He Took One Step, Then Another, Moving Slowly, Irrevocably Closer

Sara's eyes widened as she tipped her face up. Without her shoes she was
that much smaller, that much more vulnerable. He stood tall, a breath
away, the shirt he'd carried dropped to the bed, forgotten.

Every instinct told her to run-every instinct save two. There was first
the need for intoxication, the wish to obliterate momentarily all
thought of death and sorrow. And then there was that other need, the
more selfish feminine one that craved the feel of this man once more. In
eight years she hadn't forgotten the firmness of his flesh, its warmth,
the rangy planes of his virility. And his lips, well formed and persuasive.

i By Barbara Delinsky

Together Alone For My Daughters

Suddenly

More Than Friends

A Woman Betrayed

Finger Prints

Within Reach

The Passions of Chelsea Kane The Carpenter's Lady

Gemstone

Variation on a Theme

Passion and Illusion

An Irresistible Impulse

Fast Courting

Available from HarperPaperbacks

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ii

Barbara Delinsky

HarperPaperbacks

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iii If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"
to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
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Copyright ©1983 by Barbara Delinsky

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iv To my son Eric, with thoughts of a very special time in his life

1

one

HER HANDS TREMBLING, SARA MCCRAY slowly flattened the newspaper onto her
desk and reread the obituary before her. Alex and Diane Owens? Alex and
Diane dead! How could it be?

Her brown eyes clouded in her struggle for comprehension. But the
printed word wasn't to be denied even upon a third reading. There had
been an automobile accident on a slick road just north of San Francisco.
Neither passenger had survived the crash.

She sat stunned, shocked into silent mourning for the couple who had
been so youthful, so vibrant, so very much in love. They'd been her only
friends at a time when it had seemed the world was against her. But
she'd left San Francisco eight years ago. She had neither seen them
since nor had the opportunity to thank them for

2 their support. The break had been complete ... as Geoffrey must have
wished it.

Geoffrey. The passage of eight years' time had done nothing to stem the
involuntary quickening she still felt at the mention of his name. With
an unsteady breath she stood and moved toward the window where the night
lights of New York glittered against her own slender reflection.

She'd changed. No longer was she that naive young woman he'd found in
Colorado ten years before. The image that met her eyes confirmed it.

Then she'd worn simpler clothes, mostly jeans, sweaters and boots. Now
she wore finetailored wool slacks, a silk blouse and imported leather
pumps. Then her blond hair had flowed in free fall down her back. Now it
was loosely twisted and chicly caught up with a comb above one ear. Then
the crisp Rocky Mountain air had given her cheeks all the blush they'd
needed. Now she was delicately made up to counter the pallor of a city
dweller.

Shifting, her gaze moved beyond to focus blindly on the night. Yes,
she'd changed. But the memories remained. There were memories of
Geoffrey ... of his family ... of Alex and Diane . . .

Disbelieving still, Sara whirled back to the desk to study the blur of
two-day-old newsprint.

3 The words were as clear as ever, their meaning as incredibly grievous
despite her reluctance to accept them. She would have liked to see Alex
and Diane again, to tell them of all she'd been doing, to thank them for
their support way back then. But it was too late . . . too late. Now
there were only final respects to be paid.

Her head bowed, she entered the small chapel and slid into an aisle seat
in back just as the service was about to begin. The stylish suede hat
that dipped low over her eyes hid not only her fatigue from the red-eye
flight but the sorrow that had brought her so suddenly west. As for the
trepidation she felt, she could only fold her hands in her lap to still
their shakiness. It was the first time she'd been back to San Francisco
since she and Geoffrey had divorced.

The haunting lilt of the organ tapered off, finally yielding to the
minister's low voice. "The Lord is my shepherd . . ."

Raising her eyes for the first time, Sara looked past rows of mourners
toward the front of the chapel and the two brass-edged coffins that
stood in stark evidence of tragedy. Alex and Diane. So caring. So
giving. So understanding. What had they done to deserve such untimely
deaths?

She recalled the first time she'd met them, just

4 hours before they'd stood as witnesses to her marriage to Geoffrey.
From the start they'd treated her with warmth and acceptance, toasting
her future with Jeff, bolstering her during that private flight back to
San Francisco, giving her what encouragement they could in preparation
for her inevitable confrontation with the Parker world.

It hadn't been nearly enough. Nothing could have prepared her for that
confrontation, a scene neither to be forgotten nor, she'd vowed at the
time of the divorce, repeated.

Suppressing a shudder, she let her attention be drawn back to the
minister, whose gentle voice had completed a selection of inspirational
readings and embarked on an emotion-laden eulogy for the couple he'd
known and admired. Sara listened intently, seeking justification in his
words for what had happened to Alex and Diane. Was it God's will?

When the achingly sweet strains of "Coming Home" filled the chapel, her
eyes brimmed with unexpected tears. Lowering her head, she felt first
one, then another, trickle slowly down her cheeks. Her gloved hand drew
a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her lips.

Yes, there was her sorrow at the passing of two friends. But there was
more, far more, that the soulful mood of the music inspired. She felt

5 suddenly and overwhelmingly lonely, as she hadn't felt in years. Was
it this city, as opposed to New York which held her life, her career,
her friends and co-workers? Was it the memory of what she had once hoped
for here-love, family, the warmth of a home filled with children? Or was
it the fear that life was short, too short?

The music ended without having supplied the answers to her questions.
Yet there was strength in the minister's final words, enough for her to
gather her composure and stand with the others while the pallbearers
slowly started down the narrow aisle.

She followed their progress intently, her heart beating faster with
their approach. Her eye glanced along the first coffin and on to the
second. Her fingers clutched at the wooden pew before her. It was
inevitable. She'd known it from the moment she'd so hastily decided to
attend the funeral. Geoffrey would be here. It would be the first time
she'd seen him in eight years.

The pallbearers moved past, then the small group of relatives. Sara's
attention barely skimmed them, searching the faces beyond, always
beyond. Then she felt a jolt of recognition and caught her breath.
There-shoulders weighted beneath a burden of sorrow . . .

He moved slowly, as though each step brought him closer to a future he
didn't want to

6 face. Sara couldn't take her eyes from him-his tall, lean frame garbed
in a dark suit whose black tie spoke publicly of his mourning, his dark
head bowed. Closer he came, closer, until he neared that last pew.

She'd never know what caught his attention: whether it was the power of
her own concentration, some other mystical force or simply his arrival
at the back of the chapel. But just as he came upon the row in which she
stood, he paused, waited, angled his head the barest inch to note her
gloved hands gripping the wood. Then slowly, almost fearfully, he raised
his eyes.

In that instant her being was suspended in time over an eight-year span.
When she'd last seen Geoffrey, he'd been hard and angry. He'd allowed
for no hint of sympathy or sorrow, either one of which would easily have
stayed her departure.

Now sorrow permeated his being-sorrow and disbelief, even a
vulnerability she would never have attributed to a Parker. It was all
she could do to keep from reaching out to him. But it wasn't her place .
. . not any longer.

His lips moved in a nearly imperceptibly mouthed "Sara?" She bit her
lower lip and nodded as faintly, realizing with a start that he might
not immediately have recognized her, subsequently wondering whether he'd
be angry that

7 she'd presumed to intrude on what had to be such a personal tragedy
for him. The last thing she'd wanted was to make things worse.

But rather than anger she saw confusion, disorientation,
wavering-feelings that became her own when his eyes softened in a silent
plea and his hand moved tentatively toward hers. In the instant's
hesitation she understood that despite what had happened in the past,
today she shared a small part of his sorrow. And if Geoffrey sought her
solace, she needed his as well. Without further thought she slipped her
hand into his and let him draw her to his side to resume the walk from
the chapel.

The late fall air was crisp, the brightness of the sun seeming
ineffective, even inappropriate. Geoffrey held her hand close to his
thigh, his long fingers locked tightly around her more slender gloved
hand. He looked forward, as did she. Neither spoke. When they reached
the car that stood waiting by the curb, Sara slid in across the
backseat. He followed her quickly, not releasing her hand once.

The car inched forward and fell into line to wait while those behind
took on passengers. It struck Sara that had she not been here, Geoffrey
would have been alone. Alone. It seemed totally out of character. While
they'd been married, he'd thrived on that endless succession of social

8 engagements that had sent her into a tailspin of nervous tension.

Having followed the San Francisco newspapers faithfully, she knew that
he hadn't remarried. Somehow, though, she'd always pictured him
surrounded by people. President of Parkington Enterprises, trustee of
numerous educational and charitable institutions, respected member of
the country club, the men's club, high society itself. . .

Daring a glance up at him now, she found it hard to believe this
preoccupied man to be the same one whose life she'd followed over the
years. Oh, he was as darkly handsome, as compelling in his way. But he
was distracted, brooding. She might even have thought him oblivious to
her presence, had it not been for the hand that gripped hers as though
it were the only stable base in a world of flux.

As if reading her thoughts, he shifted his gaze to study the
intertwining of their fingers. Then, to her bemusement, he relaxed his
grip enough to remove her glove and resume the clasp flesh to flesh.
Given the somber cause for their reunion, Sara could almost understand
his desire for this living warmth. Almost... but not quite. For, among
other things, the man she'd married had been an icon of
self-containment. He'd never

9 truly needed her as, ironically, he seemed to at this moment.

Holding her hand snug atop his thigh, he gently moved his thumb back and
forth over her softer skin. Quite against her will, she found pleasure
in the gesture. But then, she reminded herself, she'd always found
pleasure in his touch. That much hadn't changed. That much would never
change.

The air in the car seemed suddenly that much closer. Sara held her
breath, not knowing what else to do. When Geoffrey slid his thumb up and
around the polished oval of one fingernail, she recalled that he'd never
seen her hands in this state of refinement. He, too, seemed to ponder
the change, frowning in confusion at this small but telling difference.
Then, slowly, he looked upward.

Meeting his gaze, Sara's heart went out to him. The man she'd known
years ago had been sure of himself and his direction. This man, mere
inches from her now, seemed lost and lonely, tormented by sorrow as
she'd never imagined him to be.

What had she imagined when she'd rushed to book the first flight out of
New York last night? She'd imagined attending the funeral, paying her
last respects to a couple she'd never forget, perhaps nodding to
Geoffrey in passing; that was all.

10 She would never have imagined finding herself alone with him, much
less offering him a kind of solace. The extent of his distraction was
something she couldn't fathom. He'd certainly let her go easily enough.

The slow movement of the car was enough to scatter the germ of
bitterness that had no place in the current scheme of things. She was a
different woman now than she'd been then. And she was here simply to
give a sadly belated thanks to two people who'd been kind to her. That
was all. Seeing Geoffrey again was irrelevant.

But irrelevancy was one thing, curiosity quite another. When the car
picked up speed and he turned to impose his anguished stare on the
passing scenery, Sara took advantage of his distraction to silently
reacquaint herself with the profile she'd once known so well. It was
Geoffrey indeed, from the deep set of his steel-gray eyes down the
aristocratic line of his nose to a pair of firm lips and a squared-off jaw.

He'd aged. Eight years had a way of doing that. In Geoffrey's case there
were ghosts of laugh lines by his eyes and his mouth; newer, more somber
grooves on his brow and beneath his eyes. He was obviously tired, and in
great psychological pain.

The pain only increased upon their arrival at

11 the cemetery, where the aura of heartbreaking finality added to the
elemental chill. Geoffrey was a tall, dark form beside her, deliberately
holding himself straight. Yet the crushing pressure of his hand around
hers belied his outer control, and quite helplessly Sara found herself
drawn into his grief. Tears welled in her eyes, rendering them limpid
brown pools that reflected the pain of a host of lost chances. Life was
short . . . and dear. The realization of its fragility shook her deeply.

With the last of the prayers intoned, the minister closed his book and
moved slowly through the group of mourners. Sara stood at Geoffrey's
side, her head bowed both in sorrow and respect. She was the intruder
here. Had Geoffrey not gripped her hand so convulsively, she would have
stepped far to the side to allow him the privacy of the quiet
condolences that were offered. One by one the other mourners approached,
some murmuring gentle words, others simply squeezing his arm. When she
finally dared raise her eyes, they were the only two left.

Then, for the first time since he'd seen her in the chapel, he let her
hand fall free. Walking slowly forward, he stopped before the matching
coffins, reaching out first to one, then the other in a futile, tender
gesture. Sara read the intense

12 grief on his face and, feeling once more the trespasser, turned to
leave. She hadn't taken a full two steps when his voice stayed her.

"Sara . . . ?"

She waited, frozen in place, unsure of what to do. By rights, having
paid her final respects to Alex and Diane, it was time to head back to
the airport. There'd been meetings canceled, appointments hastily
postponed. New York awaited her.

But something in his tone arrested her, something she'd ached to hear
eight years ago and hadn't. She simply couldn't move.

"Sara?" Edged with desolation, his voice came from directly behind her.
"Come back to the house with me."

When she looked back up at him, he slipped his hand in hers. Only then
did she realize how cold her fingers had been without his touch.

He didn't wait for her answer. With one long, last glance back at his
friends, he bent his head and started for the car. It was a different
car this time, no longer the formal funeral limousine. This one was
sleek and gray, with license plates identifying a vehicle of Parkington
Enterprises, RPE-1. While Sara had been a Parker, Cecelia Parker's car
had always borne these plates. Indeed, the chauffeur who opened the door
had been Cecelia Parker's driver as well.

13 As recognition hit Sara, she wondered if it would be mutual. The
house staff had frowned on her nearly as much as had Geoffrey's mother.
But the man's gaze didn't flicker. He nodded politely, innocently,
before looking at Geoffrey for direction.

"We'll be going home, Cyrus," he murmured softly.

"Certainly, Mr. Parker."

Home. The word echoed in Sara's mind as she slid into the car once more.
Geoffrey followed her smoothly, then took her hand into his lap and
stared at it broodingly.

Home. The magnificent mansion in which she'd suffered so. For an instant
she wondered why she'd ever agreed to this folly. Then she cast a glance
up at Geoffrey and knew. She hadn't had the heart to argue. He was so
obviously distraught at the deaths of his closest friends that if the
simple fact of her presence could comfort him, for old times' sake so be it.

In the silence that dominated the drive toward the southerly suburbs of
San Francisco, Sara grew uneasy. For with the increasing familiarity of
the roads came a corresponding flow of memory. Much as she tried to stem
it, to concentrate on the present, it seemed an impossible task.

Once more she was the starry-eyed innocent who'd arrived as Geoffrey's
new bride ten years

14 before. There were the same goose bumps when the car passed through
the gates of the Parker estate and purred beneath a lavish evergreen
canopy up the long, winding drive. There was the same surge of awe when
the stately home came into view, the same sense of anticipation when the
car came to a halt beneath the broad portico, the same wave of
apprehension when Geoffrey helped her out and led her to the same front
door that opened right on cue. For a split second she held her breath,
awaiting the same onrush of shocked Parkers.

But there was no onrush. The mood was somber and quiet. Aside from the
maid who'd opened the door, there wasn't a soul in sight. The stark
contrast of memory with reality brought Sara quickly to the present.

She didn't recognize the maid, and Geoffrey didn't pause to make
introductions. Rather he nodded perfunctorily and moved directly through
the large front hall to the adjacent library. Once inside, he closed its
double doors and crossed to the heavy oak desk, where he stood with his
back to her. Sara waited.

After what seemed an eternity of silent deliberation, he squared his
shoulders, raised his head and turned. She grew instantly cautious. But
it was unnecessary. There was nothing

15 remotely threatening in his gaze, nothing but a suffusive sadness.

"I think I could use a drink," he began softly. "Would you like one?"

Considering the lack of sleep she'd had the night before, a drink would
have done dreadful things. "No . . . thanks." She stood awkwardly while
Geoffrey lined the bottom of a snifter with pale amber liquid and downed
it in a swallow. Then he put the glass firmly down, raked a hand through
his hair and gave himself a minute to absorb the liquor's warmth.

Contrarily, Sara's own disturbance grew. Now that she was here, she had
no idea what she was to do. Geoffrey's fierce hold of her hand had given
her direction, but now that was gone. Again she waited for his lead.

It came instants later when he cast her a somber glance. "Would you
excuse me for few minutes? There's . . . something I've got to do."

"Sure." She shrugged, nodded, looked behind her at the rich leather sofa.

He followed her line of sight. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right
back."

Moments later Sara sat quietly ensconced in a protective corner of the
sofa, wondering what in the world she was doing here, in this library,
in this house. When she'd left eight years before she'd wished never to
return.

16 Then she'd had no idea what she wanted- only that she didn't want any
part of either the Parkers or the money they'd offered so bloodlessly.
She'd set out simply to earn a living and in the process had truly found
herself. She had nothing to fear from the Parkers now, or so the
rationalization went as she smoothed the soft wool of her skirt, idly
tucked a loose wisp of hair back into its twist, fished in her purse for
the pale coral lipstick that would moisten her suddenly dry lips.

She had nothing to fear-but the memories- and no possible way to ward
them off now that she sat smack dab at the scene of that long-ago
fiasco. In a final bid for diversion she sent an appraising glance
around the library. It was a large room, dominated first by that massive
oak desk, second by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that seemed only
grudgingly to allow for the intrusion of the double doors and three tall
windows.

As opposed to so many of the other rooms that were redecorated on a
regular basis, this one kept its rare atmosphere, a vintage wine aged
and mellow. Sara would have liked to spend more time in it during the
years of her marriage, had it not been for the fact that it had then
been the stronghold of Geoffrey's mother. She'd held court here, served
as chairman of the

17 board here. For that matter, it was here that she'd first voiced her
disdain for Sara.

Like sharks moving in at the first smell of blood, the memories
returned. Sara had been eighteen at the time, freshly graduated from
high school, working as a waitress at an exclusive resort in Snowmass.
She'd always wanted to learn to ski, she'd reasoned, but money had been
too tight; and the wheat fields of Iowa were a far cry from the Colorado
Rockies. When the waitressing job-her ticket to the world beyond-had
come through, she'd been ecstatic, and she'd been even more so when
she'd had her first breathtaking view of the mountains.

She'd begun work with unlimited enthusiasm, determined to live lightly,
enjoy herself, save whatever money she could for college one day. It
hadn't quite worked out that way. She'd barely been on the job for a
month when Geoffrey had arrived for a ski holiday.

He'd instantly caught her eye, despite every warning she'd given herself
against mixing with the resort's wealthy guests. As many times as she
reminded herself that an unsophisticated young working girl was totally
out of league with a man of his social standing, she was helplessly
drawn to his dark good looks, his athletic physique, the air of
worldliness he possessed so casually.

18 At the time she'd been unaware of his own equivocation. Only later
had he confessed to many of the same thoughts, all of which he'd finally
ignored when, two days later, he'd asked her out.

Having read her hesitancy well, he'd been slow and gentle, first simply
taking her for a drink after work, spending time talking with her rather
than barreling her into bed as she'd half feared. Somehow they'd managed
to find common ground on which their respective backgrounds were
irrelevant. And Sara had quickly fallen in love.

As the week had passed they'd spent more and more time together.
Whenever Sara was free from work, Geoffrey was there to suggest some new
adventure. They talked, played, grew increasingly attracted to one
another. It was all so warm and innocent... until that last night when,
prompted by his scheduled departure the next morning, their mutual
restraint crumbled.

With a tingle of remembered rapture, Sara wrapped her arms around her
middle. It had been beautiful, positively beautiful. He'd been a gentle
lover, a masterful one. The loss of her virginity had been a small price
compared to that huge chunk of her heart he'd seized.

When, with the break of morning, he'd proposed marriage, she'd accepted
without

19 hesitation. She loved him; he loved her. The differences between them
were nothing, nothing, in the face of their love.

Unfortunately, Cecelia Parker was nowhere near as blissful when, after a
stop in Reno, they arrived as man and wife in San Francisco that
evening. As the scene unfolded in living color on the video screen of
her memory, Sara shuddered.

Cecelia Parker had been livid. "You're what?"

"Married, Mother. Sara and I were married this afternoon." Geoffrey had
stood tall, holding Sara close to make his point. But his mother had
refused at first even to recognize her presence.

"Who is she?" she'd asked in a tone clear and insulting enough to have
stung Sara to the quick. Geoffrey had tried to prepare her for the
inevitable resistance, as had Alex and Diane. But outright rudeness was
something that Sara, lowly social status notwithstanding, knew enough to
avoid. Not so Mrs. Parker.

"Who is she?" she'd repeated when Geoffrey had looked at Sara to try
silently to ease her hurt.

"Her name is-"

"You've already told me her name. Who is she?"

"She's my wife," he'd replied with deadly calm, refusing to be intimidated.

20 But he'd learned his technique from his mother. She was the expert.
Even now, ten years later, Sara could remember the studied poise of
her-the sleekly bound knot of her thick silver hair, the impeccable fall
of her designer suit, the polished tips of her foreign-made heels. And
her face ... her face had worn a mask of utter composure betrayed only
by the fire in her eyes and the venom on her tongue.

"That much I've heard," she'd replied grimly. "But where does she come
from? Where did you meet her? Who are her parents?"

Reliving that humiliating ordeal, Sara rose from the sofa, paced to a
window, finally decided that a drop of brandy might do the trick after all.

Where had she come from? She'd come from Iowa, the fifth of six
children. Where had he met her? She'd been waitressing at the ski resort
at which he'd been a high-paying guest. Who were her parents? Her
parents had been struggling farm workers, with nothing to give their
children but love.

Geoffrey had been less blunt, of course, though he'd known every fact
from the start. He'd tried to smooth over the rough edges, placing
emphasis on the positive things that he and Sara had discovered in each
other. Even to her own ears, though, the discrepancies in their
backgrounds were appalling. And Cecelia Parker

21 made a point of systematically emphasizing each and every one. Love,
in her book, was irrelevant.

Despite Geoffrey's support, despite his repeated vows of love, things
had gone downhill from there. As many times as he stood up to his mother
in Sara's favor, Mrs. Parker had shrewdly analyzed her opponent and
arrived at a well-calculated plan. There were no heated accusations
regarding the haste of the marriage, no indignant charges that Sara had
played on her innocence to force Geoffrey into marriage. There were
neither irate demands for an annulment nor angry threats against
Geoffrey's position in the corporation. Cecelia Parker was far too
artful for that. Rather she set out to prove conclusively to her son
that Sara was an unfit wife.

It had been a steadily darkening nightmare for Sara, with her
mother-in-law as the sinister force behind one social failure after
another. Nothing in Sara's background had prepared her for sudden
propulsion into high society. She had no knowledge of how to dress, how
to drink, how to carry on idle cocktail chatter, much less how to
hostess biweekly dinner parties for twelve or more.

With the passing of the months, she'd begun to dread the days and weeks
spent with

22 Geoffrey's friends. She'd felt gauche and out of place, finally
resorting to making excuses whenever possible. Try as he might, Geoffrey
had been unable to understand.

It had been her own fault, she'd later decided. She'd been far too young
to understand that her insecurity had been an even greater enemy than
her mother-in-law. When she should have talked with Geoffrey, she'd kept
things inside. The honesty that had played such an important part in
their whirlwind courtship fell prey to a defensiveness that slowly, week
after week, month after month, broadened the rift between them. In the
end, after two increasingly unhappy years, Sara had simply given up. And
Geoffrey had let her go.

"I'm sorry."

A deep voice broke into her sad reverie, bringing her head up with a
start. It took her several seconds to understand the meaning of his
apology. He stood at the door, having just returned from whatever had
kept him so long. And he was certainly not apologizing for having let
her go eight years ago!

"No, no," she said softly. "Don't apologize. I was just... gathering my
thoughts." It was, in its way, the truth.

"I see you've helped yourself to a drink."

She suspected he'd seen much more in those

23 few unguarded seconds before she'd realized he'd returned, but she
refused to look away in guilt. "I've been going straight since yesterday
morning. If I pass out on the sofa, you'll understand."

He looked better-still tired, but somehow more relaxed. And he actually
smiled. For the first time she caught a glimpse of the man whose face
had lit up so often for her when they'd first met. From the start that
small dimple in his right cheek had done disturbing things to her. Even
now her pulse quickened. No, she mused, some things would never change.

"It wouldn't be the first time," he teased her gently, seeming to take
reassurance from the blush that stole to her cheeks. "But Mrs. Fleming
should have lunch ready. That would help."

"Oh, Geoffrey. I don't know." She sat straighter and pushed back the
cuff of her blouse to eye her watch. "I really should be going. I was
hoping to take an afternoon flight back to New York." She hadn't planned
on any diversion, least of all this one. She'd simply wanted to attend
the funeral.

"You mean to say that you flew all this distance only to spend a few
hours here?" His deep voice registered outright surprise, but it was the
faintest note of skepticism in his voice to which she responded.

24 "It was a last-minute decision. I wanted to ... do something for Alex
and Diane. They were kind to me."

The enigmatic cast of Geoffrey's gaze was lost to her when he looked
down. He hadn't moved from the door but stood before it with both hands
tucked deep in his pockets. She'd seen that stance only once before, on
the day she'd been waiting with her bags packed when he'd returned home
from work. At the time she'd interpreted it as a pose of indignation.
Now it conveyed a helplessness she attributed to her mention of the
day's sad occasion.

His voice was lower, his gaze more direct when he looked back up at her.
"Do you always beat yourself into the ground these days? I can remember
you loving leisure."

"That," she replied as softly, "was in Colorado, before I discovered how
tedious a steady diet of it can be." It was a not-so-subtle slam at the
ways of the idle rich, but she went quickly on. "My life is very busy now."

"You look pale. You used to be so tan all the time-"

"I was different in many ways back then. It's been a long time, Jeff."

At the truth of her words, he frowned. She watched a fleeting shadow
cross his features and wondered whether he'd ever regretted their

25 divorce. Over the years he'd never tried to contact her or see her.
Wasn't he the slightest bit curious as to what she'd become?

A deep sigh broadened his chest. "Eight years," he breathed, then
paused. "You've been busy."

So he did know something. "Yes. As I'm sure you have."

When he nodded a swathe of dark hair fell lower on his brow to cover the
worry lines she'd seen there. He looked suddenly younger, so very much
like the man she'd married that she swallowed hard against the rise of
emotion. Strange, that the memory of her love for him could survive that
of the hurt she'd suffered.

"Please, Sara," he began as if her thoughts were shared, "stay and have
lunch with me. If you want to leave later, I'll drive you to the airport."

"I have to leave later," she spoke for herself as for his information.
"I've got appointments scheduled in my office from eight tomorrow
morning on."

Mention of her work brought a tightening to his jaw. So like his mother,
she mused. Calm, collected... betrayed only by the look of an eye, the
faint working of a muscle.

"Then why don't we go into the other room."

26 Opening the door behind him, he offered her a hand in invitation.

It was that hand, whose warmth had soothed her earlier, that decided the
matter. Her own went to it quite willingly, and she let it draw her from
the sofa. After all, she needed to eat at some point. And then there was
the matter of her own curiosity.

Many changes had taken place in her life over the course of the years;
his had changed as well. The marked silence in this home, which years
before had been a steady hub of activity, attested to that. Sara had
been prepared for Cecelia's absence. But what had become of the rest of
the Parker clan-Geoffrey's younger brother and sister, the aunt and
uncle who'd lived in the west wing? And where were the friends who'd
seemed always to be here, the staff that had milled constantly. Above
all, though, she wondered about Geoffrey. What had he become in the
years since she'd known him?

At this moment she felt no bitterness. She'd weathered the storm of
memory in finer shape than she'd ever expected. Perhaps the brandy had
helped, she mused. More likely it had been her own self-confidence that
had seen her through.

She was a different woman from the one who'd left Geoffrey in defeat
eight years before. There

27 were no jellied knees, no sweaty palms such as had always before
besieged her in this room. She was composed and in full control,
ironically more of a Parker now than she'd ever been then.

In some ways she was grateful. Had her marriage not fallen so dismally
apart, she might always have followed in Geoffrey's wake-even worse, in
that of his mother. Now, though, she was a success in her own right. And
it was from this position of strength that she yielded to curiosity.

"Shall we?" she suggested softly, ignoring Geoffrey's sudden
bewilderment to smile gently up at him. In the end it was she who took
the first step.

28

two

I N THE TIME IT TOOK THEM TO MOVE FROM the library through the foyer and
down the hall past the larger dining hall to the less formal breakfast
room, Geoffrey resumed control. He'd been thrown just now, much as he'd
been thrown the instant he'd seen Sara in the chapel this morning. In
the oppression of the past few days, he'd never stopped to consider that
she might come to the funeral.

He was still surprised. To his knowledge she'd never been anywhere near
San Francisco since the divorce. It had to have been a difficult
decision for her to make, knowing that so many of her memories would be
unpleasant ones. Yet she'd come.

Now, holding her chair, he watched her slip into it with a grace she'd
never had before. She'd been awkward with formalities then, seeming to
resent a way of life that imposed inhibitions in

29 exchange for privilege. Tamed? Was that the word to describe her? Or
was it simply . . . matured?

Taking his own seat to her right, he sat back and studied her. Matured;
perhaps that was it. He'd had a glimpse in the library of her emotional
flux, from the look of near-pain when first he'd reentered the room to
her gradual calming and eventual poise. There was an inner strength to
her now. If only she'd had it then.

Sara was oblivious to his study, engrossed as she was in a
reacquaintance with her surroundings. "I always preferred this room,"
she mused aloud, "even though we only had breakfast here. It was
quieter, more intimate." The room was an oversize octagon connected to
the kitchen by a set of french doors. Its walls were of pure glass paned
in small segments to disperse the sunlight gaily. In the mornings it had
been reassuringly cheerful. Even now, an hour after noon, it had an
airiness that was refreshing.

Geoffrey took intent note of her appreciation. "I eat here all the time
now. It's . . . simpler." With the appearance of the same woman who had
opened the door when they arrived, he averted his gaze momentarily.
"Mrs. Fleming, this is my ex-wife, Sara McCray." The pronouncement
brought a wisp of surprise, even pleasure to the woman's eyes, but
Geoffrey had

30 already turned back to Sara. "Mrs. Fleming has been with me for two
years now. I don't know what I'd have done without her." It was no pat
praise; he was fully in earnest.

Sara nodded and exchanged a smile with the spare middle-aged woman whose
uniform was a simple skirt and blouse, as opposed to the starched gray
Cecelia Parker's staff had worn. She offered a soft thank you when the
woman placed a generous slice of melon before her, then waited politely
until she was alone with Geoffrey once more.

"She seems pleasant, more human than-than the others."

Geoffrey smiled ruefully. "You never did take to my mother's staff, did
you?"

"It was more the other way around," Sara countered, undaunted.

"Perhaps." He gave her the point before sobering. "Either way, they're
gone."

Gone. The word ricocheted from one wall to another before Sara could
react to its finality. She focused on the gentle curve of the sterling
spoon by her plate.

"Jeff," she began softly, "I'm sorry . . . about your mother."

"How could you be? She was wretched to you."

31 Her gaze swung up. "I'm sorry that you lost her. I know how close you
all were."

He shrugged. "There's close . .' . and then there's close. My mother was
an officious woman who kept an eagle eye on us all. Her death was in
many ways a blessing." After a pause he smirked. "I think you can
understand. You didn't rush out here for her funeral."

"I considered it."

"But. . . ?"

Quietly and honestly she explained her decision. "I felt that, had she
known, she would have been offended. She despised me from the start."

Growing more pensive, Geoffrey poked at his melon. "It wasn't really you
she despised. How could she? She never got to know you. It was the fact
that you were from a different world ... and the fact that we had dared
to defy her by marrying without her consent."

"You were twenty-eight at the time!"

"I know that and you know that," he answered levelly, "but my mother
couldn't have cared less. She wanted this house run her way or not at
all. That's why I said what I did about her death. It's freed all of us."

Which reminded Sara. "Where is everyone, Jeff? You don't really live in
this house alone?"

"Yes."

"What about Gordie? And Emily?"

32 "Gordie just turned thirty. He manages our research division in Palo
Alto and has his own place not far from there. As for Emily," he sighed
and gazed toward the distant hemlocks in contemplation of his kid
sister, "she's off somewhere with her guru. I think it's Paris this month."

"Her guru?" Sara smiled her appreciation. Three years her junior, Emily
might have even been her friend had she not been so busy rebelling
against everything Sara had been trying so desperately to emulate.
"Emily always was a free spirit. I remember the fights she had with your
mother."

Geoffrey remembered them also, and far too well. "Like fire and water,
those two. Emily refused to be fit into the mold."

"And you, Jeff? It didn't bother you?"

He looked at her sharply. "You never asked questions like that when we
were married."

"I never thought to," she replied quietly. "When I lived in this house I
felt as though I couldn't question anything. Your mother was . . .
slightly overpowering."

Geoffrey considered her words, knowing that there were any number of
other, more bitter ones Sara might have used. Staring at her, he
marveled at her equanimity. Then he

33 succumbed to a burst of spontaneity. "Would she overpower you now, if
she were still alive?"

There was an intensity, both to his gaze and his question, that took
Sara aback for a minute. When she spoke, though, it was with confidence.
"No. I don't think so." There was a nearly imperceptible uptilt of her
chin even as her voice lowered. "She wouldn't have anything to offer me
now that I don't already have." It was a statement of fact, totally
devoid of arrogance. Geoffrey sensed as much.

"You've done well, Sara. I wish I could claim even the smallest bit of
credit for what you've done since we split, but I can't. You never
touched the money, did you?"

She, put her spoon down and shook her head. "No. It's still in the bank.
You knew I didn't want-"

He held up a hand. "I knew. But there were selfish motives involved. I
wanted to be assured that you'd never have to go without." His smile was
crooked. "It looks like you've taken care of yourself. At one point you
couldn't have afforded the plane fare here from Denver. Now you can pick
up and fly cross-country for the sake of a few hours' time." The smile
faded and he grew suddenly more grim. "How did you find out about Alex
and Diane?"

"I... saw it in the newspaper."

34 "The New York Times?" To his knowledge there'd been no notice placed
there.

She shook her head. "The Chronicle."

"Our paper?" When she nodded, he studied her again. "Why would you be
reading it?"

Sara felt suddenly uncomfortable. She'd been receiving the San Francisco
paper for years, telling herself that she wanted to keep up with what
was happening in the city that had once, albeit briefly, been her home.

"I... I periodically consider doing business on the West Coast," she
improvised. It was, in fact, an idea that had been promoted by her
financial advisers. She had personally vetoed it.

"I see." He glanced up then as Mrs. Fleming appeared at the door and
continued only when she'd left behind two large plates of fresh seafood
salad. Ignoring the food, he sat back. "Tell me about your business,
Sara." His intensity went beyond mere curiosity.

She shrugged off a feeling of unease. "It's not all that earth-shaking.
I make jewelry."

"That much I know," he chided more gently. "But tell me how you got
started. It's not every day that a one-time waitress becomes a
successful designer of jewelry."

"No, I suppose not," she murmured, then went on more pointedly. "But,
then, it's not every day that a one-time waitress has an intense two-year

35 encounter with high society. It's amazing what one can pick up, even
from the dog house." Her voice had risen; she quickly lowered it and
shifted gears. "You knew that I liked to draw."

