and games, Target, and the grocery store, she likes to write the occasional romance novel featuring a devastatingly handsome alpha male. She lives in Cincinnati and spends her time with her family, which includes two spoiled rescue cats, Sadie and Savannah.

If you’d like to recommend a great book, share a recipe for homemade cake of any kind or suggest a tip for getting your children to do what you say the first time you say it, Ann would love to hear from you through her Web site, www.AnnChristopher.com.

Redemption’s Kiss
Ann Christopher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Richard

A million thanks to writer pals Kristina Cook,

Lori Devoti, Laura Drewry, Caroline Linden,

Sally MacKenzie and Eve Silver for their invaluable

friendship and support, and especially to Naked Sally,

for helping me with a crucial plot point.

Dear Readers,

Disgraced former governor Beau Taylor has nothing to live for and no one to care if he dies. Once, long ago, he had everything in the palm of his hand: career, prestige and, best of all, the love of Jillian, the woman he’s always worshipped. But then things went horribly wrong, he made poor choices and he lost it all, including his zest for life.

These days, he drinks, parties and fills the excruciating hours with meaningless women. Every day he hates himself just a little bit more than yesterday. Every day he searches for a reason to exist and comes up empty.

And then, in a nightmarish flash, everything changes.

Suddenly, Beau has a second chance at life, one he’s determined not to waste. Now, nothing will stop him from healing his damaged soul and becoming a worthwhile human being. Nothing will stop him from becoming the world’s best father to his precious little girl. Nothing will stop him from becoming a deserving partner to Jillian, and reclaiming her love. Nothing.

I hope you enjoy reading Beau and Jillian’s story as much as I enjoyed putting them back together!

Happy reading,

Ann Christopher

P.S. Please look for my next Kimani Romance, which will be part of the Love in the Limelight series, in October!

Chapter 1

Beau Taylor wasn’t sober, but he wasn’t drunk, either.

Luckily, the Miami night was young enough for him to change that.

Drinking took the edge off. Drinking was good. Drinking was necessary.

How else could he survive in the toxic waste dump of his life without some sort of buffer between him and reality?

As the disgraced former governor of Virginia, Beau was only slightly higher on the social scale than, say, venereal warts, but after a couple of drinks—preferably scotch on the rocks—he could look on the bright side. People thought he was scum. That being the case, it was easy to fulfill their low expectations.

Perfect, eh?

If he wanted a drink, he’d drink. If there were a party somewhere, he’d go. If he met a woman who was beautiful and willing, he’d screw her. Why shouldn’t he? Because he’d disappoint someone who loved him? Easy solution there: no one loved him.

So he found his consolations where he could. Living in Miami, with its astonishing array of after-dark activities, helped. There were always clubs to discover and drinks and women to be savored.

Lucky him.

He was momentarily between clubs, but no worries. A quick glance outside the limousine’s darkened windows showed the Intracoastal Waterway streaking by and the city stretched out before him like a glittering jewel.

Man, he enjoyed Miami.

He also enjoyed being rich, one of the benefits of the beer distributorship his late father started back in the day.

Thanks, Dad.

Having money had its pluses, and riding in style was one of them. Every car should have plush leather seats, a fully stocked bar, a discreet driver and a privacy divider. Beau enjoyed riding in limousines.

Sabrina enjoyed riding him.

And she was good at it.

Sliding his hands up the shapely thighs straddling him, Beau gripped the flexing globes of her naked ass. Ahhh…nice.

Sabrina kicked it up a notch. Flashing a wicked grin, her long black curls wild and falling in her face, she pumped her hips nice and hard, taking him deeper into her body.

Worked for him.

Laughing now, she rubbed her jiggling breasts against his tailored shirt. It was all good. Nothing like a quickie in the car to loosen him up.

Then Sabrina slowed things down. Moaning loud enough to be heard on the other side of the divider, she levered herself up until only the sensitive head of his penis remained inside her.

Yeeeaaaah. That worked, too.

Her back arched and one of her walnut-tipped nipples skimmed his lips. Was that an invitation? Looked like. He sucked it, hard, into his mouth. She rewarded him with a high-pitched cry and impaled herself again, up down, up down, faster, harder, and the fun continued.

Except…the fun wasn’t that much fun. Never really had been fun.

Beau let that nipple pop free, rested his head against the seat and wished again that he were drunk. Things were easier then. He didn’t have to work so hard to feel alive or, depending on his mood, to sink into oblivion.

Oblivion was his own version of heaven, the blessed place where he hated himself just a shade less than he normally did. Oblivion—not another party—was his ultimate destination tonight. Too bad he couldn’t seem to get there.

