A Holiday Fling

Mary Jo Putney

My full-length contemporary romance The Spiral Path had a couple of appealing secondary characters who were single and a little lonely, so they immediately popped into my mind when I decided to do a contemporary Christmas story for this collection. Greg Marino and Jenny Lynte are both in show business, and they're both genuinely nice people who love their work. But he's American and she's English, he's behind the camera while she's in front, and when their paths had crossed a dozen years before, their careers swiftly took them away from each other. Can this time be different?

ONE

The Tithe Barn Community Center Upper Bassett Gloucestershire, England

THE Carthage Corporation wants how much?" Jenny Lyme blinked, thinking she must have misheard.

The head of the community center council, who happened to be her mother, Alice Lyme, repeated the figure. There were far too many zeros.

"Property costs the earth here in the Cotswolds, even in an out-of-the-way corner like Upper Bassett. Throw in the barn's age, and the price goes even higher." Patricia Holmes, third member of the council present—and Jenny's big sister—scribbled figures on a tablet. "Even if we sell every seat to every performance of the Revels, there is no possible way we can raise enough." She pushed the tablet away with a frown. "Resign yourself to the fact that some rich London stockbroker will buy the place and tart it up for use three or four weekends a year."

"No!" Jenny said vehemently. "The tithe barn is the heart and soul of Upper Bassett. Without it, our village identity will wither away."

"You're right. Many of my fondest memories occurred here." Her mother sighed. "But the lease is expiring, Carthage is determined to sell, and we simply don't have the money to meet their price."

"Do you think a bank would give us a loan using the property as collateral?" Jenny suggested without much hope.

"That might buy us some time, but even in a good year, the center only breaks even." Patricia pushed her glasses higher on her nose. She was a schoolteacher, and the gesture was very effective at convincing her classes that she meant business. "We will never be able to make enough money to pay off a loan, even assuming some bank officer is demented enough to give us one."

Jenny rose from the battered chair and crossed to the door of the small office. The ancient music ensemble was practicing on the stage at the far end of the barn. She had discovered her passion for acting on that stage, and she couldn't bear thinking that soon no more local children would have such an opportunity to perform, play, and build lifelong friendships. "If my career were in better shape, I'd donate the money myself."

"Your career is fine," Patricia said loyally. "You can't expect to go from one smashing series right to another, but you're still working."

"Even if you could afford it, that might not be the best thing for the village," Alice added. "This is a community center—it needs to be saved through collective action, not by one successful woman raiding her retirement savings."

Jenny supposed they were both right. Her career was having a slow spell but it wasn't dead yet, and her mother made a good point that the center belonged to all of them and should be saved by joint efforts. That was why Jenny had stepped in to produce and direct the upcoming Revels, combining the considerable local talent with her own skills and connections to create a professional-quality show. She was even performing as Lady Molly, the female lead.

But it wasn't enough. "The Revels are going to be marvelous. If only there was a way to use the production to generate more money—" She stopped as an idea struck.

"You've got that dangerous look in your eyes, Jennifer," Alice said warily. "Care to enlighten us?"

Jenny turned back to the office and leaned against the door frame as two identical pairs of blue eyes regarded her. The women of the Lyme family looked ridiculously alike, with dark hair, pale, flawless Welsh complexions, and deep blue eyes. She hoped that she and Patricia would age as gracefully as their mother was doing. "This isn't dangerous. It just occurred to me that we could film the Revels and sell videotapes of the performance. Get it reviewed or mentioned in some of the London papers.

If we do a really good job, maybe we could sell broadcast rights to the BBC for next Christmas."

There was a thoughtful silence while her mother and sister considered the suggestion. "We could set up a website and link with folklore and performing groups, but we'd have to sell a huge number of tapes to raise the kind of money we need, and we only have a few months," Patricia observed. "Selling broadcast rights would give us a larger chunk of money, but the production would have to be high quality, not just someone's husband with his video camera."

Alice said, "Perhaps Jenny has cameramen friends who could be persuaded to contribute their time to a good cause."

"It's very short notice." Jenny ran down the list of camera operators she knew well enough to impose on. Patricia was right that they needed someone who was first rate. Someone whose name would add value to the production.

Greg Marino.

With some reluctance, she accepted that he was far and away the best choice. Winner of the previous year's Oscar for best cinematography, he was a brilliant director of photography who brought texture and nuance into every film he shot. "I worked with Greg Marino once. He would be perfect, but he's an American and insanely busy. I doubt I'd be able to even locate him, much less persuade him to drop everything and come to England on a moment's notice."

"He shot The Centurion, didn't he? And that big fantasy movie that was such a hit last year?" With a sister in the film business, Patricia kept up with such things. "His work is wonderful. If he's a friend of yours, it's certainly worth asking."

Not a friend; a former lover. Would that be a plus or a minus? They hadn't seen each other in years, but they'd parted amiably and kept in touch, in a casual kind of way.

She pictured Greg, with his rangy American build and a smile that always made her smile in return. He'd helped her through a very bad time. If he could be persuaded to shoot their performance, he could transform the Revels from fun into Art, and maybe save the community center in the process. "I'll try to run him down when I return to London, but don't get your hopes up. He's very much in demand."

But her pulse quickened at the thought of having a reason to call him.

TWO

Los Angeles, California

GREG Marino emerged from his bed yawning. He was too groggy and disoriented to figure out what time it was in Australia, but his body sure thought it should still be there rather than in Los Angeles.

By the time he'd showered and shaved, a pot of steaming coffee had dripped through. He poured a mug full, sending silent thanks to the friend who had stocked his refrigerator with perishables the day before. People who made movies did a lot of coming and going, and he and his buddies took care of each other.

Yawning again, he rubbed the head of the shiny gold Academy Award that sat incongruously between the toaster and the drip coffeemaker. He liked keeping old Oscar there in a nice, visible spot. The statuette was his symbol of having made something of himself, contrary to the expectations of people who'd known him when he was a kid.

Taking his cell phone in case someone called, he stepped through the sliders onto his balcony. After swiping at the chair to remove the layer of urban dust, he sank into it and propped his feet on the railing. The view over the apartment complex courtyard wasn't thrilling, but it was home. For the thousandth time, he told himself that he really needed to go house hunting. He could afford a house now, and it would be nice to have a larger place. One with a view. But house hunting took time, and it was easier to walk away from an apartment for months on end than it would be to walk away from a house.

Having reached his usual conclusions, he set the topic aside for another day. One when he wasn't so jet-lagged.

He slouched deeper in his chair and sipped at the scalding coffee, enjoying the pleasant coolness of the December air. It had been blazing hot in the Land Down Under, but the filming had gone well. The raw, primitive scenery had been a cameraman's dream. The images he'd captured had made up for the spoiled behavior of the movie's two stars. Actors. Couldn't live with them, couldn't live without 'em.

In mid-January he would be off to Argentina for the biggest budget, highest profile film of his career, but he had nothing booked before then. Maybe after he finished the coffee he'd call his manager to see if anyone wanted him to shoot a commercial or two. Such jobs kept him busy between feature films, paid well, and often provided opportunities to try exciting new techniques.

The cell phone played the first few notes of "Fur Elise." Wondering if a commercial had come looking for him, he answered, suppressing another yawn. "H'lo."

"Greg—is that you?"

Not his manager. The female voice was deliciously British and familiar, but surely it couldn't be ... "Yep, it's me. Sorry if I'm slow, but who is this?" With his luck, she was probably a high-class aluminum siding saleswoman.

"Jenny Lyme."

"Jenny!" He came awake fast, amazed that his caller really was Jenny. As if he could have forgotten her. Trying not to sound like a slavering idiot, he said, "Nice to hear from you. Are you in Los Angeles? If you are, let me take you out to lunch."

Smart, witty, and down to earth, Jenny was the kind of actor who made up for the prima donnas. She was also drop-dead gorgeous—a brunette stunner who stood out even in a business where beautiful women were a dime a dozen.

Strange things could happen on a movie set, and Greg's brief fling with Jenny was proof. Ordinarily their relationship would never have gone beyond casual chat, but she had been weeping her heart out over an actor boyfriend who'd thrown her over in favor of a high-profile affair with a famous French actress twenty years his senior.

Greg had been there with a sympathetic shoulder and a willingness to do anything that would make her feel better. Though he hadn't been able to cure Jenny's broken heart, he'd done his best, and even coaxed a few smiles from her. In return, he had acquired some indelible memories to warm his nights.

Her rich chuckle interrupted his reverie. "Sorry, no, I'm in London."

Damn. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a ... a proposition for you."

He blinked, then ordered his libido to quit looking for double meanings. "Are you turning director and looking for a cinematographer?" "Not exactly. But something like that."

"Yes?"

She drew a breath that could be heard a third of the way round the globe. "This is a charity project. I grew up in a village in the Cotswolds—that's west of London and very pretty—and I still have a home there. The parish tithe barn was turned into a community center just after the war, and it's a wonderful place for plays and music practice and yoga classes and pottery and all manner of amusements. It's the heart of Upper Bassett."

"Upper Bassett?" Hound visions came to mind.

"To distinguish it from Lower Bassett and Bassett on the Wold," she explained with a twinkle in her voice. "To make a long story as short as possible, the village owns only the lease on the barn. The actual owner is a big soulless corporation that wants to sell the property in six months when the lease expires. Property in Gloucestershire is staggeringly expensive, and the price they're asking is far beyond our means. If the village wants to keep it, we have to raise a lot of money fast."

He received more than his share of requests for his hard-earned money, but he was willing to oblige Jenny. "Where should I send the check?"

"That's awfully generous of you, Greg, but I'm not calling to ask for money." For an actress who made her living playing the sexy, good-hearted girl next door, Jenny sounded shy. "I'm on the community center board, so I decided to stage a Christmas mummers' play to raise money. I've persuaded some of my friends to lend a hand, and I think we'll draw a good audience for the performances."

"But not good enough?"

"I'm afraid not. We'll never make enough if we rely on ticket sales, so in six months Upper Bassett will have no community center. This may not sound very important, but community is what makes life worth living, and it can be very fragile. I don't want to see the fabric of my native village come unraveled."

He backtracked. "What's a mummers' play?"

"Oh, sorry. It's one of those British things. Medieval plays, usually a combination of religious themes grafted onto ancient fertility rites. Groups of mummers used to go around giving short performances for begging money. That's largely died out, but the plays are still performed on occasion. It's quite a jolly tradition."

A light dawned. "I saw a show like that in Boston once. Lots of singing and dancing and melodrama. It was a great evening."

"Ours will be, too. A couple of days ago, it occurred to me that the best way to make more money from our Revels is to film the show so we can sell videos and if we're lucky, license it to the telly."

"I think I see where you're going with this, but there are plenty of great cameramen in England. Can't you draft one of them?"

"Probably, but you're my first choice. You're known for being able to do marvelous work quickly, and your name will add value to the project." Her voice turned portentous. "The Upper Bassett Holiday Revels, filmed by Academy Award-winning cinematographer Gregory Marino."

"That's shameless flattery." He grinned. "Keep it up."

She had the sexiest chuckle in the Northern Hemisphere. "Very well. This production will be a bit of a hodgepodge, so we'll need your talent as well as your reputation. It won't be easy to make my Morris dancers and children's choir look dramatic instead of like amateur night. That's why I thought of you."

He toyed with the handle of his mug, thinking that it sounded like a hoot—the kind of wildly improvised project that he'd loved doing in his student days. But he hadn't been a student in almost two decades, and he was tired to the bone. "You're talking this Christmas, aren't you? Like, in the next week or so? I just got back from Australia yesterday and I'm in no mood to climb on another airplane and spend the holidays with strangers."

"You only just got home? Sorry—I thought you'd had more time to recover from the last job." She hesitated. "I know this is a lot to ask, but if you're willing, you could be the making of this project. What would it take to persuade you to come over?"

"Your fair white body," he muttered under his breath as he sipped some coffee.

"That's negotiable," she said without missing a beat.

He swallowed the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. When he could breathe again, he said, "Jeez, Jenny, you shouldn't make jokes like that when I'm drinking my first cup of coffee of the day."

"Sorry." She sounded stricken. "That was a silly comment. I'm serious about this project, but not to the point of giving my all for queen and country."

"Sleeping with a cameraman is a sacrifice no one would ask of you," he agreed. "How long do you think this would take? I assume you want the production to be magical and exciting and intimate, not just a static record of a stage show."

"Exactly." Sensing that he was weakening, she continued, "If you're willing, I'll buy you a plane ticket and you can stay in my guest room. This would only take a week or so. You can be home by Christmas, though if you'd like to try the holidays English style, it would be lovely to have you. You can borrow my family if you want marvelous people who will simultaneously make you feel welcome and drive you mad."

He chuckled. "Sounds just like my family." The sprawling Marino home in Ohio would be full of kids and food and relatives who thought of him as the beloved oddball. They were proud of him, but he was a goose out of water, and a target for his mother, aunts, and sisters, all of whom wanted him to marry a nice, normal girl, not a Hollywood type, and settle down. He spent every Christmas fending off their good intentions. Mostly it was fun.

But Jenny's job sounded like fun, too. How long had it been since he'd done any filming purely for the pleasure of it? He had been working like a lunatic for years, first taking any project he was offered to build up his credits, then, as his reputation grew, doing movies back to back to consolidate what he'd achieved.

It would be wonderfully relaxing to do a project where multimillion-dollar budgets weren't resting on his shoulders. On the minus side, working with Jenny would be a mixed blessing. He loved being around her, and unless she had changed—and she didn't seem to have—she didn't have a snobbish bone in her.

Unfortunately, he liked her a little too well. Prom queens—-did they have them in English schools?—didn't pair off with oddball technogeeks like him no matter how many years had passed. Hell, she was a friend and former lover of Kenzie Scott, superstar and possibly the handsomest man alive, while Greg was Joe Average at best. Their brief affair had been a fluke. She had made it clear that he was being offered a guest room, nothing more. If he recalled his trade gossip correctly, she was currently involved with some rich international businessman. Unavailable.

But he was good at what he did, and quite capable of working with a woman he wanted and couldn't have. Shooting Morris dancers—what were Morris dancers?—and Christmas in England would be a nice change from his real life. Afterward he could fly home to Ohio. There was always leftover turkey when his mother was in charge of a kitchen. "Okay, Jenny, you've got a deal."

"Wonderful!" The enthusiasm in her voice was enough to banish his regrets over more jet lag. "Do you have personal video equipment you'd like to use, or shall I rent some here? And if so, what would you like?"