His eyes were gray and level. "I knew that you used to escape to the
solarium when you were upset. It was only after you'd gone that I found
a pile of your sketches out there."

"Sketching was an outlet. It relaxed me."

"But the transition from paper sketch to actual jewelry-how did it come
about?"

Aside from an occasional sip of water, Sara paid no more heed to the
lunch Mrs. Fleming had prepared than did Geoffrey. She eyed him
sheepishly. "When one runs out of money in a strange town, one begins to
read little signs here and there. In my case the town was Tucson and the
sign in the window of the jewelry store said

DESIGNS. ONE DOLLAR EACH."

His mien was of deadly quiet. "What were you doing in Tucson?"

They were hitting on touchy ground now, inching closer to that day on
which they'd parted. As she projected her thoughts back to that painful
time, she felt her veneer of composure begin to slip. It was all she
could do to keep her poise.

"I guess you could say I was wandering. I'd left here; I couldn't go
back to Iowa."

36 "Couldn't?"

Feeling chastised against her will, she averted her gaze. But it only
caught on the hand resting on the arm of his chair. The softest of dark
hairs edged beyond his cuff, the strongest of fingers lay in studied
relaxation. She remembered how she'd loved to trace those fingers, how
she'd coaxed them into doing such sweet erotic things. Not that it had
taken much coaxing in those days. Their bodies had been totally
compatible, flagrantly combustible right up to the very end.

Defensively she turned her attention to the white linen napkin on her
lap. Then, disgusted that she should be so weak, she eyed him more
boldly. "Your family weren't the only ones against our marriage, Jeff.
Much as my parents may have wanted to support me, they thought I'd made
a terrible mistake. Why do you think they never visited?" she asked,
eyes flashing. "It wasn't just the money. Lord knows how many times I
offered to send them the air fare. It was them. They wouldn't have fit
into your world, and they knew it."

His expression grave, Geoffrey sat silently for several moments. "You
never told me that."

"There were many things I never told you," she whispered, "but that was
half the trouble." With a sad gaze, then a sigh, she returned to the

37 point of departure from her story. "Anyway, I had my pride, too. I
couldn't very well run back to Des Moines with my tail between my legs.
It seemed easier to write them about our separation and tell them that
I'd be traveling around for a while."

"Weren't they worried?"

Weren't you? she wondered, then stifled the hurt. "I told them not to
be, that you'd seen to my financial security. It wasn't a total lie."

He shot her a punishing glance but passed on a verbal argument. "So it
all started in Tucson?"

Sara lifted her fork to idly prod a crisp piece of shrimp. "You really
don't want to hear this-"

"I do."

His low, somber tone brooked no argument. Neither did the intensity of
the dark gray eyes that pierced her purposefully. She felt the same
unease she'd shrugged off earlier, the sense of there being an object to
his questioning that went beyond simple sentimentality. In the end she
decided she was imagining things, that the tension in him was a product
of the strain he'd been under since the Owenses' accident.

"You sold your designs in Tucson?" She nodded. "What kind of designs
were they?"

"Oh, mostly earrings at first, then a few bracelets." Pausing, she
speared a single green grape and slid it into her mouth. With the
fruit's sweetness

38 fresh on her lips, she looked at Geoffrey. "You really should eat.
This is very good."

Her words sailed past him unheard. "How could you ever support yourself
selling designs here and there for a dollar a shot?"

"It was ... a challenge." Her lips twitched at the corners in wry
recollection. "Let's say that I lived very modestly for a while." There
seemed no point in elaborating on the hovel of a room she'd taken, or on
the fact of her mercifully light appetite. "I made enough on the designs
to buy some supplies-beads and wires and all-to start making my own
earrings. When I sold those I had enough to buy finer materials, better
tools." She looked at him askance. "Come on, Geoffrey. You know how a
business gets going. Use your imagination."

The faintest spark flared in his eye. "I'm trying, princess, but it's
mind-boggling to think of translating several one-dollar earring designs
into a multimillion-dollar gemstone trade in eight short years."

She would have questioned him on the source of his information had it
not been for that one word he'd used with such nonchalance: Princess.
That was what he'd always called her in their closest moments, an
endearment that had been born under a Colorado moon when he'd told her

39 of his world. Princess ... only in his arms had it been true.

Wiping the stricken look from her face, she cleared her throat. "They,
uh, they didn't seem so short living through them. Even now the days are
sometimes endless."

He arched a dark brow. "Not endless as in boredom?"

"No. I love my work." Her voice was low and sincere, her eyes soft with
pride. "I'd have to love it to put in the seventy-hour weeks I do."

She hadn't really anticipated a response, though she was well accustomed
to both surprise and admiration. Geoffrey exhibited neither. To her
astonishment, his expression hardened.

"A seventy-hour week doesn't leave much free time. What about you, Sara?
When do you do the things you want?"

She didn't blink. "I want to make my business a success. Working is what
I want to do."

"You never wanted to remarry?"

It hadn't been from lack of offers. But she'd never loved another man.
And if, even with love, she'd failed once . . . "No."

"And you didn't want children."

The first had been a question; this was a statement. Sara stared. "What
gave you that idea?" she blurted out, unthinking.

40 His gaze didn't falter. "You insisted on taking birth-control pills
during the entire two years of our marriage, even though you knew how
much I wanted children."

Her heart thudded loudly. "You never said it as bluntly as that. For
that matter, how could you have thought to have a child with our
marriage as shaky as it was?" Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I was
little more than a child myself." In so many, many ways.

Awash with guilt, she couldn't tell him that she'd never taken those
pills, that she'd thrown them down the drain each night, that she'd
never had the courage to tell him that she doubted she could have a
child. She'd been young, unsure, unable to believe that he'd love her
all the same.

Each lost in his or her own thoughts, they ate in silence for a while.
Sara had long since begun simply to shift the food on her plate when
Geoffrey stood with a start, tossed his napkin to the table and stalked
toward the doorway. He stopped without turning.

"What are your plans now?" His voice came in a rumble from deep within
his chest.

She stared at the broad expanse of his shoulders, then put down her
fork, sat back and let her gaze fall to her lap. "I've got to get back
to New York," she answered quietly.

41 "And what if you don't?" He turned slowly to eye her cautiously.
"What if you were to decide to spend several days here? What if you were
sick, or an emergency came up that would keep you from Sara McCray
Originals for a while?"

She detected a note of scorn in his voice but refused to be cowed by it.
"The business is far from a one-woman operation. It would survive. I've
been lucky enough to find good people. They'd easily take care of things."

His gaze narrowed. "But you're the heart of it all?"

"I suppose." She peered at her watch and stood smoothly, sensing that
the time had come. "I really should be going. Please thank Mrs. Fleming
for lunch. It was lovely. If you could call a cab-"

The thought died on her lips when Geoffrey materialized directly in
front of her. On reflex, she tipped up her face. His superior height,
his striking build, his darkly intense good looks brought a swell of
anticipation to nerve ends that had long lain dormant.

His gaze fell to her lips, tracing their fragility before returning
unguardedly to her eyes. "What if I asked you to stay," he began,
overlooking her fearful expression, "just until tomorrow? What if I
asked you to keep me company-"

42 But she'd already begun to shake her head. "I can't-"

"Just company. Nothing else."

"Jeff, I-"

Though he spoke with dignity, his expression bore a naked plea. "I don't
want to be alone, Sara. Not today."

In the process of lunching with him she'd managed to push the more
immediate tragedy from her mind. Now it surged back, blanching her
cheeks and wrenching at her heart. In the chapel that morning he'd
reached for her. Now she felt that same tug, this time from a spot more
deep and private.

"I can't. . ." she whispered, her voice tremulous.

He heard every word she hadn't said, and his tone softened to a caress.
"Only what you want-"

"But I can't give you what you want," she murmured more urgently. She
could feel her resolve weakening, but it was critical he understand.

His palms gently molded to her shoulders. "Time, Sara. One day of your
time. That's all I ask."

Had she not been involved in a desperate attempt to slow her racing
pulse, she might have reflected more deeply on this turning of the
tables. What had been true at the funeral that

43 morning was true again now: Geoffrey needed her. It was a thought far
headier than anything she'd ever known. Far headier-and more
frightening. "I don't know . . ."

"Please, Sara?"

Filled with anguish, his eyes spoke volumes. He was a human being in
pain and in need. Much further, he'd been her husband, the man she'd
adored for years. How could she possibly turn her back on him?

In an instinctive gesture of comfort, she raised her hand to his chest,
then, catching herself, dropped it. Her gaze fell likewise. With the
decision made, she took a deep breath. "I'll have to make several calls
. .."

The release of his tension was a tangible thing, starting in the fingers
that held her shoulders and working its way through his long, sinewed
length. When she dared to look back up at his face, it was a quiet
beacon of gratitude. Then, as though recoiling the strands of emotion
that had momentarily and unexpectedly unraveled, he drew back.

"Why don't you use the phone in the library. You can be comfortable there."

She nodded and walked around him, trying her best not to reveal the
extent of her unsureness. But that unsureness wasn't as great as when
she found herself, moments later, seated

44 at the handsome oak desk, lifting the phone on a matter of business
much as Cecelia Parker had done so many times.

Receiver in hand, she darted a glance at the watchful presence that had
silently commandeered the doorjamb. Had it not been for his appearance,
she might have yielded to the sudden urge to gnaw on that beautifully
manicured nail he'd caressed. Instead she clamped her jaw tight and
punched out the number of her New York office.

Geoffrey followed every move, knowing he should leave her in privacy,
utterly unable to drag himself from the door. He was intrigued by her
sense of self-command as she spoke softly into the phone. Self-command .
. . and sitting in his mother's chair, no less.

She fit it well, brought to it a regalness that no one in his family,
fine breeding notwithstanding, had possessed. He'd promised to make her
a princess; she'd made herself a queen. With that gentle look on her
face now as she talked with her second-in-command, he could easily
believe that her court adored her.

Who else adored her? Surely there had been men in her life over the
years. A beautiful woman, talented, wealthy ... she'd make quite a catch
for some man-if, that was, the man didn't

45 mind playing second fiddle to Sara McCray Originals, Inc.

Oh, he knew about her business. A faithful reading of The Wall Street
Journal had kept him informed of its growth and phenomenal success. He
knew that she designed private collections for some of the most
exclusive jewelers on Fifth Avenue, that she worked hand in hand with
several of New .York's most renowned couturiers creating jewelry for
their semiannual shows, that her one-of-a-kind pieces had been specially
ordered and snatched up by one-of-a-kind women from the brightest of
political, theatrical and social spotlights.

What he didn't know were the details, and these were what baffled him.
How had she done it-sweet, naive Sara, who had never been to the theater
before he'd finally taken her in San Francisco? Now she was in New York,
most likely attending theater openings as a matter of habit ... if, that
was, she spared the time. A pang of sadness shot through him as he
wondered whether she'd become the same kind of feminine automaton his
mother had been. But no . . . she'd agreed to stay, hadn't she? Cecelia
Parker would never have yielded to a personal plea, particularly where
the business was concerned.

His jaw taut, eyes grim, he watched Sara nod,

46 smile, offer a final pleasantry to the recipient of her call and hang
up. Then he waited guardedly.

Taking a minute to gather her thoughts, she finally looked up to meet
his gaze. "I'm all set," she murmured. "David will postpone my
appointments and fill in for me wherever he can. Fortunately we're not
in the midst of a lastminute rush."

"Does that happen often?"

"Not very. I avoid it whenever possible. There's nothing worse than
trying to produce a work of art under pressure." She ventured an
apologetic smile. "There are times when it can't be helped, when a
temperamental client decides that something has to be changed or
redesigned on a moment's notice. Luckily there's no such emergency now."

An awkward silence ensued, during which both of them assimilated the
fact that it was settled, that she'd be staying the night in San
Francisco. Then, straightening from the doorjamb, Geoffrey approached
the desk.

"If you can tell me where you left your bag, I'll have Cyrus pick it up."

"It's over there." Straight-faced, she pointed toward the purse she'd
left lying by the leg of the sofa.

"That's all? Your pocketbook?"

"I'd planned on flying back directly," she ex-

47 plained, amused by his dismay. "I've got a few cosmetics in there,
and a comb. Otherwise, what you see is what you get."

He idly rubbed his jaw, where the barest hint of a five o'clock shadow
only enhanced his masculine flair. "I thought women executives were
always prepared for the unexpected."

"I am. I've got a checkbook and credit cards. Anything I need I can pick
up. As I recall," she teased, "San Francisco does have stores."

He eyed her for another minute, then shook his head and offered the
twist of a smile. "I deserved that. As a matter of fact, you look fine
right now."

Despite his compliment, she'd begun to feel a little worn. She'd been in
the same suit since she left her apartment in the early hours of the
morning. And she suddenly felt tired, as though having decided to stay,
she simply couldn't move.

Geoffrey shared that shadowing fatigue. "Listen," he began soberly, "why
don't you go up and take a rest. Help yourself to any of the guest
bedrooms. Later we can take a drive along the coast." His eyes clouded.
"It might help ... to unwind . . ."

Sara had no argument. Rising from the desk, she picked up her bag and
excused herself. His eyes were on her all the way; she felt them making

48 a clear imprint on her back as she walked through the foyer and
slowly made her way up the winding staircase to the second floor.

The passage of eight years hadn't dimmed her knowledge of this house.
Turning left, she headed down the hall into the guest wing, then let
herself into the last room on the right.

It was her favorite, had always been. Its corner location afforded it
windows on two fronts, lending it a brighter, more airy mood. Here she'd
felt further removed from the rest of the house, from the repressive
tentacles of the Parker life.

To her delight its decor hadn't changed significantly since she'd last
stepped over its threshold. Sheer Austrian shades still covered the
windows, a bright lemon-hued rug still covered the floor. The same
floral pattern of yellows, blues and whites still blanketed the
queen-size bed, still sheathed the four walls. The same white-lacquered
furniture lent it a provincial air.

It was just the same, still impeccably maintained. She sighed and sank
deeply into a cushioned armchair by the window. Head back, she closed
her eyes. It seemed so long since she'd done so. She thought of the
miles she'd covered this day and knew that the physical distance was but
a small part of the journey.

She'd seen Geoffrey again. For years she'd

49 wondered about that eventuality. Their paths had had to cross
sometime; if only the circumstances hadn't been this tragedy.

With stark remembrance came an enveloping wave of fatigue. It was only
with great effort that she rose from the chair, undressed and sought the
relief of the shower. Minutes later, wearing nothing but her bra and
panties, she drew back the bedspread and slipped beneath the sheets to
fall asleep almost instantly.

Exhaustion took its toll, immersing her so deeply in sleep that she
heard neither the soft knock at the door nor the faint click of the
latch as it opened. For several moments Geoffrey remained on the
threshold. Then, slowly, he stepped inside.

He'd only come to make sure she had everything she needed, but she'd
obviously found her way quite well. His footsteps silenced by the plush
carpet, he approached the bed, entranced.

She was lovely, lying there on her stomach beneath the sheets, her
shoulders bare, their creamy span broken only by the thin-ribboned
straps of her bra. Her face was turned away, her hair freed from its
twist enough to screen the pillow with its spray of blond silk. He put
out a hand to touch it, then drew back with saner thoughts.

Asleep now, without the formality of her business

50 suit or the power of her self-command to remind him of everything
she'd become, she was every bit as fresh and innocent as she'd been when
he'd fallen in love with her ten years before.

What had happened to their love, to the vows that, despite adversity, it
would survive? Yes, she was young ... but she'd given up too easily.
She'd let him down.

With a grimace he thrust a hand through his hair, then left it to
massage the taut muscles of his neck. It had been his fault as well.
Only recently had he been able to admit that. He'd been young, too, and
totally inexperienced when it came to love and its demands. To reason
that he'd never seen love, that he'd grown up with every luxury save
that one, was a pale excuse for the way he'd let her go.

Then, too, having taken for granted his own ability to sidestep his
mother's dictates, he'd failed to allow for the full effect the
domineering matriarch would have on the uninitiated. Only after Sara had
gone had he attacked his mother head on. By then it had been too late to
save his marriage.

Self-disgust filled him, to be allayed only by his tender study of the
woman on the bed. She was beautiful... more beautiful than ever. Even
now he felt a familiar tensing in his loins. Had he

51 made a mistake asking her to stay? Could he hold to his word not to
push her, when what he wanted most was to shuck his clothes and join her
in bed? At least, he mused wryly, her presence had diverted his thoughts.

Not for long. Almost immediately those grave and somber ones flooded
back. Alex and Diane were gone ... his closest friends. And the little
one? What was he going to do?

Stiffening beneath the weight of pending decisions, he slowly retraced
his steps, looking back only once to see that Sara still slept. Then,
lonely and troubled, he quietly closed the door.

When Sara awoke a full hour later, there was nothing to suggest that
she'd had a visitor. Feeling refreshed, she dressed, rewound her hair
and repaired her makeup, then headed downstairs in search of Geoffrey.

She found no sign of him in the library or in the front parlor. It was
in the larger living room that she spotted him sprawled in a billowing
wingback chair before the old marble fireplace.

Clearly distracted, he didn't see her at first but stared broodingly at
the cold hearth, with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. She took a
step forward, then hesitated, reminding herself of the loss he'd
endured, wondering if he mightn't need these moments of privacy. She'd
barely turned

52 to leave, though, when he pulled himself from his trance.

"Sara?" He sat forward. "Don't go." "Maybe you'd rather-" "No. Stay. Do
you feel any better?" She smiled in response to his gentle show of
concern. "Uh-huh, I do feel better. I'm sorry I slept so long. I thought
twenty or thirty minutes would do it."

"You needed the sleep." Recalling how soundly she'd slept while he'd
stood by her bedside, he studied the flush on her cheeks. "You look better."

She nodded, feeling oddly self-conscious. He'd looked at her before and
she had maintained her poise. Now, though, there was a more personal
element in his gaze, an element that reached into the past. She felt
young and innocent once more, though the heat in her veins belied
naivete. She was a woman, a mature woman, reacting quite understandably
to the presence of an exquisitely handsome man. The chemistry had always
been there.

The spell broke when Geoffrey moved. Directing life to his long limbs,
he pushed himself from the chair.

"Please don't get up. If you're tired ..." "I've got to." He flexed a
stiff shoulder muscle.

53 "Otherwise I might take1 root right here and never move again."

She chuckled softly, remembering him as a man to whom physical
inactivity was anathema. "I doubt that." Still, though, there was a note
of despair in him that she found downright disconcerting. "How about
that drive you promised me? I think we could both use a breath of fresh
air."

Fresh air was precisely what they got. With Geoffrey behind the wheel of
his small blue Mercedes, they took the slow, scenic route south along
the shore toward Monterey. Neither said much; neither had to. There was
simple solace in silence, comfort in quiet companionship. Between the
regal sweep of the mountains and the rhythmically pulsing Pacific, their
thoughts merged on life, death and the constancy of nature's force.

The sun grew low beyond Sara's window and finally set beyond Geoffrey's
shortly after they'd turned and headed back north. When the car's
headlights singled out a small roadside restaurant, they stopped for
something to eat. It was a token shot at normalcy. Neither was terribly
hungry, and what thoughts they shared were quiet and brief.

If Sara had hoped to be able to lighten Geoffrey's spirits, she failed
miserably. For the closer

54 they came to home, the heavier his burden seemed, and the silence
once more took on the sorrowful air of tragedy.

By the time the car pulled into its slot in the half-empty four-car
garage, Sara was as upset as she'd been during the worst moments of the
funeral. Her heart ached for Alex and Diane, for Geoffrey, for herself.
And she felt thoroughly helpless.

Side by side they walked quietly to the house and passed from the back
door through the kitchen into the hall, where they paused to stare
mutely at one another. Where did they go from here? There were so many
different doors, so many different directions to take. His gaze was
troubled; hers was no more clear. Words eluded them both.

Finally, feeling constrained and awkward, Sara wrenched her gaze from
his, turned and, gripping the polished mahogany banister for support,
climbed the stairs.

Alone in her room at last, she gave up all pretense of poise. Without
bothering to light the lamp, she stepped out of her shoes and padded to
the window. But the darkness beyond seemed that much deeper, an
extension of her inner emptiness, a hollow mirror.

Earlier she'd asked herself what Geoffrey had become. Now she turned the
question on her-

55 self. In the eyes of the world she was a successful woman, with a
business, power, all the finer things in life. Only she knew of those
lonely midnight hours when the dreams of yesterday haunted her. Only she
knew that those seventyhour weeks were such by default.

Her eyes sad, she began to undress. She'd barely hung her jacket in the
closet and released the buttons of her blouse when a quiet knock
penetrated her distraction. Her head flew up; her gaze riveted on the
door. Speechless, she stared with owl-brown eyes as it slowly, slowly
opened.

56

three

GEOFFREY STOOD STRAIGHT AND STILL IN the sliver of light that spilled
into the darkened room from the hall. Having disposed of his jacket and
tie and freed the top buttons of his shirt and its tails, he looked as
if he'd been in the process of undressing when a thought had dawned on
him. A clean white shirt dangled from his fingers.

Sara stared, unable to move, feeling the light as a tangible thing on
the skin beneath her open blouse. Quite against her will she was swept
up in a wave of acute sensual awareness.

His eyes never lowered, yet the darkness couldn't hide their sudden
lambency. He'd been her husband once; he'd seen her in every state of
undress. But something was different now . . . something . . .

"I thought you could use this"-he cleared his throat to explain-"since
you haven't got a nightgown. It's better than . . . nothing."

57 At the intimacy of his words, Sara felt her insides quiver. Nothing
was perfect . . . with the proper counterpoint. Her gaze dropped to the
open throat of his shirt, where the hint of his broad chest stole her
breath. Then, frightened by the wayward cast of her thoughts, she forced
her eyes higher.

His features were taut, made all the more angular by the shadowy light.
He looked as torn as she felt-torn between yesterday and today, unable
to think clearly about either. But his legs weren't paralyzed, as hers
seemed to be. He took one step, then another, moving slowly, irrevocably
closer.

Sara's eyes widened as she tipped her face up. Without her shoes she was
that much smaller, that much more vulnerable. He stood tall, a breath
away, the shirt he'd carried dropped to the bed, forgotten.

Every instinct told her to run-every instinct save two. There was first
the need for intoxication, the wish to obliterate momentarily all
thought of death and sorrow. And then there was that other need, that
more selfish feminine one that craved the feel of this man once more. In
eight years she hadn't forgotten the firmness of his flesh, its warmth,
the rangy planes of his virility. And his lips, well formed and persuasive-

58 She shook her head once on the command of saner shreds of thought,
but he caught her chin in the crook of his hand and held it gently. When
she tried to speak, no words came to protest what she knew was about to
happen. In outright disobedience, her pulse quickened to send live
currents of desire through her body. This was the inevitable; she was
totally helpless to resist it.

His lips hovered over hers for an instant's reacquaintance before
touching them lightly. When he opened his mouth wider and sampled her
fullness, she knew a blinding surge of heat. Was this indeed the
consolation she sought? The events of the day seemed suddenly less raw.
Was this the relaxant that the drive down the coast was to have been?

"Sara . . ." he whispered, pausing against her lips for a breath. His
hands had risen to frame her face, then slipped gently down to underline
her jaw. "Hold me, Sara. 1 need you just now."

She heard the urgency in his voice, felt the urgency in his body. As she
wavered a blunt flash of memory re-created long days of loneliness,
longer nights of pain. How hard she'd tried to forget him, delving
obsessively into her work . . . but he'd lingered and lingered in her
thoughts until she'd tried to salve the ache other

59 ways. It hadn't worked. Her body responded to one man and one man alone.

"Sara?" he rasped.

"I know," she breathed. If he needed her, she needed him no less. The
day's sadness may have been the catalyst, but the flame of passion was
the substance and the need of eight long years its driving force. Her
arms slid up over the strapping span of his shoulders to circle his neck
in a binding hold. With her body flush against his, she pressed her
cheek to the warmth of his throat and breathed in the male goodness of
which she'd been deprived for so long.

Set loose by her melting, he crushed her to him, his arms tightening
convulsively, squeezing her until Sara could feel every long, strong
sinew of his body. When he drew back, she protested with a small cry,
but its sound quickly faded into the depths of his kiss, as did the
aching sigh that signaled her final surrender.

If either had felt hesitancy, it was gone now. There was only the
overpowering need of two people who shared a past, a sorrow, a fiery
mutual attraction.

With the rising tempo of desire Geoffrey deepened the kiss, running his
tongue along the inside of her mouth, plunging further for her honey. In
wild response Sara opened to him, caring

60 only to obliterate all else in favor of this explosive rapture.

She felt his hands roam her back with growing ardor, felt one arm move
higher, one lower. She felt the floor come out from under her when, his
mouth pressed to hers, he lifted her and laid her gently on the bed.
When he came down half on top of her, she turned into him instinctively.

Were those his hands that moved to her neck, her throat, slid down to
steal inside her blouse and cover the fine lace of her bra? Were those
her hands that worked feverishly at the few remaining buttons of his
shirt and finally spread over the sucked-in flesh of his belly and
smoothed their way upward?

In the darkness a mutually insatiable hunger had been unleashed, a
hunger appeased only momentarily by the eager exploration of their
hands, by ragged gasps and breathless whimpers. When Geoffrey slipped
her blouse from her shoulders, she did the same to his shirt. When he
lowered his head to spray fiery kisses down her throat to her breasts,
she thrust her fingers through the thickness of his hair and held him
ever closer. When he eased down the cup of her bra to take one rosy
areola in his mouth, she felt she might explode with tension.

"Geoffrey . . ." she moaned, clutching his shoulders. She closed her
eyes and let her head

61 fall to the side. "Mmmmmmm . . ." It was half agony, half delight as
he toyed with her, taking her turgid nipple between his teeth and
dabbing his tongue against its very tip. Then his mouth moved lower and
his hand went to her side to fumble with the button of her skirt.

But patience was a frail commodity. When the button resisted him, he
abandoned it and whipped himself back up to take her lips in a consuming
kiss while his hips pinioned hers to the bed. His arousal was complete,
his rigidity electric. She felt charges of excitement surge deep within her.

Then his breath was hot by her ear, his voice a thick rasp of meager
restraint. "Take off your things," he whispered, even then rolling to
her side to go to work on his belt.

As heated as he, she complied instantly. Her breath came in rapid wisps
as she undid the fastenings of her skirt. The echoing rasp of his zipper
was enough to send her fever still higher.

One after another, clothes fell from the bed to the floor, bodies
twisting and arching to facilitate the task. Sara's eyes never left
Geoffrey's dim-lit form; his never left hers. But this was no time for
slow appreciation, no time for savoring the rich mellowing of time. The
enemy was reality. Neither Sara nor Geoffrey wished to risk its intrusion.

62 Naked at last, they turned to one another with a melding of the flesh
that brought matching moans of pleasure. Her skin felt afire where it
touched his; his hands and lips spread the flame further.

The rise of passion was explosive, blotting out everything but imminent
bliss. There were soft sighs and ragged moans to complement the rustling
of the sheets beneath their writhing forms, but neither spoke a word to
break the mindless daze of desire.

Then, with a ferocity that suited them both, Geoffrey rolled Sara to her
back and came down between her thighs, finding her, thrusting, reaching
the deepest niche of her femininity and burying himself there. She held
him with an anguished cry of need, moving only when he did,
instinctively adapting to his rhythm. Harder and harder their bodies
came together, rising in near-violence to a hallowed peak, then higher
once more, higher . . . until the moment exploded in a dazzling,
spasmodic display before shimmering slowly down to the reality that
neither lover wanted.

It came reluctantly, first with a gradual slowing of the pulse, then
with the shifting of Geoffrey's weight to her side. The silence was
profound, the dark of night enshrouding. Bit by

63 bit the fact of what had happened tore through the lingering veil of
passion.

Sara lay on her back, stiff and unmoving beneath a growing burden of
dismay. Only when the pangs of disillusionment grew unbearable did she
roll to her side, away from Geoffrey's long male form, and curl into a
tight, selfcontained ball. She barely knew when he moved to gather his
things, only knew moments later that she was alone.

Alone. That was how it had all begun. She'd wanted an escape from the
lonely thoughts that had been brought on by the funeral. But that hadn't
been all... and therein lay her mortification. She'd wanted him! Above
all, she'd wanted him!

Shivering, she drew up the covers, only to find her quakes unrelated to
chill. He'd been a drug in her system eight years ago. She'd had to
suffer cold-turkey withdrawal then. Whatever had possessed her to yield
to him now? she asked herself in bewilderment. Hadn't she learned the
lesson once?

Looking back as she'd done hundreds of times, she wondered whether it
had been the intense physical attraction to one another that had stood
behind their marriage from the start. Oh, yes, he'd been slow during
those first days in Colorado when they'd gotten to know one

64 another. But from that night . . . from that night . . .

How gentle he'd been then; how clearly she remembered it now. He'd led
her down a molten path, igniting first one part of her flesh and then
another until she'd innocently cried for his possession. He hadn't known
she was a virgin. With her whimper of pain he'd stiffened, as though
he'd been the one torn apart. His subsequent tenderness had been so
thorough that she'd been sure they'd indeed been of one mind, one body.
And the glory road he'd taken her on-it had been well worth any bit of
pain she'd felt at the start.

Thrashing around now to still the tremors caused by her memories, she
tugged the blanket to her chin and burrowed more deeply into the pillow.
But Geoffrey's image was not to be escaped as easily. Even tonight in
the dark she'd been constantly aware of his identity. To say that any
man might have been able to blind her similarly to the day's grief was
fool's talk.

Fear. As she lay here alone, it was her one overriding sentiment. She'd
finally abandoned herself in Geoffrey's arms; now she must return to New
York and forget that this night had ever happened. It had no place in
her life, any more than Geoffrey himself did. But having tasted him once
more, could she kick the habit again?

65 The night dragged on with agonizing slowness, the hands of her watch
sluggishly crawling from one hour to the next. When she finally slept it
was to dream of passion's flight, only to awaken within minutes in a
cold sweat of loneliness. The same darkness that had served to help blot
out reality when she'd been in Geoffrey's arms now enveloped her in its
cocoon of emptiness. Only when the gray light of dawn trickled down onto
the windowsills did she dare to slip into a deep, deep sleep.

It was after nine when Geoffrey slowly, silently opened the door to find
her huddled beneath the covers. Quietly approaching the bed, he lightly
tucked back the blanket, then stood in poignant study of her face. It
was pale but rested. While he'd paced the floor, she'd slept. But then
there were those faint streaks where tears had been . . .

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, absently massaging the aching
point by his temple. Then he looked at her again, more sadly this time,
before slumping into the chair by the bed to resume his vigil.

She was here. It was hard for him to believe, even after last night. And
what had that been about? he asked himself, not for the first time.
After all that had come between them, why had she given herself to him
as she had?

66 He'd needed her. Sitting now, slouched in the chair, his elbow on its
arm, his fist rammed against his mouth, he freely acknowledged that he'd
needed her. He could have drunk himself into a stupor. Why hadn't he? Or
taken off by himself for a drive into the mountains. Lord knew he'd done
that in the past when he'd been upset. But he'd come to her . . . to
her. . . and, damn it, she'd come through for him. Why? Why? By rights,
given the way she'd been treated here, she would have been justified had
she insisted on returning to New York yesterday. But she'd stayed. Why?

She'd changed. He thought it again. Even in response to his lovemaking,
she was a different person than she'd been. Granted, there had been that
element of escape for both of them, but there was more. There'd been
nothing submissive in her. No, submissive was the wrong word. She'd
never been submissive, at least not in a negative way. But in the past
he'd been the leader, the one to set the pace. Now he half wondered
whether, with her darting tongue and her knowing fingers, she hadn't
skillfully led them both. She'd managed to drive every thought from his
mind but that of her own presence . . . and then she'd turned away.

His eyes glazed in confusion, he continued to stare at her. She'd turned
away. It was her right.

67 But why, after she'd come this far? What had she thought would happen
when she'd wound her arms so tightly around his neck? What had she
expected, damn it?

The roughness of his beard grated against the hand he drew across his
jaw. He glanced down at the old jeans and sweater he'd thrown on, combed
his fingers through his hair and let his head fall against the back of
the chair, leaving his eyes heavy-lidded in their lock on Sara's face.
His own bore a grave expression, in keeping with his thoughts.

She'd come back. Perhaps it would have been better had she not. For her
return had inspired a plan that had kept him awake through the night.
Time and again he'd cast it aside; time and again it had wormed its way
back into his mind. She'd never go for it ... or would she? If her
business meant all that much to her, she might never agree. On the other
hand, if he made the pot sweet enough . . .

Sara stirred then, shifting slightly, sleepily rubbing her cheek against
the pillow. She began to stretch, extended one long, bare arm toward the
headboard of the bed, opened an eye and froze.

"Geoffrey!" she gasped. Wakefulness was instant. With the realization of
her nakedness, she clutched at the blankets as she pushed herself

68 up against the headboard. Her eyes were deep pools of apprehension.

"Relax," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you."

"How long have you been sitting there?"

He shrugged. "A half-hour . . . maybe more."

Staring at him more closely, she wondered where he'd been the rest of
the night. With his hair rumpled and his eyes deep and somber, he looked
as if he might not have slept at all.

"What do you want?" If it was a repeat performance of last night that he
was interested in, she'd have no part of it. If he'd purposely sat
himself by her bed looking bleak and in need and ... damn it, so
downright masculine, he'd be in for a grand surprise.

For long moments he said nothing, simply continuing to sit by her side.
It was, to his surprise, the most comfortable he'd been since he'd
dragged himself from her bed the night before. Her presence, even wary,
was a comfort.

At last, with a deeply inhaled breath, he drew himself up straighter. "I
want to talk, Sara."

"If it's about last night-"

"What about last night?"

She felt herself falter. "It-it shouldn't have happened."

"Why not? We both needed it."

"I know. But I don't ... I guess . . . what I'm

69 trying to say is that it can't happen again. I don't make a practice
of doing . . . that."

He smiled slightly. "You mean you don't always tumble into bed with the
nearest guy around whenever you're upset?"

"That's partly it." She ignored his mockery to speak with soft
conviction. "I also mean that I didn't intend for this to happen when I
flew out from New York."

All traces of humor faded from his lips. "I know that, Sara. But I don't
think you should agonize over it." He recalled those tear streaks on her
cheeks and imagined her remorse. "It happened. That's all. I didn't come
here to argue the right or wrong of it with you."

"Then why have you come?" she countered in a whisper. In the wake of his
ready dismissal of their passion, she felt inexplicably hurt and truly
naked. "What did you want to discuss?"

Geoffrey frowned, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He'd spent the better
part of the earlymorning hours searching for the best words. Now they
eluded him. Pushing himself from the chair, he stalked to the window,
where he stood for several moments with his back to her, trying to
decide how best to broach the subject. He'd been catapulted back into
the midst of his quandary, and its weight bore down on him.

"Jeff?"

70 He turned. "I want to show you some-something." He hadn't planned it
this way, but maybe it would work. It would certainly be easier than
going into long explanations. He took a stride toward the bed and held
out his hand. "Will you come with me for a minute?"

"Now? Right now?"

"Yes."