Staring up at Sabrina through half-closed eyes, seeing the straining column of her neck and the faint smile on her lips, he wondered why he always did this to himself. Always picked women with sparkling amber eyes, straight brows and fine cheekbones. Always wished he were just a little drunker or could pretend just a little more that these women were someone else.

It had never worked. Not once.

Maybe he should try harder.

Holding Sabrina’s hips tighter, he pumped in a blind fury of movement, screwing her mercilessly until sweat ran down his temples and Sabrina began her chanting routine. Yes…yes…yes. Whatever. He just wanted to be done—with this, and with her.

Waiting only long enough to hear the surprised yelp that was his signal that she’d climaxed, he came, too. For five perfect seconds, relief—and it was only relief, not pleasure—surged through him. But then it was over, and nothing had changed.

Did that make sense? Was that fair? When he thrust so much of his emptiness into another body, why did it still fill him to overflowing?

Why, God?

That emptiness always stayed, no matter what, or who, he did.

Jesus. He made himself sick.

He eased the limp Sabrina off his lap and onto the seat beside him, wishing he could shower or, better yet, spray himself with a bleach-filled pressure washer.

Like that, or anything, would ever make him clean.

Every sexual encounter these days—and there were plenty—ended this same way: with relief and disgust. Relief because his body had cooled a little, but disgust because he still hated himself and what he’d become, and knew he’d do it all again tomorrow anyway.

Disposing of the condom, he adjusted his boxer briefs, zipped up, rebuttoned his shirt and smoothed his hair. Great. Good as new. Oh, and don’t forget the seat belt. He buckled up. Now he was ready for more partying.

If the self-hatred didn’t kill him first.

For now, he needed to get the everlasting bitterness off the back of his tongue, so he reached for his snifter of cognac and drank deep. He waited for his brain to fog, but…nothing. Shit. He drank again, draining the glass.

Sabrina, meanwhile, adjusted her negligible black dress, reached for her glittery little purse and found her lipstick. A few minutes of primping followed. “Where are we going now?”

Beau heard the slight slur in her words and hated her for it. Why was she drunk and he wasn’t? Where was the fairness in that? Reaching for more brandy, he shrugged.

“I forget. We’ll let it be a surprise when we get there.”

No arguments from Sabrina, who closed her compact with a snap. “How do I look?”

He would have preferred not to see her again just now—if ever—but he did the polite thing and glanced over. By the dim interior lights he surveyed the skimpy-skanky black dress, the cleavage, the bare legs, the screw-me heels, the makeup and the hair. It was funny how she looked equally naked whether she was dressed or not. How did she manage that?

Sabrina waited for his answer and, focusing on her total package, he tried to frame one. The bottom line on this lovely lady was that she was vacant, shallow and soulless enough to be his ideal companion for tonight’s debauchery.

Knowing she’d never hear the sarcasm in his voice, he raised his snifter in a toast and flashed a smile that felt as natural as shoving glass shards through his cheeks. “You look perfect—”

The sudden painful glare of headlights directly into the car was their first warning.

Then came the earsplitting screech of tires and a violent lurch strong enough to knock the drink from Beau’s hand.

His seat belt tightened across his hips and his body jerked.

Shit.

Sabrina screamed.

With a surge of full-blown panic crushing his throat, Beau whipped his head around to see Death barreling at them in a brilliant yellow glow bright enough to power two suns.

Truck, his brain registered. Semi.

The driver tried to veer the limo out of the way again, but that truck kept coming.

The impact took forever to come, giving random thoughts the time to flash through Beau’s mind.

He was about to die.

Good.

Allegra would grow up without a father. Tragic, but ultimately better for her.

The semi rammed into the side of the limousine with the earth-shattering force of a bomb and their screams rose up in a chorus of terror and agony.

As Beau’s world spun out of control and then went black, one face filled his mind’s eye. One beautiful image ushered him through the excruciating pain and fear and into the next life, if there was a next life for the sorry likes of him, which there probably wasn’t.

He saw the bright amber eyes, heard the joyous laughter and felt the love.

Jillian. God, I loved you. You never knew how much.

She smiled at him and he rejoiced at what was now and had always been the most beautiful sight in his life. And then he died.

Chapter 2

Six months later

“Someone’s leased the Foster place.” Blanche Rousseau, vibrating with excitement over today’s gossip, hurried into the kitchen with a brown bag of groceries in each arm.

“Really?”

Jillian Warner paused in her relentless kneading of bread dough and eased the curtains aside. Peering out the window over the sink, she surveyed the Foster place, perched atop the tree-dotted hill at the end of their street.