"I'll bring my digital camera, but are you sure you want to use video? Film is probably better from a commercial point of view."

"True, but we can't afford the extra time and money film would take."

"If I use 16mm instead of 35mm, the shooting time will be about the same as video. Don't worry about renting anything—I'll take care of getting the equipment. It's true that postproduction will take longer with film, but you'll have a finished product that will be easier to sell to TV, and will look good on DVD as well as video."

"I defer to your professional judgment. After all, that's why I wanted you." Her rich voice warmed. "Thank you so much, Greg. You shan't regret this."

He was sure she was right. To have regrets, there had to be a significant stake. This was just a little charity project. No consequences. Right?

Right.

JENNY hung up the phone. "I can't believe he agreed," she said to her companion.

"Mrowrrrr."

"Don't look so smug, Plato. You may be a philosopher who always knows what's going to happen, but I'm not. It's a miracle Greg is even available, and I thought for sure he'd turn me down. He won an Oscar, for heaven's sake." Absently she stroked the gray cat's short plushy fur. "You think I'm idiotic. Right again. Why else would I be talking to a cat?"

Plato gave a lofty flick of his tail that said clearly that he was in perfect harmony with himself and simply couldn't understand human nerves.

Restlessly Jenny began to pace her living room. An actor's life was odd and irregular by normal standards. The good parts were very, very good. The bad parts were horrid. One of the worst bits was having many friends, yet too often being alone. She had achieved a fair amount of success as a television actress, and was generally considered by the British viewing public to be quite the glamour girl. Her appearance on a man's arm at a public event would enhance his reputation.

But being a famous man's wrist ornament didn't offer much for her. She stared out at the quiet West End street, where lights were beginning to shine mistily in the dusk. This near the winter solstice, days were short and nights were long. Very long, when one slept alone.

When had she begun to tire of glamour? Not during the first flush of success; she'd been giddily happy and made a fool of herself more than once. She had even believed men who said they loved her when what they really meant was that they wanted to bed her. There had been some good times, but usually she would care too much, and be left weeping.

Critically she studied her reflection in the darkened window. For an actress who was past her prime, she still looked rather well. A little rounder than her American counterparts, who tended to look like stick drawings, but few men minded that.

Though she had learned early that a pretty girl could usually get what she wanted, her no-nonsense mother made sure little Jenny didn't let that go to her head. Her looks were a gift in the genetic lottery for which she was grateful, but couldn't claim credit.

Talent was also a gift, source uncertain since everyone else in her family was normal. The only thing she could take personal credit for was the bloody hard work she'd put into her career, and the tenacity to keep going despite the chronic rejections that were part of a working actor's life.

"Do you think Greg and I might end up going to bed together? That would be rather nice."

Plato closed his golden eyes, bored. A bit of routine surgery in his youth had left him uninterested in gender politics.

Jenny drew heavy curtains against the encroaching night and crossed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She hadn't really been joking when she said that her "fair white body" was negotiable, and Greg's shock at her words was a little unflattering. Most men would have bantered with her, testing to see if she was serious, but Greg—Greg was different.

The American movie they'd worked on had been something of a disaster—her first and last foray into Hollywood. He had been a second assistant camera operator, while she was a nervous ingenue making her first feature film. The script was weak, the director was a bellowing sadist, and the leading lady hated sharing the screen with another female who was younger and prettier.

Jenny could have survived that, but she hadn't been able to handle the loss of a boyfriend she had hoped to marry. She had thought their relationship was rock solid, until the tabloids started running pictures of him and the French actress with whom he was having a torrid affair. The swine had been too much a coward to tell Jenny that he was tired of her, so he let the journalists do it for him. About the best thing that could be said of the experience was that her movie role called for her to cry a lot. That she had managed handily.

No, the best thing about that movie had been Greg. His sympathy and kindness had been achingly welcome at a time when she had been desperate for comfort.

Later she had felt guilty about using him to assuage the worst of her pain, but at the time she welcomed his lack of demands. He'd given her exactly what she wanted, with no strings attached. Just as their movie ended, she had received a heaven-sent BBC offer. Though she and Greg had planned to spend a quiet week at the beach recovering from the filming, instead he had cheerfully taken her to the airport and sent her off with a parting kiss and his best wishes. She flew home swearing never to return to Hollywood, and she hadn't. English show business had been much kinder to her.

The Christmas cards they exchanged always contained scrawled personal notes promising to get together when they were both in the same city and not too busy to socialize, but it never happened. Whenever she got his card—always a stunning photograph that he had taken himself— she would smile and wonder what might have happened if they had met when she wasn't suffering a broken heart. Greg was smart and funny and nice, with a rock solid steadiness that was increasingly attractive as the years—and the unreliable men—came and went.

But maybe there would never have been a right time. Not only did they live in different countries, but both were ambitious, committed to succeeding in a brutal industry. They had done well, particularly Greg, who had hit the top of his field while not yet forty. Good directors of photography could go on for decades, and Greg would.

Actresses had a much shorter shelf life. In the last year there had been two movie roles she had really wanted, but failed to win. Nor was she likely to find another television series as successful as Still Talking, since that had been one of the rare conjunctions of great writing, directing, and perfect casting. Her career had peaked, and the future held mostly playing character roles and mothers.

She wouldn't mind that, as long as she continued to work. Television offers still came in now and then, and she could do more theater work; stage makeup and distance from the audience could preserve the illusion of youth for years. But her days as a glamorous, sexy young thing were numbered.

Even if they hadn't been, she was tired of working so hard all the time. Eighteen-hour days, five a.m. calls, having to maintain her looks with the grim thoroughness of a pilot maintaining his airplane—sometimes she thought that digging ditches would be easier, though certainly less satisfying.

Plato twined around her ankles insinuatingly. "Are you saying it's supper time?" She bent and scratched his head. "If Greg and I decide to have a fling for old times' sake, you won't be able to sleep on the bed for a few nights."

The cat blinked his luminous golden eyes complacently. Even if he was briefly exiled from the bed, he would still be there after Greg left. "Mrrrowr?"

She smiled wryly and scooped him into her arms, carrying him toward the kitchen. Her career was in decline and her private life a desert, but feline hunger was eternal.

THREE

GREG emerged wearily from customs at Heathrow. Rather than take Jenny up on her offer of a ticket, he had used his frequent flyer miles for a business-class seat that made the long flight from Los Angeles almost bearable. Since Jenny had said he'd be picked up, he glanced around, looking for a driver with a sign that said Marino.

He was dodging around a woman when a familiar husky voice said, "Have I changed that much, Greg?"

Startled, he looked down and saw Jenny's vivid blue eyes under a stylish drooping hat. Her shining dark hair was pulled back and tied with a scarf that matched her blue and green sweater, and she wore little if any makeup. The effect was casually elegant, in an unobtrusive way that wouldn't draw unwanted attention.

Damn, he'd forgotten the power of those eyes at close range. Just looking at her made his heart accelerate and his palms cramp. Afraid he was staring like an idiot, he said, "You do incognito pretty well."

"I try." She took his arm with easy friendliness and began guiding them through the airport crowds. "When you got your Oscar, I saw that the beard was gone, but you've taken off quite a chunk of hair since then, haven't you? This is a nice length for you."

He fought down the impulse to run his fingers self-consciously through the expensive haircut he had acquired the day before. Though handsome was out of his range, he could manage presentable. "I got tired of being taken for a terrorist. With straight black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin, I attracted way too much attention at airports."

"I can see how that would be a nuisance. You do look rather Mediterranean, which makes sense if your ancestors are Italian."

They had never discussed family backgrounds all those years ago. "Only my great-grandfather was Italian. The rest of me is American mutt. The first Marino married an Irish girl, their son fell for a Lithuanian, my mother is Scottish and Norwegian, and there's some Cherokee in there somewhere, too."

"Americans are so interesting. I'm boring old English with a bit of Welsh."

"No woman who can talk to anyone about anything is ever boring."

She glanced up, pleased and surprised. "That's one of the nicest compliments I've ever received."

"I suppose being told you're gorgeous must get old." She shrugged, some of her brightness dimmed. "Looking good is part of my business. A tool of the trade. Now let's escape from this hive."

Towing his wheeled suitcase, he followed Jenny into a chilly, overcast morning. Yup, he was in England, and Jenny's lush hand-knit sweater was not merely for decorative purposes.

Her car turned out to be a sleek, classy S-type Jaguar. He wondered if she'd picked the blue color to enhance her eyes.

After they stowed his luggage, she beeped the doors open. "Mind the dragon."

"I beg your pardon?" He bent to climb into the car, and found a huge, snarling dragon head glaring at him from the passenger seat. "You brought a chaperone?"

Jenny laughed as she knelt on the driver's seat and transferred the head to the backseat. "Sorry, I should have moved this earlier, but I was running late. I've been borrowing costumes for our production. Traditionally mummers wore disguises, often just strips of fabric or paper sewn all over regular clothing. Rather like a giant ragged chicken. Since we want spectacle, I drafted my friend Will, who's a set designer. He found all kinds of splendid costumes in theatrical attics."

Greg settled into the passenger seat, feeling weird to be on the left side of the car and not have a steering wheel in front of him. "You don't mind messing with the play's authenticity?"

"This is folk art, not Shakespeare. There are hundreds of regional variations, and they evolved over time. Upper Bassett has a very old tradition of mummers' plays, so I cobbled together some original scripts and tossed in whatever else I thought would make the production amusing." She settled into her seat, her legs shapely in well-tailored navy slacks. "I do hope you're not horribly allergic to cats. If you are, I'll have to book you into an inn instead of my cottage."

"I haven't an allergy to my name." For which Greg was grateful; the closer he stayed to Jenny, the better. "I love cats. There were more cats than kids in the house where I grew up. I'd have a couple now if I didn't travel so much."

"Oh, good. Since that's the case, would you mind if I let Plato out? He finds his carrier demeaning. He's a good fellow and won't cause trouble."

"By all means free the philosopher," Greg said cordially.

Jenny reached between the bucket seats to lift a padded carrier from the floor. When she opened it, a large gray cat oozed onto the console between the seats and regarded Greg balefully. He had a massive head and attitude to spare.

Since male cats could be possessive about female owners, Greg realized he had better try to make friends with this one. He held out his hand for the cat to sniff. "Pleased to meet you, Plato. If I'd known, I would have brought a piece of the salmon I had for dinner somewhere around Greenland."

A pink tongue ran over his fingertips, raspy as a wood file. Drawing on a childhood surrounded by felines, Greg began scratching Plato's head, adjusting tempo and pressure until the cat closed his eyes and began to purr. "He rumbles like a lawn mower."

Plato walked into his lap—heavily—turned three times, then lay down, his chin on Greg's knee. "I seem to have passed inspection."

"I'm impressed." Jenny snapped her seat belt shut. "Usually Plato sneers at passengers and sprawls across the backseat."

"He probably doesn't like sharing with dragons." Greg settled back, watching Jenny from the corner of his eye as she expertly maneuvered the car out of the airport and onto the motorway. He had a phenomenal memory for images, and one whole mental file folder was devoted to Jenny. The dimples that flashed when she smiled from the heart. The shadowed hollow above her collarbone. The arc of dark lashes against her cheek as she had slept beside him.

But he had filmed and met plenty of beautiful women, and could picture none of them so well. Though his photographer's eye had made him susceptible to beauty, it was Jenny's self that made her special. Direct, funny, and intelligent, she would have been irresistible no matter what she looked like.

Resist her. He was here to work and have fun, not try to seduce his hostess. Her tycoon boyfriend would probably be underfoot most of the time. Or maybe he was off on some business trip, from which he'd return in a Rolls-Royce filled with roses to shower on Jenny's beautiful head. But a man could dream . . .

GREG awoke from his doze to find that the motorway had been replaced by a narrow two-lane road winding through picturesque hills. The landscape was quilted with fields, hedges, and dry stone walls, and veils of mist transformed the scene into the setting for a sword and sorcery fantasy. It was a perfect backdrop for the world's most beautiful driver and a philosopher cat that had him pinned down as thoroughly as his seat belt. Moving carefully so as not to disturb Plato, he straightened and rolled kinks out of his shoulders. "Sheep," he said happily. "Plump, photogenic sheep munching their way across the meadows. So much nicer than freeways and road rage."

Jenny smiled. "Whenever I come to the cottage, I can feel the knots unwinding mile by mile. The Cotswolds are far too trendy these days, yet there's still something timeless and authentic about these hills. They're magical. Of course, I'm prejudiced, having grown up here."

He studied her elegant profile. The droopy hat had been tossed into the backseat, where it hung rakishly from one of the dragon's ears. Her sculpted cheekbones might have been designed to make a photographer weep. "Definitely magical."

Jenny slowed the Jaguar at a sign declaring that they were entering the village of Upper Bassett. Moving at a sedate pace, they passed cottages and shops of honey-gold stone. At the small town square, they turned right in to Church Street.

"Saint Michael's and All Angels," Jenny said as they drove by a beautifully proportioned church that appeared to have been standing there since the beginning of time. A quarter of a mile beyond, she turned into a narrow driveway. "Home, sweet home. Frightfully twee, isn't it?"

Greg caught his breath. Framed by trees and with the square church tower in the middle distance, the cottage belonged in a calendar of England. Despite the season, pansies and other hardy flowers bloomed lavishly, defying the overcast sky. Warm-toned local stone was roofed with immaculately groomed thatch, and a thatch goose raced whimsically along the ridgepole, just out of reach of a pursuing thatch fox. "If twee means so lovely it's unreal, this is twee. An American's dream of a perfect cottage."

Her voice softened. "Church Cottage is so candy box pretty that some of my over sophisticated friends tease me about it, but I love the place anyhow. The cottage was practically falling down when I bought it. Years of work were needed to fix everything the way I wanted."

"Beauty should never be sneered at merely because it's obvious. How many spectacular sunsets has the world known? They're still beautiful." Greg draped Plato over his shoulder while he undid the seat belt with one hand and climbed from the car. "Is the inside equal to the outside?"

"Better—the plumbing and heating actually work. It's the chief advantage of having to do major renovations." Jenny swung from the car and collected Plato so Greg could take his bags from the trunk. "I imagine you'll want to attend this afternoon's rehearsal, but do you want to rest for a couple of hours first?"

He smothered a yawn. "Good idea. Maybe then I'll be awake enough to figure out what I have to work with."

The front door opened into a large living area with a stone fireplace, a dining table at one end, and a kitchen beyond. Exposed beams and worn, lovingly polished floors gave a sense of great age, while country antiques, mellow oriental rugs, and overstuffed furniture provided a comfort that reflected Jenny's own hospitable nature.