She was clutching the blanket too tightly to spare a hand to push the
tangle of hair from her cheeks. "But I'm not dressed!"

Geoffrey frowned, then began to rummage beneath the mess of the
bedspread that had been so hastily drawn back last night. His fingers
emerged, gripping the white shirt he'd brought to her room last night.
"Here. This should do it."

She was far from convinced. "I can't wear just-just that."

"We're only going to the other side of the house."

"What-?"

"Please, Sara. Just put on the shirt."

She had no idea what was on his mind; she only knew from past experience
that when he had his mind set on something, he was relentless. And then,
when he looked at her that way. . .

"Will you . . . give me a minute?" she asked more calmly.

71 He nodded, extended the shirt, watched her reach for it. "I'll be
waiting in the hall."

With the click of the door behind him, she rose from bed and made for
the bathroom, wondering as she freshened up what it was he wanted to
show her. Mystified, she put on the shirt, which hung mercifully low on
her thighs, saw it safely buttoned, then joined him.

She had no idea how appealing she looked, with her long blond hair
flowing smoothly down her back, the fresh white shirt rolled at the
sleeves and long, slender expanses of leg extending beneath its tails.
She was the picture of simple, unembellished innocence.

Geoffrey felt a hammer thud at his insides. The woman he married, ten
years later, looking every bit as stunning wearing nothing but his shirt.

"Geoffrey?" She nearly retreated when she caught his expression, but he
quickly recalled his purpose.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked, starting at a brisk pace back toward
the stairs.

"I'm fine. I feel a little foolish, though. I only hope you know what
you're doing."

"I do," he murmured, but he seriously doubted it. Did he really expect
her to understand? "We're just going over to the west wing."

"The west wing? Your aunt and uncle were the

72 only ones who used it when I lived here. Where are they now?"

"They've moved south. San Diego."

"Oh."

Having arrived at the central stairway, they turned in stride to the
left, bypassing the hallway that branched toward the family's
bedrooms-where Jeff's room would be, where their room had been during
those years of their marriage-and heading down the hall into the west wing.

As they walked, Sara felt a glimmer of perverse satisfaction. If Cecelia
Parker could only see her now! The irony of her dress-or undress-wasn't
lost on her. With the finest of designer tidbits in her closets back in
New York, Geoffrey's long white shirt was a naughty switch. Eight years
ago, though, things had been different. Then Sara wouldn't have dared . . .

"Here," Geoffrey murmured quietly, tipping his head toward the only open
door of four in sight. Without pause he turned into the room. Sara
followed more cautiously, and felt justified in her caution as she
entered. For if she'd assumed to encounter no one, she had been sadly
mistaken.

She found herself in a spacious sitting room, but that was no surprise.
She'd known that the west wing consisted of small suites, ideal for

73 aunts and uncles and other relatives who came to visit and stayed
forever. The surprise was the woman curled in a chair, reading the
morning paper. At Geoffrey's appearance, she quickly moved to stand,
only to be halted by his outstretched hand.

"No, no, Caryn. Stay put. We'll just go in for a minute. Is she up?"

The woman was young, perhaps a year or two younger than Sara, dark
haired and attractive. She was simply dressed in a sweater and slacks
and was either naturally shy or simply startled by Sara's unorthodox
attire. She blushed as she answered. "I'm not sure. I just put her in."

Put her in? Sara frowned, forgetting her embarrassment in the face of
this mystery. When Geoffrey proceeded to disappear through a halfopen
door into what she knew to be a bedroom, she turned questioning eyes on
the woman he'd called Caryn. The young woman quickly averted her gaze,
though, leaving Sara no recourse but to follow Geoffrey.

She approached the door hesitantly, rounded its jamb with her hand on
the knob, then stopped still in her tracks at the sight that met her
eyes. Geoffrey stood on the far side of the room with his back to her.
Her breath caught, then resumed with a gasp when he leaned forward over
the high side of a crib.

74 A crib. A baby. His baby? She watched, uncomprehending, as he moved
his hand in a gentle circular motion, then straightened and slowly
turned. Her heart hammered in alarm when he gestured for her to join him.

She didn't want to. For any number of reasons, spearheaded by a strange
foreboding, she didn't want to see what lay in that crib. But she moved,
silently, unsteadily, a wide-eyed vision in white with a pallor to match
the shirt she wore. When at last she stood beside Geoffrey, she looked
once at him before finally daring to look down.

A small child lay on its back in the crib, its thumb in its mouth, its
eyes wide and glued to Jeff's. Its pale pink jumpsuit matched its pale
pink cheeks to perfection-a little girl from the top of her fine flaxen
head of hair to the tips of her tiny bare toes.

Sara helplessly sucked in her breath, only to find breathing even harder
when the baby's gaze slid down to meet hers over the button of her nose
and her loosely curled fingers. The child's gray-blue eyes never
wavered, though her tiny hand quivered with a strong surge of sucking.

Sara couldn't take her eyes from the baby. The face was familiar-so
familiar. Was it the universality of infancy? But this child had to be
nearly a year old. Her features would bear some resemblance

75 to her parents. Geoffrey-were those Geoffrey's eyes, his cheeks, his
chin?

As she stared in half-frantic fascination, the baby rolled to her side
and scrambled to her knees, holding her small arms up to Geoffrey, all
the while eyeing Sara with trepidation. Geoffrey lifted her with the
ease of a parent and held her comfortably, one arm beneath her padded
bottorn, the other hand veed beneath her arm. He was neither awkward nor
unsure. He obviously knew this child well, and she him.

"Who is she?" Sara asked when she could stand the suspense no longer.
The child had happily snuggled against him, her ear to his chest, her
thumb gainfully employed in the act of pacification. If only she and
Geoffrey had been able to find such simple solace from their grief, Sara
mused.

Then her eyes grew wider; her heartbeat tripped. She looked more closely
at the child, reached out timidly to touch her soft, golden hair.
Familiar... so familiar. Dual images superimposed themselves on her
mind, producing the tiny face before her. "My God," she whispered,
fearful in a wholly different way. "Oh, my God . . ."

Her eyes stricken, she looked at Geoffrey for confirmation. The sadness
in his gaze told her everything. Hugging the baby more tightly, he

76 dipped his head to kiss her sweet-smelling forehead, then rocked her
gently back and forth. "Sara, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Owens."

"Oh, no ..." Her throat choked with emotion, Sara soundlessly mouthed
the words. Alex and Diane had left a child! The tragedy compounded
itself. A child-now an orphan. So small, helpless, totally dependent and
alone. "Oh, Jeff!" This time she managed a whispered exclamation. "I had
no idea!"

"There was no reason for you to have known."

"How old is she?"

"Nearly eleven months."

"And her parents are . . ." She felt her eyes brim with tears and was
unable to finish the thought.

Geoffrey nodded soberly. "That's right."

"My God," Sara whispered again as she reached to stroke the child's
head. "She's so small... so beautiful. I can see Alex in her eyes.
Everything else is Diane." She smiled shly at the child. "Elizabeth.
Such a big name for such a little girl."

"They called her Lizzie. They adored her." His voice caught. He buried
his head against the child's.

Sara put a soothing hand on his shoulder, only beginning to understand
the full extent of his

77 grief. "I'm sorry, Jeff. So sorry. Does she... does she have anyone?"

With a long, tired sigh he raised his head and eyed her grimly. "She has
me. That's what I've got to talk to you about."

Puzzled, Sara frowned. But the baby chose that moment to turn her face
into Geoffrey's chest and let out a soft whimper. "She's tired," he said
gently. "She's usually napping by now." He lifted her until the small
face was level with his. "Sleep well, sweetheart." He kissed her on the
cheek. "I'll be in a little later." Then, with that same practiced ease,
he replaced the child in the crib, this time on her stomach, gently
rubbing her back for several seconds before taking Sara's arm and
guiding her from the room.

Stunned by what she'd seen, Sara couldn't say a word during that return
walk to her room. She'd read nothing about a child, but then over the
years she'd seen nothing about Alex and Diane save the occasional
society picture when they'd invariably been photographed with Geoffrey.
She couldn't even recall any reference to a child being made by the
minister the day before. But her own distraction had been so great that
she might easily have missed something.

Elizabeth. Poor little Elizabeth. The thought of her tragic circumstance
sent a chill through Sara, which she tried to ease by climbing back

78 beneath the covers as soon as she reached her room. Geoffrey took up
his post by the window, his hands thrust into the back pockets of his
jeans. He seemed, if anything, more tense than before.

"I'm sorry, Jeff." Once more she offered soft condolences, at a total
loss for further words. There were so many questions she wanted to ask.
But she stifled them, hugging her knees to her chest, pressing her mouth
to her knees.

"She has me," he'd said. His words echoed in Sara's mind. His genuine
love for the child was obvious. Even with the tumultuous emotions of her
own discovery, Sara hadn't missed the tenderness in his eyes when he'd
lifted the child, the gentle promise that he'd see her later when he'd
subsequently put her down.

He'd be a wonderful parent. She saw that now. Had it been true all
along, or had the past eight years mellowed him? During the brief stay
of their marriage, he'd been constantly on the go. Even beyond the
instability of their union, she'd found it hard to imagine him as
anything but an absentee parent. Yet yesterday he'd claimed to have
wanted children. Had she simply been too young to understand him?

And then, she reflected, closing her eyes and listening to the silence,
there was this huge empty house, by rights made for the fun and

79 laughter of a large family. Geoffrey needed that. This, too, she saw.
He was alone, and sad. In turn, her heart ached.

She raised her eyes as he slowly turned. The gaze that met hers was
fathomless.

"I want to adopt her, Sara."

Her eyes widened. "Adopt her?" she whispered.

"For my own. I want to raise her as a Parker, with every benefit that
name can bring."

"But Jeff. .. what about-I mean, there must be some relative who would
insist . . ."

His expression hardened. "You saw them at the funeral." She hadn't.
She'd been preoccupied with looking for him. "They're older. Their
resources are much more limited."

"Resources aren't everything," she reminded him quietly. "My parents had
nothing, but-"

"That wasn't what I meant." He cut her off with a wince. "It's partly a
matter of a very legitimate stress." When she seemed about to argue, he
went quickly on. "Neither Alex nor Diane came from money. Alex was on
full scholarship when I met him in college. The money he made through
the business was the first of its kind in his family."

That went a long way in explaining the soft spot Alex and Diane had had
for Sara. "But-"

"All Lizzie's aunts and uncles are older. Most

80 of her cousins are approaching college age. If that isn't a strain,
nothing is. And then suddenly to have the responsibility of a young
child again . . ." His voice trailed off meaningfully. "I can handle it.
I want to handle it."

"But don't they want to? I mean, won't you have a fight on your hands?
Can you simply up and claim her? What about a will?"

Geoffrey cast a frustrated gaze toward the ceiling and put his hands on
his hips. "A will? Hmmph! Alex never bothered. Maybe it was his feeling
of immortality ... I don't know. A man who's just turned thirty-eight
doesn't care to anticipate his wife and himself going in one fell swoop!"

It was Sara's turn to wince, which she did with an added shudder. "It's
ironic, when he was a lawyer himself," she murmured sadly.

"A lawyer and my right-hand man in the office. Over the years he'd done
well there, not to mention the significant amount of stock he'd
acquired. Lizzie is well endowed."

"Which is precisely why one of her relatives may give you a fight," she
pointed out as gently as possible. "If there is a trust fund to cover
her major needs, doesn't that eliminate the problem of finances?"

The gaze Geoffrey leveled at her was sharp. "/ know what Alex and Diane
would want for their

81 child, not some relative who doesn't even know her. I'm the one who
was there the night she was born, who took a shift holding her when she
was colicky, who helped rub brandy on her gums when she teethed." He
thumbed his chest emphatically. "I'm the one who loves her, damn it! A
fight? Oh, yes, I'm sure that once the shock wears off, someone will
realize the little thing's worth a bundle. But I'm the only one who
wants her! And I'm prepared to fight for her!"

Not for a minute did Sara doubt his words. Had the steel gray of his
eyes not convinced her, the grim set of his lips or the utter rigidity
of his jaw would have. But she wondered if he'd let his emotional
involvement get the better of him. He loved the child. Perhaps his fear
was simply of losing her.

"Do you think that a relative would try to gain custody of Lizzie purely
for the sake of the money?"

"Nah!" He spat the word out and embellished it with a dismissing
gesture. "I don't know, Sara. I don't want to think the worst of them
and I won't-assuming they don't fight me. They seemed to accept my
taking care of her now."

"Has she been here ever since . . ."

"Yes. I brought her here immediately after the accident."

"And yesterday when you disappeared-you

82 went up to see her?" She hadn't been sure why he'd left her so long
in the library, had simply assumed him to be occupied with matters
relating to the funeral. Now she understood.

"Yes. I wanted to spend some time with her." He lowered his gaze and
grimaced at the injustice of it all. "It's heartbreaking, the thought of
a child like that suddenly being denied her parents. She may not
understand what's happened, but she senses something's up. She's been so
quiet, almost as though she knows she has to behave. She has to miss
Alex and Diane. They never left her other than for a night out every so
often." He looked up once more and said with vehemence, "Alex was like a
brother to me. Lizzie is family. I want her here."

Sara saw something more as she bore the full force of his gaze: Alex had
been like a brother to him. Having Lizzie was in its way a substitute
for his loss.

But there would be others for whom the loss would be as great. "Didn't
either of the families ask about her?"

"Oh, yes. That was one of their first questions."

"What did you tell them?"

"I said that I'd keep Lizzie with me for the time being."

"They didn't argue?"

83 His short laugh lacked any semblance of humor. "They were relieved.
As I said, it's been a long time since any of them had to cope with a
squalling infant."

"She's precious!" Sara exclaimed spontaneously. "I can't imagine her
squalling."

When Geoffrey's eyes softened, Sara felt a pang of jealousy. "Oh, she
has her moments," he said. "Take my word for it."

Sara held his gaze for just a minute before averting her eyes to feign a
pensive study of the sheets. He certainly did love the child. There was
no mistaking that gentle sparkle. She'd seen it so often herself in
those early days of their marriage. But those days were past... in spite
of what had happened last night.

As a defense against the return of those particular thoughts, she forced
herself to think about all that Geoffrey had said. "I don't know," she
began softly, looking up more hesitantly. "I can understand and agree
with what you want to do." Seeing Lizzie had touched her deeply. Even
aside from the fact of her parentage, Sara could understand why Geoffrey
would be smitten. "But ... I just don't know, Jeff. If it comes down to
a custody fight, it could be tough. We may have come a long way in the
past few years, but it's still got to be difficult for a single male to
adopt a child."

84 The words had no sooner left her lips than an odd shiver shot down
her spine. Why did she suddenly feel that the other shoe had yet to
fall? Was it something intangible in the air, a sixth sense of her own?
Or was it that trace of vigilance about him?

She faltered, unsure, her voice not much more than an anxious whisper.
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked at last. There had to be
some reason for his discussing these personal plans with a woman who'd
walked out of his life once, indeed, who'd be doing it again today.
"Why, Jeff?"

His eyes never left hers as he approached the foot of the bed. Each step
he took heightened the sense of premonition that wreaked havoc with her
pulse. When he finally came to a halt he set his shoulders back.

"I want you to marry me, Sara."

Choking on the gasp of a quick-indrawn breath, Sara coughed roughly.
Then, her hand splayed across her chest, she eyed him in disbelief.
"You're kidding."

He slowly shook his head. "No. I'm dead serious. I want you to marry me."

"Again?"

"Again."

This time it was her head that shook, sending shiny blond strands
sliding across her

85 shoulders. But if her equilibrium had been totally overturned,
Geoffrey remained the image of selfpossession. And that she found
extremely disconcerting.

"Why would you ever want a thing like that?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Because I want to adopt Lizzie. And the presence of a wife-a mother for
the baby-would make it that much easier."

"Because you want to adopt Lizzie-" Dumbly she repeated his words, her
jaw dropping before she clamped it shut. Damn him, she seethed, but he'd
been blunt! No pretense, no pussyfooting around. He wanted to marry her
for the sake of adopting Lizzie. How totally unromantic; indeed, it was
an insult to her feminine pride. What woman in her right mind would
accept such a cold-blooded proposal?

"Well, Sara?" His veneer of composure couldn't hold out much longer in
the face of her appalled expression. "Will you marry me?"

"No! And I can't believe you'd even ask it, Jeff! We bombed pretty badly
once. It'd be madness to try again."

"I'm not asking for a regular marriage. All I want is the appearance of
one. How difficult can that be?"

He'd rubbed salt on the wound; she couldn't

86 help but flinch. "It could be very difficult, given the fact that I
live in New York."

"That could be changed."

Her eyes flashed a molten brown. "Now wait a minute. I've got a life
there, and a business! I can't just up and move across the country."

"You managed to come easily enough for the funeral."

"That was supposed to be for one day!" she declared indignantly, then
grew suddenly suspicious. "And when did this brilliant idea come to you,
anyway? Don't tell me the seduction scene last night was part of it."
Feeling half sick to her stomach, she inched back to seek the support of
the headboard. When to her chagrin Geoffrey dared to come and sit on the
side of the bed, she stiffened her back against its white-lacquered wood.

"No, Sara. It wasn't an act. What happened last night was something very
private, just between you and me. There was no ulterior motive involved."

"But it came to you last night, didn't it? I knew there was something in
your eyes this morning-"

Sensing a kind of fear in her, he spoke more gently. "After I left you I
spent the night thinking. I don't know exactly when the thought came,
but it's a good one."

87 "For you, maybe. But not for me. And certainly not for Lizzie."

"Why not?"

"She needs a mother, for God's sake! I have a full-time career, and I
know about as much about mothering as-as-"

"As any mother presented with her first child. But that's beside the
point. I wouldn't ask you to do a thing, Sara. I'm perfectly willing to
be here when Lizzie needs me, and I'll have a nurse- either Caryn or
someone else-here to take care of her the rest of the time."

"That's cruel. She needs a mother."

"Damn it, I know that!" he exploded in frustration, sitting straighter,
propping himself on balled fists. "But she's just lost her own and I'm
trying to find a viable alternative. I want to adopt her, and I want to
do it soon. The older she gets, the greater the chance of an upheaval
affecting her. Children of three or four can be very astute. I want
things settled now!"

Sara bit her lip, feeling not so much shocked as confused. Preposterous
as Geoffrey's marriage proposal was, his reasoning had some merit. "Why
me?" she moaned. "Why me? Surely you can find another woman who'd be
willing to-"

"I don't want another woman!" he exclaimed loudly, then lowered his
voice to cover the out-

88 burst. "What I want," he resumed, choosing each word with care, "is a
situation that will facilitate my adoption of Lizzie."

"But why me?"

"Because we know one another. Because we've already been through it
before and have no delusions about it. Because you're here and you
wouldn't have been had it not been for the feelings you had for Alex and
Diane." His eyes sharpened in gray penetration. "Is it that much to
ask-a token marriage, out of respect for what Alex and Diane would have
wanted?"

89

four

THAT'S UNFAIR," SARA WHISPERED, FEELing the low blow as if it had been
physical.

But Geoffrey refused to back down. "Is it fair that that baby will never
see her parents again? And while we're on the subject, let's weigh and
balance things for a minute. Let's look at who stands to lose what with
your decision." These were the arguments he'd lost a night's sleep to
formulate. He paused only long enough for breath before continuing in a
deep and determined tone.

"If you refuse, Lizzie may lose the smoothest possible transition from
what she had last week to-to whatever she'll have in the future. In my
book that's a pretty big loss for a kid who's lost nearly everything else.

"Now let's take you," he went on systematically. "Obviously you'd rather
get on that plane today and return to New York, putting Alex and

90 Diane and everything else about San Francisco in your past. But
supposing-just supposing- you agree to marry me: What have you got to lose?"

For a split second she had no answer. Then, reacting to the fear that
she might actually begin to consider his proposal, she grasped at the
most obvious fact. "My own life, Jeff-it's back there in New York.
Everything I am today is tied up there."

"Sara McCray Originals?"

"Yes."

"Open an office here. You mentioned that you'd considered it. Why not do
it?"

She couldn't exactly tell him that she'd ruled out the possibility for
the very reason of his presence on the West Coast. Should she agree to
his proposal, it would be a moot point anyway. "I-it would be too
difficult. Everyone's in New York."

"There are a whole lot of people out here, Sara," he chided. "You could
increase your business doublefold."

"But I don't want to do that! It's already big enough! That's been the
whole point of setting some limits. When too many people own
'originals,' the value inevitably drops."

"Then be selective. You could do it very effectively working from coast
to coast." He held his

91 hand up in a gesture of reassurance. "Look, I've thought this all
out. In the beginning you could commute to New York every week and
return here only for the weekends. That would give us a chance to make
our marriage known and to start whatever legal proceedings are necessary
to formalize the adoption. In the meantime I could have the guest
cottage redecorated."

At its mention, Sara instantly conjured the image of the quaint little
house set deep in the estate. Her pulse shot ahead. "The one tucked in
the woods?"

"You always liked it," he said more gently.

"I wanted us to live there . . . but you kept saying that it was too far
from everything."

At her soft accusation, he looked away for the first time. When he stood
abruptly it was to pace to the foot of the bed. There, his hands braced
on the raised footboard and leaning slightly forward, he watched her toy
with a button of the shirt that loosely draped her body as she curled
against the headboard. She looked so young, so vulnerable.

"It wasn't my decision to make, Sara. The cottage is part of the estate,
and the estate belonged to my mother. As many times as you begged me to
move into the cottage, I asked her for its use." His tone hardened. "But
she wanted us right here, in the house, under her nose."

92 Somehow his resentment freed Sara from her need to express any. In
its place, though, came perplexity. "Why did I always assume you didn't
want to live in the cottage?" she asked, frowning.

"Perhaps because I never explained things as I should have."

"Why didn't you?"

"I was right in the middle, Sara, with you on one side, my mother on the
other. At the time it seemed better for me to take the blame for that
particular disappointment rather than give you further cause to hate her."

Sara's first impulse was to deny that she'd hated his mother, but for
the sake of honesty she caught herself. She had come to hate Cecelia
Parker, though such a confession was pointless so long after the fact.
"I only wish I'd known the truth," she murmured softly, thinking of her
marriage, wishing she had better understood Jeff. But it was water over
the dam. And now he'd offered to redecorate the cottage.

"It would be a perfect office for you, Sara. You could have several
rooms on the ground floor, and the attic could be converted into a
workshop."

He really had thought it out, she mused with new respect as she pictured
a workshop snuggled beneath those gabled eaves. "I don't do much of the
actual work anymore," she reflected

93 on the wave of a momentary daydream, "though I'd love to get back to
it. It seems that I work mostly with pencil and paper now, creating
designs and adapting them to various fashions or personalities."

Her eyes shot back to his when Geoffrey offered encouragement. "You
could do whatever you wanted, Sara. Don't you see that? You could set up
an office here, have whatever staff you need, visit New York whenever
you see fit... it could be a nice switch, if you chose to approach it
with a positive attitude."

A positive attitude. To her dismay, she could see it on the horizon. "I
don't know." She fought its insurgence. "There are still . . . other
things . . ."

"Name one."

She looked at him more sharply. If he expected her to yield at the first
challenge, as the Sara of old might have done, he was in for a surprise.
"My friends, for one." She squared her jaw.

"You'll see them whenever you're in New York, and that could be very
often. Name another."

"My . . . social life."

"So there is someone?" He'd known there had to be, yet hearing her say
so bothered him. He

94 couldn't seem to shake his possessiveness. What a time for it to crop up.

"There are lots of someones," she spoke quietly. "Good friends who know
me well enough to be patient and to understand that my work comes first.
But there are certain social events that I have to attend."

"I'd take you."

"In New York?"

He gave a facetious smirk. "Unless you could arrange a relocation of the
particular event." Then his backhanded humor vanished. "But I would be
your husband, Sara. I couldn't allow another man to be your
escort-especially in light of the purpose of the marriage. Your being
seen with other men would give any court social worker serious doubts as
to the stability of the home life we'd be offering Lizzie."

There was a tightness at the corners of his lips that suggested he
wouldn't budge on this issue. But then, as she let her mind wander, Sara
realized she wouldn't want him to. One part of her liked the idea of
introducing Geoffrey to her circle. It was the other part that said she
was insane, the other part that forced her to speak up, if only on a
diversionary matter.

"But wouldn't a court worker question the setup anyway? I mean, with a
mother who jaunts back and forth across country . . ."

95 He'd given this some thought himself and now spoke more slowly of his
conclusions as he ambled back to her bedside. "That's why I'd want you
to set up an office here. And that's why, as soon as it's set up, you'd
have to spend at least part of every week and weekend here. Many a
mother works nowadays. Having the cottage on the grounds of the estate
would be ideal. Any social worker would have to be impressed by the
ability you'd have to work and mother."

Mother. Only as he'd said it that way did the reality of the prospect
hit Sara. If she agreed to marry Geoffrey and they proceeded with the
adoption, she would actually be a mother. Once more the image of
Lizzie's face flashed before her eyes. Lizzie . .. adorable and totally
dependent-and hers? It was a frightening thought ... an exciting one.

Torn by the conflict, she looked helplessly up at him. "I don't know,
Jeff. It's still marriage you're suggesting. Marriage."

He lowered his chin. "Why not, Sara? You haven't ever remarried. Were
you holding that option open?"

"I have no intention of remarrying!" What with the absurd turn her
thoughts had taken in the past day, she should have used the past tense.
But she let it go with wishful thinking.

"Then that can't be what's hanging you up."

96 When he slid down to sit facing her, she knew precisely what was
hanging her up. It was the thought of being near Geoffrey day in, day
out. And on the pretense of a marriage.

"It's the commitment, Jeff. I'm not sure I can go into a marriage purely
for the sake of a child. That would be unfair to her."

He clenched a fist against the sheets. "The most important thing is that
the adoption go through."

"But what about us?" she argued impulsively. As much as she might have
wished to be as selfless as he, she couldn't narrow her vision to the
child alone. "We have futures, too, you know. I'm not all that sure how
long I can bear the farce of a marriage of the kind you want." Her words
were not only blunt and callous but also deliberately ambiguous. From
the hardening of Geoffrey's expression, Sara knew he'd taken them at
their most condemning.

For long moments of silence he stared at her, wondering once more
whether she had indeed sacrificed compassion for success. Where was her
heart, the emotion that had brought her west in the first place? Could
she turn from a child this way? Could she turn from him?

With a tired sigh he acknowledged that she'd pushed him to the wall.
He'd already offered her the freedom to work, had offered to help her

97 actualize her business expansion to the West Coast. There was but one
lure left in his reservoir.

"What if we put a time limit on it? Say a year."

"A year?" she asked blankly.

"In the course of a year, barring no unforeseen obstacles, we should be
able to get the adoption finalized. Once the papers are duly signed and
Lizzie is mine, you can file for divorce. I won't contest it. I'll even
throw in-"

"Don't say it!" she exploded, putting her hands to her ears. If she'd
thought his original proposition to be cold, this follow-up was
positively glacial. "I don't want your money," she said through gritted
teeth. "I've got plenty of my own. And I won't-be-bought!"

Geoffrey reached for her hands and forcibly returned them to her lap.
"What I was going to say," he went on determinedly, "was that if you
choose to seek a divorce at the end of the year but still want to
maintain an office out here, you can move from the cottage to a new
office building we've got in town."

"It sounds like we're negotiating a contract," she forced in a bitter
whisper. He ignored it to complete the thought.

"I'm a businessman myself, Sara. I understand the kind of effort it will
take to open an office here in the first place. In light of that, I'll do my

98 best to facilitate whatever move you may want."

She couldn't think that far. She could hardly think beyond the first
decision to be made. Worse, she could barely think of anything but the
hands that held hers in such a firm yet gentle grasp. He was so close,
so appealing. Even his very obvious exhaustion couldn't dampen his
blatant virility.

Where did that fit into his scheme, she wondered as she breathed in his
richly masculine scent. Just how "real" did he want this marriage to be?
With a hard swallow she averted her gaze to her hands. But his were
right there, more tanned in contrast, bearing those dark wisps of hair
she found so enticing. Thoughts of the pleasure they'd found in each
other last night came unbidden. Pleasure . . . release . . . escape . . .

He moved his hand to cup her chin and turn her face upward. "It was even
better than before, Sara," he courted her softly. "You wouldn't be
disappointed on that score."

"But it'd be so phony," she argued against the warm tingling deep in her
belly. "Without love . . ."

Clenching his jaw, he released her wrists and straightened. "Like it was
last night?" he growled.

"That wasn't-" she began, only to cut herself off. There had been
nothing phony about their

99 needs last night and nothing phony in their mutual satisfaction. No,
her self-recrimination on that score had to do solely with that taste of
ecstasy she'd feared to be a one-time thing. Now, though, if she agreed
to marry Jeff. . .

The bed jostled with his rising. "I've had my say," he stated darkly.
"You know what I want and my reasons for wanting it. I'll leave you to
make your decision."

"Where are you going?" she called in unexpected alarm.

He paused with the door half closed. "I've got to make a fast trip to
the office. I'll be back later to take you to the airport ... if that's
what you finally decide." The force of his gaze made a last demand for
her compliance before he severed their eye contact with the firm closing
of the door.

Sara sat in stunned silence. She stared at the blank expanse of the
door. She shifted her gaze to the window. She put the heels of her hands
to her eyes, then combed her fingers back through her hair, letting it
fall once more to her shoulders with the same inevitability that seemed
to shadow this turn of events.

When she'd decided-was it just the night before last-to make the trip
west, it had been with a feeling of unfinished business, ghost chasing
of sorts. She'd wanted to silently thank Alex

100 and Diane for being her friends. Now it seemed they were asking a
final favor in return. Could she refuse them?

Step by step she reviewed the mechanics of Geoffrey's arguments. To her
chagrin, she had to admit that each one had solid footing. Yes, she
could feasibly make the move to the West Coast; he'd even made it sound
simple. Yes, she could keep her New York contacts with frequent trips
east. And yes, there was a certain challenge in a properly handled
expansion.

But marriage to him? The passage of eight years had brought changes to
both of their lives. How could they ever know if they'd be able to get
along on a day-to-day basis? They'd been miserable before. Would it be
any different the second time around?

But it was different. Elizabeth Owens made it so. She was, after all
else had been said and done, the sole purpose for the arrangement. Now
Sara paused to consider this fact, wondering if it would be possible to
endure a marriage strictly for the sake of the child and her adoption.
There was no easy answer to the question-and Geoffrey wanted his answer
by the afternoon.

Her knees wobbly at the overwhelming nature of this potentially
immediate change in her life, Sara stumbled from bed and sought solace be-

101 neath a hot, hot shower. Nothing, though, could relax the tension of
her muscles. By the time she was made up and dressed in the same gray
wool suit in which she'd arrived the morning before, she wished only to
go back to bed. She didn't want to make this decision! Why had it ever
been thrust on her?

What if she hadn't returned to San Francisco? she asked her hollow-eyed
image in the mirror. He never would have thought of it then, would he?
But she had come, partly out of guilt that she'd never told Alex and
Diane what they'd meant to her during those months when they'd so
obviously been on her side.

Now she faced an even heavier burden of guilt. How could she possibly
return to New York knowing that by doing so she'd be lessening
Geoffrey's chances for a speedy adoption of Lizzie?

Her hairbrush hit the dresser with a dull thud. Startled by the sound,
she looked quickly down. Lizzie. Why did that tiny face keep coming back
to haunt her? Could she ever put it behind if she denied Geoffrey's
request and returned to her life in New York?

Weighed down by the dilemma, she slowly made her way downstairs. Mrs.
Fleming met her before she'd reached the bottom rung.

102 "May I get you something to eat, Miss McCray?"

Sara emerged from her trance with a start. "Excuse me? Uh, no. Well,
perhaps some tea . . ." She forced a smile. "I'm not really very hungry."

The housekeeper returned an easier smile. "1 can't interest you in a
fresh croissant?" she coaxed.

"Fresh croissant?" Sara paused. "Come to think of it, that does sound
nice." She stepped from the last stair.

"If you'd like to sit down in the breakfast room-"

"Oh, no. I'll eat in the kitchen, Mrs. Fleming." Then, more shyly,
"Eating all alone, even in the breakfast room, can be very lonely."

With an obedient nod that whisked away her momentarily enigmatic gaze,
the housekeeper proceeded directly to the kitchen, where she presented
Sara with hot tea and a warm croissant. Sara was busy looking around the
room.

"You know," she remarked, studying the decorative but practical lineup
of shiny copperbottom pans suspended from a frame above the central
island at which she sat, "during two years of marriage, I think I could
count on one hand the number of times I ate here. Things were run very
strictly in those days."

103 The housekeeper gave a final wipe to the top of the stove. "I
understand that many things were different when Mr. Parker's mother was
alive," she replied cautiously.

"You didn't come until after her death?"

"That's right."

"Why was there such a total turnover, Mrs. Fleming? Did Mrs. Parker's
staff leave on their own or-"

"Mr. Parker fired them. All but Cyrus." It was a statement of fact,
devoid of emotion.

"Do you enjoy working here?"

For the first time in the questioning the woman's face lit up. "Oh, yes.
Mr. Parker is as considerate and undemanding an employer as I've ever
had. Of course, he's alone most of the time-" She stopped awkwardly,
worried that in her spontaneity she'd said something she shouldn't have.
Then, realizing that the damage, if any, had already been done, she went
on. "Having the little girl here"-her smile warmed-"has brightened
things. Mr. Parker plays with her as though-as though nothing's
happened." The smile was suddenly gone, but Sara refused to think of the
past with the future foremost in her mind.

"He loves her."

"He certainly does. When Mr. and Mrs. Owens"-her breath caught and she
spoke more

104 slowly-"used to come over, he'd spend as much time with the baby as
he'd spend with them. She squealed and laughed then. I haven't heard her
quite that happy since-"

The further mention was one too many for Mrs. Fleming, who quietly
withdrew into herself and found something at the far end of the spacious
kitchen with which to occupy herself. Sara, too, grew pensive, once more
picturing Geoffrey as a father and finding herself pleased with the
image. As a husband? That took greater thought, though.

When she had drunk her tea and finished her croissant, she softly
thanked the housekeeper and left the kitchen. It was after eleven
thirty. She was booked on a flight that was due to depart in little more
than two hours. And there was still a decision to be made.

Her feet took her in aimless wandering through the living room, then the
parlor, into the library and back to the hall. Did she want to live here
again? It was so different now-quiet, infinitely less threatening. For
the first time she could see the silent dignity of the place, even begin
to appreciate its beauty. Was it the fact of the changing of the guard,
or were her eyes simply that much more sophisticated?

Tugging her suit jacket around her, she gave way to an impulse to walk
the grounds. It was a

105 cool day, even overcast, yet the finely kept landscape seemed to
sparkle on its own. Here the years had wrought few changes beyond the
growth of the trees and shrubs. Again, though, Sara felt a greater
understanding for the natural elegance. Was it simply that this was such
a total change from her apartment in Manhattan? Or, again, was it a
product of her own growth?