She half expected to see a moving van speed by, buuuut…no.

Nothing about the massive and weathered white house looked any different in today’s midmorning light. The wide veranda still begged for a fresh coat of paint, and so did the columns. The bushes, as usual, were overgrown monstrosities that would soon reach out to grab unsuspecting children who wandered too close, and the windows were still vacant and eerie.

She was about to return to her dough when a distant flash of movement caught her eye. A big black dog—a standard poodle, maybe—rounded the Foster place, barking with excitement. Oh, and was that the tail end of some sort of SUV in the driveway?

Maybe, but who really cared?

Jillian let the curtain drop and attacked her dough again. They didn’t have time for gossip when there was bread to be made and meals to be cooked for ten hungry guests.

Blanche, meanwhile, set the bags on the wooden counter and surveyed Jillian’s progress with pursed bubblegum-pink lips.

Oh, Lord. What now? Jillian tried to concentrate on her task, but there was no ignoring Blanche—not the blue-beaded chain of her cat’s-eye glasses, her white-blond teased beehive circa 1962 or her plump frame squeezed into electric-blue stretch pants and a matching jacket—especially when she got in a mood.

Finally Jillian looked up, exasperated. “What?”

“You need to ease up on that dough, honey,” Blanche drawled, her lilting Louisiana tones thick with disapproval. “You trying to make shoe leather or dinner rolls?”

“This may surprise you, Blanche, but I’ve made a decent batch of rolls once or twice in my life.”

“That does surprise me,” Blanche muttered, now eyeing Jillian’s work with raised brows. Clicking her tongue, she moved along the counter.

Jillian glared after her, irritated.

Sometime soon she’d have to break the sad news to Blanche—that she was not, in fact, Queen of the Universe here at the historic Twin Oaks Bed & Breakfast outside Atlanta—but for now she’d let this latest insubordination pass.

Though she hadn’t been listed on the contract for sale Jillian signed three years ago when she moved here from Virginia, Blanche had come with the B & B, just like the dormer windows, railed porch with rockers and twelve bedrooms.

Jillian was new to running the B & B and Blanche was…well, old. Since Jillian needed Blanche’s experience and expertise, Jillian spent a lot of time swallowing her retorts.

Jillian floured the counter and reached for the rolling pin. “So who bought the house?”

“No one over at the grocery knows.” Blanche rummaged in one bag and produced several dozen eggs and a couple pounds of butter. “Must be someone with a lot of money, though, ’cause that place needs some W-O-R-K. Maybe it’s a nice man for you. Now that you’re dating and all.”

Jillian rolled her eyes. She’d wondered how long it’d take Blanche to raise this topic and was surprised it had required—what?—fifty whole seconds.

“I am not dating,” she said, now using a floured glass to cut dough rounds and place them on the baking sheet. “I had one dinner with a man—”

“And coffee with him last week. Coffee plus dinner equals dating.”

“I don’t date,” Jillian said flatly. “I meet the occasional nice man and have dinner.”

“Very occasional.” Blanche’s backside poked in all its considerable glory from the depths of the refrigerator, where she was now arranging food. “Since this is the first man I’ve seen you have dinner with in three years.”

Affronted because there was no need for such an unvarnished recitation of the sorry state of Jillian’s love life this early in the day, she put the glass down and frowned at Blanche.

“You just focus on baking that chicken for lunch, okay?”

“No sex.” Blanche emerged from the fridge and pulled a tragic face on Jillian’s behalf. “No fried chicken. All work, no fun. No wonder you’re so uptight all the time. You haven’t got much to live for, far as I can tell.”

Jillian laughed, but it was as hollow as most of her laughter these days. Something inside her had broken and, three years later, she still hadn’t found a way to fix it. Maybe it was time to face the fact that the old Jillian, the happy one, was damaged beyond repair.

The funny thing was, she didn’t really care. Here at the B & B, which she’d bought with her divorce settlement because she didn’t want to return to practicing law and she needed something to do now that she was no longer the first lady of Virginia, she’d built something more lasting than happiness: peace, personal satisfaction and self-sufficiency. Even better, she’d found a mother’s pleasure in seeing her child discover the world.

Wasn’t that good enough?

She knew how to meet a payroll and balance the books, manage several employees, feed up to thirty people in the dining room, unclog a toilet, install storm doors and bandage scraped knees. Best of all, Allegra was happy and healthy.

Those were the important things. As long as they were on track, it didn’t matter that Jillian felt dead inside—when she felt anything at all.