Plato came alive and scrambled down from his mistress's arms to head for his food dish. After Jenny fed the cat, she led Greg up the narrow staircase and along the short upstairs hall to a bedroom decorated in soothing shades of blue and white.

"Here's the guest room. I managed to tuck a small private bathroom under the eaves, but mind your head when you use it—the ceiling isn't very high. Let me know if you need anything. I'll wake you in time for a bite to eat before the rehearsal." She hesitated, then added, "And Greg— thanks for coming."

After she left, Greg studied the church tower that rose above the trees. He felt as if he'd fallen into an English movie. Miss Marple would amble by any minute now.

Yawning again, he pulled off his boots, jacket, and sweater, then crawled under the blue duvet, glad he'd agreed to come. The perfect woman, a perfect cottage, and a project that was purely for fun. The only shortcoming was that he was in the guest room. But it was a nice guest room.

"GREG?" Jenny tapped on the door, then called his name again. Still no answer. Cautiously she opened the door and peered into the bedroom. Her guest was sprawled across the bed on his stomach, his dark hair tousled and his chin bristling with whiskers.

She studied him thoughtfully, unprepared for the rush of affection she felt. He was everything she remembered, and more. When they had worked together all those years ago, his appearance had been pleasant but undistinguished. Maturity had carved lines of humor and authority in his face. Even asleep, he looked like a man who was good at what he did, and comfortable with that fact.        ,

The duvet had slid to his waist, revealing his T-shirt-clad torso. He had filled out nicely over the last dozen years. In his early twenties he'd been gangly, but years of handling heavy equipment had added muscle. Altogether, he was quite delectable, and very dear.

Get a grip, Jenny! She raised her voice. "Greg, it's time to get up. Unless you'd rather sleep all day and stay awake all night, of course."

His eyes opened—really, it wasn't fair to waste those long dark lashes on a man—and gave her a rueful smile. "Frankly I'd rather sleep, but I'd better try to adjust to local time." He swung his jeans-clad legs from the bed, looking appealingly disheveled. "I'll wash up and be right down."

She retreated, a little unnerved by how attractive she found him. Though she had known there was a chance they might fall into bed together for old times' sake, this felt—different. And she really didn't need a dented heart for Christmas.

FOUR

GREG took advantage of the compact but admirably modern bathroom to have a quick shower and shave. Then he unearthed his professional-grade digital video camera and went downstairs, where Jenny efficiently produced a platter of sliced meats and cheeses along with a salad, warm bread, and a tasty rice pilaf.

Greg was finishing his meal when Plato strolled by with a black rod topped with fluffy red feathers clutched in his mouth. Greg blinked. "Did I imagine that?"

Jenny grinned. "That's his buggy whip toy. It turns up all over the house. The red feathers go rather nicely with his gray fur, don't you think?"

"Absolutely. And I think I've fallen through the rabbit hole into Wonderland." He swallowed the last of his coffee with a sigh of pleasure. "With a great cottage and food like this, I don't see how you ever get guests to leave."

"I turn off the heat. That sends them packing." Jenny rose to her feet. "Sorry to rush you, but we need to get moving."

Greg stood and put his plate and coffee mug on the counter. "What's a tithe barn? I figure I should know if I'm working to save this one."

"The tithe system goes back to the Middle Ages. Ten percent of all grain and livestock had to be given to the local rector to support him, the church, and the poor of the parish. A tithe barn was used to store the produce collected." They headed out to the car, leaving Plato to guard the cottage.

As she drove toward the village, Jenny continued her history lesson. "After Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, a lot of the tithe rights went into private hands. Just after the war, the owner of the ninety-nine-year lease on the barn bequeathed the lease to the local council with the requirement that it be turned into a community center."

"You said you grew up here. Was the tithe barn part of your childhood?"

"It was my favorite place in the world. The family homestead is only a five-minute walk away, so I was always at the barn. It's where I learned that I wanted to act. I was five years old and playing an angel in a Christmas pageant. As soon as I set foot on the stage, I knew. At first my parents laughed and said I'd grow out of it." Jenny grinned. "Soon they started praying that I would. But I acted every chance I could, and after my A levels I won a place at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art."

Though her comment was offhand, Greg knew that RADA was probably the world's best-known theater school, and entrance was fiercely competitive. Jenny was as talented as she was beautiful.

She turned down a side street, then into a driveway. "And here we are."

The barn was larger than Greg expected, with stone walls and a slate roof sloping down from a ridgepole that was rather less than straight. Double doors were set in the middle, and a handful of small windows marched along the side. "A nice building, but it's seen better days."

"If you'd started life in the fourteenth century, you'd be a little shabby, too."

Greg examined it with increased interest. "It's seven centuries old?"

"The oldest bit is." She parked the Jaguar among trees where scattered gravel produced solid parking without the ugliness of a regular lot. "It has been enlarged several times. There's an addition on the back that holds a pottery studio and a small shop where local craftsmen can sell their work."

As Jenny climbed from the car, a shaft of afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds and turned the stone walls of the tithe barn into shades of glowing honey. The sight of Jenny silhouetted against the structure went directly into Greg's permanent file.

She leaned into the backseat and removed the dragon head and the rest of the costume. Beauty and the beast, another image to remember. He wanted to engrave every one of her movements, every expression, on his brain forever.

He took the dragon costume from her and carried it toward the barn. "It mustl)e pretty dark inside with those small windows."

"Wait and see." She opened one of the double doors and ushered Greg through.

He paused, surprised. Wide skylights on the opposite side of the roof filled the interior with soft light even on a gray day, while massive wooden pillars and beams arched overhead like trees. "This is terrific. It reeks of authenticity."

To the right was a sizable stage, while the other end of the barn had been subdivided into smaller rooms. The central area was open, suitable for dancing, games, or folding chairs for stage performances. Despite the clamp chill, he could feel how this place was used and loved. He set the dragon costume in a safe corner, then laid a hand on the nearest rough-hewn pillar, feeling the silky texture of the ancient wood. "No wonder Upper Bassett is determined to save the place."

"The National Trust, which has custody of most historic sites, isn't impressed by our barn because so many modifications have been made." Jenny's gaze went to the skylights. "They prefer structures that are completely original. But our tithe barn is alive, still part of the world. I'd hate to see it turned into a weekend home for some rich Londoner, which is probably what will happen if it's sold."

The stage contained a rugged, evocatively designed set with several levels. He walked to the edge and squinted up at the rafters. "The lights look pretty primitive."

"They are. That's why we need a lighting genius like you."

He snorted. "Even genius can't get great results with bad equipment. We need to get something that doesn't date back to the reign of Victoria."

"Be grateful we don't make you use torches." She ran lightly up the steps onto the stage. "The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players have been rehearsing for weeks. We'll have performances starting this weekend, up through Christmas Eve. We'll do whatever you need for your filming. I hope you'll have enough time."

"Sounds fine." With radiant Jenny in front of him, he'd agree to anything. "I'll bet you were a cute little angel."

"All five-year-old angels are cute, just as all brides are beautiful. It's a law of nature. Did you get a chance to read the script I sent?"

"I skimmed it." He followed her onto the stage, evaluating the space and making mental notes about lighting and camera placement. "Dragons, knights, and resurrection."

"Plus a choir of adorable little children underfoot. With them in the production, naturally all their parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts will come."

She dropped into a fencing posture, Errol Flynn style. A crisp lunge with an imaginary sword showed her lithe figure to advantage. "Traditionally a mummers' play had a resurrection plot, a wooing, a sword dance, or some combination of the above. Saint George slaying the dragon is popular, too. Our version has a romantic young knight, Sir George, before he became a saint, plus the dragon, a courtship, and a resurrection, interspersed with lots of music and dancing."

"Are you playing Sir George? You look qualified." "No, I'm Lady Molly, the romantic object. I don't do much but look decorative." She laughed and thrust again with her imaginary sword. "Being in the tithe barn takes me back to the days when the only thing on my mind was acting. No worries about career or finances or where the next role is coming from. I once played D'Artagnan in an all-girl production of The Three Musketeers, and never had a qualm about the miscasting."

"Turning an obsession into a career is a mixed blessing. I love working the camera, but now that I've reached the exalted heights of director of photography, I'm supposed to let my camera operator have all the fun." He studied her face with professional thoroughness, thinking she looked hardly older than when they had first met. But now she was secure, comfortable in her own skin. Lovelier than ever.

He felt a curious duality. On the one hand, they'd been lovers, and very compatible ones, too. When they were in bed together, she wasn't crying over her treacherous boyfriend.

Yet they were near strangers as well. Though they worked within the same sprawling industry, their lives had touched only once for a handful of days. There was no reason for him to feel that they belonged together. . . . "Do you ever think about the time we spent together making that movie?"

Her imaginary sword stilled. "Often. You were so kind, and I was so ... needy."

"Maybe. But that's not all I remember." He moved toward her, driven by an impulse stronger than common sense. Her chin was silky soft against his hand when he raised it so he could look into her eyes. She regarded him steadily, neither inviting nor retreating. Blue eyes so deep a man could drown . . .

Children's voices piped into the room, accompanied by the banging of small feet. Jenny jumped away from Greg like a scalded cat. Belatedly, he remembered that she had a boyfriend. He was in England for a little creative R &c R and to help a good cause, not revive an old affair. No matter how much he might want to do just that.

"Miss Jenny's here!"

Swiftly composing her expression, Jenny turned toward the entrance and waved a greeting. "Hello!"

A gaggle of prepubescent children were skipping into the barn, cheeks rosy from the cold air. A dark-haired young woman followed the children at a more sedate pace. Her interested gaze went to Greg as she approached. "Is this Mr. Marino, Jenny?"

"It is indeed. Greg, meet my sister, Patricia Holmes, teacher and director of our children's choir. Patricia, here's our miracle worker." Jenny managed to introduce Greg without looking at him, confirming his suspicion that he'd embarrassed her.

Telling his libido to cool it, Greg studied Jenny's sister. He hadn't seen any teachers like Patricia Holmes when he was in grade school. Since she looked very like Jenny, she was a knockout. He guessed that she was two or three years older, and surely one of the little girl singers was hers— good looks ran in the family.

After they exchanged greetings, Greg gestured at the children ricocheting around the barn. "Your kids are photogenic, but will they stand still long enough to be filmed?"

Patricia put two fingers into her mouth and gave an ear-shattering whistle. The children instantly converged in lines in front of her, as demure as the angels they would be playing. "Sing your first song for Mr. Marino." She hummed a starting note.

"Oh, come, oh, come, Emaaa-a-an-uel ..."

The children's pure, joyous voices carried Greg back to his boyhood. Children often sang, adults seldom. At what age did the singing stop? Except for the national anthem at sports events, Greg couldn't remember the last time he'd sung. Quietly he began humming along with the choir as his gaze drifted from face to face. He'd have to get plenty of close-ups— these kids were real crowd pleasers.

Patricia gave an order, and the children turned and marched up the steps onto the stage two by two, their voices ringing through the barn like a choir of bells. He turned on his video camera and shadowed them, thinking how he would handle this on film.

More people began to arrive, some carrying what looked like moose antlers, assuming that the things moose wore on their heads were called antlers. Most of the performers were local, Greg guessed, but he blinked   | at the sight of several famous faces. Jenny had obviously used her powers   | of persuasion on some of her London friends.

He returned to his camera, and mentally calculated the best way to light moose.

THE rehearsal was chaotic in the grand tradition. Since Jenny was performing as well as directing, she was run ragged putting the pieces together. Still, she was pleased with the results. The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players would not disgrace themselves.

Dusk was approaching and the dinner hour with it, so Jenny dismissed her troops and went in search of Greg. Though he had a talent for being unobtrusive, she'd been very aware of him moving quietly among the players, zooming in on faces, pulling back to catch a group of dancers. Very, very aware. A pity the children had arrived when they did. She had been quite in the mood for a kiss.

She found her quarry up among the catwalks, where he was examining the lights. "What do you think of our show, Greg?"

"You've done some interesting things with the material—the songs and dancing are really integral to the story. The filmed version will look great."

"You think so? I'm a little worried."

"No need. You have good performers, the barn and set have loads of atmosphere, and the costumes I spotted backstage will add plenty of color and excitement. Tomorrow I'll call a London camera house to borrow a camera package and some lights. We should be able to start shooting the next day."

One of the advantages of having an Oscar-winning cinematographer was that Greg could borrow any equipment he needed in exchange for a film credit. Persuading him to come was the cleverest thing she'd done on this project.

After they descended the narrow staircase to the stage, she checked to see that they were the only ones left, then locked the barn behind them. As they got into her car, she said, "My father was supposed to drop a Christmas tree and some greens by the cottage this afternoon. Would you like to help me do some decorating? Since I've been in London for the last fortnight, I have a lot of catching up to do."

"I'd love to help. It's been . . . Lord, at least a dozen years since I've so much as hung an ornament." Greg's voice was wistful. "Usually I rush home to Ohio at the last minute and the preparations have already been made."

They drove the short distance back to the cottage in silence. Jenny was looking forward to a companionable evening decorating the tree when Greg said abruptly, "Maybe I should move to a hotel."

Startled, she asked, "Why would you want to do that? There aren't any hotels that are convenient."

"Because if I stay in your guest room, I'm not sure I can keep my hands off you."

She found herself blushing. Good God, at her age! "There's no particular need to keep your hands to yourself," she stammered. "As I said when we first spoke, the fair white body part was negotiable."

He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable in the dusk. "I heard you were involved with some software tycoon."

"You mean Neil Carling? We're not really dating." She liked that Greg respected whether or not she was involved with someone else. She had always been punctilious about such things herself.

"No?"

"I'm his official facade." She parked by her house and climbed out. "He's courting a very sweet, reserved widow and he's afraid he'll lose her if she winds up in the tabloids. Neil and I are old friends, so he takes me to events where he needs a bit of arm candy. I coo and bat my eyelashes, and afterward he goes off to visit his Elizabeth."

Greg chuckled as he followed her to the house. "I've been in Hollywood long enough to understand why a man might want to hide his private life. But how will he ever get her to the altar if he's afraid to go public?"

"When and if she says yes, he plans to take her off to the Caribbean for a very quiet, private wedding. Once they're married, they'll be old news. There is nothing more boring than a faithfully married businessman. In the meantime, I have the chance to dress up and go out with someone who knew me when I was in pigtails."

Those chaste evenings with Neil were the most fun she'd had with a   ^ man in months. As she unlocked the cottage, her thoughtful gaze went to Greg again. Perhaps that was about to change.