As she walked she recalled the times she'd done the same back then.
She'd been so very lonely, feeling at times imprisoned within the
estate's confines. The friends she'd been offered she had nothing in
common with. The friends she'd had before were totally unacceptable.
Cecelia Parker had been in so many ways the reigning queen, grudgingly
imposing her dictates on the upstart her son had chosen to succeed her
as hostess here. At what point had the older woman decided to oust her?
In Sara's jaded view it had been from the very start. Any outward show
of conciliation must have been purely for Jeff's benefit.

A shudder passed through her body as Sara determinedly slipped from
beneath the smothering mantle of the past. When she found herself
following the narrow road leading back from the house, she attributed
the choice to her highheeled pumps. When, moments later, she found
herself on the doorstep of the small cottage that

106 played so heavily in Geoffrey's proposal, she didn't bother with an
excuse. Rather, she lent her weight to the front door and, finding it
unlocked, walked inside.

It was perfect, she mused as she meandered from room to room, trying to
remain indifferent, failing miserably. It would be a definite switch
from the office in New York where the constant din of city sounds was in
keeping with the speed of business there. She paused to listen now, and
heard nothing. Quite different.

Marriage to Geoffrey? Remarriage to Geoffrey? If it sounded absurd, what
was even more absurd was that she was seriously considering it! For,
aside from this cottage, aside from that baby, there was still herself
and Geoffrey. Herself and Geoffrey. Could she bear it, remembering all
that might have been once, yet knowing that their liaison would be for
only a year? And what after? What would a second parting be like?

One year. One year as Mrs. Geoffrey Parker again. But no, she caught
herself with some indignation. This time it would remain Sara McCray,
for professional purposes at the least. She was her own woman now.
Geoffrey seemed ready enough to accept that in exchange for that one year.

Closing the door firmly behind her, she slowly returned to the main
house. Then, without pausing

107 to analyze her motives, she headed back up the stairs and wandered
into the west wing.

The doors were open, the rooms empty. There was no sign either of Caryn
or of the baby. Strangely disappointed, Sara stood for a few minutes by
the side of the crib. Aside from the presence of this newly added piece
of furniture, the room was no different from any of the other guest
rooms. Yes, it was large and immaculate, professionally decorated in
broad sweeps of pale blue and apricot, but it was certainly not a
child's room. The first thing she'd do if she were to be Lizzie's mother-

Catching herself in mid-thought, she rushed from the room, back down the
hall and to the stairs. She'd reached the halfway point of the graceful
spiral when an odd noise brought her to a halt. Her foot wavered over
the next step. She carefully inched it down. Cocking her head and
listening, she identified the sound as coming from the direction of the
kitchen. As an unknown force bid her head that way, the dull pounding
was joined by the more recognizable cry of an angry child.

On the kitchen threshold Sara paused. There, seated in her high chair,
so small yet dominating the room, was Lizzie. Her face was scrunched up,
her lips drawn down. She fervently clutched a large wooden spoon in her
fist. Before Sara's

108 bemused gaze the spoon hovered in the air, hovered in that moment
preceding imminent descent-then hovered still as the child caught sight
of her.

Mrs. Fleming looked up quickly from her post at the stove. Caryn pivoted
sharply from her perch before the high chair. And Lizzie's expression
slowly eased from that of unhappiness to a more neutral, sober-eyed
stare. Sara had no choice but to step forward.

"That's an awfully loud noise for an awfully little girl," she murmured
gently, her eyes held by the child's.

It was Caryn who explained with a crooked grin. "She's just waiting for
lunch. Very impatiently."

Strangely enough, though, the child had quieted. She lowered the spoon
to the tray and continued to hold it, but there was no more of the
frustrated pounding that had first alerted Sara's attention. Rather, she
widened her eyes and cast Sara a subtle look of expectation, to which
Sara responded by trying to reason away the little girl's heart-rending
appeal. It was a conspiracy, she decided, chewing on her bottom lip as
she studied the huge eyes, the tiny upturned nose, the sheen of the fine
golden hair. A conspiracy. Geoffrey and Elizabeth were definitely in
cahoots with one another.

109 "Here it is." Mrs. Fleming reached for a dish, carefully deposited
the contents of two separate pans and a tin-foil bundle and rounded the
counter to place the meal and a small cup of milk on the tray of the
high chair. Only then did Lizzie look down.

"Mmmmmm," Caryn coaxed her. "Doesn't that look delicious? I'll just cut
everything up"- which she proceeded to do-"and you can help yourself."
Which Lizzie proceeded to do. Tiny fingers manipulated a piece of
hamburger onto the wooden spoon, the wooden spoon was flattened against
her mouth, the piece of cooked meat fell to her lap. The wooden spoon
fared worse, landing soundly on the floor while Lizzie reached for
another piece of meat and made direct contact from hand to mouth.

"Resourceful," Sara said, and grinned, watching the child reach for a
green bean with the same unerring aim. Then, coached softly by Caryn
with the housekeeper in pleased supervision, she downed another piece of
meat, another green bean, and a third piece of meat before reaching for
the buttered roll.

"No more meat?" Caryn asked.

"Or beans?" Mrs. Fleming chimed in a gentle singsong tone. "They're
awfully good for you."

But Lizzie had shifted her gaze to Sara once more, with such a knowing
look that Sara

110 couldn't restrain a smile. The child was a sharpie, she mused. She
knew precisely what was happening. She'd eat that meat, those green
beans when and only when she was ready.

Leaning back against the refrigerator, Sara watched with amusement as
the meal progressed. For the most part Lizzie fed herself, with Caryn
assisting her in drinking from the cup. When a thin white trickle rolled
down her chin, Caryn caught it with the bib. When a piece of hamburger
flew to the counter, Mrs. Fleming tossed it deftly into the sink. Small
fingers placed another bit of meat on the rim of the milk cup;
fascinated eyes watched it disappear into the white liquid. A green bean
slithered across the floor toward Sara. She stooped to pick it up and
deposited it in the housekeeper's waiting hand.

But the bulk of the meal was soon in the child's stomach, evoking coos
of praise from both nurse and housekeeper. When a prize banana was
offered, Lizzie reached for it eagerly. Then, to the pained grimaces of
both attendants, she proceeded to play with it, squishing it easily
between her fingers, spreading it in lumps across the high-chair tray,
landing small dabs in her mouth only when she resorted to sucking an
occasional finger.

But she was happy, and that made the mess worthwhile. Her intermittent
child-sounds were

111 sweet, as was the gentle play of her hands. And when she raised her
face to Sara's and gifted her with a wide banana smile, Sara thought
she'd melt on the spot. He'd probably rehearsed this child! It simply
wasn't fair!

Forsaking the support of the refrigerator, she slowly approached the
high chair. "I've got to run," she whispered, bending down to tuck a
blond wisp behind the child's tiny ear. Soft. . . warm . . . "Bye-bye,"
she mouthed the words, then left without looking back.

There was no need. She could see that face clearly before her. But there
was another one whose image grew in force with each step she took from
the kitchen. When all was said and done it would be him to whom she'd be
married.

Geoffrey. The thought of him brought that familiar stirring, this time
on a shimmer of pleasure. It had been so nice last night. Fast and
furious ... but so very, very nice. The supreme act of communion,
serving both their needs. She had needed him, and not only to blot out
the unhappiness of the day. She was a woman. And she felt a strange
sense of satisfaction deep inside that overpowered both fatigue and
confusion. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that she'd been alone for
too long.

Making her way pensively back to the library, she knew that it was time
to make another

112 decision. She walked to the window, put one hand around her middle,
the other to her lips, and closed her eyes. New York: busy, exciting,
rewarding-but lonely. San Francisco: busy, exciting, rewarding and-and .
. . ?

She didn't know how long she stood there seesawing between the options.
If one side was more heavily weighted with pluses, surely she'd lean
that way. But the momentum of the seesaw kept her moving, sliding
helplessly back and forth.

Opening her eyes, she stared bleakly at the gray-green of the landscape.
Things had happened so suddenly. But wasn't that the way of life . . .
and death? In the instant she was besieged by the same pall of fear that
had settled in at the funeral the day before. Alex and Diane had died in
their prime, having just begun to taste the honey of existence. Life was
too short, often tragically short when there were so very many things to
do, to experience, to share.

She eyed her watch, then looked back outside. She cast a glance once
over her shoulder, turned and went to the phone. She lifted the
receiver, hesitated, replaced it. Her gaze focused on the ceiling, then
lowered.

Life was too short, too filled with dreams that were destined to remain
unfulfilled. But was

113 destiny in a rare instance flexible? Was she being given a second
chance?

With Geoffrey's face foremost in her mind, she raised the receiver
again, this time pressing it to her thudding heart for a final decisive
moment. A second chance. Was it? Could she afford to turn it down?

The decision was made on a sudden wave of clarity. In essence, she'd
been offered a year with Jeff, a year on new footing, a year in which to
try to capture all that she'd wanted once and lost. Never over the years
had she forgotten those glorious dreams she'd had in his arms in
Colorado. Granted, the facts were different now. He had independence,
she a career. They were older, wiser. And though there was no mention of
love now as there'd been then, she owed it to herself to give those
dreams a final shot.

Impulsive? Yes. And for the second time, no less. But last time she'd
been young and dependent, with everything to lose. Now she had her
business. She was her business. Should the year with Jeff be a dismal
failure, she'd still have Sara McCray Originals and the life she'd built
for herself in New York.

Perhaps Geoffrey was right. She'd approach it all with a positive
attitude. The year would be a challenge, an adventure. It wasn't every
successful career woman who had a husband and child

114 served up on a silver platter. As for love, she had no delusion as
to its existence. And without delusion, she couldn't be hurt.

Or so her reasoning went as she calmly called the airport and booked a
seat on the flight returning from New York early Saturday morning. When
she replaced the receiver with the commitment made at last, she turned
to find Geoffrey standing at the door.

Even though he was freshly shaven and looked dashing in a dark business
suit, with a trench coat thrown over his arm, he was obviously
exhausted. But his stance was erect and strong. "You've made your
decision?" he asked, his voice a taut rumble.

She had, and she felt suddenly stronger. Squaring her shoulders in her
most executive pose, she looked at him. "Yes. I'll have to go back to
New York today to break the news and start making arrangements. But I've
made reservations to return here on Saturday." She took a deep, deep
breath, an expression of relief at having reached such a profound
decision. "Your offer is too good to pass up, Geoffrey. Yes, I'll marry
you."

She'd never know just what he'd expected, for his face was a mask of
impenetrable control. "Are you sure?" he asked evenly.

"Yes."

115 "And you'll stay with it for a year?"

"Yes."

Impassively he glanced down at his watch. "I'd like to go up to see
Lizzie for a minute. Then I'll drive you to the airport."

"If you're tired, Cyrus can-"

"I'll be right back." And he was gone.

Within ten minutes they were on their way. What conversation there was
might have been part of a business conference. "If you can bring back an
outline of what you want done, I'll have a crew start work on the
cottage on Monday. Also list what materials you need."

She cast him a sidelong glance. "I know the suppliers. It would be
easier if I ordered directly."

He didn't once take his eyes from the road. "Then be sure to bill me for
everything you buy."

"I will not!" she replied in a burst of indignance. "This is a branch of
my business. My company will foot the bill."

"That's not the deal."

"It is now."

He sighed and flexed his neck. "Great start," he murmured, so softly
that Sara might not have heard had the traffic been heavier. She felt the

116 need to make him understand her feelings. There was so much they
hadn't said before.

"Listen, Jeff," she began, turning slightly in her seat to face him.
"Sara McCray Originals is my baby. I created her, I nourished her and
I'm as proud of her as any parent could be." She saw the slight
narrowing of his eyes but chose to attribute it to a sudden thinning of
the cloud cover. "And part of that pride is the knowledge that the
business is ... independent."

"You mean that Parker Enterprises has no finger in it?"

"I mean that no other company has a finger in it. I want it to stay that
way."

The finality of her words carried them through a period of silence. When
Geoffrey spoke again, though, he was no less firm. "The cottage belongs
to me, Sara. I'm going to insist on doing whatever structural work is
done. You can equip it if you like, but you're going to have to give on
the larger work."

Her lips twitched. "If it's your cottage, I guess I'll have to pay rent
for its use."

"Hell, no! You'll be my wife! Don't forget that."

"There are many husbands and wives who are on each other's payrolls.
What difference is there if I pay you rent?"

With a quick glance over his right shoulder, Geoffrey veered toward the
breakdown lane and

117 came to a full stop. Then he turned to Sara and scowled. "The
difference is my pride, Sara. And I can match you ounce per ounce. You
may consider this marriage a farce, a business deal. But I consider it
something more." Obviously so, if his present intensity was any
indication. "While I'm your husband, I'll take care of you." He held up
a hand when she opened her mouth. "Fine. You handle the everyday
workings of your business. I'm busy enough with my own not to be able to
interfere. But let's get something straight. When it comes to clothing
and food and everyday expenses, I foot the bill."

"But-"

"No buts about it!" His eyes were steel-hard. "I may have been too young
last time to stand up and fight for what I thought was right, but I've
come a long Way since then. I'll respect your pride; you respect mine.
Understood?"

In the face of his vehemence, she sensed that if she shook her head the
entire deal would be off. And with a surprising vehemence of her own,
she knew she didn't want that. In effect, he was being very reasonable.
Swallowing hard, she nodded.

"Good."

That was all he said until they reached the airport. Ignoring Sara's
suggestion that he simply drop her at the terminal, he insisted on parking

118 and waiting with her until it was time for her to board.

"I'll... I'll see you Saturday then?" she asked, turning unsurely to
him. Despite the distance that seemed to have wedged itself between
them, there was still last night. . .

"I'll be here."

She nodded and turned to go, but he caught her arm and held her back.
When she looked questioningly up at him, she saw that his gaze had
softened. And for the first time since she'd agreed to be his wife, it
all seemed real.

"Sunday?" he began, then cleared his throat. "Shall I plan the wedding
for Sunday?"

She felt her insides quiver at that tiny spark in his eye, felt her
throat tighten with emotion. In a silent avowal of her commitment, she
nodded. Then, feeling her arm free once more, she turned and headed for
New York.

119

five

HE WATCHED HER UNTIL SHE DISAPPEARED from view. Then he positioned
himself at a huge window and waited as the plane was readied for
departure. She was leaving-but she'd be back. Half in disbelief, he
slowly shook his head.

He had to hand it to her. She'd come through for him ... again. First
yesterday, then last night, now today. After the way she'd fled in
defeat eight years ago, her acceptance of his proposal was the last
thing he would have imagined once he'd accepted the fact of her return.
It had been a long shot-but he'd been desperate.

His eyes more pensive, he gazed back toward the boarding gate where
they'd parted minutes before. She had looked so very sure of herself
that again he had trouble conjuring the image of the total innocent
she'd been when he'd first met her in Snowmass. Self-assured,
sophisticated- she was that now and more. He could only begin

120 to imagine her as the chairman of the board, the president of her
own company.

An unbidden surge of pride was quickly supplanted by doubt. She'd
changed so drastically since he'd known her last. Would they be able to
make it through the year? According to his plan, there would be weekends
when they'd be in each other's company constantly. Would it be pure
torment, rationalized solely for the child's sake, or might it be
pleasant, as yesterday in its sad way had been, even evolve into something?

He followed the progress of the plane when it glided slowly backward,
edging away from the terminal. What was "something"? What did he want it
to be? Damn it, he just didn't know! He only knew that he'd been torn by
conflict since he'd first seen her yesterday. Admiration and anger,
attraction and resentment, respect and disdain . . . the war continued.

Her business meant everything to her. That much was obvious. His lips
thinned at the irony of it-Sara becoming the kind of person his mother
might have wanted as a daughter-in-law. Once again he wondered if Sara
would be as heartless, as self-centered. She'd been so warm once, so
adoring.

His brooding gaze tracked the plane as it rolled heavily onto the
runway. What was it she'd said, he asked himself, administering a

121 hand to the crick at the back of his neck. She'd called his offer
too good to pass up. It must have been the time limit that had finally
won her over. In that time she might easily establish her business on
the West Coast so that a simple relocation from the cottage to the
city-to any western city-would be a snap. Granted she'd refused the bulk
of his financial aid, but between the cottage and her connections as his
wife, she'd do well.

His eyes narrowing, he watched the plane disappear in preparation for
its final thrust. A negotiated marriage-the last thing in the world he
wanted! There were times when he hoped never to see another conference
room, never to negotiate another deal, never to sign another contract.
Now he'd all but offered to have his lawyer draw up a prenuptial
agreement. Thank heavens she hadn't pushed him to that.

Damn it, but Sara had this way of tying him up in knots. After having
thought never to see her again, to find her here with him ... and she'd
felt so good in his arms last night. But then that had always been the
case. Flesh against flesh they'd never failed one another. It had been
only when they'd dressed again, he in his signature sweaters, she in her
basement bargains, that their worlds had clashed.

He inhaled deeply, drawing himself from the

122 past with the realization that this time they were approaching
marriage on an equal footing. No longer could he picture her young and
impressionable, the pauper of the pair. No longer could he assume she'd
yield to his every wish. Hadn't she proved that no more than thirty
minutes ago with her insistence on the independence of her business?

Sara McCray Originals. Her baby, as she put it. Perhaps that business
was all she needed in life. But, damn it, he cursed as he slammed a palm
against the railing, she'd promised him a year of that life, and a year
was what he'd get! At its end she'd have her West Coast connection and
her freedom. He would have Lizzie. Wasn't that all he wanted?

His eyes dark and faraway, he allowed himself a moment's recollection of
the dreams he'd had once. In Sara he thought he'd found the antidote to
his sterile existence, a woman who embodied the heart and soul his
barren life had lacked. He moaned softly. He'd loved her so-it still
hurt. But it was over.

Over. Beginning again. The key, he firmly told himself, was to expect
nothing. He'd take her for what she was and refuse to let her get to
him. Very sane. Very cool. Very simple.

Standing that much straighter before the window, he caught sight of the
plane as it sped down

123 the runway and lifted nose first off the ground. His jaw set, he
followed the plane until it was no more than a distant silver speck.
Then, drawing energy from a basic reserve, he turned to see to all that
would need to be done before another plane returned her to him on Saturday.

He was standing in nearly the same spot when the plane touched down. At
the loudspeaker announcement he headed for the designated gate, where he
stood and waited, patiently at first, then with mounting worry as the
passengers filtered through without sign of Sara. She wouldn't have
changed her mind, certainly not without having called him, he assured
himself. Then, too, she'd have called if she'd been delayed and had
missed the flight.

With growing unease he shifted his stance. Everything had been arranged;
they were to be married in the morning. Perhaps he should have called
her last night after all, just to verify things. He'd looked at the
phone any number of times until reason had finally won out. If it was a
business deal they'd agreed to, he'd behave with his usual confidence.
Of course she'd be here. Sara McCray Originals hadn't earned the respect
it had with its founder and president missing engagements. And it was a
crowded flight; there were still many passengers to deplane.

124 It seemed an eternity that he stood watching, waiting, wondering how
she'd look, what she'd wear, then berating himself accordingly. By the
time she finally appeared, he was, to his chagrin, far less confident
than that usual business self of his. He took in the neat twist of her
blond hair, her silk blouse and tailored wool pantsuit, her fine leather
purse and much larger shoulder bag, the alpaca coat over her arm. And
then she looked up and he sucked in a ragged breath. She was positively
elegant, walking with such natural grace and every bit of the
self-possession he seemed at that moment to lack. In another situation
he'd have liked nothing better than to be a fly on the wall, watching
her longer, admiring that air of serenity she'd brought with her from
New York. But she was looking for him. And he didn't want to keep her
waiting. Straightening, he moved forward to catch her attention.

She saw him instantly. Her eyes met his; her step faltered, then
continued. By the time she'd reached him she wore the gentlest of
smiles. "Hi, Jeff," she breathed, so softly that he wondered whether
seduction was a normal business ploy of hers. The thought was a timely
reminder of the purpose of their reunion.

"How are you, Sara?" He transferred the bag from her shoulder to his
own, then looked down at her. Damn, but she did look lovely.

125 "Fine," she answered.

Taking her elbow, he guided her from the crowd. "Good flight?"

"Uh-huh." Her smile persisted. He noticed that her lips were freshly
glossed, her cheeks just pink enough, her eyes neatly lined with a
smudge of charcoal.

"You must have had to get up at dawn. Are you tired?"

She shook her head. "I managed to sleep some on the plane. I guess I'd
better get used to doing that."

A swift pang of guilt shot through him. What he'd asked her to do-to
commute between coasts-was apt to be a strain on her. He'd just have to
make sure she got enough rest on the weekends.

"Uh . . . you do have another bag this time, don't you?"

Her laugh was little more than an apologetic tinkle. "I'll say. It's
pretty big; they insisted I check it. I usually try for just carry-ons,
but ... well, I thought I ought to leave as many things as possible here."

"No problem," he assured her placidly. There was no rush. No rush at
all. They had a full year, beginning tomorrow.

126 The wedding was nearly as simple an affair as the one that had taken
place ten years before. The bride and groom were the same, as was the
wide gold band that Geoffrey placed on Sara's finger. There, though, the
similarities ended.

The brief ceremony took place in the library. It was poetic justice,
Sara had mused when Geoffrey led her there. Could Cecelia Parker see
them now, or was that shaking of the floor nothing more than the
trembling of her own knees?

Geoffrey stood by her side, looking positively handsome, dressed in a
navy suit that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the tapering
of his body to a lean width of hip. His shirt was white and crisp, his
tie a bold crimson-andgray stripe. In Sara's biased view he seemed
taller, more stately than ever. And she felt a kind of visceral
anticipation at the thought of his being her husband again.

The judge who married them was a friend of Geoffrey's, a man whose vague
familiarity with the facts of the situation dictated his gravity.
Standing in witness to the event were the chauffeur and the housekeeper.
And in one corner of the large leather sofa, being carefully watched by
her nurse, was Lizzie, whose child-size realm of attention went little
further than the fluffy stuffed kitten Sara had brought her from New
York. More so than anything else, the child's

127 presence was silent testimony to the uniqueness of the circumstances.

In her hand Sara carried the single white rose Geoffrey had given her
when she'd reached the bottom of that long winding staircase. She held
it gingerly, mindful of its thorns, its symbolism far from lost on her.

She wore a blue silk dress that she'd bought the day before and looked
stunning by any standards. Its deep V neck, long sleeves and sashedin
waist molded her gentle curves to perfection. At her ears were gold drop
earrings embedded with sapphires, at her throat a matching choker. They
were Sara McCray Originals, as was the ring she'd given to Geoffrey.

Until the moment she finally slipped it on his finger, she hadn't quite
believed he'd wear it. He'd never worn a wedding band the first time
around; he'd never worn rings, period. She had sketched the design on
the flight back from San Francisco, had set her finest goldsmith to work
on it the very next morning. And she'd been pleased with the outcome: a
very masculine band of gold into which was hammered a pattern of subtly
intertwining ridges. Only when she'd broached the subject to Geoffrey
had she had doubts.

It had been the afternoon before. They'd gone straight from the airport
to the house to spend

128 time with the baby, then at Geoffrey's firm suggestion had headed
into town to shop. Over her vocal protest, he'd insisted on buying her
half a wardrobe to complement that other half in New York and eliminate
the need of her carrying much of anything back and forth on the plane.
Only when the trunk of the Mercedes was filled had he allowed her to
stop, taking her for a light snack in Ghirardelli Square.

It was the first free time they'd had to sit and talk. Geoffrey had
taken the opportunity to outline the plans he'd made for the wedding.
When he brought up the issue of the wedding band that he'd had in his
possession since she'd removed it from her finger eight years before,
she took advantage of the opening.

"Jeff ... I ... I'd like to give you a ring."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. "A ring?"

"A wedding band." She held her breath, pending his response. But if he'd
been taken by surprise, he quickly regained control.

"That's a-novel idea." His half-grimace said little.

"Many men wear them. And I just thought you might... I mean ..."
Whatever the reasons, she wanted him to have something she'd created,
but she couldn't say it quite that bluntly. "What I'm trying to say,"
she resumed with a sigh, "is

129 that if this is a marriage for show, we might as well do it right.
All the trimmings, so to speak."

He stared hard at her. "What's right for the goose, is that it?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed, then caught herself and met his gaze
head-on. If he could be hard, so could she. "But now that you mention
it, you've got a point. If you expect me to wear a wedding band, surely
you won't object to wearing one yourself."

"You never asked me to wear one the first time."

"It didn't occur to me then. Things are different now." Quite. She
paused. "Well?" she asked more quietly, trying to hide how much it
mattered to her.

His voice, too, had gentled. "Is it one of yours?"

"Yes." She lowered her eyes to fidget with a spoon. "I designed it for
you after I-after we reached our . . . agreement."

"Then I guess I have no choice, do I? I can't very well turn down an
original."

Had there been mockery in his voice, she might have happily spilled her
vanilla frappe over his dark gray gabardine slacks. But there was
nothing unkind in his tone, though she couldn't tell whether he was
actually pleased or

130 simply being conciliatory. Either way, she was satisfied.

Now, as she looked down at their intertwined hands, she was even more
so. The ring was perfect for him, heavy enough to exalt his masculinity,
light enough to bear a strange thread of optimism. Rather than being a
symbol of servitude, it was a tribute to their union.

"You may kiss the bride, Geoffrey."

The judge's words took them both by surprise. Both pairs of eyes darted
from their hands to a higher meeting point. Then Geoffrey lowered his
head and kissed Sara with such slow gentleness that she felt every bit
the new bride. It was ridiculous, she told herself, but there was a
sense of excitement, an unexpected lump in her throat ...

Then there was champagne and caviar to go around, and an equally
unexpected toast offered by the judge. Looking from bride to groom, he
raised his glass. "To the fulfillment of your dreams-separately, together."

Not daring to look at Geoffrey for fear her own dreams were etched in
her gaze, Sara softly thanked the judge and sipped her champagne. It was
only later, after Lizzie had been fed, played with and put in for her
nap, when she and Geoffrey were alone at last in the large dining room

131 awaiting a wedding luncheon, that she commented.

"Judge Symmes was very . . . thoughtful."

"He's been a friend for years."

"How much did you tell him?"

"He knows that we were married before and that we want to adopt Lizzie,
but that's about all."

"Did he know Alex?"

Geoffrey nodded more sadly. "He knew them both."

Mrs. Fleming appeared with a tureen filled with a delicately spiced
acorn squash soup, which she proceeded to ladle into waiting soup bowls.
Sara watched distractedly, thinking once more of Alex and Diane, hoping
she'd made the right decision regarding their child. When the
housekeeper had vanished once more, she spoke her thoughts.

"What does he think of the adoption?"

"He approves."

"Does he think we'll have any trouble?"

Geoffrey looked up from his soup. "Why should we? For all outward
purposes we're the ideal couple. We've got our youth, our fortunes and
plenty of love for that child."

"But the marriage-won't its suddenness tip somebody off?"

He denied the probability with a facetious

132 shrug. "The story is heart-rending, when you stop to consider it. We
were married once when we were very young, we split up to give each
other time to grow, and now, brought together by our mutual grief, we've
decided that we need each other desperately." He paused for a second to
cast her a keen eye. "No one will know any differently."

"Except us, of course," she prompted. It seemed important to remind
herself that this wasn't a storybook romance.

"Of course," he echoed wryly, then turned his attention to his soup. He
looked up again only when Sara called his name.

"Jeff? What about the adoption?" She knew so little about the procedure
and what would be expected of her. When she'd agreed to marry Jeff her
mind had been on other things. "What does it entail? What will we have
to do?"

He studied the gently waving pattern of his soup as he moved his spoon
through it. "Technically Lizzie is a ward of the state right now. I've
already had a lawyer file papers for temporary guardianship. What we
have to do next is apply for the actual adoption."

"It's all done through the courts?"

Glancing up, he caught her note of apprehension and seasoned his voice
with a corresponding dash of reassurance. "Yes. There will be a

133 slew of forms that we'll have to fill out. And there'll be
interviews with social workers. The attorney I've hired is a specialist
in family law. He'll try to expedite things as much as possible, but
there's only so much he can do. The courts won't rush into this kind of
thing." His lips formed a twist of sarcasm. "It's that
ninemonths-to-grow-it philosophy."

"I see," she said, averting her eyes. She wondered if he wasn't thinking
again that she hadn't wanted children, then wondered whether she wasn't
just feeling guilty. Guilty? Was it her fault that something had gone
awry in her body? But that was inconsequential now. It looked as though,
for the year at least, she'd actually have a child. Legally, once the
adoption went through, she would be Lizzie's mother.

Geoffrey's deep voice broke into her reverie. "Thanks for the gift you
brought her, Sara. It was sweet of you."

"It was nothing."

"That's not true. You didn't have to get her anything. I know how busy
you are."

"Really, Jeff, it was nothing."

But he seemed to be gaining momentum en route to making a point. His
eyes grew more intense; his brows lowered to narrow their beam. "This is
a marriage on paper. I want you to know that I don't expect anything of
you other

134 than your physical presence here and there, and your cooperation
when it comes to the forms and interviews."

Sara felt clearly wounded. "Such romantic talk . . . and on our wedding
day, no less."

Her defensive humor didn't amuse him. The squash soup was forgotten. "I
mean it, Sara. I'm trying to be fair. You've got your life and it's a
demanding one. Just as long as I get Lizzie-"

His words died in the face of her appalled expression. "What kind of
hard-hearted person do you take me for?" she cried, leaning further away
from him. "Can't you give me credit for feeling something when I look at
that child? I'm not inhuman, you know. Don't you think 1 enjoyed buying
her that kitten?"

"I don't know. Did you? I suppose F.A.O. Schwarz is on the way to
Cartier's."

Unable to believe his callousness, Sara gasped. Unable to find a
suitably acid retort, she bit her lip. Unable to still the fine tremor
in her limbs, she held to the arms of her chair for steadiness, all the
while wondering if this was an omen of things to come. Feeling suddenly
chilled, she transferred her grip to her middle. Then, quickly gathering
her thoughts, she spoke quietly, slowly, in amazing control.

"There's something you obviously don't understand, Geoffrey. In two
years of marriage to

135 you I had it to here"-she made a slice at the tip of her nose-"with
doing things that were expected of me. When I left you I vowed to live
life the way / wanted. And that's the way it's been since. If you
interpret that as selfishness, that's your choice. But I don't see it
that way." Breathing hard under the strain of control, she paused for
breath. Her own eyes narrowed in anger. "The way / see it is that I'm a
free woman-free to do and feel according to my own conscience. When I
agreed to marry you it was my free choice to make. Same thing when I
agreed to be a mother to Lizzie. If I want to buy something for her, I
will. If I want to take her out for a walk, / will. And while we're on
the subject, I have every intention of redecorating that room! Lizzie
needs a child's room, with bright colors and pictures and mobiles and
toys to stimulate her."

"I'll see to that."

Her eyes widened in rebuke. "/ will!"

"When?" he growled. "You'll be in New York most of the time."

"You were the one who talked of how simple it would be, with jet planes
and telephones and all," she mocked, but more gently now as her anger
mixed with perplexity. Geoffrey expected the worst of her. Why? "I can
do it. I want to do it." She paused, then asked softly, "Isn't it a
mother's prerogative?"

136 Her words hung in the air. Geoffrey stared at her in confusion.
Confusion? In turn, Sara couldn't understand that. Finally, deadlocked,
they averted their eyes and quietly finished the soup. Responding on
cue, Mrs. Fleming cleared the dishes, only to return moments later with
salads for them both.

Sara stared at the carefully arranged assortment of greens for a minute,
reached for the smaller, outer fork of two to the left of plate, then
chuckled. "This brings back memories." She looked up and around the
elegant room. "For years the mere thought of this room was enough to
kill my appetite. I'll never forget my first meal here." She shook her
head. "Pure terror. There was so much I didn't know."

"It wasn't your fault," came the deep reply.

"No, but that was small solace for my humiliation. I had no way of
knowing that this," she raised the small fork, "was for salad while the
other was for the main course. We didn't learn these things back home."

"You covered up very well."

She shot him a punishing glance. "After that first debacle. By then the
damage was done."

"It wasn't that bad."

"Not to you. You weren't the one whose ego was being torn to shreds."

"No," he mused pensively, then lapsed into

137 silence. He, too, remembered that first meal. He'd known of her
tension and had done whatever he could to ease it. Why had it mattered
which fork she'd used? She'd been polite and well-spoken, had done her
best to conform to what the others were doing. But his mother had made
it a point to embarrass her. Oh, he remembered it well. Even the fact
that the older woman was gone now did nothing to mitigate his anger.

"Well," Sara began on a more positive note, "you can rest assured I know
what to do this time. I've studied all the proper books, apprenticed
with all the proper people. This time around your mother would have been
proud-"

"That's enough!" Geoffrey exploded, causing her to jump at the
unexpected strength of his response. But he quickly controlled his
reaction, knowing it to be misdirected. "I never questioned your ability
on that score, and I have no intention of doing so now." He cleared his
throat and sighed to signal the end of that particular discussion. "What
I would like to know is what happened in New York."

It took Sara a minute to shift gears. "In New York?"

"You did break the news to your people there, didn't you?" When she
nodded, he went quickly on. "How did they take it?"

She took a bite of romaine lettuce, chewing it

138 as she recalled that first bombshell of a meeting at which she'd
faced her fellow executive officers. She'd called an impromptu meeting
of the board for the following day. The reactions were the same. "They
were . . . shocked."

"Was that good or bad?"

"Let's just say that it was awkward for a while there." Awkward; she was
becoming a pro at handling awkward. Lately it had seemed her shadow.

"Why?" he asked, genuinely interested.

She noted the way his lips had relaxed at last, recalled how gently
they'd kissed her, tore herself from that thought to the present with a
silent scold. "It's a change-a big one. They were bound to feel threatened."

"Exactly what did you tell them?"

"I told them that I was going to open a branch in San Francisco, and
that I'd be commuting back and forth."

He arched a brow. "You didn't say you'd be married?"

Feeling distinctly cowardly, she frowned and studied the bright shine of
her fingernails. "I ... I thought I'd wait until tomorrow."

"Why, Sara? Why didn't you tell them at the start?"

Mrs. Fleming's appearance couldn't have been better timed from Sara's
point of view. It gave

139 her an added minute to come up with an excuse. Unfortunately she
needed more than the time it took to replace the remains of salad with
matching platters of filet mignon, fresh broccoli with hollandaise sauce
and wild rice. When she and Geoffrey were alone once more, she was as
much at a loss as she'd been before.

"This is beautiful," she began with a speculative eye on the new
presentation. "Mrs. Fleming is a wonder-"

But Geoffrey would have no part of her diversionary tactic. "Why didn't
you tell them, Sara?"

She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "To be very honest, I
wasn't up to going into detail. There was enough of an immediate nature
that had to be done. And they had scores of questions even without my
mentioning our marriage."

His mind had begun to sort things out. "They don't know that you were
married once."

"No."

"And you didn't want to tell them?"

"It's irrelevant. These are my business associates. Much as I value
their friendships as well, I try to keep my private life private."

"But you will tell them . . ." He seemed strangely unsure, in turn
evoking Sara's reassurance.

"Yes. 1 will tell them." She straightened her left

140 hand and studied the wide gold band on that finger that had been
bare for so long. "They'd be bound to notice, anyway. I never wear rings."

