She smiled, felt the first prickle of tears and blinked them back. Damon wouldn't want her feeling sorry for herself.

He'd expect her to have that cheesecake, fortify herself with sugar and caffeine, and march over to that police station.

Well, minus the cheesecake part, but he'd get a kick out of that.

The bell over the café door tinkled and she glanced over. She had looked every time it rang, expecting to see Karl, mysteriously tracking her down again.

By now Hope would have listened to her message and, while Robyn hoped she'd accepted her decision, she knew better. Hope would try to find Robyn to change her mind. She'd expect her to go to the nearest police precinct, so Robyn had made sure not to choose that one or the one where Detective Findlay worked.

The two new arrivals walked in and her heart thudded as she saw their police uniforms. The fear only lasted a moment. Earlier a couple of officers had come in and looked right at her. They hadn't pulled their guns. Hadn't phoned for backup. Hadn't even given her a second glance. Just ordered their coffees and left.

When these two had their coffees, the younger one noticed her, then looked again, his pale brows knitting. His partner bumped into him, jostling his arm, coffee bubbling over the lid. The young officer cursed and grabbed a napkin, and they continued on their way, exchanging jibes.

The younger officer didn't look back, her face already forgotten. It would probably resurface later, when he saw her picture somewhere and the lightbulb went off. By then, she'd already be in custody.

She went up and ordered her cheesecake. While the server was getting it, Robyn pulled out what she thought was money, and it turned out to be the printout of the photo.

The cheesecake arrived and Robyn returned to her table, photo still between her fingers. She smoothed it, then stared at it as she ate.

The young woman behind Jasmine looked familiar. She hadn't noticed it when Hope first showed her the picture. In truth, she hadn't really looked at the girl at all. Hope thought the man was the important one, and the girl was just a poor kid seduced by some bigwig. Another victim in this ugly mess.

It didn't help that the girl wasn't exactly memorable. Average height. Thin, even skinny. Plain-faced. Straight, dishwater-blond hair. Robyn hated that term – dishwater blond. Even worse than dirty blond. She preferred dark blond.

But for this girl, Robyn hated to admit, dishwater blond was most accurate. A dull, common color on a dull, common-looking girl.

And it was that description that jolted her memory so fast her fork fell, clattering against the plate, a chunk of cheesecake bouncing off. Robyn had seen this girl before.

When Robyn had started working for Portia, her first self-assigned task had been repairing her client's image problem with the media. She would start by identifying those members of the paparazzi who took the most damaging photos of Portia. Then she'd train Portia how to be on the lookout for them. Presumably, once they realized they weren't going to get a juicy photo, they'd go in search of less media-savvy targets, leaving only those paparazzi who didn't mind selling photos of Portia helping in soup kitchens or attending charity events.

A lofty goal. And it proved how little Robyn had understood her new job. While there were tabloid photos Portia would rather not see, soup kitchen photos didn't make tongues wag. As Oscar Wilde once said, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. For the celebutante on the rise, rumor and innuendo were the helium that kept her fragile balloon afloat.

Understanding none of this, Robyn had doggedly pursued her course. She'd scoured back issues of the tabloids, digging up the worst pictures and noting the photographer. One name topped the list. Adele Morrissey.

Adele seemed to be able to find Portia anywhere, in any disguise, snapping pictures of her cuddling with a male stripper while all the other paparazzi waited at the charity function Portia was scheduled to attend. Unable to find identifying information on Adele, Robyn had asked Portia to point out the woman. Portia had laughed. She could barely remember the names of her house staff. She certainly wasn't going to learn those of the paparazzi.

Undaunted, Robyn soon discovered why Adele Morrissey was able to snap photos, anywhere, anytime, undetected.

Apparently the woman was a ghost. She didn't exist in any records, and no one in the business seemed to know who she was.

Everyone presumed it was a pseudonym. Some speculated it was one of the more notorious paparazzi, using the fake name to shelter income from a bookie or third wife. Others were convinced it was a plant on Portia Kane's own staff.

Eventually, Robyn gave up her hunt for Adele Morrissey. Even if she did manage to force Adele to cease and desist, she might actually be fired for ending Portia's best source of exposure.

Still, Robyn would find herself scanning the crowds around Portia, ticking off the names of the photographers she knew, hoping to narrow it down and identify Adele, if only to satisfy her own curiosity.

Finally, Robyn thought she'd solved this particular mystery. Portia had been still dating Brock Masters, who'd wanted her to stop seeing other guys. When an old flame returned from a year in Paris, Portia wanted to see him.

Purely platonic – she really had been crazy about Brock. So she'd had Robyn arrange a secret lunch at an obscure diner near San Clemente.

Portia had insisted Robyn accompany her. She'd said she wanted to go over her schedule, but Robyn knew she just wanted company on the hour-long drive. Once there, Robyn sat across the restaurant, eating alone. Then she'd seen another, younger woman also eating alone.

It'd been a total fluke that Robyn noticed her at all. The girl had been reading a medical thriller by an author Robyn's brother liked. Robyn always made a point of grabbing the author's latest hardcover for the cash-strapped med student, so she'd noted it in her PDA and continued eating.

Later, when a photo of Portia eating with her ex appeared in True News, credited to Adele Morrissey, Robyn made no connection to the girl reading in the diner. But then, at a movie premiere, she'd seen the same young woman in the crowd.

Robyn had pointed her out to Portia, suggesting that might be Adele. Portia had laughed so hard she'd nearly choked.

"Does that look like an Adele to you?" she'd said as the girl bounced on her tiptoes, watching the limos arrive.

"Anyone named Adele has got to be, what, fifty? That's more of a Beth. No, Bethany. Mousy little Bethany."