FIVE

IT'S a beautiful tree, if I do say so who shouldn't." Jenny stepped back and regarded their work with satisfaction. The gaily decorated spruce filled one corner of the living room, its gold filigree star touching a weathered ceiling beam.

"It's a fantastic tree." Greg hung a miniature Celtic harp on an upper branch. Jenny's ornaments varied from battered, beloved family heirlooms to delicate works of art. Just the way ornaments ought to be; he'd always hated flawless, overdecorated trees that made him think of department stores rather than homes.

Plato trotted up with his buggy whip and dropped it under the tree, then eyed a swinging angel ornament. "Behave yourself," Jenny ordered.

The cat gave her a flat stare to prove that he cared naught for her opinion, then curled up under the tree, an errant strand of silver tinsel accenting his gray fur. Greg smiled as he scratched Plato's neck. "A crackling fire on a cold night, a cat, good company, and decorating a Christmas tree. It doesn't get much better than this."

"I love Christmas." Jenny draped more tinsel in an under-sparkled spot. "A time to slow down and enjoy life and be with my family and friends. In busy years, it keeps me sane. In bad years, it makes me feel whole again."

"I've been doing the holidays on the express plan for too long. I'm lucky my family hasn't changed the locks to keep me out since I fly in a day or two before Christmas, and leave a day or two after." There was a long pause while he studied another ornament, a delicately made ceramic nest containing a pair of tiny bluebirds. He'd sent her the ornament the Christmas after their affair. Had he thought that the bluebirds of happiness nesting in the tree might bring them back together? Hard to remember after all these years. "I've spent so much time building my career that I forgot to build a life," he said quietly. "You seem to have done a better job of balancing it all."

"A rolling stone gathers no tinsel? Americans work too hard, I think. I'm lucky to spend half my time outside of London. In Upper Bassett, I'm Alice and the doctor's daughter, Patricia and Keith's sister, and a multiple aunt. The eccentric but amiable Lyme girl who's done rather well for herself. It keeps life in perspective."

Jenny flicked off the light switch so the room was illuminated only by dancing flames and the tiny colored tree lights. She had taken off her heavy sweater earlier, and the silk shirt she wore underneath skimmed her curves alluringly. The soft light gave her a haunting Renaissance beauty.

Greg's fingers tightened around the birds' nest. Though she had said he didn't have to keep his hands to himself, he still had trouble believing that she might be interested in him. Their romantic history had been a fluke of circumstances.

But maybe he wasn't the only one who had found those days magical. It was worth risking rejection, because he would never forgive himself if he didn't at least try. Carefully he hung the ornament out of Plato's reach. "Earlier today we were interrupted at an interesting moment."

Even though beauty was power, she looked vulnerable, almost fragile. "I didn't think you'd come to England," she said softly. "I'm glad you did. Even gladder than I thought I would be."

With one provocative motion, she pulled off the scarf that tied back her hair. Luxurious as ermine, the dark waves cascaded over her shoulders, catching auburn highlights from the fire. "I wouldn't mind a holiday fling. Shall we pick up where we left off all those years ago?"

Powerful awareness pulsed between them. For the first time he accepted that even though she was a glamorous actress, she was also the friend and lover he had never forgotten. "I hope we can, Jenny. The fact that we were together then is the greatest miracle I've ever known."

She came into his arms lightly. His first kiss was tentative, wondering, awed. How he'd longed for this mouth, these lips, the essence of Jenny.

Her head tilted back and she melted against him. Warm, curving, irresistible—and neither of them even tried to resist. He tangled his fingers in her glossy hair to bring her closer, jet lag forgotten as he came alive in every cell. "My God, Jenny ..."

"How could I have forgotten this?" she whispered as she burrowed against him.

Doubts and time dissolved along with words as they tugged at each other's clothing. Jenny pulled a folded blanket from the sofa and tossed it in front of the fire. Giving thanks that he'd come prepared in case something wild and wonderful happened, he pulled her down beside him, craving the weight and feel of her intoxicating body.

Even that first time so many years before, they had come together with sweet harmony. Now there was harmony and more, as if they'd been waiting for years to set each other afire. He felt they had known each other forever as they remembered how to kiss, how to touch, how to laugh.

How to be in a perfect moment.

Afterward, shaking from reaction, he pulled her close and kissed her damp forehead. He had indeed fallen into Wonderland. In real life, it wasn't possible to be this happy. Perhaps this moment could only be perfect because it was so ephemeral. In less than a month he would be in Argentina.

But as he gazed into the embers of the fire, he mourned the knowledge of how soon such happiness must end.

NOT wanting to move ever again, Jenny rested her head on Greg's shoulder, pulling the blanket over them as she struggled for breath and composure. Never, even in her most heated dreams, had she imagined such a reunion. "It was good before, but not like this. Not so ... so intense. Maybe because I was such a mess at the time."

"You were miserable then, but never a mess." He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Did I tell you that I was entranced by your collarbones? When I shot that scene where you were half naked, I couldn't believe how lovely and subtle your shoulders were. At night I dreamed about them, sculpted by light and shadow."

She laughed a little wryly. "Don't look too closely. These shoulders are now thirty-five, not twenty-three."

"Still beautiful, though." He exhaled warmly into the hollow above her collarbone.

Her gaze went to the dancing flames. "You're an artist of light, Greg. You see beauty where others don't, and then you make them see it, too. It's a great gift."

"So is making people laugh and cry, the way you do. We're both lucky to be able to do what we love, and share it with others."

Yes, she'd been lucky, but not in all areas of life. "Have you achieved your dreams? Or have you reached them and now have others?"

She admired his face in the firelight while he considered her question. When he'd been twenty-five and bearded, she hadn't realized what a fine strong jaw he had. She liked his mouth, too. Not only the feel of his lips, but the humorous little quirk that made him always look on the verge of laughter.

"My greatest dream, which seemed impossible when I was a kid in Ohio, was to make movies," he said slowly. "Not the writing or acting or directing—that was for other people. The essence of movie making is images, and that's what I wanted to do: capture images that would delight and astonish and sometimes even terrify."

"Then you're successful."

"Professionally, yes. But maybe I didn't have enough different dreams." For a moment his eyes were shadowed. Shaking off the mood, he propped himself on one elbow and smiled down on her. "Have you achieved your greatest goals?"

"I was like you—wanting to act, not thinking it was possible to reach such heights, working hard to make it happen. The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know." She shrugged philosophically. "I didn't achieve that and it's too late now, but television suits me and I've done better than most. Enough to feel good about my abilities, not so much that success has made my life difficult. Even though I'm past my prime, I'm lucky to be English. There's more room for aging actresses here. I should be able to grow old gracefully, moving between television and the theater, making enough money to live well and to spoil my nieces and nephews with Christmas presents."

He stared at her. "Where do you get this 'aging actress' nonsense? You're a beautiful, desirable woman, and you always will be. Like-Katharine Hepburn and the other great beauties, you're lovely in your bones, and in your spirit."

Her throat tightened at his palpable sincerity. "For a man of images, not words, you say wonderful things."

"Seeing is my business, and I see truth, Jenny."

Uncomfortable with the intensity of his eyes, she asked, "You said you need different dreams. What is the biggest thing that you don't have but would like?"

His brows furrowed. "Probably a house. I'm still living in that same two-bedroom apartment I had when we made Almost Crazy. Remember it?"

"I have fond memories of that apartment. In fact, your key is around here somewhere, since I forgot to give it back before I left." Actually, she'd kept it deliberately as a souvenir of their time together. "It was a nice apartment, but not the same as owning your own home."

"It's ironic. I've finally reached the point where I could afford a decent house, but when I come back from a location shoot I'm always too tired to call a real estate agent. The next thing I know, I'm off again." He smiled wryly. "I'm this big success, yet I live like a kid just out of college."

"California has wonderful houses. What would you like? A beach house?"

"I'd rather have a place up in the hills where you can see to forever. I love that kind of spaciousness. And I like modern architecture—airiness and lots of texture from natural materials."

"It sounds as if you've thought about this." She knew the kind of house he meant—she had visited one or two of that type when she was in California. "As dreams go, this shouldn't be too hard to achieve. Perhaps you should make a New Year's resolution to call an estate agent."

"Maybe I will." His gaze traveled around her living room. "Being here reminds me of what I'm missing."

Hearing more than he was saying, she said hesitantly, "It sounds as if you want not only a house, but a home. Real estate is easy. Homes are harder."

"I think you just put your finger on it." He gave a jaw-cracking yawn. "Sorry! Jet lag is mugging me again. I'd better go to bed while I can still manage the stairs."

He stood and offered her his hand, raising her easily. She skimmed her palm across his bare chest, thinking again how well he had filled out since they first met. He'd been an appealing youth. Now he was a rather splendid man. "My bedroom or yours?"

He gave her a slow smile. "Yours, if you don't mind having me there."

She closed the fireplace doors and turned out the lights, then slid her arm around his waist and they ambled toward the stairs. His height made her feel small and feminine. She tried to remember when she had felt so peaceful, but failed. Too long.

Greg hadn't been joking about his fatigue. After washing up and brushing his teeth, he hit her bed like a felled tree. She didn't mind, not when he drew her close against him. She gave a sigh of pure pleasure.

Plato jumped onto the bed, looking for an unoccupied corner. Jenny was about to shoo him off when Greg began absently scratching the cat's neck. Not bad for a man more asleep than awake.

As Plato settled down, purring, Greg murmured, "If I had asked you to stay after we finished shooting Almost Crazy—would you have?"

How had she felt then? Conflicted. "I don't think so," she said honestly. "I was desperate to go home. Being offered that Jane Austen role went a long way toward repairing my battered professional pride."

He exhaled, his soft breath stirring the hair at her temple. "That's what I figured."

His breathing became slow and steady, but it was a long time until Jenny slept. Probably she would have gone home no matter what Greg said then—but she wished she'd had the choice.

SIX

GREG swiftly checked over the lights, reflectors, and other equipment. "Great," he said as he signed the manifest. "I really appreciate you guys lending me all this."

Sean, the young Londoner who had driven the borrowed equipment to Upper Bassett, said, "It's an honor, Mr. Marino." He hesitated. "Could I stay and help today? I'm a camera assistant, so I might be useful." Despite numerous piercings and hair that defied description, his gaze was as worshipful as a spaniel. "I really want to see you work."

Greg felt very old. How had he gone from being an eager kid like this one to an elder statesman? Trying not to think of the occasional gray hairs that were starting to appear, he said, "Sure, the help will be welcome. We'll start by rigging these lights."

They spent a long, sweaty day working on the catwalks above the stage, with Greg explaining the reasons for every equipment placement. His assistant nodded solemnly and jotted quick notes. With Sean's help, the installation was finished before the evening's dress rehearsal. Greg could never have managed that on his own.

Jenny flitted in and out, alluring in jeans and sweater as she attended to countless details. Whenever she appeared, all male activity temporarily ceased. She was pleasant to everyone, but for Greg she had a private smile that melted him in his tracks.

The three days since he'd arrived in England were the happiest he could remember. By day he and Jenny worked like maniacs to stage her production, sharing ideas and problems with easy camaraderie. The nights were even better as they talked and laughed and made love until they fell asleep in each other's arms. Usually with Plato sprawled against Greg's ankles. The three of them slept well together.

Greg was doing a lighting check when Jenny appeared. "My mother put together a buffet supper for family members involved in the show. The kids have finished, but the adults are eating now. Care to join us, or are you too busy?"

He suppressed a small twitch. Though the family members he'd met were great, he hadn't met her father yet, and Dr. Lyme might not approve of some ramshackle American hanging out with his youngest daughter. Reminding himself that he wasn't in high school, he said, "Sure. It would be nice to get out of here for a while."

He grabbed his coat and joined Jenny for the walk to her parents' house. The fresh air was welcome after the long day inside. Taking his hand, she led him along a path that edged a field and decanted them by a sprawling brick house. "This was called a villa when it was built in Edwardian times," Jenny explained. "My father wanted all the woodwork painted lime green in honor of the family name, but Mother wouldn't let him."

"Sounds like your father has a sense of humor."

"He has to, to put up with the rest of us," she said blithely as they walked inside through the unlocked front door.

The small front hall opened to reception rooms on both sides. The parlor on the right contained a tall Christmas tree, with the dining room visible beyond. High ceilings and handsome moldings gave a formal air to the house, but the furnishings were comfortable and just worn enough to be welcoming.

Jenny hung both their coats, then took Greg into the dining room, where platters and Crock-Pots were set on a sideboard so family members could help themselves to a quick meal. Alice Lyme wasn't present but Patricia Holmes and her husband, Ken, were already eating, and a white-haired man who had to be Dr. Lyme was nursing a cup of coffee at the head of the table.

Taking Greg's arm, Jenny led him into the dining room. "Hi, all. Dad, you haven't met my friend Greg Marino, have you?"

Dr. Lyme stood. Tall and angular, he had formidably bushy eyebrows. "No, but Jenny has talked of you a great deal."

"I was afraid of that," Greg said fatalistically. "I swear, practically none of it is true."

The doctor laughed and offered his hand. "It was good of you to come all this way to help out."

As they shook hands, Greg said, "I'm glad Jenny asked me—I'm having a wonderful time."

"You're from Ohio, I think? I once did a fellowship in Cincinnati." Dr. Lyme sighed nostalgically. "Cincinnati chili. Not like anything else I've ever eaten."

"That's because its ancestors are Greek, not Mexican." Greg made a mental note to send some Cincinnati chili spice packets to Dr. Lyme. "Our local specialty."

That started a lively discussion about regional foods while the new arrivals served themselves and sat down. Luckily, Greg managed not to step on the collie-ish dog that was snoozing peacefully under the sideboard. Given the way Jenny fussed over the elderly dog, he suspected that stepping on its tail would get him exiled permanently from the house.

Dr. Lyme replenished his coffee. "Is everything in hand for the rehearsal?"

"So far, so good," Jenny replied. "One of the horn dancers broke his right antler, but we were able to superglue the end on again."

Greg grinned, amused at the contrast of old and new. "I've been meaning to ask why moose antlers are worn for a dance."

"Not moose—red deer. The horned god is a pagan deity and tied up with fertility and nature," Patricia explained with schoolteacher precision.

"We included the horn dance because it's a specialty of this dance group, and it looks impressive," Jenny added. "Excuse me while I go change into my costume. Patricia, can you help?"