He eyed her dubiously. "You're kidding." Her simple head shake failed to
settle the matter. "You mean that you make them all the time but never
wear them yourself?"

"Earrings, necklaces, bracelets-yes. Rings- no."

"Does it bother you to wear that one?" He shot a glance at the gold band
in question.

Sara followed his gaze. It was precisely because of that one, its memory
and significance, that she'd never worn another ring. She wiggled the
finger as if testing its weight. "It may take a little getting used to,
but no, it doesn't bother me. Wedding bands are . . . different."

Her voice was soft, her eyes wider when Geoffrey looked back at her. For
an instant he seemed mesmerized by something, then he shifted his sights
to his own hand. "Thank you, Sara. I like the ring very much."

When he looked up, she caught her breath. He was her
husband-devastatingly handsome- and the attraction between them was as
strong as ever. A simple look from him and she relived the passion
they'd shared. Her pulse raced, and her cheeks flushed. And she wondered
what

141 would happen this night. It was the only thing they hadn't settled.

But Geoffrey was reluctant to remedy that now. With a deep breath he sat
back. "Tell me about the plans you've made for the office here," he
ordered quietly.

She didn't fight him. When it came to Sara McCray Originals, she was on
the safest ground possible. As they ate she told him of the meetings
she'd held in New York, the input she'd received from her staff, the
preliminary plans she'd made. He, in turn and to her pleasure, offered
several valuable suggestions regarding the best way to approach the San
Francisco community.

For the first time that day they both relaxed. For Sara it was a welcome
change from the previous days of soul searching, of doubts and second
thoughts. Sitting there talking in perfect harmony with her husband, she
could almost believe it was for real. And to be dealing with Jeff on a
par-to have him dealing with her as an equal-it was nearly as heady an
experience as those more physical ones they'd shared.

Then, from somewhere in the area of the stairs, Lizzie cried. With a
look of alarm Geoffrey rose from his chair and headed toward the hall,
with Sara close on his heels.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Parker," Caryn apologized

142 quickly. A squirming Lizzie, with her kitten in one arm, put out the
other to Geoffrey, who took her readily. "I hope we didn't interrupt
your dinner. But she was fussing. I thought I'd take her out for a
walk." A pint-size pink parka lay over the nurse's arm.

Geoffrey feigned a frown for the child. "And what's this all about?" he
asked in gentle chiding. "Fussing? I thought you were supposed to be
sleeping?" He glanced at Caryn. "Did she sleep at all?"

The nurse nodded. "For a few minutes."

The look he favored Lizzie with was decidedly indulgent. "Considering
it's a special day, that'll just have to do. How about some dessert?"
Turning, he carried her back to the dining room. "Why don't you take
some time to yourself, Caryn," he called over his shoulder. "We'll take
her out with us for a little while. Plan to be back in time for supper."

"Thank you, Mr. Parker. I'll leave her coat here."

Nodding, Geoffrey turned to Sara. "Does that sound all right to you?"

Given the underlying purpose of the marriage, nothing could have been
more appropriate- and appealing. Lizzie looked adorable, peaceful now
that she'd found a familiar haven in Geoffrey's arms. Sara knew the
feeling but banished

143 it as she reached to smooth down the back of Lizzie's pink corduroy
overalls. Even the fleeting touch was a poignant reminder of the child's
fragility. It struck a deeply maternal chord.

"Sounds fine," Sara answered with genuine enthusiasm. Then she turned to
slip back into her chair. "There's only one problem."

"Oh? What's that?" He'd settled into his own chair, with Lizzie held
firmly on his lap.

Her lips curving at the corners, Sara eyed the dessert that, in the
interim, Mrs. Fleming had served. One small bite confirmed her
suspicion. "Just as I thought. This masterpiece happens to be a very
delicious but potent strawberry rum cake. Unless you want a tipsy baby-"

"Mrs. Fleming!"

Within minutes a dish of strawberry ice cream sat beside Geoffrey's rum
cake, and he proceeded to direct alternate spoonfuls, one to the child,
one to himself. It was a heart-warming sight, suffusing Sara with
abundant satisfaction. The two were so obviously pleased with one
another. Aside from the occasional glance at Sara and one or two
endearing moments when the child held her kitten out in Sara's direction
before crushing it back to her chest, Lizzie's attention was solely
devoted to Jeff. Indeed, Sara might have felt left out had not Jeff been
determined that that shouldn't happen.

144 "Here," he announced when both plates were empty and he'd finished
wiping strawberry dribbles from Lizzie's chin, "why don't you take
Lizzie with you while you change. Put on something casual and warm.
We'll take a drive and then stop somewhere to walk around. Okay?"

Sara lowered her voice to a near-whisper. "She's apt to be afraid of me,
Jeff."

"Nonsense." He looked gently down. "You're not afraid of Sara, are you,
Lizzie?" The child looked her way somewhat skeptically. "Of course not!
Anyone who makes a special stop for fluffy little kittens can't be all
bad." Taking the kitten, he bobbed it against the child's nose. Tickled,
she gave a giggle. It was the first time Sara had heard her laugh. The
sound was precious.

"There, now." He transferred the child to Sara's arms before either
could protest. "She'll be fine sitting on the floor in your room while
you change. And then we can go."

He seemed to have it all worked out. But he was a man. What did he know!
"Uh . . . Jeff?"

"Uh-huh?" He'd already started for the door.

"Shouldn't we bring something with us? I mean, a bottle, a diaper bag,
something?" It was the blind leading the blind, though not quite the
usual wedding day jitters.

Geoffrey frowned and rubbed the back of his

145 neck. Finally he looked up with a mischievous smile on his face. And
that dimple ... oh, that dimple. "That sounds great, Sara. 1 knew I
could count on you. In the hall in twenty minutes?" Leaning forward, he
popped a kiss on her forehead, then one on the baby's, before vanishing.

Sara stared after him, then stared down at this child who was suddenly
in her keeping. The little girl stared back, her eyes wide, her small
face registering apprehension. It was enough to jolt Sara to life.

"Well, then," she breathed, holding her warm bundle more comfortably,
"it looks like it's you and me, for a couple of minutes at least." Her
voice continued in its soft, calming lilt as she slowly walked toward
the stairs. "What do you think, Lizzie-shall it be wool slacks or jeans?"

It was wool slacks, in deference to the day's special event. It was also
closer to thirty minutes before the two made their way downstairs again.
One look at Lizzie's bag on Sara's shoulder and the lightweight snowsuit
on Lizzie herself and Geoffrey knew enough not to complain. Further
looks at the apparently calm expressions on both the child's face and
Sara's and he was privately thrilled. If they were happy that was half
the battle.

As it happened, the afternoon was a pleasure all around. Geoffrey took
the larger car, safely

146 strapping Lizzie into her seat in back, stowing her stroller in the
trunk. After a leisurely drive into the city they parked, then meandered
along Pier 39 munching on chocolate chip cookies while admiring shops,
street entertainers, even their fellow meanderers. For a mid-November
day, the air off the bay was particularly chilly. Sara was glad she'd
thought to put the baby in her snowsuit rather than the shorter parka
Caryn had left out. Her own hands were cold, much as she tried to warm
them in her pockets. When Geoffrey released the stroller handle long
enough to snag the hand closest to him and tuck it into his larger
pocket, she was grateful. The small gesture warmed her in more ways than
one.

They were a family: father, mother, child. Sara couldn't help but stare
at their reflection each time they passed a window. It seemed
simultaneously real and unreal, so hard to believe yet nearly a fact.
Geoffrey pushed the stroller; she kept easy pace close by his side.
Lizzie was satisfied to be entertained by the sights around her, looking
back only occasionally to assure herself of a familiar face.

"She adores you, Jeff," Sara commented on impulse after one such
endearing twist. "I think you've made the right decision to go ahead
with the adoption."

147 "I know I have," he replied quietly. They walked further before Sara
ventured to break the companionable silence once more.

"What do you think goes on in that little mind of hers? Do you think she
ever expects to see Alex when she looks back at you that way?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "We'll never know for sure. In time she'll forget,
although I don't totally want that either. When she's old enough to
understand, I want her to know everything possible about Alex and Diane.
I may be against her being raised by either of their families, but I
certainly want her to come to know them. I don't think they'll argue
with that."

"They've been in touch with you, haven't they?"

"Oh, yes." He sighed suggestively.

"Trouble?"

"I'm not sure. They were hesitant when I told them I intended to adopt her."

"Hesitant? You mean negative?"

"They felt that my simply being designated Lizzie's legal guardian would
have the same end result." A like thought had crossed Sara's mind, only
to be struck from it for the very reason Geoffrey proceeded to voice.
"But I want her to have the best of everything. I want her to have
parents. Not to mention the fact that /want her."

It was the last thought, tacked on in a lower,

148 more moving tone, that gave Sara pause. It was obvious he did want a
child, and that he was eager to devote himself to one. This lovely
Sunday afternoon outing seemed to please him as much as it did her.
Still, it puzzled her that if he'd wanted a child that badly, he'd not
remarried and had one. But then, she reasoned, he now had the best of
both worlds. He'd more or less said it once before. He had the joy of
the child forever, with the burden of a wife for only a year. One year;
then he'd be free to dote on Lizzie to his heart's content.

Feeling momentarily excluded from the twosome's warmth, Sara wondered
once again whether things might indeed have been different had they had
a child of their own. But no, their marriage had been a horror then, far
too rocky to allow for a child. Hard to believe that they were the same
couple, walking so peacefully now with this child. Was it the child who
brought the peace? Or had the adults simply grown up?

The question returned to her mind with persistent regularity as the
afternoon passed. It popped up during the return drive home, resurfaced
again during their own light dinner later, seemed to linger prominently
when they settled in the downstairs den before a bright birch fire, each
in a corner of the plum velour sofa. The distance between them at that
moment seemed

149 huge. Had they grown up, or would that distance persist? Was there
anything to bring them together?

Sara had only to look at Geoffrey to know the answer to that. She felt
it in the sharpening of her senses, the quickening of her pulse. He was
as virilely appealing a man as she'd ever seen, and she wanted him.

But his face was drawn, his eyes lost in the hypnotic blaze before them.
For all practical purposes she didn't exist. Practical. She bandied the
word about in her mind as she too stared into the fire. Were warmth and
need and caring practical? Was love?

Her serving as Geoffrey's wife for the sake of the adoption proceedings
was practical. His offering to help introduce her business to the West
Coast was practical. Even their taking little Lizzie for a stroll was in
its own way practical.

But what about making love; the ache that had been slowly building,
slowly building all day; the hollow she felt now, that only he could
fill? What about that? Where did that fit into Geoffrey's neat little plan?

The hours that passed were filled with inner torment for Sara. She
glanced at Jeff; she looked back at the fire. She wanted to speak; she
bit her tongue. She stretched her feet toward the fire; she curled them
up beneath her. She went

150 through every justification for inching closer to her husband, yet
she stayed firmly rooted in her corner.

Through it all Geoffrey sat in a state of complete preoccupation,
managing to look distant and divine at the same time. Was that the
allure, she wondered, the fact that he seemed unreachable? Or was it the
long, strong stretch of legs sheathed in tan corduroy, the magnificence
of a torso molded snugly in black wool, the textured hint of a forearm
where that sweater was pushed back? Or was it the eyes, dark and
brooding; the jaw, firm and straight; the hair, thick and black and
falling rakishly forward?

Whatever it was, she found it devastating. When she felt she couldn't
bear any more, she struggled at last from her corner. But rather than
moving toward Geoffrey, she took a step toward the door.

"I... I think I'll go up," she murmured without looking at him. "I'm
exhausted." Her bed was waiting in the room she'd used last night, the
same one, in the guest wing, in which they'd made such explosive love on
the night of the funeral. Though she'd waited all day for his cue,
Geoffrey had said nothing about her joining him in the master bedroom.

Perhaps he was waiting for her cue. After all, theirs was a marriage of
verbal agreements. But

151 she couldn't speak, couldn't talk of her needs, couldn't beg him for
something he might not want. No, she vowed with a sigh as she took
another step, then another, as liberated as she'd become over the years,
it would still have to be his initiative.

Discouraged, she reached the threshold. Only then did he speak.

152

SIX

SARA?"

She stopped still, her heart pounding. "Yes?" She didn't turn, simply
stood with her head bowed.

"Sara . . ." His voice was closer this time. She felt his physical
presence immediately behind her. Then his hands took her shoulders and
turned her gently.

When she met his gaze, it robbed her of breath. His eyes were dark and
deep, yet dangerously alight with desire. Did he, too, feel it then? Did
he, too, accept the insanity of their being together without. . . being
together?

His hands began a gentle caress of her shoulders while his eyes traced a
searing path over the softness of her features. By the time they reached
her mouth, Sara felt the heat of him burning into her.

Their lips met at some midway point, touching

153 lightly, then pressing harder, slanting and opening as the kiss
deepened, then drawing apart for a gasping breath. For a moment Geoffrey
looked angry, as if he was furious at himself for having yielded to her
lure. Sara, unable to bear his resentment, reached up to touch his face,
to smooth away the marks of his ire.

Oh, yes, he wanted her. She could feel it in the tension of him, in the
labored working of his lungs, in the heat of his skin. Coiling her hands
around his neck, she stood on tiptoe and brought herself higher, closer.
She sampled his lips, nibbling at the lower one until she found the
opening she wanted to kiss him fully. The tightening of his arms about
her back was a victory, as was the feel of his solid length against her.

He was her husband. His lovemaking was her right, her privilege. And she
gloried in it. His quiet sigh as he trailed his lips across her cheek
and buried them against her neck was sheer heaven. The strength of the
hands that caressed her back, that held her up when her knees weakened,
was pure bliss.

But what emerged as impassioned ardor to Sara's love-starved heart
entailed its share of conflict for Geoffrey. He hadn't planned on doing
this. Without love, she'd said. It stung each time he recalled her
words. No, he'd promised himself he'd keep his distance, but she was so
warm,

154 so attractive, so damn feminine. And she wanted him. She'd left no
doubt as to that with her soft urgings. She wanted him. Without love?
Was this what she was accustomed to? Had her life without him been
dotted with flings for the pure physical satisfaction of it?

In an attempt to regain his senses, he held her back. But her warm brown
eyes melted him, and her lips parted in such sweet invitation that he
couldn't resist. He was only human, for God's sake! How long could he
bear the torment? It had been bad enough thinking of her all week,
recalling her body as it had responded to his and anticipating her
return. Then today she'd looked beautiful at the wedding, carrying the
white rose he'd given her. How he'd like to see her naked carrying that
rose.

His arousal heightened part by dream, part by reality, his lips seized
hers greedily. He couldn't seem to get enough of her, devouring her
tongue and the deepest recesses of her mouth, feeling her response as a
hot and fiery thing. Just a little more, he told himself, just a little
more . . .

"Take me to bed," Sara whispered, finally abandoning all hesitancy to
yield to the burning need within. "Please, Jeff. I want you so ..." Her
words trailed off against the line of his jaw. She felt him stiffen but
was too emotionally tangled

155 to think anything of it beyond a taut-held control.

It was that, too. At her soft, soulful plea, Geoffrey would have gladly
taken her there and then, with the velour sofa as their bed and the
crackling fire as an erotic accompaniment. Without love? Did he want
that? Lord only knew he'd had his fill of empty encounters over the
years. Could this be empty with Sara? Maybe on her part-after all, he'd
all but bribed her to marry him.

But his body was against any lofty sights he might have held. If she
wanted him, he wanted her no less. Perhaps if he simply touched her,
tested her warmth a little longer . . .

She made no protest when he slipped his hand beneath her knees and
lifted her. With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, she buried
her face against its warm column and inhaled his musky scent. He was all
man. Her body tingled with this knowledge as he carried her down the
hall and up the stairs. Her eyes closed, she let her senses savor the
anticipation. His footsteps were firm and sure. She trusted him. It
wasn't until he'd laid her gently on the bed and reached to switch on
the lamp that she realized where she was: not his room but hers. She
looked up at him questioningly when he came to lean over her.

156 Arms straightened and propped on fists, he held himself away as long
as he could. He'd kiss her again, he decided-one long, lingering
kiss-and then he'd leave her to her loveless dreams. But as he lowered
his head, she reached for him, and, responding against his better
judgment, he found himself sitting on the bed, cradling her pliant body.
Her lips were so very soft, answering his every move with one of their
own. One kiss. He'd let it drag on a little longer . . .

To Sara the moment was exquisite. The tension in Jeff only enhanced her
excitement, in turn eliciting even greater response from him. When his
arms began a restless roving of her back, she arched closer, seeking the
same heightened contact he did. Their bodies were well in tune,
harmonizing ecstatically. Her hands defined the manly swell of his
shoulders; his hands ran along her sides from hip to arm. And all the
while their lips clung with strange desperation.

One kiss, and to touch her for a minute-that was all he wanted. Lowering
her slowly to the bed, Geoffrey framed her face with his hands, then
drew them down the graceful line of her neck to her throat. He could
feel the rapid thud of her heart, see in her face the level of arousal
to which he'd driven her. His upper arms bore the brand of her whitened
fingers, while his own

157 worked one after the other on the buttons of her blouse. He kissed
her again one more time as he spread the fine fabric, then drew back to
look at her.

"Oh, Sara," he breathed hoarsely. His hands moved over her, shaping her
breasts to his palms. The lace of her bra was as delicate as she, its
silken cup nearly as smooth as her skin. Leaning forward, he touched his
lips to those upper curves. Her swelling urged him on, as did her
throaty words of desire.

"That's it, Jeff ... yes . . ." Threading her fingers through his hair,
she held him even closer. At that moment they were well and truly
married. Anything and everything of hers she wanted him to have. That it
happened to be her body mattered little. The joy was in the giving,
wholly and irrevocably.

Feeling himself beginning to lose control, Geoffrey tried to pull back.
But his bodily impulses easily overpowered those from his brain. His
lips only moved lower, hungering for the softness of her breast. And
then there were her hands, slipping seductively beneath his sweater. His
skin burned at her touch. Helplessly he yearned for more; indulgently he
granted himself another minute.

Sara gasped in excitement when he deftly unhooked her bra. She felt the
coolness of the air,

158 then an incredible warmth with the return of his hands to her body.
His fingers traced her fullness, rounding her breasts and moving in
gently exploratory circles, each smaller than the one before, each
moving closer to the erotic touchpoint of her nipple.

"Please . . ." She gave an urgent whisper and was rewarded when the firm
pads of his thumbs stroked those hardened points. She bit her lip at the
current that surged through her, closing her eyes at the intensity,
clasping his arms all the harder. His muscles flexed at her touch, but
she barely knew that. Nor did she see the shadow of anxiety cross his face.

Enough, he told himself, but his hands continued their intimate caress,
seeming magnetically drawn to her ivory flesh. Leaning forward, he
kissed one nipple lightly ... just once ... but it was only a crumb to a
man starving for this particular sweet. Another kiss. He moved his
tongue over the pebbled peak. He opened his mouth and took it in fully.
How could he possibly stop when she cried so softly to him to go on?

And he wanted more, as did she. With a gentle nudge she urged him back,
sitting up before him to tug off his black sweater. Beneath it, the
firmness of his chest was warm and waiting. She touched it in wonder and
felt him shudder.

"Sara ..." he rasped in warning, but the warning

159 was self-directed. His entire body felt afire. Before long he'd be
unable to think of anything beyond burying himself in her once more.
"Sara, no . . ." Taking her wrists, he forced her hands from his chest.
"That's enough."

Her eyes widened in alarm, her voice little more than a ragged rasp.
"What's wrong, Jeff?"

"This isn't what I intended when I asked you to marry me."

"What?" Surfacing from the hazy realm of passion, she couldn't seem to
understand him.

He gritted his teeth, as much against the lure of her helplessness as
against his own frustration. "I said that this has gone far enough." She
continued to stare uncomprehendingly. "We've got to stop."

"You're my husband, Jeff!"

"On paper-and for the benefit of the courts. We made a deal. You get
your West Coast branch, I get a wife for a year." He spoke quickly,
drumming the thoughts into his own head. "Outward appearances are the
important thing. I didn't bargain on ... this." What he hadn't bargained
on was wanting her as badly as he did. In truth, he was amazed he'd been
able to stop when he had.

"But you were the one who talked about how good it was-"

160 "And you talked about how phony it would be," he spat back.

"Jeff..." she tried to protest, but he released her wrists and stood, in
complete control of himself at last.

"No, Sara." The set of his jaw brooked no argument. "You were right. I
can wait. Besides, you've got a very early plane to catch. I think you'd
better get what sleep you can. You have a long trip in front of you."
Snatching up his sweater, he turned his back on her, leaving only a
broad expanse of tanned flesh to her view, then nothing at all.

With the slamming of the door she began to tremble in a way that had
nothing to do with passion and everything to do with despair. Her own
words, cried out in a moment of weakness, had come back to haunt her. It
was small solace that he seemed bent on respecting her claim that
without love, the act of making love would be empty. It was small solace
when she loved him so. She always had; she always would. She'd loved him
from that first week in Snowmass, even through the two downhill years of
their marriage, yes, even through eight years of separation. Why else
would she have agreed to his second marriage proposal but to be with him?

Without love, the act of making love would be phony. But she'd been
referring to him! He was

161 the one whose emotional involvement fell short, not her!

He could wait, he'd just said. Wait-until the year was up and he was
free to satisfy his ache with another? For he'd wanted her. She was sure
of that. And she could satisfy him; of that, too, she was sure. But a
year of frustration? Was that what he'd bargained for? Was that what she
faced?

It was as she'd feared on the night of the funeral. One reminder of how
well their bodies meshed and she wanted him again. And it would
continue, as it had so many years before. Six months after their
original marriage, she'd known it was doomed. But she'd stuck it out.
Why? Because she'd loved him and had been unable to bear the thought of
letting him go. Her eventual decision to leave had been made only when
the marriage itself had become unbearable, when she'd come to the
realization that if she was to survive as a human being, she needed to
shed the Parker cloak.

Now, though, the situation was different. She was a human being with an
independent life. Yet she'd promised him a year-indeed, she wanted that
year. But was there hope? Could she dare to wonder whether it might be
possible to capture what they'd had once in a private bungalow in

162 Snowmass? She didn't know. She just didn't know!

The night brought little sleep and even fewer answers. When she finally
dragged herself from bed Monday morning, she was glad to be done with
the endless equivocating. What she didn't count on was the tug at her
heart when she gently kissed Lizzie good-bye, or the pregnant silence
that permeated Geoffrey's small car during the drive to the airport.
Having left all but her handbag behind at the house, she again protested
that he needn't wait with her. Again he overruled her. This time,
though, there seemed a reason for his wait. With a hand lightly at her
back, he guided her to a pair of chairs away from the central gathering
of travelers. Once she was comfortably seated, he slid down beside her.
When he finally spoke, low and for her ears alone, she wasn't surprised
at his choice of subject.

"Sara, about last night-"

"Please, Jeff. Let's just forget it." She'd had enough of brooding.
Somewhere in the middle of the night she'd lost her perspective.

He faced her. "I can't do that, and I doubt you can either." Of course,
he was right. She listened more patiently. "I'm trying to make things
easier for both of us, Sara." Even to him it sounded absurd, given the
frustration he felt just now. But

163 he'd given it agonizing hours of thought. "We've got a year
together. After that we'll go our separate ways. As I see it, we'd be
smart to minimize our involvement-"

Once again Sara interrupted him. "But how can we do that? I mean,
marriage is a commitment. It is involvement, whether we want that or
not. I tried to tell you last week-"

"And I tried to tell you that this isn't an ordinary marriage. We've got
a bargain." He rubbed his thumb against those other clenched fingers.
"As it is, I'll have a problem on my hands when Lizzie gets attached to
you and then you take off."

Sara stared, hearing an accusation she couldn't fathom. "Like I did
before? Is that what you're saying?"

He shifted his sights to the approaching airline personnel and sighed.
"If it sounded that way, I apologize. I was angry when you left me
before. But you were right to have done it. I can see that now." The
admission seemed to be a hard-wrung one. He twisted his head to eye her
once more. "If you'd stayed with me, you would never have become the
person you are now."

"At least we agree on that," she murmured grudgingly.

Geoffrey sat back, obviously tired. "Look, I

164 really don't want to fight about this. All I want is to make the
year bearable-"

A sharp pain around her heart brought Sara to her feet. "I've got to
run. They're starting to board now. Good-bye, Jeff."

"Sara-" He was on his feet beside her, but she whirled and headed for
the gate at a steady clip. "Sara!" he called a final time, but she
refused to acknowledge him. The last thing she wanted was for him to see
the tears in her eyes, to see how much he'd hurt her.

It seemed forever that she stood in line with her ticket in her hand,
praying that Geoffrey would stay away. She bit her lip and swallowed
hard. She tried to think of something, anything, that might keep those
tears from overflowing. When at last she found herself on board the
plane in a window seat facing the terminal, she pressed her hand to her
upper lip and looked back. But her vision was blurred, too blurred to
detect the tall, dark figure standing there wondering at the pain he'd
seen in her eyes before she'd fled.

He was still wondering on Thursday morning as he stood in the same spot
awaiting her arrival. He'd worried about her since Monday, had even
called this time to make sure she hadn't changed her plans. The
conversation might as well have

165 been recorded, he could remember every word so well.

The phone had rung five times before she'd picked it up.

"Sara . . . ?"

There had been a pause, then a soft, "Yes?"

"It's Jeff. Am I disturbing you?" He'd timed the call to make it evening
in New York, that limbo time between work and bed.

"No, no," she'd answered gently. "I was just finishing up some designs
for a show we're doing in January."

"A show?"

"It's a benefit, actually. I'm providing the jewelry to accessorize the
fashions. One of the pieces will be raffled off. The rest will go on to
be part of Bendel's collection."

"Sounds good." What sounded really good was the fact that she seemed to
be looking beyond whatever it was that had hurt her when last they'd
been together. He hesitated, his voice growing deeper. "How are you?"

"Fine. Busy." Again she spoke more softly. "And you?"

"The same." Busy, yes. Fine, questionable. But what harm was there in a
little white lie?

"Is Lizzie all right?"

"She's fine." He couldn't help but smile. "Adorable. Crawling all over
the place, standing

166 up whenever she can. It's so cute to see. She walks along holding to
the furniture but can't quite take that first step without sitting down
hard."

Sara had chuckled, sharing his appreciation of the vision. "It's about
that time, isn't it? When do children start to walk?"

"The pediatrician says it could be any time now."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"I took Lizzie to see her yesterday."

Sara had laughed again, and he'd felt much better. "Sorry about that. I
guess I've got my own stereotypes to overcome."

"No problem. She really is a nice woman."

"Young and smashing?"

"Married and a mother herself."

Was that a sigh of relief he'd heard? She'd gone on so quickly he hadn't
known for sure. "Sounds eminently qualified. Does Lizzie like her?"

"Hates her. Screams every time the woman walks into the room."

"Oh, no! Why?"

He'd cleared his throat in good humor. "I think it has something to do
with inoculations-you know, measles, mumps, DPT-type thing."

"Ahhhhh. That'll do it every time." They'd both laughed then, and
Geoffrey had felt like a

167 million. But Sara had continued on a more quiet note. "She's got a
birthday coming up, doesn't she?"

"December eleventh."

"One year old. That's quite a milestone. We'll have to have a
celebration. I'm sure Alex and Diane would have-" She'd cut herself off
abruptly.

"That's all right, Sara. I've been thinking the same thing myself. Alex
and Diane certainly would have made a big thing of her birthday. I want
her to have no less."

"She will," Sara'd said, then added a pensive "Jeff?"

"Yes?"

"Is your lawyer working on the adoption?"

He'd nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him, trying in vain to analyze
the hesitancy in her voice. "He'll bring the preliminary papers over for
us to sign on Friday. Sound all right?"

"That's fine." For a moment then there had been silence. "Have you . . .
have you told people, Jeff?"

He'd known instantly what she'd meant. "About us? Yes."

"What-what did they say?" she'd asked in a near-whisper, surprising him
with her trepidation. He'd thought her so self-assured now. Was there a
trace of that old insecurity left?

168 "They were really pleased for us," he'd answered boldly, wanting
nothing more than to bolster her strength. Strange, but he was fast
getting used to this new, more confident woman.

"I'm glad."

"How about you, Sara? They saw the ring, didn't they?"

His was a reference to a conversation they'd had the weekend before.
Sara followed it easily, a smile shaping her words. "Yes, they saw the
ring."

"Well, what did they say?"

She'd laughed softly. "You don't really want to know."

"I do." He was so thoroughly enjoying the ease of their discussion that
he felt able to take anything. "Tell me."

Her voice held a humor that softened her words. "They said, 'You're
what?' Sound familiar?"

He'd nodded. "My mother."

"Right."

"Were they displeased?" It was his turn to sound hesitant. The last
thing he needed was for her people to be against him. Had the tables
turned so completely?

"Not displeased so much as stunned. They'd pretty much assumed I wasn't
interested in marriage."

169 "And of course you told them how wrong they were."

"Of course."

"Did they finally come around?"

She'd purposely kept him dangling then with those few seconds' silence;
he was sure of it. But he could feel no ill will toward her. She
deserved the moment after all she'd suffered once.

"Oh, yes"-she'd given a bounteous sigh- "they came around. It helped
when I explained- shyly, of course-that we'd been married before. The
suddenness became less of an issue. But then, they had to come around.
They had no choice. I'm the boss."

"It helps."

"So I've learned."

"But what about the-others?"

"Oh, you mean my friends, as opposed to business associates?"

"Yes." He'd had to struggle to keep his tone even. "Those ones who
escort you to all your fancy balls and things."

"There aren't all that many" she'd chided, but he'd come back quickly.

"Fancy balls ... or men?"

"Eitherl" Her declaration had rung loudly from coast to coast.

"Then let's consider the men. Have you told them you're no longer
available?"

170 "You mean," she rejoined sweetly, "have I called each one just to
tell him he's no longer in the running? No."

"No? Why not? Sara, I told you that I'll be your-" Even now, he recalled
how quick he'd been to get angry, though her subsequent reasoning had
been correct.

"Calm down, Jeff, and listen to me. I'm not about to sit with a list of
friends and acquaintances and systematically phone them to tell them
I've gotten married on the spur of the moment." For the first time her
voice had hardened. "It's no big thing. Only for a year-which I
certainly couldn't tell them." Just when he had begun to stiffen, she'd
taken a breath and continued more gently. "Of course I've called my
closest friends, male and female. And I was supposed to go to the
theater this weekend with a fellow; I told him the truth when I canceled
the date. In time they'll all know. Word spreads-or hadn't you known?"

He'd known, all right. How could he have helped but know, given the
number of calls he'd received that week from one person or another who'd
heard the news. It had all culminated in the party planned for Saturday
night; but he hadn't told her that on the phone. Hadn't quite had the
courage. Besides, there had been other things to discuss.

171 "Well, that's taken care of then." He'd been pleased enough with her
answer. "By the way, the workmen are really moving it at the cottage."

"They are?" she'd asked excitedly. "Are they having any trouble
deciphering my plans?"

It had been his turn to chuckle. "They did say something about your
sketches being a deviation from those of the normal architect."

"I can put my man on it if they want. He did a great job for us here. I
had just wanted to get something done quickly for your men-"

"It's fine, Sara. They're accommodating guys. You'll be amazed when you
see the progress. The place has been gutted and they're doing the lighting-"

"Gutted? I didn't want them to go to all that trouble. A simple little
renovation work would have been fine. Maybe I should get Harris to draw
up something more detailed!"

"Sara, it's fine!" He'd calmed her, enjoying the role of the rock. "I'll
tell you what. Why don't you give me the name and number of your
architect and I'll have the contractor speak with him. You'll be able to
speak with the contractor yourself on Friday. He'll be working."

"Oh, Jeff, speaking of Friday, I've been making calls and going over
samples. The first of the

172 deliveries will be made then. I-I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Of course not. I told you to do whatever you wanted with the
cottage."

Again she'd grown more hesitant, almost apologetic. "It's not for the
cottage. It's... for Lizzie's room."

It had taken him several seconds to follow. When he had, he'd been
amazed. "Lizzie's ... oh, Lizzie's room. You've been doing things from
there?"

"I said I would."

"But you've got so much else to do."

"This is just as important. And it's really easy. There are people here
I've worked with-wallpaper, carpeting, that type of thing. They've all
been so excited." As was she. It had come through the phone wire loud
and clear. "I found the perfect wallpaper-it's red and white and yellow,
bright and shiny ... but maybe you want to see it first?"

Having enjoyed her enthusiasm, Geoffrey reacted swiftly to staunch her
sudden caution. "No, Sara," he'd replied with confidence, "I trust your
judgment. You pick out what you think is right for her and then I'll be
as surprised as she is when it comes."

"That's the point. It's coming Friday."

"How did you ever manage that? I mean, I

173 always thought it took time to order things like wallpaper."

Sara's voice had been filled with pride. "The people I'm using are
wonderful. When I explained the situation, they got right on the phone
to contacts of theirs in the bay area. The carpeting is coming from
L.A., but the rest of it is more local."

"The rest of it?" he'd asked. Even now he halfenvisioned an army of
interior decorators descending on the house with bolts of material
trailing off every which way.

"You'll see," she'd said pertly, then promptly changed the subject. "Jeff?"

"Hmmm?"

"Is everything set for tomorrow?"

"Uh-huh. It'll be quiet. Just the three of us."

"Gordie's not coming?"

Even now Geoffrey marveled that Sara should want to see his younger
brother. Gordon had been one of the many who'd made her erstwhile stint
here unpleasant. "No, not this year."

"You told him, didn't you?"

"Uh, yes. He ... didn't take it very well." But then Gordie had always
begrudged what Geoffrey had done. The first time around he'd viewed Sara
as a fortune hunter. This time he'd been more generous. He'd merely
suggested that Jeff had gone soft.

174 "Oh, dear," she'd mused softly.

"What about your family, Sara? Have you broken the news to them?"

She'd been quiet for a time before she'd answered. "Uh, no. I, uh, I...
I didn't have the guts. Maybe if I get brave I'll give them a call over
the weekend."

Given what he'd so recently learned, Geoffrey hadn't been able to blame
her. "That would be nice, especially since it's the holiday. But only if
you feel comfortable. I'd like it to be an enjoyable weekend. Sara?" He
recalled faltering, then forging on before he'd lost his courage. "I'm
sorry if I upset you Monday morning." It had been weighing on his mind
all week, that pained look he'd seen.

Her voice had spanned the distance more softly. "It's all right. I was
tired. Not my usual self."

"Still, I want things to be right between us."

"So do I," she'd offered, in such a wistful halfwhisper that he'd almost
believed they were talking of the same thing.

"Then . . . I'll see you in the morning?"

Although he'd expected a simple yes, he'd received an addendum to the
conversation. If he'd let his imagination roam free, he might have
believed that she'd been purposely prolonging their talk.

175 "I'm sorry I couldn't get out today, but the holiday flights have
been booked for months. It was only a favor that got me the seat in the
morning."