A clatter in the hall jarred Jillian out of her thoughts and she looked around in time to see Barbara Jean, Blanche’s granddaughter, appear in the doorway.

Twenty-one and heading back to Vanderbilt in the fall, Barbara Jean spent most of her time marching to the beat of her own drum. Witness the orange and red hair, the multiple piercings and the iPod, which was always strapped to her arm. On the other hand, Barbara Jean was a straight-A student, levelheaded and responsible. She was, therefore, Allegra’s well-paid and much-appreciated nanny.

Barbara Jean threw her arms wide in a flourish and bowed. “Make way for Princess Allegra!”

Jillian and Blanche, who went through this drill on a daily basis, snapped to attention and bowed as two-year-old Allegra sidled into the room, teetering on purple plastic prostitute-in-training slides with pink ostrich feathers across the open toes. Today’s ensemble also included a pink leotard and tutu combination, a sparkling rhinestone crown and a blue magic wand with pink streamers.

“All hail Princess Allegra,” the adults intoned.

Allegra blessed them with a serene nod. “You may rise.”

Jillian crooked her finger at the girl, who came over. “Come here, Princess Allegra. Mommy’s got something for you.”

“What?”

“This.”

Sweeping her daughter up, Jillian kissed her fat little honey-with-cream-colored cheeks and swung her in a circle. Allegra screamed with laughter, revealing one Shirley Temple dimple on the left side of her mouth and tiny white teeth. After a few seconds of this silliness, Jillian set the girl back on her wobbly legs and ruffled her sandy curls.

“Don’t forget you’ve got a swimming lesson soon. Barbara Jean will take you.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra backed away as though she expected to be dragged off in chains and tortured in a dungeon. “I don’t want to go swimming. I want a tea party.”

“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of time for a tea party after you swim.”

Allegra prepared for a rant by opening her mouth so wide you’d think it had a hinge, but a new distraction arrived before she could get started: someone knocked on the kitchen door.

They all looked around to see a man standing on the other side of the screen with a bouquet of red roses slung over one arm.

Jillian’s pulse quickened and a hot flush crept over her cheeks. She hastily washed her hands while Blanche shot her a smirk and then sauntered to the door and swung it open.

“Adam Marshall,” Blanche cried, laying the charm on so thick she’d need a putty knife in a minute. “You come right on in here and have some coffee and a muffin. How’s our favorite accountant?”

“I’m pretty good now that I know there’s a muffin in my future.” He came inside while everyone said hello and Blanche fixed his snack. His gaze went straight to Jillian and held. “How are you, Jillian?”

“I’m good.”

Adam had been the B & B’s accountant for two years and had been making eyes at Jillian for a year and eleven months. There was an intimidation factor involved, Jillian supposed, because she’d been the first lady of Virginia and was the sister of the sitting president. That, combined with Adam’s natural shyness, accounted for his delay in asking her out, not that Jillian was anxious, given her antidating stance.

But last week he’d finally gotten up the nerve to approach her, and they’d had coffee. Why not? She had to drink coffee, right? Why not drink it with him? Then they’d had dinner. Both had gone reasonably well. Now here he was again.

On paper he was everything a single mother like her should want: single, straight, with a nice job, a sense of humor and no lurking baby mamas. Plus, he was easy on the eyes. Dark skinned with a mustache and skull trim, he had warm brown eyes and the kind of dimpled boyish grin that probably weakened knees wherever he went.

It wasn’t his fault that Jillian’s knees were impervious.

So, yeah, she wasn’t dating, wasn’t smitten and wouldn’t be falling into this guy’s bed—or anyone else’s, come to think of it—anytime soon. And that was just fine with her because she had a drawer full of BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) upstairs.

But…he was a decent guy and she had to pass the time somehow. Why not do it with him on occasion?

Allegra tottered over on her plastic heels and stared up at Adam.

“I like your flowers.”

Adam looked down at the girl. “Thank you.” Allegra’s curls quivered with her bouncing excitement. “Are they for me?”

Adam, bless his heart, didn’t miss a beat. Smiling, he pulled one perfect red bud out of the huge arrangement and held it out to Allegra.

“For you, your majesty.”

Allegra beamed up at him. “Thank you. You may kiss my hand.”

They all laughed. Adam took her tiny hand with its chipped pink nail polish and kissed it with the appropriate solemnity. Allegra tittered.

And Adam went up another notch or two in Jillian’s estimation.

“Okay, princess.” Barbara Jean took Allegra’s hand and steered her toward the hall. “Time for swimming.”

“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra’s wails echoed down the hall as they disappeared from sight.