The two women disappeared, leaving Greg with the doctor and Ken Holmes. Ken, an engineer, was asking technical questions about film editing when the sisters reappeared. Jenny had traded her jeans for a flowing gown of burgundy velvet with gold embroidered borders, topped by a headdress with a diaphanous golden veil. The medieval finery gave her an otherworldly air at odds with the approachable woman who warmed his nights. "You take my breath away," Greg said honestly.

She dimpled and curtsied gracefully. " 'Tis honored I am to make your acquaintance, Sir Gregory of Ohio."

Their teasing was interrupted when Alice Lyme appeared. Greg had met her several times at the tithe barn, where she helped as needed. A silver fox version of her beautiful daughters, she usually had an unflappable quality that reminded Greg of his own mother, but this evening she was frowning. "Bad news, I'm afraid."

"What's wrong?" Jenny asked.

"I've just learned that the Carthage Corporation has changed its deadline. Originally we had until June thirtieth to meet their price. Now they say we must have the money by January first."

"They can do that?" Greg asked, startled. "Don't you have an option contract of some sort?"

Alice shrugged. "It was a gentlemen's agreement, which tends to be worthless when dealing with corporations. Last summer Carthage had the barn appraised and told us if we could raise the amount of the appraisal by the time the lease expired, the barn would be ours. But nothing was in writing."

"Probably they've received a higher offer," Patricia said cynically.

"They know the center can't raise so much money on such short notice." Jenny looked stricken. "When we fail, they accept the other contract. Come June, we're out."

Greg swore under his breath. Jenny had said once that the center had a good chance to raise the money, but it would take the six months they'd been counting on to edit and polish the Revels film and sell it to television.

Or would it? "Did they say in writing that they would let the village buy the barn if it raised the money by New Year's?"

Alice raised a paper she had brought in. "Yes; the cowards faxed me rather than telephoning. But what good does that do us?"

"The key is television sales," he replied. "Jenny has plenty of London contacts, and I know some people in American TV. If we can produce some good sample material quickly enough, maybe we can get commitments to buy the finished film for next year. With those in hand, it should be possible to get a bridge loan from a bank. I doubt the corporation would dare back out since you have their written promise to sell at the appraisal price. It would look nasty in the newspapers if they reneged, and corporations don't like looking like bad guys."

"Can that all be done in such a short time?" Alice asked doubtfully.

Jenny bit her lip, calculating. "It's possible. Barely. If Greg can pull together some fabulous footage in the next day or two. Can you?"

"I think so. I rigged the lights to give even illumination, which means I could shoot the dress rehearsal tonight in digital video. Sean has a similar camera, and he would love to act as second unit. Does anyone in Upper Bassett have a really good digital editing setup on his computer?"

"I do." Ken Holmes smiled self-deprecatingly. "We engineers love gadgets."

"He also has first-class recording equipment taking up far too much of the house." Patricia smiled at her husband affectionately. "He records music at our church and we sell the CDs. The sound is professional quality."

"Then let's go for it." Greg swallowed a last bite of supper and got to his feet. "We'll shoot and record the rehearsal, edit tonight, and by tomorrow morning we should have something that will convince the BBC that you deserve a piece of their budget."

Ken also stood. "I'll go home for my sound equipment and meet you at the barn."

After thanking the Lymes for their hospitality, Greg and Jenny collected their coats and left. By the time they reached the tithe barn, the building was teeming with cast members. A flock of cherubs, ridiculously cute in white robes and gilded wings, galloped by as Greg extricated young Sean from a group of dancers and enlisted him for the evening's shooting.

As Greg explained to Sean what was needed, Jenny marched up the steps onto the stage. "The tithe barn is on thin ice, my friends," she said in a carrying voice, "so tonight we have to do a cracking good job."

Swiftly she outlined the situation with a passion that would have inspired soldiers on the eve of battle. By the time she finished speaking, all of the actors, singers, dancers, and musicians were poised for their best work.

Within half an hour they were set to go, microphones in place and two cameras ready to record the performance. The next hours were a blur of motion and music. When possible, Greg loved to work fast and capture the spontaneity that was hard to maintain in multiple takes. In this case, he also wanted the action to be as uninterrupted as possible so that the performers could get the benefit of their dress rehearsal.

The show began with the children singing, "Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel," as they walked through the darkened theater, each carrying a candle and watched like a hawk by Patricia to see that they didn't set themselves on fire. The kids, as expected, were adorable, and they sang like crystal bells. With the lights low and the candles illuminating earnest young faces, the procession captured the eternal magic of the season.

As the story unfolded, the performers outdid themselves. The mixture of professionals and experienced amateurs put on a musical spectacular worthy of London's famous West End theaters. Sir George, the future saint, was played by an opera tenor, the Turkish physician was a famous Welsh stage actor, and Jenny as Lady Molly proved to be a first-rate singer with a rich voice that filled every corner of the barn.

Fiercely concentrating, Greg entered the altered state where he was no longer consciously aware of his movements, his whole body responding instinctively to what his eyes saw. A pan across the bright faces of the singing cherubs, yes. Pull back and up to capture the wild energy of the horn dancers. Descend to shoot the ponderous, glittering dragon as the beast slew the knight. A poignant shot of the fallen warrior.

And always Jenny, first as the saucy narrator who set the stage for the show, later as Lady Molly weeping over the body of her sweetheart. The camera loved her, caressing her expressive face and supple body as she became a woman of another time.

Enter the Turkish physician in his Eastern robes, and with a stage presence that had knocked London theatergoers dead for decades. The slain knight was revived, the lovers reunited, and the resurrection theme was expanded into a touching Nativity scene.

At the end, as Greg slowly pulled the camera back and up, the whole cast sang "Go, Tell It on the Mountain," the American spiritual somehow perfectly right. Adults, children, dancers, musicians, and even the dragon were united in peace and harmony. Damn, these people were good.

As the cast dissolved into postperformance chatter, relief, and analysis, Greg leaned against the wall, almost dizzy now that shooting was over. Having made her comments and compliments to her cast, Jenny slipped away to join him, her face flushed with a performer's high even though she had removed her makeup. "Was that as good as I thought it was?"

He nodded. "Better. More takes and angles and a wider range of zoom shots would have been nice, but we have what we need to shop the show."

Sean appeared, looking awed. "That was bloomin' marvelous! Better than a year's worth of course work."

"You were a great help, Sean. I'm glad you stayed," Greg said. "Maybe we can work together again someday."

After the young cameraman left, beaming, Jenny stood on her toes and gave Greg a swift kiss. "Thank you so much. There's still a long way to go, but if not for your wizardry, we wouldn't have a chance. First thing tomorrow I'll call my most influential BBC connection. With luck, we can have a meeting tomorrow afternoon."

Greg gave her a tired smile, the tanned skin crinkling around his dark eyes. "It's still early enough in the U.S. for me to call there tonight. If the editing goes well, tomorrow I'll be able to send a rough cut over."

He looked so huggable that it was an effort for Jenny to keep her hands to herself. Reminding herself that her mother and half her family were in the room, she behaved. Sort of. Linking an arm through Greg's, she said, "Before we go to Patricia and Ken's house to edit, let's stop by my place for a bite to eat and a pot of coffee to keep us awake. You can make your calls while my mother locks up here."

"Good idea; I'm ravenous. That kind of work really gives me an appetite."

Arm in arm, they said good-byes and left the barn. Jenny was still buzzing with exhilaration from the performance, where the sum of what they had done was so much more than the individual people. Yet underneath was a vein of melancholy, because in two or three days he'd be gone. She wondered if she would be able to kiss him good-bye at Heathrow without crying.

Even the best actress has her limits.

SEVEN

WHILE Jenny threw together a quick supper, Greg withdrew to his room and called a couple of people he knew in American television, plus a CBC friend in Toronto. All three wanted to see a rough cut of the performance.

He ended his final call, satisfied that everyone understood the need for a quick decision and money on the table if they were interested. If Jenny did as well in London, there was a fighting chance of raising the money by New Year's.

Plato trotted in carrying his buggy whip. After dropping it at the foot of the bed, he leaped onto Greg's lap. "I'm going to miss you, philosopher," Greg murmured as he scratched the furry neck. Though not as much as he'd miss the cat's mistress.

He didn't want to make a fool of himself by babbling to her what she meant to him—she probably got declarations of love from smitten males every week. But maybe he could find a special gift that would say what he meant without words. Not chocolate or jewelry—Jenny was quite capable of getting her own. What did she want most?

The dream was to make movies—be an international star, you know. Her flip tone hadn't concealed her underlying regrets. Despite Jenny's success at television, her one Hollywood movie had been a fiasco, and now she had the absurd notion that she was over the hill. Did he know anyone who might need a terrific English actress?

On impulse, he dialed the private number of Raine Marlowe, who had produced, directed, and starred in The Centurion, the movie that had given them both Oscars. Even though she and her family lived mostly on a ranch in northern New Mexico, she was well plugged in to the Hollywood movers and shakers. In fact, she was one herself.

As the phone rang, he remembered that Jenny was a former girlfriend of Raine's husband, Kenzie Scott. Maybe she wasn't the best person to ask. Before he could decide, Raine picked up the phone, in the midst of baking Christmas cookies. After they offered each other best wishes for the season, he explained why he was calling. If something came of it, great. If not—well, no harm done.

As he hung up, Jenny called, "Supper's ready!"

"Coming." Greg stood, boosting Plato over his shoulder. "You're going to be mad if this works, big guy. Making a movie would take your mom away from you for months." Whistling softly, he went down the stairs. If he couldn't be with Jenny in person, he could watch her on the silver screen.

"DO all cinematographers know how to edit as well as you do?" Jenny asked as she watched Greg work on her brother-in-law's huge computer monitor.

He shrugged. "I like playing with video and I've hung out with a lot of first-class film editors. Editing is the critical step that pulls everything together."

Jenny smothered her yawn as they watched the final scene, a marvelous image that young Sean had shot from the catwalk above the stage. Though an American spiritual was hardly traditional in a mummers' play, Jenny firmly believed that folk performances were a living tradition, and should evolve and grow and adopt new music.

The final frame dissolved into darkness. "Finis. It's a wonderful sample video, Greg. Now all we need is for my telly people to bite."

"They're nuts if they don't." Greg saved the final version, then rose, yawning. His skill had made editing a pleasure. She had enjoyed discussing the shots and trying different versions until they had captured the essence of the live performance. His competence was very sexy. If she weren't so tired, she'd jump him. There was privacy enough—Patricia and her family had long since retired.

When Jenny and Greg were outside the house, he slung an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the car. She loved such casual, affectionate gestures.

Starting the engine as quietly as possible, she headed through the empty village to her cottage. They were almost home when Greg asked, "It's well known that you and Kenzie Scott were an item at RADA. Were you in love with him?"

She guessed that he might not have asked such a personal question if he wasn't so tired, but she didn't mind answering. "Not really. I do love Kenzie—he's one of my dearest friends, and he's as kind as he is good-looking, which is saying a lot. But there was always something unknowable about him—an essence that I could never touch."

"I thought women liked mysterious men."

"Some might, but I think it's tedious to always be wondering what a man thinks. I'm afraid that I'm hopelessly middle class, Greg—I like a chap who's down to earth and knowable." Someone like Greg. She had dated her share of high-maintenance charmers, and they made her appreciate steadiness and good humor.

As they entered her cottage, she thought of his question from their first night together: Would she have stayed with him in California if he'd asked all those years earlier? She still didn't know what her response would have been—but looking back, she was pretty sure that she should have stayed.

SIMON Oxnard, Jenny's honcho friend at the BBC, clicked off the Revels recording. He had watched the first third straight through and skipped rapidly through the rest to get a sense of the whole. Greg sat and gloomily noted all the errors he'd made. Shots held too long, angles that could have been improved, lighting that wasn't quite right. He was beginning to wish he hadn't accompanied Jenny for this sales pitch.

Of course, it was always good to watch Jenny. She'd opted for the businesswoman look today rather than actress glamour or country casual. With hair swept up and a beautifully tailored suit, she looked ready to run the Bank of England.

"Very nice, Jenny. The script is a delightful blend of traditional and contemporary, and you've directed well." Simon glanced at Greg. "You took fine advantage of the intimacy and spontaneity of video, Mr. Marino. I felt that I was standing in the middle of the stage, immersed in celebration."

Greg thanked him, glad his errors weren't obvious to a noncamera-man.

Simon continued, "I'll have to run this by some of our programming people before I can make a commitment. There's a good chance we'll want it, but it won't be anywhere near as much money as you need. Tight budgets, you know."

Greg sensed Jenny's disappointment, though she didn't let it show on her face. "I understand. Many thanks for making time for us today, Simon." She stood and offered her hand. "The Ad Hoc Upper Bassett Players thank you."

The executive smiled as he shook her hand. "Is that what you call yourselves? You have quite a lot of talent in your village. It's worth sharing with a wider audience."

After they were safely out of the bustling television center, Greg asked, "Was he really interested, or was he just giving us the local version of the Hollywood shuffle?"

"If Hollywood shuffle means what I think, no, Simon isn't like that. He really did like what he saw, which means he'll probably make an offer after he runs it by his programmers." She sighed. "Unfortunately, he's also being straight about the money. When one comes down to it, this is just glorified community theater. We'll be lucky to sell it at all. We won't get enough to buy the barn."

"There's a good chance of an American sale, and maybe a Canadian one as well."

"From what you told me, that won't be huge money either. At best, we'll have perhaps half the amount we need."

Much as Greg would have liked to disagree, she was right. Cable stations and public television weren't rich. "If you have contracts for half the money, you're in a better position to borrow the rest."

"Perhaps." Jenny shook off her mood. "We've done as much as we can on this front. Now it's time to start worrying about our performance tonight."

"You'll need your strength. Let me buy you lunch," he suggested.

"What a good idea. I know a lovely pub near the motorway. Beams, a fireplace, and lots of traditional English pub food like chicken curry."

"Chicken curry is a traditional English dish?"

"A legacy of empire." Her smile was rueful. "I've been working you hard ever since you arrived, and soon you'll be going home. I want you to see a bit of the real England—the way we actually live here, not England as a giant theme park for tourists."

He climbed into her car, depressed at the reminder of how soon he would be leaving. "You said when you first called that I could stay and experience a traditional English Christmas. Did you mean that? I don't want to intrude on your family."

"You'll stay? How absolutely fabulous!" Her expression brighter, she turned her car into the street. "It won't be an intrusion since everyone in my family knows you. Ken will talk your ear off about filmmaking, my father will go on about his garden, the children and pets will crawl all over you, Patricia will give orders like the bossy big sister she is, and my mother will feed you very, very well."