"Another friend?" It shouldn't have been any surprise to him. He could
easily understand how she would attract hoards of admirers. Like Mrs.
Fleming. She hadn't stopped raving about "the new Mrs.," as she called
Sara. Sophisticated, but without airs; that was what she'd said. It
seemed that the breakfast in the kitchen had impressed her no end.

"Yes, another friend." Sara had seemed to smile into the phone. "She
works for the airline."

"Then please thank her, for all of us."

"I will."

"Till tomorrow?"

"Right."

"Sleep well."

"You too."

Stirring from the window now as her plane touched down, Geoffrey relived
that warm, cozy feeling the phone call had inspired. They'd gotten along
so well long distance. Was it the safety valve of separation, or simply
the old adage that distance made the heart grow fonder? He was looking
forward to seeing her, more than he'd like to admit. And yes, he had
slept well last night. Better than he'd slept in a while.

176 This time Sara was among the first swarm of passengers to deplane.
She'd chosen her seat purposely, feeling incredibly impatient, excited
even in spite of the week's torment. When she caught sight of Geoffrey's
dark head, her pulse skipped a beat. When her eyes met his, it raced
onward. But when she found herself face to face with him at last, she
was momentarily tonguetied. Fortunately he was in better control.

Gently grasping her arms, he stood for a minute smiling down at her. "Hi."

She struggled to mouth a return "Hi." It was tough, what with that deep,
deep sound of his voice, the distraction of his luring gaze and the
dimple that beamed at her from his right cheek-not to mention the subtle
movement of his fingers on the Harris tweed of her blazer.

"How was the trip?"

"Great," she breathed airily.

"You were right on time."

"It was a smooth flight."

His smile persisted, as did hers. "Happy Thanksgiving, Sara."

"You too, Jeff."

He stared at her a moment longer, then looked around the room. "Should
we give them a show?"

Unable to take her eyes from him, she simply asked, "Who?"

177 He jerked his chin in a semicircle at the people around them.
"Anyone who's watching. After all"-he leaned closer, his voice a velvet
caress-"we're supposed to be married."

"So we are," she whispered, her lips parting to meet his. She felt his
hands tighten on her arms, felt her own slip beneath his jacket and
around his back. But above all she felt the warm hello of his kiss and
answered it easily. When he drew back at last, she felt bereft, but only
until he threw an arm across her shoulders and drew her into step beside
him.

"Luggage?" he asked softly. She shook her head. "Good. Let's go."

And so they headed home in an atmosphere of goodwill that was
startlingly different from the week of anguish Sara had endured. As many
times as she had replayed his words-"All I want is to make the year
bearable"-she ached. It hadn't only been the words; it had been his tone
of voice as well. Resignation, fatigue, indifference-what did it matter?
One was as diametrically opposed to her feeling of love as the other.

Having not permitted herself to hope, she'd been surprised when he'd
called. Pleasantly surprised. Delightfully surprised. Oh, yes, she told
herself, he had simply felt bad that he'd been so blunt. But the fact
that he'd made the effort was ... something. And now, with a kiss at the
airport

178 and gentle looks here and there as he drove, she felt newly
optimistic. It was a long holiday weekend and she was determined to
enjoy it. Hell, where else would she be if not here with Jeff?

"What would you have done for Thanksgiving if all this hadn't happened?"
Geoffrey echoed her thoughts as he drove.

"Oh, I don't know. I probably would have spent the day with friends.
There are lots of us displaced souls in Manhattan, so it's easy enough
to find company."

"You never go home?"

"I have, once or twice." She cast a distant look out the window. "But
when things are so busy it's hard to get out there."

"You got here," he chided.

Her head shot back. "This is different!" Then she paused, looked down,
fidgeted with the gold band on her finger before looking outside again.
"I suppose you're right. I could go to see them more. But I feel
awkward. It's as though my leaving Des Moines ten years ago was an
irreparable break. I send them letters pretty often. Somehow it's easier
on paper." There seemed no point in elaborating on her attempts to send
her parents money. Their stubborn pride was her problem, not his.

"Do you see your brothers and sisters at all?"

She shook her head. "Not often. Once in a

179 while one of them passes through New York and we'll meet for lunch
or dinner. I love seeing them, but they have their own lives."

Geoffrey's voice lowered then. "You must miss them."

"I do," she said without a second thought. "We were close as kids.
There's nothing like a crisis to bring a family together, and we lived a
steady crisis for years." She sighed. "But things are pretty quiet there
now. My father is retired and we're all out on our own. I do miss them,
though."

"Then," he interjected on a lighter note, "we'll just have to keep you
busy enough over the weekend to keep you from getting melancholy."

That was precisely what he did-he and Lizzie. Caryn had been given the
holiday off and wasn't due back until Saturday, leaving Mrs. Fleming to
cover until Geoffrey and Sara returned, at which point the two could
take over as full-time mother and father.

It began with a turkey dinner late Thursday afternoon, with Lizzie in
her high chair eating child-size bites of just about everything they
did. It continued with a tour of the cottage, a brainstorming session on
the best setup for Sara's workshop, a prolonged play-and-bath session
with Lizzie. To Sara's surprise, Geoffrey was as handy with a diaper as
he was knowledgeable as

180 to the whereabouts of baby powder, tiny nightgowns and hairbrushes.

"You're very good," she complimented him in good humor. "I'm really
feeling like the novice here."

"I've had more practice lately," he explained as he drew the brush
gently through wisps of fine golden hair.

"You must be busy, coming home from work to take care of Lizzie, taking
her to the doctor and all. Where do you find the time to do everything?"

His glance held mock punishment. "For a liberated woman, you're really
unliberated. What I'm doing is no different from what any other working
parent does. If something means enough to you, you find time to do it."

Sara would have pondered his words and their pointedness had not Jeff
abruptly dropped the discussion. Sitting Lizzie up on the dressing
table, he examined his handiwork with a satisfied smile. She promptly
grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt and pulled herself to her feet,
joining the dialogue with a buoyant stream of syllables that to everyone
but herself were meaningless. "You don't say," Geoffrey teased her,
falling into the game. "Tell me something I don't know."

When the child proceeded to do just that, Sara couldn't help but laugh.
"She looks as if she

181 knows just what she's saying. If only we could understand her."

"The sounds are there. She's just got to get them in the right order.
Here, Lizzie." He reached for the rubber turtle she'd carried with her
from the tub and held it before her enticingly. "Tur-tle. Can you say
that? Tur-tle."

The little girl eagerly reached for her toy. "T-tt-t-t . . ."

"Atta girl! How about this." He knelt to pick up a bright fabric ball.
"Ball. B-b-ball."

When Lizzie waved the turtle in the air with a pleased "T-t-t-t-t..."
Sara broke up completely. But Jeff was undaunted. Before she knew what
was happening, he threw his free arm around her shoulder, hugged her
close to his side and gently poked her ribs. But his eyes were on
Lizzie. "Sa-ra," he enunciated slowly. "Sa-ra."

Lizzie looked at Sara, grinned and offered a speech filled with
ba-ba-ba-bas, pranced for a second on the table before falling back on
her bottom. When her little lip quivered, Sara quickly reached for her
and took her into her arms.

"That's all right, sweetie," she crooned, pressing the child to her as
she turned and walked toward the rocker. "You'll make it one of these
days. We all did." Settling into the chair, she gently rocked back and
forth, as hypnotized by

182 the sweet baby smell of the child in her arms as by the warmth of
the little one herself. Lizzie lay contentedly for several minutes, then
bobbed her head up and proudly produced the handful of hair she'd
discovered on Sara's shoulder. When she pulled, Sara feigned intense
pain. "Easy does it. That's attached, you know."

The child grinned, tugged several more times, then offered a soft
"Sa-sa-sa-sa..." as a consolation prize. Sara was fully satisfied.

She also was exhausted. By the time ten o'clock rolled around, after a
comfortable evening playing backgammon with Jeff, she excused herself
and headed for her room. Jeff made no move to follow, for which she was
actually glad. The day had been lovely. But much as she would have liked
nothing more than to spend the night in his arms, she wouldn't have
pushed the issue for anything. They'd managed to arrive at a temporary
truce. She was happy to let it stand.

As it happened, it was lucky she got the sleep that she had. For Friday
was hectic, with deliveries of carpeting, wallpaper, lights and
furniture, workmen to be directed from the house to the cottage and back
and Lizzie perched on her hip through it all.

"Why don't you leave the little one with me," Mrs. Fleming had suggested
when it appeared

183 that everything was going to happen at once, with Geoffrey away at
his office.

But Sara had been vehement. "If you can just have one of the fellows
move her old crib into another room-why don't you make it mine-so she
can nap a little later, we'll be fine. As long as she's occupied
watching the work, I can supervise it."

And it had been surprisingly easy. Lizzie was perfectly happy being
held, Sara perfectly happy inquiring, directing and suggesting. It was
only later in the day that exhaustion hit them both. When Geoffrey
finally returned late in the afternoon, both of his women were sound
asleep, Lizzie in her crib, Sara on her nearby bed. He stood for long
moments savoring the sight, then sat down beside Sara and gently kissed
her cheek. She awoke instantly, bolting to a sitting position, feeling
infinitely irresponsible.

"I'm sorry, Jeff," she whispered, looking quickly over at Lizzie to make
sure she was all right. "I hadn't expected to fall asleep. I thought I'd
just lie down and keep an eye on her-" Geoffrey cut her off with a sound
kiss that left them both breathless. "What was that for?" she gasped at
last, pleased if puzzled.

"That," he whispered hoarsely, "was for being as irresistibly appealing
as"-he cocked his head toward the baby-"she is." Then he leaned

184 forward and took her lips more gently, more persuasively, more
seductively.

"And that?" she somehow managed to ask when her lips were free at last.

"That is for everything else you've got that she hasn't. . . yet."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Oh?" The twinkle in his eyes set her pulse to tripping. "Then if I tell
you how very beautiful and bright and enterprising you are, will you ...
agree to go with me to a party at the Shipleys' tomorrow night?"

185

seven

TIE HELD HIS BREATH, ALL HUMOR GONE. She had always hated parties. She
had always hated his crowd. But these were his friends and their
intentions were good. If only she would give it another chance.

"That would be lovely," she said, and smiled up at him. "What's the
occasion?"

He was stunned. "Uh . . ." He cleared his throat. "When John heard that
we were married, he decided a celebration was in order." He hesitated.
"You remember John and Rebecca, don't you?"

"How could I forget?" She winced, but there was a very definite element
of amusement in her tone. "They have a magnificent old house with a very
lovely back patio-which is where I used to retreat to study the moon by
my lonesome. It was dark and private, nearly beyond detection."

"Sara, you didn't . . ."

186 "Where did you think I was?" She feigned hurt. "Or didn't you even
miss me?"

Geoffrey chose not to answer, on that score at least. "You won't be able
to do it this time."

"You're right. It'd be pretty chilly out there this time of year."

"That wasn't what I meant-"

"Shhh! You'll wake the baby."

His eyes narrowed on her smug smile. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
She was, and he couldn't quite understand it. He'd expected some
reluctance, some hesitancy on her part. Yet she seemed the image of
contentment. On top of which, wearing jeans and a heavy-knit turtleneck
sweater, she looked very, very sexy. With her hair flowing free, messed
just enough, and that lingering drop of sleep in her eyes . . .

She saw it coming and put out a hand, but her palm simply flattened on
his chest when he backed her down to the bed. "Jeff, the baby!"

"She's sleeping. We'll be quiet."

"What do you mean, we'll be quiet?"

"Just a kiss or two. No noise."

"But Jeff-" Again he cut her off, again with his lips. And there was
nothing for her to do but enjoy it, which she did with total relish. The
baby was their chaperon, albeit a sleeping one.

187 Her silent presence was reminder enough of the purpose of their
marriage.

But could a child really compete with the lure of a big, handsome man
for a woman's attentions, particularly when the child was sleeping and
the man was wide awake and willing? And when his lips caressed hers with
such swift seduction, she was helpless to do anything other than be the
woman of passion he inspired.

"Mmmm. Your lips are always so sweet," he whispered, but gave her no
time to answer, for he took them again with a mounting hunger that left
no doubt as to his taste.

Sara reeled beneath the onslaught, wanting to push him back, unable to
do anything but slide her hands around him and urge him closer. The
weight of his body pressing her down was a stimulant in itself, as was
the growing urgency she felt in him. She let her fingers explore the
strength of the muscles beneath his shirt, then slipped them forward
again to his chest when he arched away.

His eyes drank greedily of her love-flushed face, and his voice was
thick and low. "How can you have spent the day with Lizzie and the
workmen and still come out looking like this?"

"I'm a mess!"

"A pretty sexy one, then. Damn." He cursed and kissed her hard. Rolling
half to his side, he

188 splayed his fingers across her thigh and slowly inched them upward.
Sara felt a simultaneous heat rising, rising beneath the gentle pressure
of his hand from her thigh to her stomach, across her waist to her
middle, then further, over the aching swell of her breast to her neck.
Unable to take the torment of frustration, she grabbed his hand and
stayed it beneath her chin. With a soft kiss to his palm, she looked up
at him.

"Please, Jeff. No more. I can't take it."

"You can't take it?" he rasped, then caught himself as if surprised at
his outburst, slowly sat up on the edge of the bed and made to
straighten his tie before thinking again and taking it off. He looked
back at her once in confusion, glanced down at the rug as he absently
fingered the tie, then looked back at her again. "But you will go to the
party with me, won't you?"

Sara felt as though she'd missed a beat. At times Geoffrey confused her
so. Now, for example, that war between passion and constraint- she knew
that he wanted her yet he could turn off on command. Was that the way it
was when the heart was uninvolved? But then they'd gotten along so well
since she'd arrived. Was he totally uninvolved, or was it the fact of a
growing involvement that he resented?

To these questions she had no answers. Regarding his question, the
situation was different.

189 "Of course I'll go to the party," she responded gently. "It should
be lovely."

If Geoffrey was stunned by the utter calm with which she'd accepted the
invitation, he was further astounded by her absolute poise throughout
the event itself. Nor were there signs of the jitters beforehand. She
was good-humored through Saturday morning, buoyant through Saturday
afternoon and uncompromisingly selfassured when she later descended the
stairs wearing a long gown of black satin with white trim at the neck,
waist and wrists adding a look of tasteful chic.

"Very nice," he complimented, his eyes compensating for the
understatement with a deep gray glitter of appreciation.

"You too," she returned with due awareness of his black dress suit and
crisp white shirt and the way they hugged the long, lean lines of his
body. As she approached she noted the lingering dampness of his hair,
the ultrasmoothness of his jaw, the barest hint of subtle aftershave,
all of which further enhanced the image of exultant masculinity with
which she would have to deal.

She'd barely begun to regain control of her pulse when he reached to
touch the creation of ivory and gold at her ear. "They're beautiful,
Sara. They suit the dress-and you-perfectly."

190 Seeking her wrist, she fingered the matching bracelet. "I designed
them for a show last spring, then fell in love with the dress and had to
have the whole outfit." She gave a sheepish grin. "I feel very, very
elegant in them."

For a second-just a second-Geoffrey recalled the girl-woman she'd been
when he'd first met her. Then she'd been cowed by the wardrobe he'd
insisted on buying her and had worn each dressy piece as if a wrinkle
would ruin it. Now, in a gown every bit as sensitive, she seemed totally
at ease and, yes, elegant.

He was but one of many who thought as much that night. When they arrived
at the Shipleys', they were greeted with enthusiastic curiosity. Just as
Sara remembered many of those present, they remembered her-and were not
quite sure what they would find. As the evening progressed, however,
curiosity gave way to unabashed surprise which, in turn, wound up on a
final note of awe. Sara McCray Parker, this second time around, took
Geoffrey's San Francisco set by storm.

Knowing his friends as he did, Geoffrey could see it clearly. Though he
didn't leave Sara's side long enough to allow for any man-to-man
discussions, he read those looks well and felt tremendous pride.

Sara thrived. The fact that she held his hand

191 or his arm-or was it he who held her? Neither knew for
sure-throughout the evening was secondary to her display of social grace
among his friends. The fact that these were the same people who had once
intimidated her so thoroughly continued to amaze him.

"Sara, you remember the Monacos-Dan and Cheryl-don't you?"

"Of course." She smiled graciously and extended her hand in turn to each
half of the stylishly dressed couple. Dan and Cheryl had been members of
the country club where she'd suffered any number of golfing nightmares.
"How are you, Dan? Cheryl, it's good to see you."

"Our pleasure," said the first.

"And congratulations," added his mate. "But I have to tell you how
pleased I am to hear the news. I have a friend in New York who's been
raving about your things! And now you're planning on selling your work
here?"

Sara leaned back toward Jeff just enough to feel the warmth of his hand
at her waist. "The headquarters will remain in New York. But Jeff has
convinced me that a branch on the West Coast would be a success."

"For you, perhaps," Dan teased. "As for me, I wonder. My wife can be a
spender when she gets going."

Threading a crepe-sheathed arm through his,

192 Cheryl crinkled up her nose. "Don't pay any attention to him, Sara.
I think it's fantastic. Your jewelry is smashing." She eyed the
earrings. "These are yours, aren't they?"

"They are," Geoffrey interjected far more boldly than Sara would have done.

"Jeff, Sara . . ." Their host approached with another guest in tow.
Geoffrey was quick to do the honors.

"Good to see you, Stu." He shook hands with the newcomer, then turned to
Sara. "You remember the senator, honey, don't you?"

Swept up in the game of playing lovers, Sara savored Jeff's endearment
even as she turned to the gray-haired, debonair Stuart Javnowski.
"Senator, it's good to see you."

"The pleasure is mine, Sara." His puzzlement would have been humorous
had not Sara been cognizant of its cause. "It's been quite a while."

"That it has. You're still keeping things moving in Sacramento?"

The older man chuckled. "Me and a whole crew of others. Now if we were
only on the same side of issues . . ."

"You'd be bored to tears," Geoffrey teased. "Without the fighting, what
fun would it be?" When the senator simply cocked a brow, Geoffrey grew
more serious. "How's Ellen feeling?"

193 Turning, he explained to Sara. "She was operated on several weeks ago."

"Nothing serious," the senator waffled in vague explanation. "But she's
still weak and tired or she'd have been here tonight. She sends her
congratulations, though."

"Geoffrey!" All eyes shifted to the woman who approached. "What's this I
hear about your marrying?"

"Sara, I don't believe you know Danielle Howard. Danielle, my wife, Sara."

Sara found herself face to face with a beauty of a woman, a woman to be
jealous of if ever there was one. Yet she held her own, mindful of
Geoffrey's hand squeezing hers. "How are you, Danielle?" she asked
pleasantly, totally unprepared for the response she was promptly to receive.

"Relieved to see that someone's finally tied this man down. He's haunted
the female imagination for far too long. Now that he's out of
circulation, we'll all just have to give up our dreams."

"What dreams?" Geoffrey drawled, totally amused. "Your dreams center
around one former linebacker-ah, here he comes now." They were joined by
a man Sara had never met, whose barrel chest would have been a dead
giveaway even without his bull neck. "Sara, I'd like you to

194 meet Tom Christian. torn and I play handball together."

"Play?" the larger man echoed on a mocking note, to which Geoffrey
rubbed his jaw.

"Come on, torn. I'm not that bad."

"They're impossible," Danielle joked to Sara as she leaned
affectionately against Tom's arm. "They have this rivalry going on the
court to see who can run who ragged. I'm just waiting for them to
collide with each other and knock themselves out cold!"

Sara laughed at the picture as she chased all thought of jealousy from
her mind. "That might be worth watching."

"You'll have to come with me sometime," Danielle offered. "I'd love to
have someone to talk with. Or we could get our own game going. It gets
pretty boring listening to nothing but

grunts!"

"All right, ladies," torn cut in. "If you've had enough amusement at our
expense, may I suggest a drink?"

When he disappeared with the orders, another couple approached. Sara
recognized the man instantly from the crowd way back then. The woman
was, however, quite different from the wife she'd known. As if reading
her thoughts, Geoffrey lowered his head to whisper in her ear. "Ted
Weston. Phillippa is number two." With a

195 comprehending nod at the Oriental carpeting underfoot, Sara smiled.
To the observer, she'd just been whispered sweet nothings by her
husband, who then proceeded to nibble the upper curve of her ear and
savor the shiver of pleasure that whipped through her before he
straightened to greet the new arrivals.

"How are you, Ted?"

"I'm fine," the other exclaimed, accompanying his words with a vigorous
handshake. "But I should be asking you that question." He shifted his
gaze, then hesitated. "Sara . . . ?"

"The same," she said with a smile. "It's nice to see you, Ted."

"Sara," Geoffrey interjected, "this is Phillippa."

Sara nodded. "Phillippa."

"Congratulations to you both," the young woman said softly, more
timidly, seeming far less sure of herself than the others. Sara guessed
her to be in her mid-twenties, making her significantly younger than her
husband. She was also, at close range, suspiciously pregnant.

Once upon a time Sara would have felt instant envy even to the point of
depression. Now, though, she had Lizzie. And tonight nothing could
dampen her spirits. "And to you," she said with a smile, cocking a brow
at the telltale rounding of her middle. "When are you due?"

196 Phillippa blushed and put a reflexive hand on her stomach. "Not
until March, I'm afraid. It seems I've been waiting forever, and I've
only now begun to show."

"You look wonderful, Phillippa." Geoffrey added his encouragement. "How
are you feeling?"

"Not bad. Tired sometimes."

"The boys keep her running."

Again Geoffrey lowered his voice to explain the situation to Sara, this
time, though, in Ted and Phillippa's earshot. "Ted's two boys live with
them. They're-how old now, Ted?"

"Thirteen and nine. And noisy?" He rolled his eyes. "Nonstop!"

Sara grinned knowingly. "I came from a family of six, of which four were
boys. I can sympathize. And if you're hoping for a nice, quiet, demure
little girl this time, don't hold your breath."

Jeff turned to her with a frown. "Don't tell me that you were a tomboy."

"Not me-my older sister. She was right in the middle of the guys all the
time."

"What's she doing now?" Phillippa asked.

"She's a veterinarian and couldn't be happier."

Ted shook his head. "That's a far cry from your career. Tell us about it."

Sending Geoffrey an apologetic look, Sara

197 shrugged modestly. "What do you want to know?"

And so the evening went. With Geoffrey as impressed as the others, Sara
talked shop, politics and the economy right along with the most eloquent
and well informed. That she'd been home helping her parents struggle for
survival on the farm while they'd been sowing wild oats at exclusive
schools and universities was irrelevant. Her cool sophistication was
every bit as genuine as theirs.

And she enjoyed herself. Whether or not these people would ever become
good friends was a moot point, given the time limitation of her
marriage. But she felt at ease with them as she'd never felt before. And
she felt simultaneously closer to Geoffrey.

As a couple, they intermeshed perfectly. He seemed to know exactly when
she wanted to eat or drink, what she wanted to discuss, with whom she
wanted to spend more or less time. Likewise, their interaction couldn't
have been better choreographed had they hired a professional in body
language to coach them on the signs of love. If Sara was to muse at the
skillful show Geoffrey had put on for the sake of the others, he was no
less amazed at her own display. It was all so subtle-the hand holding,
the shy glances, the exchange of smiles and whispers-subtle

198 and convincing. So convincing that Sara let the aura of it cushion
her even through the drive home. It was only in the front hall that
reality seeped through.

"That was nice, Jeff," she murmured, slowly drawing off her gloves.
"Thank you."

Geoffrey stood behind her, leaning back against the closed front door.
"Thank you. You handled it very well."

The cool edge to his voice brought her around, evoking the defensiveness
that lurked just below the surface. "I wasn't aware of 'handling'
anything. As far as I knew, I was being myself."

"I'm sure it had to be something of a strain. You never took to this
kind of thing before."

With a sigh Sara let her hands fall to her sides. "Eight years have
passed since I last saw those people, Jeff. My life now is very, very
different from what it was then. I'm very different. To you and your
friends, the change may seem momentous. But from my point of view it's
been gradual and therefore far less shocking." She'd purposely chosen to
touch on the more general social behavior as opposed to the more
specific, personal way she'd responded to her husband.

It was a necessary diversion. For looking at him now, she felt the same
powerful attraction she had all night. Of all the men at the party-

199 and there had been quite a collection of goodlooking ones-none had
appealed to her in the least, save Jeff. Even as he stared at her now,
his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dark and strangely enigmatic,
she wanted him desperately. In effect, the evening had been one long
enticement leading up to a moment that wasn't to be.

If only she were a seductress, she thought then. If only she could
approach and bewitch him until the only thought in his mind was of full
and wholehearted possession. But she couldn't do that. As self-assured,
as sophisticated, as she'd become, as liberated a woman as she was, she
simply couldn't do it. There was still that traditional element she
needed. He'd rebuffed her in the past when she'd dared to cry out for
him. This time he'd have to come to her.

But he didn't. During what seemed hours of silent study of each other,
Geoffrey didn't move. His face bore that same mask of control she was
quickly coming to despise as a sign of her own failure, her own
helplessness. Giving up the fight with a low sigh of defeat, she turned
and wordlessly started up the stairs.

Feeling tormented by something that seemed forever out of reach, she
showered, drew on her long white gown and, with her blond hair
shimmering over her shoulders, padded barefoot

200 along the corridors in the dark of the night to the one place she'd
sought solace so long ago. Far to the rear of the first floor of the
house, the solarium was a generous circle of a room, one half of which
was paneled in glass, one half in white wood, and the entirety of which
was landscaped with a lavish assortment of plants. The heavily glassed
ceiling that let in sun during the day now gave a copious view of the
stars. And even as she blamed her immediate woes on that brilliant full
moon above, Sara sank down upon an oversize lounge, stretched out her
legs, folded her hands over her stomach and looked up.

The sky was filled with stars. Which was the first-star light, star
bright . . . but what good were wishes when reality was so hard-boned?
Everything in her marriage was narrowly aimed toward that year-end
point, when Lizzie would be Geoffrey's and its purpose would be served.
And love? It seemed to be bouncing off the outer walls of that narrow
corridor, never quite able to penetrate to the core of their marriage.
Only when it was shared, she mused, would it have that power.

Mesmerized by thoughts of stars and love and eternity, Sara was unaware
that Geoffrey had approached. He stood quietly in the doorway watching
her, his tie and jacket gone, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose.
He'd known she

201 would come here as surely as he'd known of his own need to do so.
He'd spent hours here after she'd left so long ago, then had discovered
her sketches tucked away in one of the paneled cabinets and had sought
out the room all the more often. Perhaps it was the openness here, made
for hopes and dreams and the conviction that one day things would be
right. But was it right that she'd conquered him, just as she'd
conquered every other man at the party tonight? She was his; he had a
right to her!

He took a determined step forward, then stopped. She was beautiful lying
there, an alabaster goddess in the moonlight, serene, ephemeral,
tempting beyond imagination. And he thought he could keep his
distance-what a pipe dream that had been! She had bewitched him . . .
and now she dared lie there so peacefully. Revenge; perhaps that had
been the underlying motive for her acceptance of his proposal. If so,
she was the victor. She'd so commandeered his senses that he hadn't been
able to take his eyes from her tonight. Damn it, he wanted her as he'd
never wanted anyone else! Then he clenched his jaw. If it was revenge
she savored, she'd had her moment. Now his was fast approaching.

At the sound of his slow steps, Sara was shaken from her trance. Looking
quickly in the direction of the quiet tap, she held her breath.

202 When Geoffrey emerged from shadow to moonlight, her heart began to
thud. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, simply watched him approach
until his moon shadow fell on her.

Had it not been for the halo effect around his head, she might have
thought him the devil. He'd invaded her peace of mind for days-no,
years. And now he stood over her, tall and straight, and in full
cognizance of his power.

His movements controlled, he slowly sat down by her hip. With his face
that much closer, she could follow the direction of his sight. When he
studied her features intently, she returned a wide-eyed gaze. Then his
eyes dropped to her throat and she swallowed hard; then as he looked at
her breasts, she grew all the more aware of the thunderous hammer of her
heart. Little was hidden from him beneath the thin satin of her gown,
and he took in sensuous details that altered even as he watched.

Sara was as vulnerable as she'd ever been. She wanted him badly, yet she
couldn't reach for him. His silence frightened her, yet she couldn't
speak out against it. That he desired her was no mystery; it was his
motive she couldn't fathom. All she could do was lie still beneath his
gaze, indulging her body its growing arousal, in fact, helpless to stem
it. Contrarily, Geoffrey's hands were steady

203 when he reached to slide his thumbs beneath the thin straps of her
gown. When he eased them slowly over the curves of her shoulders and
down her arms, Sara bit her lip. Would he lead her on again, only to
call a halt at the moment of humiliation when her desire was such that
she begged for him? She started to shake her head slowly, but he held
her chin steady, then let his hand shimmer back down her body to that
strap he'd momentarily abandoned. Inch by inch her breasts were bared as
he eased the gown lower.

She'd begun to breathe more heavily now. "Jeff," she whispered, "don't
... do this to me . . ."

His voice was a deep rumble of male need. "You're mine, Sara. For the
year, you're mine." He worked the gown to her waist, then drew the
straps over her hands and slid the fabric lower. "So help me, I've tried
to stay away. But I can't bear looking at you, wanting you all the time.
I may be damned for it, but while you're here I intend to take my fill."

She should have been livid at his callously male expression, yet all she
felt was a surge of relief. She needed him as badly as he needed her.
And yes, she might well be damned for it, but-but-she wanted her fill as
well.

"This time there'll be no rushing," he went on, his voice growing
thicker when the gown

204 reached her thighs. He paused for a minute to savor what he'd
uncovered. For the first time, then, he seemed affected, his hands
slightly less steady when he pushed the fabric free of her feet and let
it fall to the floor.

Lying naked before him, Sara felt paralyzed. His eyes slid up her body,
halting here and there, searing her at every stop. She felt a trembling
deep inside and knew he had to be aware of it, yet he made no move to
hold her-not yet. Rather, he sat straighter and shrugged out of his
shirt, dropping it carelessly, his eyes ever on her body.

The play of the moonlight enhanced the muscularity of his shoulders,
broad sinewed but smooth, and his tapering torso. Had she been able, she
would have reached to admire the maturity the years had brought to him.
But just then he took her wrists and pinned them to the lounge on either
side of her shoulders. Then slowly, slowly he lowered his head. His lips
were gentle in a forceful kind of way, brooking no argument when they
opened her mouth, allowing her no recourse but to submit to his liking.
Not that she would have objected; she was easily swept along in the
torrent of desire that stirred from within and molded her as surely as
that firm man above.

It was the flow of heat through her veins that

205 warmed her body, for Geoffrey steadfastly held himself away. He only
touched her wrists and her lips. All the rest was left to ache for him.

She moaned softly when he shifted to press moist kisses along the line
of her jaw, and closed her eyes when the hot torment moved on to cascade
down her throat. Still her wrists were pinioned, frustrating her need to
touch him. Her fingernails dug sharply into her palm when his lips
opened over her breast to allow him a taste of her ripeness. With the
moist and alluring friction of his tongue, he explored the full swell of
her flesh. Needing more, she gasped for air and arched upward until, at
last, he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked on it deeply.

Sara felt the pull to her core, that core which was all woman, all his.
It seemed only natural when he moved lower, sampling each sweet curve
and indentation along an inevitable path. When her hands were suddenly
freed, she could only thrust them into the lush vibrancy of his hair to
hold him closer, knowing as she did that this was the only reality that
mattered. Despite his talk of rights and possession, he worshiped her as
no other man had done before or after. Her body was his, aflame with
desire, and her only misgiving was that she seemed helpless to express
her love.

Then his fingers spanned her thighs, spreading

206 them, and his lips moved downward, downward toward her warmth. "Jeff
. . . don't . . ."

He barely raised his head. "But I want to, Sara."

"Please .. ." she whispered, but he didn't answer. When his tongue moved
against her she gave a helpless cry and arched away. But he was
determined, persisting in his quest until modesty vanished and she
writhed in pleasure. Her breathing came faster, her hands clutched his
hair. She knew the beauty of mindless surrender to the power of the
white-hot pulse that raged through her. Then she cried his name once and
caught her breath as a wave of sensation erupted deep within. When she
could think once again, Geoffrey was beside her, his hands moving
tenderly over her body.

"I ... I didn't want . . . that. . ." she gasped.

"I did," he countered, but his voice was gentle. "I've dreamed of it for
years."

"But what about you? What about your satisfaction?"

"That was part of my satisfaction. And we have the whole night."

It would have been the perfect time for him to sweep her up into his
arms and carry her off to his bedroom. Having played the loving couple
all evening, what would have been more fitting? But Geoffrey had other
things in mind as he nibbled

207 her lips tauntingly. His fingers found tender spots and caressed
them as he whispered soft words of desire. Far sooner than Sara would
have imagined possible, satiation faded, and her body came alive to his
once more.

With a soft moan she yielded to his lure, simultaneously wanting nothing
more than to bring him to a mindless height of arousal. And having been
relieved of her own urgency, she was in an ideal position to do just
that. Little did it matter, she told herself, that they weren't in the
master bedroom. After all, what could be more romantic than the stars
overhead and that bright full moon?

Lifting her hands to his shoulders, Sara released all inhibition and
began a tactile exploration that had Geoffrey breathing heavily within
minutes. Kneading his flesh, her fingers moved down his arms and then to
his chest, where she ran her palms across the firmly muscled expanse,
pausing only to tease twin male nipples before sliding her hands to his
back and drawing him closer.

When she arched her back, her breasts touched him. With a ragged moan,
he completed the circle, securing his arms around her and crushing her
up against him. "I need you, Sara," he whispered in a tone that
suggested he hadn't meant to speak. But she heard him and she knew

208 that what he'd said made it all worthwhile. He needed her, perhaps
at this moment only physically, but he needed her nonetheless. Just as
he'd needed her at the funeral. Just as he'd needed her that night to
help him forget. Just as, in many ways, he needed her to help resolve
his dilemma with Lizzie. And Sara needed to be needed. It was the one
element no business victory could provide in her life.

Opening her lips to his, she gave of herself freely, meeting his growing
ardor with her own, yet ever conscious of her lover's pleasure. When
Geoffrey twisted and came down on his back, she arched gracefully over
him, enjoying the freedom the position offered, taking advantage of the
leverage. She traced the line of his jaw with her lips, then kissed his
neck while she savored the strength of his hands on her back and the
bare length of her side. Only when his hands touched her hips did she
realize what she was missing.

With a final warm kiss to his lips, she knelt by his side and went to
work on the buckle of his belt. When her fingers trembled, she
persisted, drawing strength from his reassuring gaze. The belt hung
loose and she struggled with the zipper, finally needing help for a
problem that wasn't solely hers. But given his rising ardency, Geoffrey
struggled likewise. His own hands

209 weren't that much steadier than hers, and his breathing was much
less quiet. Finally he swung his legs off the far side of the lounge,
kicked off his shoes and socks, stood and hurriedly discarded his pants.
But before he could touch his briefs, Sara was on her feet before him,
her hands on his wrists, raising them to her shoulders. Looking up at
him, she moved his hands slowly downward until they covered her breasts.
Only then did she release them to snake her arms up around his neck.
Standing on tiptoe then, she kissed him deeply, using her tongue as the
counterpoint to his teasing fingers.