Blanche presented Adam with coffee and a pumpkin muffin the size of a small melon. “I’ll just leave you two to chat.” She patted Adam’s arm. “Enjoy your muffin.”

“Thanks, Blanche.” Adam watched her go and then gave the roses to Jillian. “For you.”

“Thank you.” It had been so long since a man had made a romantic gesture that she couldn’t repress her grin. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re a bribe. I’m hoping you’ll go out to dinner with me again.”

Jillian faltered and stalled by placing the flowers on the counter. “Adam—”

“You already told me,” he said good-naturedly. “You don’t date.”

“Oh, good. You were listening.”

“Think about another dinner, though. That’s all I’m asking.”

She hesitated.

Thinking about it probably wouldn’t kill her. Besides. His face was so pleasant and hopeful that she just couldn’t say no. She was in the prime of her life, for goodness’ sake. Life wasn’t over just yet. As long as she was honest about not wanting a relationship, dinner with him was no big deal, right?

“Okay,” she said.

“Good.” Adam grinned and then apparently decided to press his luck. “Can I kiss you? I’ve been kicking myself for not asking the other night.”

Kiss? What?

But Adam, for once in his life, seemed to be in an impulsive mood and didn’t wait. Leaning in and catching her before her alarm could really take hold, he brushed his mouth across hers.

Nothing happened at first, but then there was a spark of something in her belly, a long-forgotten feeling of something she couldn’t quite identify.

Excitement? Longing? Need?

Pulling back, Adam smiled as though he’d been granted eternal life. A similar reaction eluded her and she had to force herself to smile back. Man. This kissing thing threw her for a serious loop. She hadn’t kissed anyone romantically in three years, and hadn’t kissed a man other than her ex-husband in fifteen. How was she supposed to feel? She didn’t have a clue.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Sounding a little husky now, Adam grabbed his muffin and gulped some coffee. “I just wanted to bring the flowers and get my kiss.”

“I’ll walk you out,” she said, trying to get her mind right.

This was all too weird. She’d been asexual for so long, and now this.

It came as a huge shock that she could still affect a man, still inspire him to think about her, leave work for her and bring her flowers. She hadn’t realized that such tiny miracles were possible after all this time.

They walked outside, down the cobbled path to Adam’s car. The May day was beautiful, bright and clear but not yet humid, not that she could enjoy it with him staring at her with those unnerving, puppy-dog eyes.

Feeling fidgety and awkward, she glanced over at the Foster place. There were definite signs of activity now; a moving van occupied most of the long drive and in front of it sat a dark Range Rover. Uniformed movers swarmed in and out of the front door and up and down the driveway—

Without warning, Adam cupped her cheek and kissed her again, his mouth firmer and more confident this time. After one stiff second, Jillian responded with her lips but the rest of her body remained aloof, well out of Adam’s reach. And then she had enough.

She pulled away, flustered. “What was that?”

“That was, ‘I hope I’ll see you soon.’ I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Watching him drive off, she touched her tingling lips and then caught herself. Don’t be silly, Jill. It was time to get cracking. Those rolls still weren’t in the oven and lunchtime would be here soon—

A low bark from her left startled her.

Turning, she saw the new neighbor’s dog trot out from behind a forsythia bush at the edge of her property, his pink tongue lolling in a friendly doggy smile.

“Hello, cutie.” She held her hand out for inspection. “Hellooo.”

The dog ambled over. He was big and black with short curly hair, pointy ears, long legs and huge paws. Probably less than a year old, he wriggled with excitement and had a red collar with a numbered tag.

He snuffled her hand, apparently decided she was okay, and then nudged her. She accepted this obvious invitation to scratch his ears, and the dog all but passed out with pleasure.

Oh, man. Her heart turned over, hard.

This wasn’t a standard poodle. This guy was a Bouvier des Flandres, the type of dog she’d had as a child. His long hair had been shaved, probably because it was so hot here in Georgia during the summer, but he looked exactly like Ishmael, and the sudden sweet nostalgia from her childhood was almost unbearable.

Just like that, she remembered the joys of pet ownership, especially during that terrible year when Mama died, leaving her and her older brother, John, alone with their grieving and distant father.

It all came back to her: the nightly warmth of Ishmael’s heavy body stretched out across her feet at the end of her bed; Ishmael sprawled between her and John on the floor in front of the TV; a soap-covered Ishmael resisting his bath in the plastic pool next to their estate’s enormous inground pool.

Good times, good times.

Boy, did she miss that dog. He’d died of old age when she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.

Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.

In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.

Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.

“Come on,” she told the dog.

He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.

“Now we’re ready.”

The dog agreed with another bark.

What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.

They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.