He grinned. "Sounds like fun. If you're sure you don't mind, I'll change my tickets to the day after Christmas."

"I'm so glad. I hope your family won't mind too much."

His mother would mind. It would be one thing if Greg was visiting a nice girl with daughter-in-law potential, but Jenny was not what his mother kept hoping for. "Not a problem. There will be such a crowd around the house no one will notice I'm missing."

"Liar. But we'll take good care of you."

And his holiday fling would end in a Christmas celebration he would never forget.

EIGHT

JENNY groaned as she set the phone back into its cradle. "Since the first three performances went smoothly, I actually dared hope that the show would finish its run tonight without real problems. I should have known better."

Greg glanced up from the coffeepot he was washing. Domesticity looked good on him. "What's happened?"

"Our dragon, Will Davies, has become violently ill and can't perform. His wife says it's food poisoning or some ghastly stomach virus—the phrase 'projectile vomiting' was mentioned." She bit her lip. "The part is a simple one, with no real dialogue, and the costume is designed so almost anyone can wear it. Patricia can do it, though she'll make a rather short dragon." Inspiration struck. "Greg, will you take over? You're impressively tall, and you've seen the performance often enough to know the part."

"Me? Appear onstage? No way!" he said, horrified. "My job is behind the camera. Even as a kid I was always a technogeek, never an actor. I'll make a hash of your whole show."

"No, you won't." She found his alarm rather endearing. He'd been as reliable as the Rock of Gibraltar ever since he'd arrived, and now he looked as if she had proposed to hang him by his thumbs. "You'll be completely covered up by the dragon costume. You don't even have to roar—the bellowing is prerecorded. All you have to do is flail about and kill Sir George."

"After all the work I put into filming the last few days, I was looking forward to loafing tonight."

"Think of George as the smug lad who was always captain of the football team," she said coaxingly. "Wouldn't you like to slay someone like that? This being England, most of the audience is on the side of the poor hunted dragon."

"Since you put it like that..." Greg's mouth quirked up. "The costume is pretty much the part, so I suppose I can manage. But are you sure? There must be others who could handle the role better."

"On one hour's notice? Not likely." She reached for her coat, glad they'd had an early supper. "Come along, my lad. You're about to make your stage debut!"

GREG stood rigid in the wings, thinking that tonight was karmic justice for all the times he'd silently scoffed at actors who were suffering from nerves. Will Davies didn't have stomach flu, he'd become sick because he couldn't stand to go onstage again. If Greg weren't swathed in dragon, he might lose his supper himself.

All the performances had been sellouts, but tonight's closing show was packed to the rafters, with every inch of standing room taken. The good news was that the community center would make more from ticket sales than anticipated; the bad news was that Greg would have to step out in front of all those staring eyes. Compared to the rest of the cast, he was a pathetic, terrified amateur. He would accidentally damage Sir George. He'd trip over his tail and George would accidentally kill him. He'd . . .

A hand came to rest on his scaly forearm. "You'll do fine, Greg," Jenny said soothingly. "Just go out with the dragon walk I showed you. Once you're onstage, you'll have fun. Pretend you're an egotistical actor."

In her flowing medieval gown, Jenny was hypnotically lovely. He would have kissed her if he wasn't wearing a dragon head. He settled for patting her shoulder clumsily with one rubber-clawed paw.

Sir George and five admiring village girls finished a dance. The owner of the local dance studio, a retired prima ballerina, had done a splendid job with the choreography. The ancient music group was equally impressive. Jenny and her neighbors were far more than "community theater."

The village dancers spun off the stage. Fortified by their admiration, the knight set out on his dragon quest, singing magnificently. All too soon the song was over, which was Greg's cue to enter.

He froze, unable to move until Jenny placed a hand on his spine and pushed him forward none too gently. Under the blazing lights, Greg was agonizingly aware of a packed audience of undifferentiated heads, all of them staring at him.

Sir George fell back, aghast. "The dragon comes!"

Pulling himself together, Greg swung into the dragon walk, a wide-legged stride that made him look massive and dangerous. A menacing growl rumbled through the theater. Barely in time he remembered to open his jaws as if he was the one roaring.

The knight drew his blunt sword and flourished it menacingly. They had done a quick practice fight earlier, so Greg had a general idea of how to proceed. He lunged forward, jaws open and tail lashing. The costume was complicated, and keeping its pieces straight required all his concentration. The knight darted in and out, unable to plant a killing blow on the scaly dragon hide. Luckily, the tenor who played George was well trained in stage fighting, so Greg didn't have to do much but take fierce swipes at his paltry opponent. Pretend you're an egotistical actor. Beginning to enjoy himself, he lunged forward, lip-synching the roars as he moved in for the kill.

One last great bellow, a vicious slashing of rubber claws, and Sir George fell to the stage, mortally wounded. As a trained tenor, he could die and sing at the same time.

Greg swayed over his prey, slavering, before a hiss from the wings told him it was time to leave. He was tempted to raise both arms in a victory dance, but restrained himself. The dragon was supposed to be a metaphor for brute violence and the lower nature, not a comedian.

As he exited, Jenny blew him a kiss from the opposite wing, then darted onstage with a terrible cry. The crowd caught its breath, struck by her palpable grief as she began to sing an elegy.

Greg pulled off the dragon head so he could see and hear better. Though he had filmed her elegy twice, then he had been concentrating on his equipment. This time he was free to focus on her, and her haunting voice pierced him to the heart. Yes, she was a superb actress, but no one could sing with such a sense of loss unless she had a deeply loving spirit. What would it be like to be the beneficiary of such love?

The recognition that he was in love with Jenny struck like a sword through his gut. Though he had done his best to deny the knowledge, that was no longer possible. He had fallen head over heels for her when he was a gawky assistant cameraman, and never recovered.

For the first time ever, he wished that he were a handsome, successful actor. Or maybe a tycoon. The kind of man who could win the heart and hand of a great beauty.

A minor-key Middle Eastern theme announced the Turkish physician, and the character joined Jenny onstage to resurrect the fallen knight. Greg tucked his tail aside so no one would trip over it and kept his vantage point, his gaze on Jenny.

Patricia glided by and murmured, "You make a fine dragon," before she vanished to marshal her children's choir. After the knight was resurrected and had embraced Jenny—did old George have to hug her so hard?—ethereal children's voices heralded the shift from resurrection to Nativity. The show was almost over. Greg watched raptly, already nostalgic for these magical days when he was part of this group of people doing their best for a common goal.

The stage lights went off. There were several long beats before a pinpoint of light began to shine above center stage. It grew brighter and brighter until it became a blazing star that illuminated the stage. At the same time, performers began to move onstage singing, "Go, tell it on the mountain, Over the hills and far away." Softly at first, then louder and louder until the whole cast was singing the jubilant spiritual.

Jenny emerged from the group under the star and gestured for the audience to sing along. They were tentative at first, but more and more joined in until the massed voices reverberated through the walls and beams of the ancient building. People began to rise to their feet, compelled to show their exhilaration in one of the transcendent moments that occurred only at live performances. Jenny was right, the barn was a living structure that deserved to continue as a place of gathering and creativity.

The song ended, the curtains fell, and the show was over. Pounding waves of applause began, and the curtains obligingly opened again. Traditionally the least important players came on first, so Greg hastily donned the dragon head. He trotted out, getting laughter and applause when he bowed goofily before withdrawing to the back of the stage to make way for more important performers.

The dancers high-kicked their way onstage, men from the right wing, women from the left. After a swift set of turns, they stepped aside for the children's choir. The musicians were highlighted, then the Turkish physician, and last of all Sir George and Jenny. The ovation she received threatened to rip off the slate roof. She bowed again and again, her face flushed with excitement.

Finally she raised her arms for silence. "I want to thank all of you for coming. As many of you know, the Revels were conceived as our attempt to raise money to save the tithe barn as Upper Bassett's community center. I don't know yet if we'll be successful because time is running out, but win or lose, we've created something special here, something we're all proud of. And it has all been done with volunteers. I want to thank everyone who didn't appear onstage, starting with Alice Lyme, who as president of the community center council has been a tower of strength and wisdom."

She blew a kiss to her mother, then swiftly listed others who had been essential for producing the show. "Lastly, I want to give special thanks to Greg Marino, the only American involved in this show, one of the world's great cinematographers, and the man who filmed our production so those of you who wish to watch again at home will be able to. Not only is he an Academy Award winner but a good sport, willing to step in when our original dragon was laid low. Greg, stop hiding in back and come out to be thanked."

Aiee! He wanted to dive to the floor and disappear, but eager hands pulled him forward. Blue eyes glowing, Jenny kissed him on his dragon snout and whispered, "Take this off so people can see you!"

No way. Preferring to play the Beast to her Beauty, he dropped to his knees and laid his head against her waist, animal nature tamed by the lady. The crowd loved it.

The curtains closed for the final time. Jenny patted Greg's neck as if he were a large dog. "Will you come out from under there, my darling dragon?"

He stood and removed the head piece. "You did well, Jenny. Everyone did."

She grinned. "Even you looked as if you were having fun. Watch out, you may be hit by the acting bug."

"Once was enough." He suppressed the desire to give her a real kiss, since what he wanted was not something that could be done in public. Originally he had intended to fly back to the States the morning after this last performance. Changing his plans had given him three more days of Jenny's company.

Only three more days.

JENNY laughed and joked with people who came up to congratulate her, but the show's triumph was bittersweet. She hated to think this might be the last time she would ever perform in the tithe barn. They had yet to hear from any of the television networks, and time was rapidly running out. Next Christmas the barn might be hosting a fashionable cocktail party for a wealthy new owner who would hang angular modern paintings on the ancient walls.

The dragon was a popular character; Greg stood beside her, signing autographs for the under-twelve set. She hoped that the postshow party didn't run too late. She wanted to take Greg home and find out what it was like to bed a dragon.

A familiar figure emerged from the thinning crowd. "This is even better in person than on video, Jenny." It was her BBC friend, Simon Oxnard, and his wife.

"Simon, how lovely to see you," Jenny said, hoping his presence was a good sign. "Cassie, I'm glad you could come, too."

Cassie smiled. "So am I. It was a marvelous performance."

"If I'd known you were interested, I would have found tickets for you."

Simon waved off Jenny's regrets. "No matter. Standing in the rear took me back to our student days. We had a splendid time, and now I can tell you in person that we have an offer that might help you out."

She caught her breath, afraid to hope. "You want to broadcast the show?"

"Yes, and if you'll sign a contract for two more Christmas shows over the next two years, each with a different theme, we can offer you three times the money."

"What kind of themes would interest you?"

"Since this was a medieval-style mummers' play, perhaps next year you could do Victorian. Something different the year after that."

Her imagination caught fire. Glittering costumes, formal dancing, passionate creativity. "Elizabethan. They did spectacle so well."

"Excellent." Simon grinned. "We also want to broadcast the video sample you showed me next week, as well as the film version next year."

Greg, who had been listening with interest, exclaimed, "You're kidding! It's just a seat-of-the-pants video."

"The seat of some very professional pants," Simon replied. "We have a late-night BBC2 slot that isn't well filled, so I convinced the programming head that your Revels would be a refreshing change."

In other words, even more money. Jenny felt like turning cartwheels. "Wonderful! Let me introduce you to my mother—she's president of the community center board and in charge of all negotiations. I warn you, though, she drives a hard bargain." She signaled her mother, made the introductions, and then withdrew to circulate through the cast party.

Maybe the barn wouldn't be condemned to stockbroker hell after all.

NINE

KNOWING they might achieve their goal made the cast party riotous, but even so, Greg and Jenny left early. He had plans for the rest of the night.

At the cottage, he climbed from the car, then halted in amazement when he saw that the sky was starting to pulse with sheets and bands of colored light. "Good God, it's the northern lights, isn't it? I've never seen them before."

"Even though England is so far north, I've only seen them a time or two myself." Jenny came to his side. "How splendid. A perfect end for a magical night."

Greg opened his jacket and drew her inside, wrapping his arms around her waist so that she was snuggled cozily against his chest as they watched shimmering greenish rays that rippled like scarlet-edged draperies. "When I was a kid, I used to have dreams like this, where I saw moving pictures on the night sky. I think I was crossing drive-in movies with what I'd read about the aurora."

"So you saw movies in your dreams even when you were a child."

"I'm afraid so. I never dreamed of being a star. Just of filming them." In silence they watched one of nature's greatest shows. He supposed the aurora borealis was a good metaphor for their affair—lovely and evanescent, gone almost before it was identified.

The night was getting colder, but Greg wasn't. As the veils of light faded, he kissed the edge of her right ear. She turned toward him and lifted her face. The warmth where their bodies touched was a deeply sensual counterpoint to the winter night.

"You're just a little bit of a thing," he murmured affectionately. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her onto the rear end of the Jaguar, her long skirt falling over the dark finish in soft folds. He leaned forward to kiss her throat. "Perched here, you look like an advertisement for the good life. Buy a Jaguar and beautiful women will flock to you." Warm breath exhaled softly against her cleavage. "Except that this is the twenty-first century, and the beautiful woman bought her own luxury car."

She laughed, wondering why intimacy brought out the Tarzan/Jane instinct even in strong-minded females like herself. She adored knowing that he was bigger and stronger than she, capable of fighting off saber-toothed tigers while being tender with her. She drew him tightly against her. "You make a wonderfully sexy dragon, Greg. Shall we play Beauty and the Beast?"

Her words were sparks on tinder. Intoxicated by the performance and the exhilaration of success, he took advantage of the night's privacy to make swift, urgent love to her. Soft fabric, warm, intimate flesh, rapturous response. No wonder women used to wear long skirts in the past, because the sensual possibilities were entrancing.

She responded with feverish intensity, as hungry as he. With Greg, she felt young again, willing to open up and take risks and lose her heart.

"Jenny," he whispered, "Jenny, love ..." Words failed, only touch and scent and passion were real. How could he let this intimacy end? They fit together too well, understood and enjoyed each other too much. . . .

Even when they were both panting with sated exhaustion, he didn't want to let her go. When had he ever known a woman who made him feel so alive, yet so at peace?

She stirred in his arms, murmuring, "I'm never going to think of this car quite the same way again."

"A vehicle fit for dragons." He lifted her from the car, dropping one last weightless kiss on her hair. As they headed indoors, arms around each other, he realized that he couldn't leave without at least trying to see if they had a future.