How long they stood there, she didn't know, so swept up was she in his
passion. They felt and caressed each other's body, finding satisfaction
in resultant moans and whispers. When Sara could stand no more of the
suspense, she lowered her hands and slipped them beneath the elastic of
his briefs, finding him, holding him, wanting nothing more than to
surround him with her warmth.

As though needing that too, Geoffrey tugged off the briefs, all the
while kissing her hungrily. Then, bringing her down on top of him, he
fell back onto the lounge where it all began again, the touching and
exploring and fondling. When Sara feared her patience was nearly
exhausted, she moved over him, straddling his hips, teasing

210 him for that last urgent moment before he took her, lifted her,
brought her slowly, sensuously down.

If Sara thought she'd been in control, she was joyously mistaken.
Impassioned as Geoffrey was, he set the rhythm, guiding her forward,
then back as the pace demanded. Her back was bowed gracefully over his
body to allow her lips access to his. Her breasts rubbed electrically
against his chest. And the heat between them rose slowly, then with
growing speed until there was nothing but her and him and their fierce
need for one another. It was a fiery moment, that last, one that raged,
then exploded and seemed to envelop them in its brilliance before
slowly, slowly cooling and leaving them drained.

Sara collapsed on top of Geoffrey, her breathing as jagged as his. But
he held her there, mindless of her meager weight, reluctant to let the
moment end.

"We have the whole night," he'd said earlier, and as the haze of passion
slowly lifted from Sara's benumbed mind she recalled his words and
wondered what would happen-now . . . tomorrow . . . next month. She knew
she was in trouble. For with each passing day she seemed to love him all
the more. With each passing night she needed him all the more. What did
the future hold, she asked herself in trepidation?

211

eight

THE MOONLIGHT PLAYED GAMES, MOMENtarily giving Geoffrey's face a look of
love such that Sara's hopes soared. Nor was she discouraged when he
eased her to his side, slid off the lounge and lifted her into his arms.
It was as she'd imagined before, being carried off in the dark toward a
night of passion in his bed.

But it wasn't his bed to which she was carried. And when she felt the
chill of her own sheets against her back, the sinking feeling in her
stomach was overpowering. Much as she might have hoped to have been his
wife, she was still a guest in Geoffrey's house. His returning her here
was proof.

Hurt, she opened her mouth to protest when he came down half over her,
but her words drowned in a kiss so potent as to stem rebellion at its
birth. When he began to caress her again, she forgot everything but his
touch, surrendering

212 to the force of her love for him. For though the dark added a kind
of anonymity to their passion, it also allowed for free reign of the
imagination-in Sara's case, that Geoffrey returned her love.

All night she gloried in the fantasy, finding ecstasy in his arms again
and again. No words were spoken save those of passion, and these were
shared as in a dream. When she awoke in the morning, however, the dream
was over and she was alone. Laid neatly across the foot of the bed was
the nightgown that had been discarded in the solarium; Geoffrey must
have risen and retrieved their clothes before dawn.

Mercifully she'd slept, or she might have begged him to stay, to
preserve the illusion a little longer. But his message was clear. The
use of separate bedrooms in opposite wings of the house was symbolic of
the distance he wanted to maintain. As he'd implied so vehemently when
he'd first come to her last night, she was his for the year, to be used
at his will. As for his bedroom, it was his own inner sanctum, one she
wasn't to disturb.

Feeling angry at Geoffrey for his attitude and angry at herself for
loving him so much that she was willing to bear it temporarily, she
showered, dressed and headed for the kitchen and a cup of tea. To her
initial chagrin, Geoffrey was there. To

213 her subsequent amazement, he greeted her as though he were oblivious
to any problem whatsoever, which infuriated her all the more.

He was seated at the island counter with a cup of coffee and the
newspaper. When she appeared in the doorway, he looked quickly up,
smiled and put the paper down. "Hi, Sara. I was wondering when you'd get
up. Can I fix you some breakfast?"

It was sheer momentum that brought her nearly to the middle of the room.
"Where's Mrs. Fleming?" she asked, trying desperately to ignore that
dimple in his cheek.

"She's gone upstairs to clean." He smiled slightly, making the dimple
all the more roguish. "We're both-a little late."

It took Sara's utmost control to maintain an even tone. "Is Lizzie up?"

"Are you kidding? She's been at it since seven. You mean you didn't hear
her?"

"I'm at the furthest end of the house."

For the first time he acknowledged the edge to her voice. "Does that
bother you?"

"Of course not!" Like hell.

"You could move closer if you wanted."

At what price, she wondered? "My room is fine."

He paused then, eyeing her enigmatically. "So,

214 what'll it be? An omelet? French toast? Eggs benedict?"

"You really know how to make all those?" "I can try," he answered,
sobering to add, "which is more than you're doing right now."

Sara was instantly defensive. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

She saw him sit straighter, saw the muscle of his jaw begin to work. "It
means that you could try to be pleasant. God only knows I am."

It was one straw too many. With a long, pointed glance she whirled and
headed angrily toward the door. "If it's that much of an effort, please
relax," she called over her shoulder. "I think I can use fresh air
better than breakfast." Geoffrey was beside her instantly, grabbing her
arm to halt her escape. "What's wrong, Sara?"

She looked away from him. "Nothing." "Sara ..." His voice held a warning
which she proceeded to ignore. "Let go of my arm, Jeff." "Not until you
tell me what's bothering you." Her head swiveled, and her gaze shot up
at him. "You really don't know?" "No. I really don't know. After last
night-" "Please, Jeff! Don't bring that up." "Then tell me what's the
matter." With a deep sigh she turned her head away. "If

215 you don't already know, I'm afraid I can't help you."

Perplexed, Geoffrey opened his mouth to argue, only to shut it moments
later and release her arm. As he watched her disappear down the hall
toward the front door, he was more confused than ever. He was sure she'd
been pleased last night. Hell, if he hadn't known better, he might have
imagined her as much in love as he was. She'd responded with such
abandon. He could never get enough of her. But, then, he should know
better. She'd made a deal. She'd agreed to be his wife in return for his
helping her set up her branch office. Even now he knew he'd find her in
the cottage.

Without quite having made a conscious decision, he quickly found himself
there, too. She was standing amid a mess of boards and sawdust and
didn't look up when he entered.

"Let's have this out, Sara."

"There's nothing to say, Geoffrey. Leave well enough alone."

"It's not well enough!" he yelled loudly enough to corral her immediate
attention. When he came to stand before her, she willed her legs to
steadiness. "I want to know what's behind these sudden turnarounds every
time we make love. You enjoy yourself-and don't try to tell

216 me you don't. But then you turn your back on me, or wake up on the
wrong side of the bed."

Her eyes flashed. "If it's the wrong side of the bed I've woken up on,
it's only because you were occupying the right side for most of the
night. If you'd stayed away from me in the first place, I would have
been just where I wanted to be."

"And where's that? Alone? Frustrated? Is that what you want in life?"
His nostrils flared under the pressure of self-restraint. "Or is it just
that your precious business gives you more satisfaction than any man
could?" He lowered his voice to a dangerous growl. "Is that it, Sara?
Does it turn you on, the power you feel? Have you sacrificed humanity
for a-a thing?"

"No!" she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. "That's not it at
all!"

"Then what is? What is it that makes you tick?"

Her hesitation was brief, her voice speaking a heartfelt vow. "Survival,
Geoffrey! I was weaned on it, grew up on it, was introduced to adulthood
with it in tow. Why do you think I left you eight years ago?" Against
her will, her eyes flooded. "In the end it still seemed best to salvage
what little was left of my dream and seek its fulfillment elsewhere.
I've tried. God only knows, I've tried." Overcome with emotion, she
lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut. "Yes, I want

217 you at night," she whispered brokenly. "I won't deny it. But I can't
help, when it's over, there is always this anger and the memories of
that old hurt." Her fists clenched by her sides, she felt herself waver.
Within instants Geoffrey drew her against him, offering the quiet,
undemanding support she needed.

"Shhhh, princess." He spoke softly against her hair, torn once more by
guilt about all that had happened so long ago. "It's all right. Look,
I'm sorry I pushed you. I know that you're under a lot of pressure. It's
just that..." He took a deep breath. "It's just that I don't want to
fight with you. And I don't want to see you miserable every time we're
together." His arms gently circled her back, barely moving. "What I want
is for you to be able to enjoy what we have without selfrecrimination."

She drew her head back to look at him. "You want me to take it all
lightly, with a grain of salt?" she asked, feeling hurt all over again.

Looking down at her, Geoffrey sighed. "No, Sara. That's not what I want
at all. I want you to let things happen. Just to ... let things take
their own course."

That was precisely the problem, she mused. The course was a dead-end one
with a year's limit. "I'm not very good at that type of thing. For

218 the past eight years I've been in control of everything I've done. I
don't know if-"

"Try, Sara. If not for yourself or me, then for ... for ..." He paused,
reluctant but desperate. "For Lizzie. If there's tension between us,
she'll pick it up in a minute. Don't you think she's been through
enough?" He knew he was unfairly playing on her sentiments, but he had
no other recourse. When Sara shot him a cutting glance, he felt all the
more guilty. But if the tactic would buy him her good humor, it would be
worth the underhandedness.

"That's cheating," she accused him, but her voice had lost its edge.
"There was nothing in our deal that ruled out tension."

"Do you want it?"

Her tone softened. "No."

"Then what are we arguing about?"

For a split second she wasn't sure. She'd been hurt and angry before.
Now, with Geoffrey's lean frame supporting her, with his arms cradling
her and his broad shoulders sheltering her, she felt totally pacified.
Granted, she wished that tender look on his face was for her as well as
for Lizzie, but then the child needed it all the more. At least Sara
still had the business and her life in New York.

As though riding her brain wave back to the

219 scene, Geoffrey looked around. "Pretty messy, isn't it?"

Standing back as his arms dropped, she followed his gaze in a sweeping
arc. "It'll be great, though, when they're done. Especially the
workshop. Have you seen it?"

"Not since Friday morning."

On impulse she put out her hand. With a concrete source of excitement to
share, she was quick to shift her frustration to the back burner. And
she really didn't want to fight, either. "Come on. Let me show you." She
led him up the narrow stairs to what had once been the attic. "They cut
the skylights on Friday afternoon. It'll be fantastic to work up here."
Side by side they stood looking first at the ceiling, then at the rest
of the single room with its embryonic booths and benches.

"Are you pleased with what they're doing?"

"Oh, yes! They've managed to follow my scribbles exactly!" She wandered
to examine the beginnings of a workbench, then turned to face Geoffrey.
"I can't wait to work up here. It's so bright and cheery. I only hope I
have the time." Her thoughts were of the family she'd temporarily
acquired and the growing desire she had to be with them.

"Make the time."

She chuckled. "Easier said than done. You of

220 all people should know that. When was the last time you worked on
the original design for one of your buildings?"

He arched a brow. "Hmmmm . . ."

"You know, you really should do some of that, Geoffrey. You're very
talented."

His gaze shifted to the window. "Your opinion is based on a few drawings
done over fifteen years ago. That training was as much of an indulgence
as my mother would allow. I'm sure I've lost most of what I had. And
besides, you're right. I barely have time to screen the architects we
hire, let alone do their work for them!"

She rested gingerly against the protruding pine shelf, crossed her arms
over her breasts and eyed him speculatively. "I bet you could have done
a better job than me designing this office."

"No way! I know nothing about jewelry making. As a matter of fact,
you've been very stingy with that information. Come on. Tell me. How do
you do it?"

Sara stifled a smile as she pondered his halfcomical expression. Then
she shrugged, feeling suddenly more confident. That Geoffrey respected
her knowledge of the craft was encouraging. "Oh"-she wrinkled her
nose-"it's really simple. You take a piece of gold and work over

221 it for a while, hammering and annealing and pickling and cleaning-"

"Pickling?"

"Sure. You see, when you heat a piece of metal in the process of working
on it, the surface becomes dirty-oxidized. To clean it, you drop it in a
solution of water and sulfuric acid-a pickle solution."

"Must smell great."

She cocked her head toward the ceiling vents strategically placed
beneath eaves to be effective yet practically unseen. "It would be
pretty bad without those. But it's a necessary stage."

"Where did you learn all this?"

Again she shrugged, this time growing more pensive. "Oh, I picked it up
here and there."

"Here and there? This wasn't all in Tucson?"

"Actually, no. I spent time in Dallas and Fort Worth and St. Paul-even
in Providence, Rhode Island. After I'd mastered the art of making
earrings out of beads and wire in Tucson, I apprenticed myself to a
silversmith in Dallas and worked for him in exchange for lessons. As I
wanted to learn another process, I moved on. The whole thing snowballed,
so to speak. Each place I went to, I learned more, made more contacts. I
sold jewelry all along the way. By the time I reached New York I was
actually able to afford

222 a small studio. From there"-she gestured with her hand-"well, things
just took off."

"I'll say," Geoffrey murmured, shaking his head in slow amazement. "And
it's going to be worse when you open for business here. Have you any
idea how many inquiries I've received already?"

Sara's eyes widened. "Really? What did you tell them?"

"I told them it would be at least a month before you'd be able to meet
with anyone. That is how you work it, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh. Before I put anything on paper, I like to talk with the client.
Since each piece is custom designed, it's critical to know the
personality of the wearer, the purpose for which the piece is to be
worn." Her eyes glowed. "That's where so much of the challenge comes in.
I love it."

"It's obvious," he said softly, wondering once again whether she had
room for any other love in her life. But as jealous as he was of this
abundant enthusiasm for her work, he did enjoy seeing it. When she lit
up that way, she was positively gorgeous. Perhaps one day... but no, it
wouldn't do to get his hopes up. He cleared his throat. "Do you prefer
working in gold?"

"Personally, yes." She glanced down at her wedding band, so wide yet
simple and brightly reflecting the skylights. "It's a-a happy metal.

223 There are others that are as beautiful but that strike me
differently. That's why I need to hear a client's preference. If it were
up to me, I'd do everything in gold." For a minute she feared she'd said
too much. Feeling shy, she kept her eyes averted, daring to look at him
only when he spoke again. To her relief, if he'd suspected the strength
of her feelings regarding not only that gold band on her finger but the
one on his, he diplomatically avoided mention of it. Rather, he settled
back against a windowsill.

"You work with stones too, though. Do you have preferences there?"

"Again, it depends on the client and the occasion and the particular
outfit, if there is one, that the piece is to match. The bracelet and
earrings that I wore last night are perfect examples. The ivory was
necessary to carry on the white motif-though it took me a while to find
a piece of ivory that was just the right shade. I've done quite a few
things in pearl or smoky topaz, or black onyx, amethyst or jade."

"But your favorite," he persisted. "Personally. If you were to turn the
tables and have a dress designed to match a piece of jewelry, so that
you could design the bracelet or necklace or earring of any stone you
wanted, what would you choose?"

Looking down, she thought for a minute. The

224 answer was simple. Of the four most precious gems, there was one
she'd never worked with. It carried too much of an emotional connotation
for her. One day... maybe one day she'd be able to do it. Until then it
would simply remain a dream.

"I adore working with gemstones." She smiled on a note of quiet awe that
was not wholly untruthful. "Rubies, sapphires, emeralds," she softly
named the other three. "They're the most brilliant, the most colorful,
the most precious. Each one is unique."

So very much was left unsaid, yet as they stood in silent regard of one
another, Sara had to wonder if Geoffrey understood. Once more she felt
herself being drawn into the depth of his gaze, and she welcomed its
warmth. But when the sun passed behind a cloud and the light above
dimmed in poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of their
relationship, she shivered.

"Cold?" he asked, coming quickly to her side.

She grimaced toward the ceiling, ad-libbing perfectly. "It'll help when
they get the glass up there tomorrow."

"Come." He threw a gentle arm around her shoulder. "Let's go back to the
house. You haven't even got a sweater on."

It was true. When she'd stamped out so an-

225 grily, she'd been oblivious to the fact that the tunic top over her
jeans was, albeit long sleeved, a single cotton layer. With the chill in
the air and the open-air state of the roof, she could have used a
sweater or a shawl-not that she had any objection to the warmth of
Geoffrey's arm as it tucked her against him.

Side by side they started down the stairs, jostling one another,
laughing, finally separating and going down single file. At the bottom
he turned with his hands on his hips and cast a calculating eye back at
the narrow stairway. "This has to be widened. That's all there is to it."

"Don't be silly, Jeff. I'll probably be the only one to use it."

He frowned momentarily. "You mean you won't have a team doing the actual
work out here?"

It was something she'd carefully thought out, a decision she'd reached
only after hours of discussion with her people in New York. "Not at
first." Which meant, practically speaking, given the time limit of their
relationship, probably never. "I'm going to try to do special pieces
here, but most of the rest will continue to be done in New York. If I
feel that the demand merits it, I may hire someone. But aside from the
work I do myself, this office will be more for the contracting and
designing end of it."

226 After pondering her words, Geoffrey nodded. "Then it should be
widened for safety's sake."

"But, Jeff-"

He held up a large hand. "No more arguments. Understood?"

What she understood was the deeper meaning of his quiet plea. For a
minute she simply stared up at him. Then she spoke softly. "I'll try,
Jeff. I can't make any promises. But I will try."

They'd come full circle in the morning's discussion. Geoffrey returned
her gaze for infinite seconds longer. "Fair enough," he said, then
slowly extended a hand to her. She took it readily and allowed herself
to be drawn to his side as they walked back toward the house. His motive
was peace. She knew that. She also knew that it was the most practical
motive he might have. A year-slightly less now-could be a long, long
time if they were forever at each other's throats. And then, as he'd so
carefully pointed out, there was Lizzie, who did deserve whatever
happiness they could give her. He might be playing a mean game, but he
was right. And she would try, she vowed, taking strength from the
fingers that were covering hers.

"And you can really make an omelet?" she teased, looking up through the
shade of her lashes and feeling better than she had since she'd awoken.

227 He smiled crookedly. "It might not look all that pretty but it sure
tastes fantastic."

In the end anything would probably have tasted fantastic, given Sara's
improved mood. Sure enough, Geoffrey did make an omelet,
filled-actually, brimming, as he'd warned- with ham and cheese and onion
and green pepper. To watch him slice up the works was a treat, as was
the easy conversation that ran gently throughout. He spoke of his work,
of the new condominium complex being built downtown, of the paper plant
in Oregon that had just been renovated, of the electronics division's
recent entry into the world of robotics. Later, after they'd somewhat
guiltily left the dishes for Mrs. Fleming, they went in search of
Lizzie, over whose head they resumed their discussion of Sara's work.
She took pride in relating anecdotes of her experiences with various
illustrious clients, sharing tales of last-minute hair-raisers and close
calls that were humorous only in hindsight.

Despite its inauspicious beginnings, it was a day whose pleasure was
shadowed only by Sara's knowledge that she'd be on a plane by noon
Monday, headed back to New York for the week. Had it been the long
holiday weekend, she asked herself as she reflected on how much she
wished she could stay? Had she simply settled in

228 so much that the unsettling was much harder than it had been before?

If only that were the case, she mused the next day as her jumbo jet rose
high above San Francisco, headed east. If only it were as simple as
that. No, it was Jeff she'd be missing during those next four days. Jeff
and, yes, Lizzie. As a threesome, they meshed perfectly, the fulfillment
of one part of Sara's dream. She couldn't recall another Thanksgiving
weekend when she'd been happier. But now she was returning to New York
alone.

In a moment's daydream she wondered at the fun she'd have showing Jeff
the Big Apple. Oh, yes, he'd been there many times, but never to see her
friends, her work, her world. He'd snow them all, she knew it. Perhaps
one day she could convince him to come.

But, then, his world was the child. Would he leave her alone long enough
to make the trip? As a matter of fact, he could bring her, Sara
realized, smiling at the thought of their pushing her stroller through
Central Park on a sunny afternoon. Initial doubts notwithstanding, she'd
found mothering Lizzie to be one of the most natural things she'd ever
done, and rewarding now that the little one's arms wound readily around
her neck, her ruddy cheek nestled easily

229 against her shoulder and her eyes lit in recognition when she
entered the room. As Sara had feared, she was quickly coming to love the
child. A dangerous thing-very dangerous-for them both. And Jeff? What
about him? Though she loved him to distraction, he remained an enigma.
For every bout of passion or even simple companionship they shared,
there remained a barrier between them. Much as she might have wished it,
he never once made mention of love. What about him?

Geoffrey watched the next few weeks pass, growing more and more
perplexed. Where he'd expected-half hoped for the sake of his heart- to
find a hardened businesswoman, he found a woman of warmth and
compassion. Where he'd expected to find a woman skilled solely in her
narrow field, he found a woman who seemed remarkably able to tackle
almost anything. And where he'd expected to find a woman who abided the
presence of a child purely for the sake of the bargain, he found a woman
who rose naturally and enthusiastically to the challenge of motherhood.

There was Lizzie's room, now completed and adorable, from the gay
ruffled curtains that matched the wallpaper to the bright green
carpeting on the floor and the musical lamp on the

230 dresser and the polka-dot bumpers on the crib. There were small
gifts and huge hugs with each return trip from New York, and a birthday
party replete with balloons and cake and a stuffed but life-size St.
Bernard dog to stand guard in a corner of her room. And there was a
genuine affection between Sara and Lizzie that stirred him deeply. At
times he'd sit back and watch them together, one head as blond as the
next, one smile as sweet as the other, and he'd find it hard to believe
that Lizzie wasn't Sara's own. Then he'd stop and remind himself that it
wasn't to be, and his thoughts would darken.

For with each passing day, with each passing week, he grew more
convinced of his need for Sara. He'd never experienced such emotional
fulfillment as during the time he spent with her. Certainly Lizzie's
presence filled a need he'd had, but this was different. Much as a man
might try to devote himself solely to the well-being of a child, it was
a woman he needed.

But Sara was only half his, and that half was his for too short a time.
Would he ever understand her-seeming so happy at times with him yet
regularly stepping back on that plane bound for New York? And once she
was there, did she resent the time she spent with him? Or did she value
it for the sake of her business?

And then there were the nights, after they'd

231 offered polite words to one another and gone their own ways. In
moments of equivocation he'd debated the merits of the act, yet found
himself nonetheless on his way to the guest wing. At night; always at
night. And always in her room. What a futile gesture that was, his
feeble attempt to convince himself that she couldn't take her place in
his bed, hence in his heart. But damn it, she was there! And then when
she responded with such willingness, such eagerness-as close to loving
as any man might wish-but in the dark, with only sighs and moans of
pleasure and never a word of love. Was she dreaming of others at those
times? No, she cried his name as often as he did hers. Then what did go
through her mind when she was in his arms? What did she think of the future?

Though he hadn't intended it at first, he saw himself increasingly
involving her in his life. He'd promised that Lizzie would be cared for
by a nurse, yet they spent as much time with the child each day as many
another set of parents. And there had been other evening engagements
after that first-a party at the club, an evening at the theater, dinner
at some of the finest restaurants San Francisco had to offer. And she
took to it without argument. Was she simply doing it for the child's
sake, as he'd asked? But she seemed so happy.

232 He thought back to the eighteen-year-old he'd married ten years
before. Then he'd seen in Sara the promise of warmth, home and family.
Now, whatever her reasons, she was all that. He couldn't have asked for
more-other than that it be for real. He'd given her the out he now
dreaded-that time span the end of which hung heavy on his own happiness.
And for the life of him he didn't know what to do.

Christmas came and went, a beautifully peaceful day, the nicest part of
which, from Sara's point of view, was the prospect of spending the week
to come with Geoffrey and Lizzie. Everything was taken care of in New
York. The cottage was furnished and operational. For the first time she
was able to shift from home to work without having to board an airplane.

And it was a luxury she fully appreciated, for the commute had begun to
take its toll. She was tired. Those idle air hours during which she had
nothing to do but brood about when it would all be over did little for
her peace of mind. When she was with Jeff or Lizzie she was the
happiest, determinedly avoiding all thoughts of the future. During the
week preceding New Year's, such times were in abundance.

It was at one such time, an evening when Lizzie was asleep and they sat
beside one another

233 on the sofa in the den before the fire, that Geoffrey turned to
Sara, his eyes thoughtful. "Will you mind spending New Year's Eve alone,
just the two of us?" he asked quietly.

"Of course not. Did you think I would?"

"I didn't know. You've become a very social being of late."

"Not really of late, Jeff," she chided softly, gently. "You just haven't
been around during the past few years."

"But you do seem to enjoy yourself when we go out."

"Why shouldn't I? Your friends are nice."

He arched a brow in skepticism. "I can remember a time when you couldn't
stand them."

"I was very young then, without a drop of confidence. I had nothing
going for me-"

"That wasn't true."

"I felt that I had nothing going for me," she softly corrected herself.
"That was true. I felt awkward and out of it." She paused, thinking how
comfortable she felt at the moment, sitting, talking quietly with her
husband. "Things are different now. What I am-what my business is-I
don't feel intimidated anymore."

He took her hand and studied its slender lines. "That much is obvious,
whether or not it was justified in the first place. But"-he looked up-
"would you feel comfortable entertaining them

234 here?" He'd toyed with the idea for days and only now, with the
atmosphere of warmth between them, had he felt the courage to broach it.

"Sure," she answered without batting an eyelash. She knew what he
didn't-that she'd entertained any number of times in New York-and the
thought gave her all the more confidence.

"Sure?" His smile was lopsided. "Just like that?"

"Why not? What did you have in mind?"

"A dinner party."

She beamed. "My specialty."

"You're being facetious."

"No, I'm serious. Tell me what you want. A dinner party for how many?"

He held her gaze, testing her. "Thirty?"

"Thirty! Whew, that's some dinner party."

"Too much?"

"No, no. It's no problem from my angle." She frowned, growing pensive.
"I suppose we could rent tables and put a few in each of several
different rooms."

"We could?"

She had to laugh at the surprise in his voice. "Sure. How else could we
handle that many?"

"We could have a buffet."

She crinkled her nose. "A buffet often seems so rushed. If we're going
to do it, we might as

235 well do it right. Any special reason for the event, or is it just
your turn?"

"You make it sound heartless."

"If the only reason you're doing it is to reciprocate for invitations
you've received, I suppose it is heartless."

Undaunted, he squeezed her hand. "In this case I can assure you it's
not. Yes, there may be some people I'd like to invite who've entertained
me within the past few months. And there are certainly those with whom
we've spent time recently. But there are others I'd like you to meet,
including some media people who might just be able to give you a little
publicity now that your office is finally open."

"So this is a debut?" She drawled the word with fitting tongue-in-cheek
humor.

He grinned. "If you will."

"And you want it to be held-yesterday?" Still that humor. She was
actually excited at the prospect of showing him what she could do as a
hostess now, ten years later.

"Mid-January will be fine," he assured her, his outer amusement masking
that inner wonder. Would she really do it? Could she?

"Great! I'll get to work on it tomorrow. But tell me, have we got any
champagne in the cellar?"

"For the party?"

236 "For New Year's Eve. If we're set on doing things right . . ."

New Year's Eve was as right as it could be. It was quiet, intimate and
warm. Sara felt her love for Geoffrey flow as freely as the champagne he
uncorked. Her only sadness occurred when she thought of the next year's
celebration-sadness and confusion. It simply didn't make sense that two
people who seemed to get along as well as they did couldn't make a go of
their marriage on a permanent basis. Did Geoffrey love her? He seemed
to; yet he never said it. What were his thoughts? Was he still only
looking for a partner in the adoption, or had she managed to get under
his skin even a little? She was a modern woman; she should ask. But she
couldn't, for fear she'd hear the worst. Coward, she called herself more
than once. But she didn't say a word lest she rock the boat on which
they'd finally found such an even keel. Besides, she was so happy this
way-ignorance was bliss. If she could only keep from wondering . . .

As it happened, the New Year took off at such a breathless clip that she
had little time to think.

237

nine

NO SOONER HAD SARA RETURNED TO NEW York than Geoffrey got word of the
preliminary processing of the adoption papers and an interview scheduled
for that Friday morning. Quickly shifting appointments, Sara zipped back
to the West Coast two short days after she'd left. That the meeting with
the court social worker went well was justification for the rush. That
Geoffrey seemed particularly pleased was compensation for her fatigue.
That she was back in San Francisco, with him, with Lizzie, even after so
brief an absence, made it all the more worthwhile.

There was, though, no rest for the weary. The phone in the cottage
office didn't stop ringing on Saturday. Sara used Sunday to make
preliminary plans for the party. On Monday it was business as usual, on
the phone again, primarily long distance to New York. In truth, she
found it surprisingly easy to carry on work this way, even with

238 the crunch on for the benefit to be held, coincidentally, a week
after the party. Her New York staff had risen to the occasion, handling
everything they could, saving those other things for the two or three
days of the week that she'd be there with them.

Though things went smoothly into that second week in January, there were
random moments of exhaustion when Sara wondered whether she had indeed
tackled too much. For in addition to business matters and party plans,
there were still Jeff and Lizzie, each of whom took large chunks of her
time. They didn't demand it; she gave it freely. And she wouldn't have
had it any other way. She wanted to spend time with Jeff each morning at
breakfast, then later each evening, talking quietly of the day's events.
She wanted to care for Lizzie, feeding her and bathing her whenever
possible, reading to her and playing with her, even taking her for her
checkup to finally meet the pediatrician about whom Jeff had raved. And
if spending this time with her family-as she very definitely had come to
think of Jeff and Lizzie-meant working all the harder at odd points
during the day, she felt the trade-off was justified.

Then, two days before the dinner party, a call came in at eight in the
morning while Sara and Jeff were having breakfast.

239 "Trouble?" Geoffrey asked, growing alert when Sara returned from the
library whitefaced.

"It was the office. David's sick." David was her executive vice
president, whose watchful eye had replaced her own and guided things in
New York during her absences. Distracted, she slid down against the
windowsill and stared blindly at the floor.

"What's wrong?"

"They aren't sure. He woke up in the middle of the night with chest
pains. His wife is with him in the hospital." She shook her head slowly,
then looked up. "I've got to go back."

"Fly to New York, today? You can't do that, Sara. You just flew out
yesterday!"

For an instant her gaze hardened. "Can't? Our bargain doesn't allow for
emergencies?"

Geoffrey turned to face her more fully, his tone every bit as deep and
hard as her gaze. "That's not what I meant and you know it! If you
insist on whipping back to New York, be my guest. I was thinking of you
and that list you rattled off last night of things that you had to do
today and tomorrow."

Realizing her error, she looked away. Had she actually grown more
defensive, or was she simply tired, and therefore more sensitive? It was

240 obvious from his instant response that he did intend the best.

She spoke more softly. "Those things will just have to wait. First I'd
like to see how David is. He's been with me since I opened shop in New
York and is a special person. Besides"-she frowned-"with that benefit
coming up in little over a week, someone has to keep on top of things.
If I fly there today, I'll have all of tomorrow to touch bases. Then I
can fly back on Saturday morning and be here in plenty of time for the
party."

Pushing his chair from the table, Geoffrey stood. "But you're exhausted
already! Take a look at yourself. All week you've been pale. This
schedule you've set for yourself isn't healthy." And since her schedule
and its grueling nature was largely his fault, he felt guilty.

"It'll work out, Jeff. Really it will. Things are pretty much set for
the party. The caterers know what to do; same with the florist. I can
make a list of the other things and Mrs. Fleming can follow up on them.
While I'm in New York I'll take care of the phone calls I would have
made today-"

"You'll run yourself ragged, Sara!"

She sighed, bowed her head and rubbed her temple, then looked back at
him. "I don't have any choice, do I?"

The ensuing silence captured her attention.

241 When he finally spoke, she was startled. '77/ go," Geoffrey stated
emphatically. "You tell me where to go, whom to see, what to do and I'll
do it. I can start at the hospital and see how your David's doing, then
move on to the office. How about it?"

"I can't ask you to do that," she whispered, stunned.

Approaching her, he was the image of boldness. "You're not asking; I'm
offering. I want to do it, Sara-unless you'd rather I didn't."

"I do want you to! I mean, it would make things so much easier. But what
about your work? You've got enough to do-"

"It'll hold." He took her shoulders and drew her up. "Besides, it really
is my turn."

"Your turn?"

"To do some of that traveling. It's got to be hard on you, shuttling
back and forth the way you do."

"I don't mind," she whispered, feeling ever so close to him.

"Well, I do," he countered. "But I'll only go to New York on one condition."

She slid her arms around his waist in mirror to his movement and tipped
her head back. "What's that?"

"That you get some sleep. Early nights. Both nights."

242 "And what else would I do with you gone?" she burst out with soft
spontaneity. When he lowered his head and kissed her, she wondered all
the more.

"I don't know," he murmured against her lips, then caressed her cheek
with slow kisses en route to her ear. "What did you do before?"

"I don't know," she breathed, her eyes closed, hypnotized by his
nearness. When he held her like this, so gently, so strongly, she could
think of nothing but the moment. It was a heady one, arms around one
another, bodies snugly fitted. She drank in the clean male smell of him,
let her hands slide higher to the broader span of his upper back. When
he returned to her lips and kissed her again, she let her response speak
wordlessly of her love.

"Know what I'd like to do?" he whispered in a hoarser tone.

"What?" she asked, as if the tensing of his body hadn't given him away.

"Take you back to bed."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Whose bed?" The question had popped out, seemingly, from a little
gremlin perched on the shoulder of her heart. It was as close as she
could come to asking if Jeff loved her. But just as

243 her heart waited anxiously, the door to the kitchen swung open and
Mrs. Fleming came in.

"Oh! Excuse me-" she exclaimed, disappearing as quickly. But both heads
had swung her way, and the spell was broken.

"Well... uh ..." Geoffrey slowly released Sara and stood back. "I guess
I'd better call the office, then the airport to see what they've got
flying out today. If you could make some notes as to what I can do for
you, it'd be a big help."

Sara nodded, unable to say a word. She'd come so close to knowing; it
seemed unfair. But as though to compensate for the disappointment, there
was the knowledge of that other burden Geoffrey had lifted from her
shoulders. Following him to the library, she realized that only half of
her relief came from not having to make the trip. The other half came
from knowing that her husband was doing this for her. And the question
would have another chance to be answered one day.

For Geoffrey the trip from San Francisco to New York was an eye-opener.
He'd expected four and a half hours of relaxation, but he brooded the
entire time. Did she Jove him? Did she not? For the first time he could
appreciate the advantage of being back in San Francisco, busy and
running all the time except when he was with her. If he

244 had to make this trip twice a week, he'd lose his mind-unless, that
was, he knew that she loved him and was waiting for him-better still,
was with him during the flight. That might be fun, he mused. Perhaps
even for this benefit of hers ... perhaps he'd go back with her then.
After all, between Caryn and Mrs. Fleming, Lizzie would be doted on, and
Sara did need an escort.

She was remarkable, he decided at the start of his second Scotch. She'd
arranged the party- food, seating, flowers and wine and song. Where had
she found that small woodwind ensemble? For that matter, where had she
found those other resources? Everyone seemed to come when she called,
and she seemed perfectly comfortable dealing with them all. It was a
switch from the past, to say the least. Then she'd had all she could do
simply to psych herself for the event; she'd been more than happy to
leave the arrangements to others. In fact, when he'd first suggested the
party, he'd assumed she'd let Mrs. Fleming handle almost everything.
Now, though, not only had Sara taken the details upon herself, but she'd
managed to make Mrs. Fleming feel like a million by convincing her that
her role of overseeing the others was vital, when in truth it was a
token one.

Yes, Sara was a wonder. She was also worn out. He could see it in her
pallor, in the way she

245 often dozed against him in the evenings, in the sunken cast to her
eyes before she'd dusted them with makeup. She was pushing herself far
beyond the call of duty, and he didn't know why. Did she love him? Or
was she simply carrying out her part of the bargain with a
characteristic thoroughness? He was back to square one. Perhaps it was
time for another Scotch.

A stewardess came from behind and passed his seat, looking calmly from
left to right in search of passengers in need of help. Geoffrey started
to call her, then dropped his hand and simply watched the slender blond
move out of reach. There had been a time when he might have made a pass
at such an attractive woman. No longer. Only one woman interested him now.

His eyes dropped to the gold band on his finger and he noted how
comfortable it felt. She was comfortable. The marriage itself was
comfortable. If only he knew what the future held. If only he could
freely confess his love. But that might be pushing her. If she balked at
a vow that implied deeper involvement, he'd be all the more frustrated.
Besides, would she even believe him? They'd been in love before, and
he'd let things come between them. What good were words of love? Better
to show her.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he recalled his plan to keep cool, to
hold her at arm's length.

246 Had he really thought it possible, or had he merely been too
cowardly to admit the truth- that Sara intrigued him even more now than
she had ten years ago in Snowmass? It was in the image of man to think
himself strong and in full control of his destiny. But was he? Where
Sara was involved, he felt helpless.

Sara, on the other hand, was far from helpless. Geoffrey saw it
everywhere he turned in New York, hearing her praises sung by her
coworkers, seeing the efficient operation of Sara McCray Originals for
himself. Even with David confined to the hospital for what had been
diagnosed as a mercifully mild heart attack, the business was in fine
shape. It didn't take Geoffrey long to realize that the buoyant welcome
he received was simply the overspill of an adoration that was aimed at
his wife rather than a dire relief that help had arrived. For many
another man it might have been a demoralizing experience to ride on his
wife's coattails. For Jeff, however, self-confident and successful as he
was on his own, it was an occasion for pride that was to continue that
Saturday night at the party she'd so skillfully arranged. It was an
unqualified success. The food was superb, the setting elegant, the air
one of pleasured luxuriance. The consummate hostess, Sara moved from
group to

247 group, exuding genuine warmth, joining ongoing conversation, fully
enjoying herself and her coup.

Geoffrey's astonishment at the evening's achievement was tempered only
by his attentiveness. He was always there to introduce her to newcomers,
always there to push Sara McCray Originals when her own modesty quieted
her, always there to see that she was in want of neither food nor drink.
Though he circulated on his own as was his obligation as host, he always
returned to her side, to be rewarded when she reached out and took his
hand or arm to draw him into the circle.

She was the perfect wife and hostess, until the last of the guests, the
last of the help, had left and she collapsed into a chair in utter
exhaustion. For Geoffrey, having spent the evening in near-worship of
her, his worry took a harsher note than it might have done in more
normal circumstances.

"Damn it, Sara! I knew you shouldn't have done all this! You look like
you can't take another step!"

"I can't." She laughed wearily, looking up at him. "But I don't have to
until tomorrow-uh, make that today."

His gaze narrowed darkly. "You're not going to-"

248 "I have to," she said with a sigh. "There's still so much to do for
the benefit. I've got to speak with the designers and check on the
progress of the work." She shook her head. "I was hoping to stay here
until Thursday, but with David still out of commission, I'd better get
back on Wednesday. If things are actually going to be done by Friday night-"

"If you don't slow down, you'll be the one in the hospital, not David.
Then where will we be?" he exclaimed impulsively, knowing how much he'd
come to depend on her presence yet speaking without thought of the
possible interpretation of his words-or misinterpretation.

Stiffening, Sara pushed herself from the chair and headed for the
stairs, all her joy gone. She was, as she saw it, no different to Jeff
than those caterers or florists or musicians had been to her tonight.
She served one purpose above all others. "Don't worry," she seethed.
"I'll be fine."

But she wasn't. And though she'd expected Geoffrey to be calm and
forgiving by the next morning, he wasn't. Sunday, Monday and Tuesday
were tense. By the time Wednesday barreled in and she boarded a plane
headed for New York, she was drained not only physically but
emotionally. It was some help when the demands of the

249 upcoming benefit diverted her thoughts from the worst of her
brooding. But then there was the issue of her physical exhaustion, the
solution to which would only have given her time to think-and that she
didn't want. So she kept herself moving, doing even more than she'd
planned, telling herself that she'd rest when the benefit was over. By
the time Geoffrey arrived, she was running on fumes.

"Geoffrey? Here?" she squawked back at the receptionist when the message
arrived at midafternoon. When the man himself appeared at the door to
her office, an answer was unnecessary. Murmuring a stunned "Thank you,"
she hung up the phone and stood, her heart pounding, unable to take her
eyes from the tall, dark vision before her. "Jeff! When did you fly in?"
Though he looked incredibly formal, he no longer seemed angry.

"I came straight from the airport," he explained, studying her intently.
His half-smile held no humor at all. "I figured I ought to witness
firsthand this affair that's taken so much out of you."

"I'm fine. Really fine." Certainly better, knowing that he'd thought to
come-indeed, one part of her was ecstatic that he'd made the effort to
fly all the way to New York after having flown round-trip just the week
before. It would pick

250 her up to have him here, and at the moment she badly needed a
pick-me-up. She smiled wearily. "I'll be glad when it's over, though. I
can't remember when anything like this has been as tiring."

His eyes narrowed in hint of his earlier anger. "Maybe that's because
you've never worn as many hats before. Has it occurred to you that you
may be overdoing it?"

"What can I do, Jeff? I didn't plan to have everything come at once. For
that matter, I agreed to do this benefit over a year ago. I had no idea
then that I'd be shuttling from coast to coast now!" Her voice had risen
in accusation and anger. It seemed they were picking up the argument
where they'd last left off. But she was neither prepared for that
particular pain nor particularly well tuned to handle it. "Look," she
said with a sigh, "you're right. I'm exhausted. And the last thing I
need is to argue with you." She glanced down at her watch. "I've got
another hour's work to do here before I go home to change. If you want,
you can wait-"

But he shook his head and took his topcoat from his arm in prelude to
donning it. "I've got an errand to run. What time do you have to be at
the hotel?"

"Six."

251 "I'll pick you up at five forty-five. Okay?" "Okay."

By the evening's end Sara was convinced she had a guardian angel. Not
only did the benefit net a quarter of a million dollars in aid to
handicapped children, but, in the limelight, her jewelry looked even
more stupendous than she'd hoped. And Geoffrey was with her, a handsome
and dignified escort, attracting more than his share of speculative
glances. As a couple, they were stunning, he in his black tuxedo, she in
her floor-length gown of softly draped red chiffon. He complemented her
perfectly in every way, carrying the heaviest burden of conversation
each time she began to fade, dropping into the background when the
moment's rest revived her. His was a strong arm to lean on, a quiet
presence to give her strength.

When he took her home to her apartment that night, she was optimistic.
When they made feverish love to one another into the early morning
hours, she was ecstatic. When the phone rang at nine the next morning,
though, waking them both from the sleep she, for one, so badly needed,
she felt instantly on guard.

Groping blindly, she found the receiver and cleared her throat as she
brought it to her ear. "Hello? Yes?" Her voice cleared instantly. "Mrs.

252 Fleming?" The warm length of man beside her shifted. When a long arm
reached for the phone, she twisted and hung on determinedly. "That's all
right. We had to get up anyway. Is something wrong?" As she listened to
the San Francisco connection, her eyes widened in alarm. "When did it
start? Any fever? Uh-oh. And that didn't bring it down?"

"What is it?" Geoffrey demanded against her free ear, but she held a
hand up for him to wait and gave her full attention to Mrs. Fleming.

"Did you put in a call to Dr. Shaw? I know, but her answering service
will contact her."

"Sara-"

Sitting up on the side of the bed now, she ignored both her nudity and
her husband's urgent tone. "No, no, Mrs. Fleming. You've done the right
thing." She squinted at the clock across the room. "I tell you what-why
don't you call and leave word for the doctor while I call the airport
and try to get an earlier flight out. I'll get back to you within the
hour. Okay?" After one or two final words she hung up the phone to face
a duly concerned Geoffrey.

"What's wrong? It's Lizzie, isn't it?"

"She got sick yesterday afternoon and had a bad night."

"Sick? What kind of sick?"

"Fussing and fever. Her stomach's not holding

253 much." Sara's face held a world of worry. "I'd like to take the
first flight possible." But Geoffrey was one step ahead, sprawling
across her to grab the phone. Within minutes they were booked on a
ten-fifty flight, scrambling to shower, dress and pack before calling a cab.

The flight seemed endless for them both. Sitting side by side, they said
barely a word, each wallowing in worry and guilt. By the time Cyrus met
them in San Francisco, they were both in ill humor. By the time they
arrived at the house, ill humor had taken a backseat to raw tension.

"How is she?" Sara asked, bounding through the door and quickly
shrugging out of her coat.

Mrs. Fleming was there to greet them. "About the same. The doctor did
stop by, though. She feels it's nothing more than a stomach bug. But my
heart goes out for the little thing. She just wants to be held."

Geoffrey had already started up the stairs. Squeezing Mrs. Fleming's arm
in silent thanks, Sara went after him. They reached Lizzie's room
moments later to find the child being rocked in Caryn's arms. Geoffrey
took her quickly.

"And what's the matter with you, pumpkin?" he crooned, smoothing her
hair from her forehead and kissing its warmth. Her tiny cheeks were
pale, her eyes had a fevered sheen, her

254 lower lip quivered. And before he could murmur another word, she
held her small arms out to Sara.

"Mommeeee .. . Mommeee," she whimpered, quieting only when Sara had
taken her and held her close.

"There, sweetheart, it's all right. Mommy's here." Cuddling the child,
she turned and sank into the rocker Caryn had vacated. "Mommy's here."

Mommy was there for the better part of the next three days, napping only
when Lizzie did and even then with one eye open in case the warm Jell-0
that had been victoriously coaxed down decided to make the return trip
on its own.

"Let me sit with her awhile," Geoffrey urged time and again, but Sara's
response was always the same.

"She's comfortable now. It's all right."

"But what about you? You haven't gotten any rest."

"I'm okay. She seems a little better. I'll relax when the fever's
finally down."

When that time came Sara was in nearly as depleted a state as the child.
She slept around the clock, then on and off for another day. When she
still felt weak, Geoffrey took things into his own hands.

255 "You've what?" she asked, having woken from a nap to find Geoffrey
in the chair by her bed, staring at her darkly.

"I've asked torn Royce to stop by. I want him to take a look at you."

"There's nothing wrong with me, Jeff! I only need some rest."

"You've had two days of rest and you're still not yourself. Lizzie's
already made up for lost time and then some. Not you."

"She's a child. Children bounce back much faster. Besides, I'm sure I've
just got a touch of whatever it was she had. And on top of being run
down, it's no wonder I'm still tired."

"You're not eating."

"I'm not hungry." The very thought of food made her sick.

"But how can you regain your strength without eating?"

Drained, she settled deeper into the pillows and closed her eyes. "I'll
eat tomorrow."

"In the meantime I'll feel more comfortable with a doctor's opinion."

Her eyes flew open and she would have protested, but he was out of his
seat, at the door and gone before she could muster the strength. Perhaps
he was right, she mused. Besides, what harm was there in a simple
doctor's visit?

She was to have severe second thoughts sev-

256 eral hours later, though, when torn Royce closed his bag and looked
at her from his perch on her bedside. "You're run down. There's no doubt
about that."

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. When Geoffrey poked
his head in and saw that the worst of the examination was over, he came
to stand by the bed. "Well?"

"I was just telling your wife that she is definitely run down." He
looked back at Sara. "But I doubt you have what the child had. There's
no fever, no vomiting." He hesitated, looked toward Geoffrey, then back.
"Is there any chance that you're pregnant?"

"Pregnant?" Sara's eyes widened and her face grew all the more pale.
"No. I'm not pregnant."

Geoffrey had stiffened. "My wife takes ample precaution against that,"
he gritted.

Ignoring his caustic tone, the doctor turned to Sara. "What do you take?"

"Take?" she echoed dumbly.

"Birth control pills. That was what Jeff meant, wasn't it?"

"Uh . . ." She shot a fearful glance at her husband and considered
lying. But she'd come too far in life to resort to that. "Uh, yes, but
no . . ."

Geoffrey paled. "No, what?" His voice was low

257 and taut, hers little more than a whisper when she answered.

"No, I'm not taking anything."

An enigmatic light flashed in his eyes. "Nothing?" he exclaimed, every
cell in his body seeming to come to attention. "Then you really might be
pregnant?"

"I'm not!" she countered, the doctor quite forgotten.

Geoffrey frowned, seeming irritated. "How do you know?"

"I know. That's all."

torn Royce leaned forward. "When was the last time you saw your
gynecologist, Sara?"

She turned to him, stunned. "I-uh-it was last summer."

"When was your last period?"

For several seconds she sat so still that the thunderous beat of her
heart seemed to shake her slender body. Again she looked at Geoffrey;
again she looked back. "I'm not sure. Things . . . things have been so
busy. I guess I've lost track."

There was no question about Geoffrey's irritation now. It was very real,
indeed verging on the angry. "What kind of story is that? You're so
damned efficient in every other thing, and you expect me to believe that
you can't keep track of something as simple-"

258 "It's inconsequential!"

"Not if you might be pregnant!

"But I'm nofi"

The doctor patted her arm. "Calm down," he said as he shot a glance over
his shoulder. "Both of you. I think it would be a good idea to see a
doctor anyway. You'll need to have some blood tests and my guess is a
hefty prescription of vitamins. As for the other, whoever you see can
settle the matter. If you'd like, I'll call your doctor and tell him
about our visit."

Sara forced a quick smile. "That's ail right. He's in New York. When I'm
back there next week-"

"No way!" Geoffrey returned to the fray, his eyes alight with fury.
"You'll see someone here. This week." He turned to his friend. "Who's
the best?"

The doctor took a prescription pad and a pen from his jacket pocket and
proceeded to scrawl a name. Obviously agreeing with Geoffrey's firm
stance, he tore off the sheet of paper and, bypassing Sara, handed it to
him.

Sara was livid, which didn't help her state. Nor did another night's
restless sleep. She was still seething when Geoffrey hustled her into
the office of a top OB-GYN man the next morning. She knew her anger was
a defense mechanism, a

259 cover-up for hope and fear and an intense case of confusion. And for
that the doctor had no medicine, as she was quickly to learn with the
pronouncement of his diagnosis.

259

260

ten

YOU CERTAINLY ARE PREGNANT," HE declared before Sara had even risen from
the examining table. Lending a hand, he helped her sit up.

"You're sure?" she whispered.

The doctor's kind smile was a futile attempt to ease her evident
tension. "I've been in this business for far too long to miss the most
obvious signs. Between what you've told me and what I just saw, I'd say
you've entered your third month." He paused, gently puzzled. "What I
don't understand is why you didn't suspect it sooner."

"I didn't suspect it at all!" she returned, shock rounding her brown
eyes all the more.

"You're young, newly married. You weren't using any form of birth
control. Surely you were aware that it might happen."

"But I wasn't!" She eyed the doctor in help-

261 less confusion. "I can't be pregnant. They told me-"

"Who told you?"

"The doctor who did the surgery."

"Whoa. I think I'm missing something." He leaned back against the edge
of the examining table and rubbed his jaw. "You didn't say anything out
there about surgery other than a routine appendectomy."

"You said routine. I said appendectomy."

"Then it was more?"

She looked down at her clenched hands. "Yes. Well, it started as an
appendectomy, with pains and all. But in the process of the operation
they found a cluster of ovarian cysts. By the time they were done, I was
left with barely half an ovary." Distressed, she looked up. "I was
fifteen at the time. They told me the chances were very slim that I'd
ever become pregnant. It was devastating." She hesitated, glancing
toward the closed door, beyond which her husband sat. "Geoffrey just
assumed I'd been taking something. I ... I didn't have the courage to
set him straight."

The doctor studied her closely. "You are pleased about the baby, aren't
you?"

It was the question of the day. Oh, yes, she was pleased. Thrilled,
ecstatic! But what about Jeff, and what of their bargain? The fact of a
child

262 would inevitably alter things. But how? For better or for worse?

"I-I think so." She smiled weakly. "It's so sudden. I can't quite
believe it."

"Oh, you can believe it, Sara. Take my word." Standing forward, he took
a deep breath. "Well, now, why don't you get dressed. I'll go give your
husband the good news, then I want to sit down and talk with you both.
I'm sure there will be questions you'll want to ask."

The questions Sara wanted to ask were not of the doctor but of Geoffrey.
But he was intent on questioning the doctor, as he'd already begun to do
before she appeared, pale and hesitant, at the examining room door. The
doctor's expression was by far the less forbidding of the two to greet her.

"Have a seat, Sara. Geoffrey was just asking how long this fatigue
you've been experiencing will last."

Preoccupied with trying to analyze Geoffrey's tone, his expression, the
utter control of his body as he sat next to her, she barely heard a
word, managing simply to nod at the appropriate places and offer an
intermittent yes or uhhuh. Reluctant to make an already tenuous
situation worse, she let him pocket her vitamin prescription, arrange
for her next appointment, usher her to the car and drive her home. It was

263 only when they'd entered the front hall that he turned to her, his
expression grim and his voice hard.

"Full bed rest for two days. That was what he said. You go on upstairs.
I'll call New York."

"I can-"

"I'll do it." His eyes flashed in anger, squelching her protest. Then he
turned his back on her and disappeared into the library, closing the
doors behind him with an eloquent thud.

Sara had not the wish, much less the strength, to call him back.
Turning, she headed for bed, only to find that rest was elusive while
her emotional turmoil raged. She needed to think, to ingest it all, to
reorder the priorities in her life, allowing for this element that had
so miraculously entered it.

Rising, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sought refuge in
the solarium with the plants and her thoughts. Geoffrey was angry. She
knew it. He hadn't bargained for a child when he'd asked her to marry
him. And now he'd have another responsibility, one that would far exceed
the time limit they'd set.

Pressing her fingers to her lips, she felt the burden of that
responsibility herself. Then, quite spontaneously, she grew indignant.
What had he expected? He'd never asked; he had simply assumed she'd seen
to the matter of birth control.

264 But what about him? It was a responsibility fully shared; his had
been as active a role as hers in the accomplishment.

For the first time since torn Royce had uttered the word pregnant the
day before, a tentative smile gentled Sara's features. She was pregnant,
actually pregnant! After living nearly half her life assuming its
impossibility, she was pregnant! And with Geoffrey's child-what thought
could be more beautiful!

There was one-that Geoffrey might love her-but she dismissed it as
improbable. Oh, yes, he'd be more than willing to look after her and the
baby. After all, there was still Lizzie, who needed a mother. What
better way to secure Sara's services indefinitely? Not that it was an
unpleasant picture. To the contrary. The thought of the four of them
together-she and Jeff, Lizzie and a new baby-made her glow. But while
one part of her felt she'd been given the greatest gift of all, the
other part was terrified of what life would be like living with Geoffrey
in a state of constant antagonism. She'd been through it once before,
and baby or no baby, she doubted she could do it again. She was her own
woman now. If need be she would raise the baby alone.

"I thought I told you to go to bed!" came a furious outburst from the
direction of the door.

265 Sara whirled to find Geoffrey closing in on her with an air of
imperiousness that easily ignited her own temper. It was time to take a
stand at last.

"And I didn't want to just then," she returned, tipping her chin up in
defiance.

"You heard what the doctor said: complete bed rest."

"And you were the one who said, 'Fine, doctor.' If you're so determined
to obey him, you go to bed. I'll do what I please." Having expended this
token bit of rebellion, she felt strangely relieved. Or was she simply
buoyed by the glimmer of surprise that her strident tone brought to
Geoffrey's eye? She watched him draw himself up before her, pace to the
far side of the solarium, turn and study her from there, then slowly
walk back. She stood Boldly, refusing to look away, knowing she had
nothing to lose by holding firm. It was about time they started being
honest with one another. And at that moment she didn't care to be
ordered around.

She didn't know what she expected-perhaps further argument, perhaps his
terse exit. What she didn't expect was the sudden softening of his
features. Nor, when he spoke, was she prepared for his words.

"I guess I owe you an apology, Sara," he began quietly, standing
directly before her with his

266 hands thrust deep in his pockets. "You really didn't ask for any of
this. You didn't want any of it. /was the one who got you into it, and I
realize that I've caused you all kinds of trouble."

When he paused, Sara held her breath. Not only did she not know what to
say, but she sensed something else coming, something more momentous than
an apology. His expression was like none she'd ever seen him wear-a
blend of strength and humility, simultaneously innocent yet knowing.
Strangely, she felt his business associates would have seen him this
way. That was it. He seemed to be bargaining once more, though far
differently than he'd done back in November. Looking up at him, she
waited to hear his offer.

"I've given this much thought," he continued evenly. "In light of what's
happened, I feel it only fair to offer you your freedom." He ignored her
blanching. "It's obviously an unfair strain on you, having to go back
and forth to New York, and I could never ask you to give up your
business. After all, you are first and foremost Sara McCray, and that's
how it should be. You're every bit as devoted to your company as my
mother was to hers."

The rising heat of anger simmered within Sara. Her fists clenched at her
sides and her eyes wide

267 with disbelief, she would have spoken up had not Geoffrey gone
calmly, coolly on.

"I'll give you whatever you want, Sara. Of course, there will be a
generous settlement for you, and if you decide to go ahead and have the
child-"

"If I decide . . . ?" she whispered in dismay.

He was unfazed. "If you decide to go ahead and have the child, I'll
certainly support it. In fact, if you should choose to give birth but
find that a baby interferes with your life in New York, I'll be glad to
take custody of it. I'd be generous with visitation rights."

"Visitation rights?" She mouthed the words, unable at first to
comprehend them. Was this Geoffrey talking, discussing a divorce in such
a dispassionate tone, systematically tossing out suggestions for the
disposal of an as-yet-unborn child? Had it all been a farce-the warm
hours they'd spent together, the gentle looks, the lovemaking? Could he
dismiss her just like that?

"I don't believe you," she murmured, her knees trembling in time with
her insides. "I don't believe you!"

"I'm serious," he insisted, goading her with his amicability. "Your life
has been turned upside down, and it's my fault. I'll do whatever you
want to try to right things." He paused, his gaze searing. "You know how
much I've wanted a child

268 . . . but I'm willing to make the arrangements should you decide to
have an abortion."

"An abortion?" Her voice was hoarse, then stronger the second time out.
"An abortion?" She was shaking from head to toe now, positively livid.
She took a blind step back, feeling chilled even as she burned. "I don't
want an abortion\ And I don't want a divorce!" After all he'd done, he
was trying to dump her. She'd never in her life been so enraged.
Stalking forward again, she jabbed his chest with a finger.

"For your information, you're in this up to your ears. And I have no
intention whatsoever of letting you off the hook!" Her voice rose half
an octave. "Just who do you think you are, that you can play with
people's lives this way? Just because you've always had everything
you've wanted doesn't mean it's right! And don't you ever, ever compare
me to your mother! Your mother was a ruthless woman without a drop of
warmth in her. So long as I live, I pray to be more human!" Exasperated,
she threw her hands into the air, started to walk away, then turned
back, thrust her hands on her hips and resumed her tirade. "I should
have expected it. 1 should have known. You did it once before-let me go
just as you'd dismiss the hired help." She took a breath to steady
herself but it seemed futile. Fury had become her master.

269 "Well, you won't do it this time, Geoffrey! I'm not being let go so
easily! This time you'll have to kick me out. And I'm warning you,
you'll have a fight on your hands." She stared at him hard. "1 won't be
bought off. I don't need your money! Nor does my child. But I'll have a
husband and a father for my baby. And I'll be a mother to Lizzie"-her
eyes narrowed, her voice lowered in challenge-"until the day you can
prove I'm unfit."

The strain of the outpouring began to take its toll. Pausing
momentarily, Sara felt as stunned by her own words as by those that had
incited them. Her eyes grew more sad, her cheeks more pale. "Because I'm
a good mother, Jeff. I love Lizzie. And I'll love this baby, too. And
regardless of what you say, I'm proud of myself for having juggled
family and career, having done what I've done."

Her emotions were fast overcoming her. Looking down, she studied the
marble floor, but its graceful whorls offered no solace. When she looked
back up and spoke, her voice was wrenched deep from her soul. "I didn't
need to marry you to open a West Coast branch. I have sufficient funds
and sufficient contacts. Surely you knew that." She faltered but went
on. "Why do you think I did agree to the marriage, if not to add
something to my life that was missing? We

270 had some pretty high hopes once. Don't you think I wanted to see if
we could recapture what we'd lost?" Her eyes misted, and her voice
dropped to a whisper. "Didn't it occur to you that I might-that I might
fall in love with you again?"

Hearing the words, she was furious at herself-furious for having fallen
in love, furious for having confessed to it. Unable to see Geoffrey's
face through her tears, she clutched at the tattered shreds of her
pride. "I'll tell you one thing. Now that I've finally found what I need
to make my life complete, I'm not letting go! You've done such a fine
job playing at love for the past two months . . . and you can damn well
keep it up!"

Whirling to make her exit on a note of dignity, she strode across the
floor and reached for the door, only to find it locked. She jiggled the
knob and pulled, jiggled and pulled again, but it wouldn't give. Turning
back, she caught sight of the smug smile on Geoffrey's face. And with a
moment's insight she realized that Geoffrey must have tripped the button
to lock the door, realized that he'd wanted to keep her in, realized
that he hadn't had any intention of letting her go as he'd said,
realized that she'd taken the bait just as he'd intended.

"You called my bluff," she cried in dismay.

Geoffrey slowly approached. "You bet I did.

271 And it worked." With the broadening of his smile, his dimple taunted
her mercilessly. "It's about time one of us blurted it all out. I simply
gave you a push."

"You took advantage of me when I was down," she accused, but her
indignation was forced. In truth, she didn't know whether to be angry or
relieved. "That's not fair! I'm in no shape to handle your sly maneuvering!"

"Lady, what with that little demonstration you just gave, I think you're
in perfect shape for what I have in mind." Without another word he
pulled her into his arms and kissed her long and hard in a firm
statement of possession. When he released her at last, they were both
breathless.

Yet nothing had been resolved in Sara's mind save the fact that he still
found her attractive. If need be she could always withhold that. "And
what about you, Jeff?" she asked, drawing back from the circle of his
arms. "Tell me something I don't know."

He looked down at her then, his features fierce in a tender kind of way.
"I love you, Sara. I want you here with me forever. I need you. Can't
you see that?"

Hearing the urgent ring to his tone, she allowed for cautious hope. "I
want to see it, but I . . . it's sometimes hard. There are times when
you seem so distant, when I don't know what

272 you're thinking, when I'm afraid to tell you what I'm thinking."

"We don't talk."

She dared a tiny smile. "You mean, we talk- but we don't talk."

"Exactly. And that's what we're going to have to change. From now on,
what's on the mind is on the tongue."

"I love you," she whispered in instant obedience.

"And I love you," he returned, only then holding out his arms in the
invitation she'd been waiting for. Without hesitation she melted against
him, exhausted but exuberant. "This is where you belong," he vowed.
"Never forget it." He crushed her to him then, burying his face in her
golden hair. "I love you, Sara McCray Parker. I love you."

Sara had never heard words more glorious. "Do you really?" she asked,
struggling to accept that her hopes might be fulfilled.

"Oh, yes," he moaned with a shudder. "I love you." They stood together
then, hugging one another in expression of their hearts' desire. When
Geoffrey moved at last, it was only to lift her into his arms and carry
her to the door. "The key," he whispered hoarsely. "In the pocket of my
shirt."

Fumbling, Sara dug it out at last, pausing along

273 the way to plant warm kisses beneath his open collar. His skin
seemed suddenly all the more beckoning. "How long would you have kept me
locked up?"

"Until you decided to stay."

She held the key up before him. "I gave in pretty quick, huh?"

He gave her an adoring glance. "Pretty quick." Then he cocked his head
toward the door. "Open it."

"What if I don't? There are two sides to every game, you know. I can
remember one interesting night we spent right here."

"Open the door," he growled.

She reached down and did so. "Where are you taking me?"

"Just following doctor's orders."

"Doctor's orders?"

"Uh-huh. He ordered bed rest and that's just what you're going to get."

"But Jeff-"

"Don't argue."

She didn't. For it was his bed to which he carried her-his bed, at last.

She was still there two days later when Geoffrey burst in, his face
alight with the same love in which she'd basked ever since. Leaning over, he

274 kissed her gently, lingeringly, then stood to shrug out of his
jacket and toss it on a chair.

"You're home early," she remarked in delight as she laid her sketch pad
on the nightstand.

He grinned endearingly. "I couldn't seem to concentrate." Then he craned
his neck to tug at the knot of his tie. "Funny, but that seems to be a
perpetual problem lately." "Oh?"

"Don't you oh me with such innocence. I'm sure you know precisely what
the problem is." His tie fell atop the jacket, and he went to work on
the buttons of his shirt. Sara watched entranced, aware of her growing
arousal as he undressed. When he stepped out of his pants, he finally
spoke. "Okay, let's have it. What's on that mind of yours right now?"

"Right now? I was thinking how much I adore your body." Sliding from
beneath the covers, she knelt on the bed and reached out to him. He came
eagerly, falling back to the mattress with her, cushioning her tenderly.
They lay then with their arms and legs entwined, their faces mere inches
from one another. Sara tipped her head back, resting it on the corded
swell of his shoulder. "It's very exciting."

"Is that so?" he asked, his eyes gleaming naughtily.

"Uh-huh."

275 He kissed her once, very gently, then smoothed a long strand of hair
from her cheek and grew serious. "Did I ever tell you why I waited until
I was twenty-eight to marry?"

"I assumed it was because you had everything you wanted without
marriage. That was one of the things that bothered me most when things
got tough. I kept asking myself why you married me when you'd had all
those other, more sophisticated women at your beck and call."

"I didn't want them, Sara. I only wanted you. You were the one who had
the warmth I needed. You were different. You were alive. And you still
are all those things and more. Oh!" Pulling from her grasp, he jumped
from the bed.

"Geoffrey, where-"

"You get me so crazy, woman, that I can't think straight! There was a
purpose-uh, excuse me, another purpose-for my coming home early."
Leaning over the chair, he dug into his jacket pocket to remove a small
box wrapped in white paper held by a slim satin ribbon.

"What's this for?" Sara asked, eyeing the box as he handed it to her.

"This is just. . . because."

"Just because?"

He smiled roguishly. "Just because. Go on. Open it."

With a dubious glance his way, she carefully

276 untied the ribbon and removed the paper to reveal, as she'd
suspected, a ring box. Lifting its lid, though, she gasped.

"Geoffrey . . . what . . . ?" Reaching in gently, she lifted an
exquisite uncut diamond from inside. Turning it gingerly, she studied it
from every angle, her jeweler's eye easily understanding its worth.
"It's magnificent. But I don't understand . . ."

"It's for you, Sara. I want you to design a ring for yourself."

"But I've never worked with diamonds."

"So I noticed. But why not? You work with rubies, sapphires and
emeralds. Why not diamonds?"

"Because . . . because . . ."

"Honestly."

"Honestly? Because, in my mind, diamonds have always been synonymous
with engagement rings and promises of happiness."

"And you thought you'd never have one?"

"I guess not."

"Well, you're wrong. This is it."

"But we're not-we've never been engaged."

"No," he conceded, gently confident. "This ring is my way of saying thanks."

"For what?" she asked more shyly.

"For being you. For loving me. For taking Lizzie into your heart." He
slid a knowing hand

277 down to her stomach. "For offering me the promise of a child."

Choked, she closed one hand around the diamond and with her other
reached to draw his hand from her stomach to her cheek. "I still can't
believe I'm pregnant," she whispered falteringly. "I thought for so long-"

Taking her into his arms, Geoffrey held her tight. "When I stop to think
of your living alone with that fear all this time, I ache inside. It
wasn't fair, Sara. I loved you. 1 deserved to share that with you. And
if you'd told me, we might have avoided at least one misunderstanding."

"I was so young, Jeff. I felt inadequate from the moment I entered this
house. To tell you, on top of everything else, that I couldn't have a
child-I just couldn't!"

"But look at you." He beamed. "I wouldn't exactly call you inadequate.
And besides, even back then I loved you for you, not for what you could
or could not do." Looking down at her upturned face, he placed soft
kisses on each of her eyes in turn, then the tip of her nose and finally
her lips. The sentiment went far beyond passion to a higher, sweeter
emotion. When he drew back it was to uncurl her fingers gently and raise
the diamond to the light. He stared at it, turned it, finally sprawled
over her to set it carefully on the nightstand. Then he wound his fingers

278 through Sara's hair and caressed her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Do you remember that first discussion we had about gemstones?" he asked
softly. "We were in the cottage, up in your workshop, and I asked you
about your favorites. You talked of those precious gems that were the
most brilliant and colorful. And unique. That was what you said. Do you
remember?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well, you know something? You're more precious than any of them. You're
brilliant and colorful. And you're unique. I don't think there's another
person in the world with quite as many facets, every one sparkling and
incomparable."

"Geoffrey," she chided softly, overjoyed yet embarrassed. "If you're not
careful you'll give me as swelled a head as this stomach is going to be
before long."

He sucked in his breath. "That will be beautiful." Then he lowered his
head and kissed her with every bit of his heart and soul. "You're
beautiful," he breathed against her lips. Before she could respond, his
hands wandered to seek her out, skimming her breasts and her waist and
hips, then retracing the path as though to define the whole of her and
thereby make her real.

For Sara, too, it was a time of discovery. In the light of day she noted
every shade, every con-

279 tour of Geoffrey's body. She watched him, studied him, followed her
hands and lips as they charted his virility. She found favored spots to
adore-the soft mat of his chest just below his collarbone, the smooth,
paler patch by his hip, the throbbing pulse at his neck made more so by
her very exploration. It was a heady thought, the knowledge that she
could arouse this man to a most ripe, most promising state, and she
savored it as much as her own fast-rising state would allow.

When Geoffrey moved above her, she eagerly shifted to welcome him. His
skin was hot against hers, creating a sensual friction that seared her
thighs. He kissed her once more, with his tongue and his lips. Then,
watching the love play in her eyes, he entered her.

"Ahhhhh. Oh, Jeff..."

"I know, princess. I know." For a minute he simply held her tight,
needing the closeness, the full appreciation of what he'd found. Then he
began to move in her, and clarity of thought yielded to the powerfully
blinding force of love.

Nearby, a ray of sun broke through the drapes to fall across the
diamond, a sparkling herald of the future.

280 Barbara Delinsky was a sociologist and a photographer before she
began to write. A lifelong New Englander, she and her husband are the
parents of three sons.