As they entered the cottage, Plato looked up from his seat on the sofa, gave a bored yawn, then tucked his nose under his tail again. As she peeled off her long coat, Jenny said, "Tomorrow will be time for cooking and shopping and wrapping presents, but first, ten hours' sleep. Agreed?" Before he could reply, the phone began to ring. "I wonder who that could be at this hour? Perhaps Simon is calling to offer still more money." Jenny sank onto the sofa, avoiding Plato with the skill of long practice. "Upper Bassett 7533. Yes, this is Jenny Lyme. Yes? Oh! No, it's not too late, I just came in, actually."

Greg hung their coats and poured two glasses of merlot. Jenny was still on the phone, her posture vibrant but her end of the conversation unenlightening. "Yes, that's possible. No need to apologize—you obviously have no time to waste." She accepted her glass of wine with a nod of thanks, but took only a sip. "Yes, of course."

What the devil was going on? Greg sat in a chair at a right angle to Jenny, feeling a prickle of unease. The intimacy that had bound them dissipated now that normal life had intruded. He was no longer sure he had the courage to ask if she would visit him in Argentina. She had mentioned that she was between projects, and he'd been hoping she could come for a long stay. Maybe forever.

"Very well, I'll call back tomorrow and we'll finalize the arrangements after you've talked to my manager. I look forward to this." Her voice was buoyant but professional, until she put down the phone. Then she whooped with excitement and catapulted into Greg's arms. "I can't believe it! That was Marcus Gordon, the Hollywood producer. You worked with him on The Centurion, didn't you?"

"Yes, he's a great guy—an old-fashioned moviemaker who cares about quality and good stories." A sinking feeling in his midriff, Greg set her on the sofa beside him. "What did he have to say?"

"He's about to start shooting a movie that's a loose remake of Auntie Mame, and he lost his leading lady to the Betty Ford Clinic." Jenny was positively bouncing. "Then someone suggested I was available. He says I would have been his first choice—he and his wife are both huge fans of Still Talking—but the financial people wanted someone better known in America. When their choice crashed, Mr. Gordon showed some clips of my work to the numbers crunchers, and got their agreement to make an offer. Oh, Greg, this is wonderful. It's what I've dreamed of—a great movie with a great moviemaker. I've always loved Mame, and now I'm going to be an updated version of her."

So the call Greg had made to Raine Marlowe had borne fruit. But he hadn't expected anything on this scale. "I've read the script—Marcus asked me to be director of photography, but the schedule turned out to conflict with this job in Argentina, which I'd already agreed to. You'll be fantastic as Mame—funny, madcap, and with a heart of gold. Anything from Marcus is first class, and the lead role is a real star maker."

Jenny's face fell. "To think we might have been working together! What's worse, because they're about ready to start shooting, Marcus wants me to fly to California day after tomorrow, on Christmas Eve."

Greg felt a weird sense of deja vu—an offer that was too good to pass up had separated them the first time. "So we won't spend Christmas together after all. Well, that's show business. When this kind of opportunity shows up, we have to jump." It was an effort to keep his voice light when he could feel cracks forming in his heart. Down-to-earth Jenny, who put on a show in her hometown to save a local landmark, had seemed almost possible. Now she was heading for the horizon like a shooting star.

"If you want that English Christmas, I know my family would love to have you." Her blue eyes were stricken. "You could stay here. I'll even let you drive the Jaguar. Or ... or you could come to Los Angeles with me, and I'll roast you a Christmas goose."

He thought wistfully of the holiday they'd planned in that rambling brick house. It would have been fun, with Jenny. "Thanks, but I'd rather go home to Ohio. If I can get a flight on the twenty-fourth, I'll be able to spend Christmas Eve with my family."

"Of course." She hesitated. "When you return to Los Angeles, might we be able to get together before you leave for Argentina?"

"You're going to be pretty busy." In his heart, he knew their affair was over. If they ran into each other in Los Angeles, Jenny would be friendly because that was her nature, but they would have nothing in common. Better to bow out now—and never reveal that he had ever had hopes of something more.

HEATHROW the day before Christmas was a madhouse. Jenny and Greg had flights to the U.S. that left within an hour of each other, but on different airlines. She clutched his hand during the limousine ride from the Cotswolds to the airport. He hadn't seemed to mind, but he didn't have much to say, either. Mentally, he'd already moved on. She suspected that he was already beyond Ohio and into Argentina,

Jenny, though, was firmly anchored in the present. She could feel the moments trickling away, one at a time, impossible to catch and hold. A phenomenal opportunity had fallen into her lap, but she was having trouble remembering that when her heart was numbed by their upcoming separation. How had daughters of Britannia kept a stiff upper lip when their husbands and sweethearts went off to India for years on end?

Inside the terminal, Greg stopped in the middle of the swirling crowd. "Time for us to go our separate ways. I have quite a hike to my gate."

"I know." She stared at him, trying to memorize that familiar, craggy face, not quite believing this was really the end. "I... I'm so glad you came and helped us out. You made all the difference. We should rename the barn the Marino Center."

"It was your inspiration and talent and leadership that saved it, Jenny. I'm just glad I was along for the ride."

She almost asked if he would shoot the Victorian Revels they would stage next year, but stopped herself. One didn't ask a favor of that magnitude twice. "Take care of yourself, Greg. Don't get caught in an Andes avalanche or anything."

"I won't." He touched her cheek, his brown eyes warm with affection. Then his expression became impersonal. "I'll eat popcorn and cheer for you when your turn comes on Oscar night."

He lifted his duffle and turned to walk away—tall, strong, self-contained. Unable to stop herself, she whispered, "Greg—can't we do a better good-bye scene than this?"

She thought he wouldn't hear her in the tumult of travelers, but his shoulders stiffened and he pivoted to face her again, his expression stark. Dropping her carry-on, she threw herself into his arms, not caring what anyone thought.

His lips were warm and dear, his embrace crushing as he kissed her. Passersby buffeted her, but she ignored them, all her focus on the man in her arms. She had come to know his body in passion and in tenderness, his mind in humor and in intelligence. Surely these feelings were mutual, they had to be. Surely . . .

Slowly he withdrew, his eyes dark with regret. "Good-bye, Jenny. Have a good life."

This time, there would be no curtain call. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then turned and walked away.

TEN

Los Angeles

USUALLY the week between Christmas and New Year's was an odd, waiting time, when the real world was held at bay and a girl could catch up with friends, sleep, and shopping, if she was lucky.

Of course, mad preparations for a starring role in a movie were a different kind of luck. Jenny sprawled on the sofa in the living room of her hotel suite, sipping from a glass of white burgundy and toying with a key on a small brass ring. Marcus was taking very good care of his new leading lady. She had been working hard ever since she'd arrived in Los Angeles, but he made sure she was comfortable, and had even taken her home to his own warm, eclectic family for dinner on Christmas Day.

Jenny suppressed a yawn, knowing she should be studying her script. She loved this movie, and deep in her bones felt the Tightness that came with having material that suited her. Whether the movie turned into box office gold or bust, she would never be sorry she had accepted the role.

But hotels were lonely. She would love to have Plato here, but that would mean six months of quarantine when she took him back to England, and that didn't bear thinking of. Instead, he was being spoiled rotten at her parents' house, where he stayed whenever she traveled.

A pity she couldn't call Patricia or another friend for a good gossip, but the hour was far too late in England, and she didn't have close friends on this side of the Atlantic. Former lovers like Greg didn't count. Even if she had his family's number in Ohio, she couldn't call. That nice cinematic farewell at Heathrow had been the end.

She spun the key ring on her finger. In a burst of sentimentality, she had dug out the apartment key Greg had given her so many years earlier. Not that she could use it, any more than she could call him at his parents' home, but it was a nice talisman for remembering the good times.

On the verge of bathos, she remembered that she did have one good friend on this side of the Atlantic, and he would be happy to learn of her lucky break. She found her address book and dialed Kenzie Scott's private number at his ranch in New Mexico.

"Hello?" The feminine voice was low and distinctive.

Belatedly Jenny realized that she should have anticipated that the phone might be answered by Kenzie's wife, Raine Marlowe. Though Raine had been civil the one time they had met, she might be less polite about a phone call to her husband from an old girlfriend. A little cautiously, Jenny said, "Hello, Raine, this is Jenny Lyme. I'm in Los Angeles and have some wonderful news that I wanted to tell Kenzie. Is he available?"

"We're having a lovely moonlight-on-snow night, so he took Faith for a walk," Raine explained.

Jenny did a quick mental calculation. "Faith is old enough to walk?"

The other woman laughed. "Actually, she's in a baby carrier across Kenzie's chest and probably sound asleep, but Kenzie likes taking her out. He should be back soon. If you give me your number, I can have him call you. Though if you don't mind sharing, I always love to hear good news, too."

Since Raine sounded friendly and interested, Jenny said, "Just before Christmas, Marcus Gordon called me out of the blue and asked me to step in as the female lead for his version of Auntie Mame."

"So you got the role! Wonderful—it was made for you, and you'll look gorgeous in those 1920s costumes. Congratulations!"

This didn't sound like surprise. Putting two and two together, Jenny asked, "Did you or Kenzie suggest me to Marcus?"

"Yes, but Greg Marino was the one who set the ball rolling in the first place. Did he come back to Los Angeles with you?"

"No, he flew home to Ohio." Jenny's brow wrinkled. "How was he involved?"

"He called a couple of weeks ago and said that if any good parts turned up for a brilliant and beautiful English actress, we should think of you. A couple of days later Marcus told me his lead for the Mame movie had just gone to rehab, and did I have any suggestions? So I tossed him your name."

Jenny was silent for a long moment. "More was going on than I realized."

"There is no substitute for word of mouth. Since he knew your work, Marcus loved the idea of using you." Raine's voice softened. "Greg wanted to give you a very special Christmas present, and he succeeded."

Jenny blinked. "This was Greg's idea of a Christmas present?"

"What better than giving someone her heart's desire? The sign of a man in love. Some men give flowers or chocolate. Movie people give movies."

Jenny swallowed hard. "Greg isn't in love with me. He's just a really nice man."

"I'm sorry—maybe I misread the signals," the other woman said apologetically. "I thought the two of you were involved. He seemed rather gaga over you."

"Involved, yes, but only in passing." To her horror, Jenny heard a break in her voice. "It was just a ... a holiday fling."

The phone wires hummed with silence until Raine said hesitantly, "Forgive me, this is none of my business, Jenny, but it sounds as if you need someone to talk to. Has something gone wrong between you?"

"Not really, we're just geographically challenged. Besides, he's wildly successful and always traveling and he certainly isn't going to settle down with an over-the-hill actress from another country." Jenny's voice came out brittle rather than casual.

After a long pause, Raine asked, "Are you sure that's how he feels about it? Maybe from his point of view, you're a gorgeous, successful actress and he's just a shy technician that you could never take seriously."

"Greg isn't just a technician! He's an incredibly gifted artist who can make us see the world in special new ways. He leaves his mark on every movie he does."

"It sounds as if he's left his mark on you, too. Perhaps you should rethink the question of whether or not you have a future together. Maybe it ended because you assumed it would end."

"A self-fulfilling prophecy?" Jenny frowned. "I... I need to think about that. Even if that's part of what happened, the geographical problems are real. My roots are firmly sunk into English soil, while Greg is wonderfully and deeply American."

"Marriage is never easy," Raine said seriously. "Our business has more than its share of conflicts and stresses that can fracture a marriage— my English husband and I almost divorced over such things. But we survived, after making a conscious decision to put the marriage first, always.

"And while there are downsides, the movie business has the advantage of flexibility. Why can't you have homes in two countries? It's a compromise, but one that makes your life richer, if a little more frantic. What matters is having enough love and commitment to find ways to build a life that will work for you both."

"You make a good agony aunt," Jenny said wryly. "Just what I needed tonight."

"Agony aunt? Oh, an advice columnist. Sorry, I've been speaking out of turn." A door closed in the background. "Kenzie just came in. Would you like to talk to him?"

"Please."

A minute passed before Kenzie's deep voice said, "Hello, Jenny. I hear that the gods have smiled and you're now getting the Hollywood star treatment."

She laughed, relaxing at the familiar warmth of his greeting. They'd been so young when they first met at RADA. Incredibly handsome and wrapped in aristocratic reserve, Kenzie had been promptly labeled a snob by some students. Jenny, as confident as a golden retriever, had made the effort to get acquainted and found that he was shy and surprisingly unsure of himself. Though they had sometimes been lovers, far more important had been this enduring friendship. "This is much nicer than my first visit to Hollywood. I'm half terrified and half over the moon."

"That sounds about right, but you'll do fine. You have the talent and the star quality, and now you have the right role." Kenzie's voice changed. "Faith just woke up. Faith, talk to Jenny, she's sort of an English aunt."

An infantile burble could be heard. Jenny's heart melted. As well as she knew Kenzie, she had never realized what a doting father he would be.

She made suitable remarks about Kenzie's precocious daughter when he came back on the line, asked him to give her thanks to Raine, then hung up, mind spinning.

A self-fulfilling prophecy. Yes, she had known from the beginning that any relationship between her and Greg would be short-lived, and that had governed her actions. Greg had shared the same belief. He was a rolling stone, too busy even to move from the apartment that served as not much more than a hotel room between projects.

But surely she hadn't imagined that there was something special between them? They blended together like whiskey and water. Of course, she had a history of thinking there was more to a relationship than the man did, but Greg wasn't like any of the other men she had dated. Though ambitious and hardworking, he wasn't a vain actor with an insatiable need for adulation, or a rich man looking for a trophy.

Maybe Raine was right that he had a kind of shyness under his easy confidence; he made more than his share of wry, self-deprecating comments. On some level, he must feel he was the behind-the-scenes technical whiz, the nice guy who didn't get the girl.

What an idiot he was! A woman would have to be mad not to appreciate a man as smart, sexy, and fun to be with as Greg. He had been splendid when he was just starting out on his career, and had only improved with age. He was . . .

He was the man she loved. Dear Lord, why had it taken her this long to realize something so profound and fundamental? Raine was right— their relationship had fallen victim to a self-fulfilling prophecy. They were both idiots.

When she first called Greg about the Revels, she had been feeling low, convinced her career was headed into permanent decline. Now that she thought about it, that had probably added to her obsessive need to fight for the tithe barn. She had been feeling the loss of her career, and couldn't bear losing the community center as well.

But the barn was going to be saved—an American television offer the day before had clinched it. And she had gone from fading actress to the lead in a major movie with one of Hollywood's most respected producers. Her career had changed in a finger snap—why not her relationship with Greg?

She stared at the key to his apartment. It was quite possible that she and Raine were both wrong and Greg had no desire to further their relationship. But she'd be a fool not to try for more. Greg was worth the risk of failure.

She sipped at her wine, now warm to room temperature. Greg had tried and succeeded in giving her a heart's desire. What could she give him of equal value?

ELEVEN

A New Year's Day flight swept Greg from icy Ohio to temperate Los Angeles. Home, sweet home. Wearily Greg bumped his suitcase up the steps to his apartment. Being enveloped by Clan Marino had soothed his frayed emotions, but now he was ready for peace and quiet. Preparing for Argentina should keep his mind off Jenny, at least some of the time. He hoped.

He wondered what she was doing now. Working on the script? Being introduced to Hollywood movers and shakers as the next hot new actress?

He unlocked his door, walked inside—and stopped dead at the sight of Jenny sprawled across his sofa, reading a book. Elegant long legs in casual black slacks, stunning figure draped in a shimmery blue tunic that matched her eyes, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. He wanted to cross the room and enfold her in his arms and never let her go. Instead, he said stupidly, "How did you get in here?"

Expression uncertain, she set the book aside and swung her feet to the floor. "I still have your key, remember? I thought you might not mind since I'm here to take you out for that Christmas dinner I owe you. Better late than never."

He dropped his bags by the door, almost angry at her presence. He had accepted that their affair was over. By the time he returned from Argentina, he would be able to run into her casually without making a fool of himself. But not now, when the pain of separation was still as raw as an amputated limb. "I suppose one of Marcus's gofers was able to run down my flight time."

She nodded. "Everyone is so helpful it's scary."

"They're grateful to have you. You're a better actress than the lady in rehab, and infinitely easier to get along with."

"All that, plus clean, straight, and sober. I sound like an alarming paragon." She moved toward him. "Can I have a hello kiss?"

He stepped back, banging into the door. Why did she have to be so damned adorable? "I may be coming down with a cold—I was exposed to several by my nieces and nephews—and you really can't afford to get sick if you're about to start shooting."

Her face fell. "I suppose you're right, but you're not getting out of dinner that easily. Come on, I'm driving."

He hesitated, torn between common sense and longing. "I've got work to do."

"It's New Year's Day, and even workaholics need to eat." She threw a flowing paisley shawl over her shoulders and gave him a smile that melted his resolve. "Please come. I need you to remind me which side of the road to drive on."

Surrendering, he followed her out the door. "How is the production going?"

"Very well, in an insane sort of way. I was in wardrobe for fittings about ten minutes after I landed. Everything is so exciting. I feel like a new woman."

He'd liked the old one just fine.

The car turned out to be a Jaguar much like her English car, though a rich shade of burgundy rather than blue. "Nice. You've settled in fast."

She shrugged as she started the car. "The studio leased this for me. I think they decided I'd be less likely to get into trouble driving a car like the one I'm used to. By the way, your calls to the American television people paid off—we have an offer for broadcasting the Revels here, and yesterday Canada came through, too. We've secured the financing we need for the tithe barn. The video version of the Revels got great reviews even though it ran very late at night, and advance orders for the tape are pouring in. In short—the Upper Bassett Community Center will soon be in the hands of those who use and love it."

"That's great!" He felt a surprising sense of satisfaction. Even though he wouldn't pass that way again, he liked knowing that the dancers and actors and potters—and dragons—would have a place to perform. "So the hard work paid off."

She smiled wickedly. "Yesterday my mother went to the Carthage people with financing in hand, and they had to accept her contract. I wish I'd been there to see it."

"Me, too."

A mile rolled by in companionable silence, until Jenny said unexpectedly, "Time for caroling. Shall we start with 'Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful'? Everyone knows that."

"I don't sing."

"Nonsense. If you can talk, you can sing."

"Not according to my junior high music teacher," he said dryly. "She ordered me to shut up and lip-synch at the annual Christmas concert so I wouldn't ruin everything. I pretty much gave up singing after that."

Jenny spared a quick glance from the road. "That teacher should have been whipped. Changing voices can be awkward, but singing carols isn't done for others, it's for oneself. Give it a try now. 'Oh, come, all ye faithful, Joyful and triumphant. . . '"

Her voice was so lovely that Greg automatically clamped his mouth shut. Then he remembered his thoughts at the tithe barn, how children often sang and adults didn't. He had liked singing when he was little. Voice tentative, he joined in toward the end of the first verse. Jenny knew all the verses—in English and Latin both.

When they finished, she gave a swift, approving smile. "Your voice is fine. A most pleasing baritone. Your turn to choose a carol."

He'd always had a fondness for the haunting melody of "What Child Is This?" Jenny knew the words to that, too, her knowledge carrying him through lines he couldn't remember. By the time they finished, his self-consciousness was gone. This was fun.

They were well into the hills and "Angels We Have Heard on High" before he noticed their route. "You found a restaurant up here? You've been busy."

"Not a restaurant." She turned in to a winding residential street, powering the car upward through well-kept contemporary houses that perched nonchalantly on the steep slope. The Jaguar crested the hill, then swung between a pair of massive eucalyptus trees that screened a sprawling stucco house from the road.

The driveway ended in a wide garage that buffered the house from the rest of the world. Jenny hit a button on the dash and the right-hand door opened. As she pulled the car into the space, she said, "I've always wanted to have a garage with an automatic opener. It's so unbelievably decadent—at home, I don't even have a carport."

"You've bought a house already?" Greg asked, startled, as they climbed from the car. That was fast even by the standards of Tinseltown.

"No, it's a short-term rental. Another perk from the studio. They set me up with an estate agent who asked what I wanted, and brought me here the next day after I finished work. As soon as I walked inside, I asked the agent for the lease."

She opened the door into the house and ushered him through a gourmet kitchen and into a spacious living room floored with lustrous oak and magnificent carpets. A tall, handsomely decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner by the fireplace, but what made his breath catch was the opposite wall. Mostly glass, it showcased a spectacular view over Los Angeles. He opened a slider and walked onto the deck. The sun had just set, etching the western horizon with orange and indigo, while the vast city below was beginning to sparkle with scattered lights.

Bracing his hands on the railing, he inhaled the cool January air, enjoying the tang of eucalyptus. The hill fell away steeply here, and he guessed that the bedrooms were on the lower level with an equally spectacular view. In not much more than a week, Jenny had moved into the kind of house he had always wanted. While he vaguely dreamed, she got things done.

The thought produced an upwelling of sadness. Jenny was a star, twinkling high above, while he was irretrievably earthbound. She had magic, while he was a nuts-and-bolts creature of f-stops and lighting arrays.

"Do you like the house?" Voice shy, she came to stand beside him. "The owner was a bridge designer, of all things, so the house is constructed in a way that he thinks should survive even a major earthquake."

"It's spectacular, Jenny." Schooling his face, he turned to her. "And it suits you. If you're going to be spending time here, maybe you "should see if the owner will sell."

"Actually, he will—he and his wife have moved back east to be closer to their children." After a long pause, she continued hesitantly, "I was thinking—would you—might you be interested in buying the house with me?"

His jaw dropped. "What the hell. . . ?"

She turned on her heel and retreated into the living room. "Sorry, that was really clumsy of me. It was . . . just a thought. Never mind. Dinner is all prepared and will only require a few blasts in the microwave."

Talk about clumsy! Feeling like an idiot, he dashed after her. "Jenny, why did you suggest that?" Surely she didn't need the money.

She paused to contemplate the Christmas tree, a tall Fraser fir whose green and purple decorations were maybe a little too perfect. "I'm just suggesting that it would be nice to ... to live with you. We seem to be getting along rather well."

The vulnerability in her posture produced a wave of tenderness. "I know Hollywood must seem a little scary now, especially since you had a bad experience here before, but it would be foolish to tie yourself down by buying a house with me just because we're . . . friendly. In a few months, you'll have plenty of friends and you won't need me." He tried to make his tone joking. "Or did you want to get a place with me because I'm never here? That is an advantage in a housemate."

She whirled around, eyes snapping. "Why the devil do you assume that I'm not going to want you for a friend six months from now? Do I seem that shallow? Or do you want to keep your distance in the future because actresses are so needy and demanding and you don't want to get sucked into my personal psychodramas?"

"Of course I don't think you're shallow! And you're certainly no drama queen." He made a helpless gesture with his hand. "But new worlds are opening up for you, Jenny. You're going to be meeting exciting, charismatic men who operate on the same level you do. Sure, you and I can be friends, but I'm just the guy next door. Not someone you should be buying a house with."

She made a feline sound of exasperation. "I'm thirty-five years old, Gregory Marino. Do you think I'm too dim to know what I want? I've dated more than my share of 'exciting, charismatic' men, and there isn't one of them I would want to buy a house with." Her face tightened. "The time we spent together was more than a holiday fling to me, Greg. In fact, it was very special. I ... I thought it was worth finding out if you felt the same."

Her words rocked him back on his heels. How much courage had it taken for her to make herself so vulnerable? More courage than he had— but if there was to be any hope for them, he must try to match her honesty. "It was more than a fling for me, too. I... I've been in love with you since we first met, but I'm so much in the habit of thinking there was no future for us that I have trouble believing that. . . that you might want more.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. Then she stepped forward, clasped his head with both hands, and drew it down for a kiss sweeter than chocolate. "Believe it, Greg."

Heart pounding, he wrapped his arms around her as if she were a life preserver in a storm. "Please don't say this is a joke. I couldn't bear it."

"Do you think I'd joke about the rest of my life?" She walked him back into the low sofa and pushed him down, landing on top in a pile of tangled limbs and scented sensuality. "You must stop underestimating yourself—your talent and skill, not to mention your delicious self, make for a madly attractive whole," she said huskily. "Shall I demonstrate exactly how attractive I find you?"

Her words brought every cell in his body to urgent life, but even more desperately than he wanted to make love, he wanted to understand. "I'm still not quite believing this. What happened between last week when we said good-bye at Heathrow and now?"

"I called Kenzie Scott and ended up having a nice chat with Raine." Jenny wriggled into a more comfortable position on top of him. "Something she said made me recognize how our assumptions about having a brief fling had turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that it was time to rewind and try for a new conclusion."

He slid his hands under her tunic and rested them on the warm, bare skin of her back, still incredulous that she was in his arms again. "I've always figured that my main qualification in your eyes was being available and more or less presentable when you wanted some company."

She rolled her eyes. "So I'm not only shallow and dim, but a slut. Trust me, I've never been so bored that I would sleep with a man merely because he was available."

He gave a crooked smile. "If I say anything more, I'm going to dig myself into a really deep hole, aren't I?"

She chuckled. "You're already halfway to Australia, but I'll forgive you because you're wonderful. You always were, even a dozen years ago. Now you're one of the best cinematographers in the world, while I'm just another actress who has good years and bad years. My confidence is up at the moment, which is why I have the nerve to chase you, but my career could vanish like a crocodile in a swamp if this movie bombs."

"It won't bomb."

"No way to tell yet." She gave him a level look. "You're not only successful and a great guy, but you've worked with some of the most beautiful women in the world. What about me is special enough to hold the attention of a man of substance?"

He began to laugh. "So while I've been busy worshiping you, you've been cherishing exaggerated ideas of my importance. I should have asked you to marry me on our first go-around. I wanted to, but you were so hung up on that idiot actor that I knew you'd say no."

"If you'd proposed I might have said yes, but that wasn't the right time, my love," she said seriously. "We were at the beginning of our careers. We needed to grow into our adult selves. In the last dozen years, I've met tons of men, dated a fair number, fancied myself in love a time or two. Now that I've looked over the field, I know the best when I see him. I'm ready to swim into deeper waters. Are you?"

He winced. Heaven was being offered, but not yet within reach. "I have to go to Argentina next week, and I'll be there for at least four months, probably longer."

"I'm going to be madly busy for the next few months as well. But if we dig out our appointment books, surely we can find a time to start living together."

For the first time, he really believed that she meant it. She really meant it! "No living together." He thought of his mother, who wanted him to marry a nice Ohio kind of girl. She'd freak at the sight of glamorous Jenny—then fall in love with her. "I'm from the Midwest, you know. If I'm going to take you home to meet the family, it will have to be marriage."

She bit one enchanting lip. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather live together for a year or two? We're both going to have to do some adjusting. I want to keep the cottage and spend a fair amount of the year in England. In fact, I'll have to for the future Revels productions. You might not want that. And we'll both have to cut back on our professional obligations if we're ever going to spend any time together."

These were serious issues, so he considered them for about three seconds. "All true, but doable. I love the idea of having a home in England and a home here. I love the idea of this home. I love your family, and having Plato trot around carrying his buggy whip. I love the idea of taking fewer jobs so I can spend lots and lots of time with you.

"Most of all, I love you." He caught her gaze with his. "I don't want to go into this with one hand on the doorknob so I can back out if we hit a few rough spots. I want the real thing, Jenny—an old-fashioned, till-death-do-us-part marriage."

Her shining smile could have lit up the whole London Underground. "How deliciously Neanderthal. Very well, we shall marry. My family will be over the moon—my mother and Patricia have been making pointed comments about how much they like you and how well you fit into Upper Bassett." She growled deep in her throat as she kissed him again. "But before we start looking for weddings dates, can we play Tarzan and Jane?"

"Sure," he said obligingly. "Which role do you want?"

Bubbling with laughter, she rolled off the sofa, taking him with her onto the thick carpet. "You can be Tarzan this time. Then it will be my turn."

Tenderly he cupped her face between his hands. "You're so beautiful, Jenny. So heart-stoppingly beautiful."

Some of her sparkle faded. "Appreciating beauty is a big part of what you do, Greg, but I hope to heaven you don't think you love me just because of the way I look. Will you leave me when I get gray and plump and wrinkled?"

Startled, he recognized the insecurity under her words. He studied her beloved face. She wasn't wearing a shred of makeup and fine lines showed at the corners of her eyes. It wasn't the face of a film icon, but a real woman—the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

"I'll love every wrinkle and gray hair and soft curve, and give thanks for the chance to see them develop. If I were struck blind tomorrow, I'd still laugh at your jokes and rub your back when you're tired and talk to you long into every night because I love your ideas and humor and kindness and . . . and your general wonderfulness." He kissed her as if she were made of the finest porcelain. "I hate that we're not going to see each other for months. Maybe you can arrange your shooting schedule to come down for a few days? We can have a Groundhog's Day holiday fling."

"I'm sure Marcus will be able to arrange for me to have a few days with you, since it will improve my morale so much. But no more holiday flings, my love," she whispered. "Every day with you will be a holiday."