How could she lust after him when her shirt was stick­ing to her back and she was so thirsty she could drink out of a puddle?

  A few minutes later, minutes in which Jenessa couldn't come up with anything to say, she and Bryce reached his car, a sleek dark blue Jaguar which did indeed have air- conditioning. Once they'd left the area, they were soon cruising streets with leafy trees and unsmashed windows. Bryce said, "I'll buy you dinner. I know a little place a few blocks from here. Then I'll drive you to the station." "Bryce, I'm a mess—no restaurant would let me in." "Yes, they will. They know me. Anyway, I'm no ad for the well-dressed man."

  The restaurant, at the bottom of a flight of wrought-iron steps, had the most wonderful calamari and Greek salad Jenessa had ever tasted. They were seated in a corner; as she took a sip of a flinty red wine, Bryce said, "I'd fully made up my mind when I left Manatuck never to see you again."

  Her lips curved in a smile. "Join the club." "And here we are. Do you believe in fate?"

  She looked at him warily. "Is that a trick question?"

  He reached over and took her fingers in his, playing with them until she was weak with a hunger that had nothing to do with calamari. "What are we going to do about this? I want you and you want me and you're no longer a virginal seventeen."

  "We're not going to do anything," she said forcefully.

  "We're twelve years older than we were then, Jenessa. Older and—on my part—possibly wiser,'' he added with a crooked grin. "I'm not into marriage. But I promise I'd be faithful to you for the duration of whatever relationship we'd have, and I'd do my best to please you. To make

  you happy."

  For some reason that wasn't clear to her, Jenessa felt like crying. Gazing into the jeweled heart of her wine­ glass, she sought for words that would match his honesty without revealing more than she was prepared to. "I've met lots of men in the last twelve years," she said care­ fully. "You don't fit the mold, Bryce. You're forceful and charismatic and so sexy you make me weak at the knees. I don't want to have an affair with you. I'd get in deeper than I'm prepared for, and in the long run you'd only do me harm." "You're not saying you're in love with me?" he rapped.

  "No, of course not! But what happens every time you and I are in the same room doesn't feel casual. You make me lose my bearings. My understanding of who I am." She took a gulp of wine. ‘‘That may not make any sense to you. But it's the way I feel. So it's no dice as far as an affair's concerned."

  He said flatly, "The way I desire you—it's sure not casual. In a very real way, I resent it."

  "I'd noticed," she said dryly.

  "You're afraid of me."

  "I'm afraid of my own body—of what it does to me when I'm in your vicinity," she said with suppressed vi olence. "Right now I'd like to drag you behind that palm tree and make love to you on the carpet. That's all very well. But then what?"

  He suddenly gave her a smile so full of sheer male energy that she found herself smiling back. "I like you," Bryce said. "I like the way you operate."

  "Do you? Do you really? Because I'm saying no, Bryce. And I mean it."

  "You're telling me the truth."

  She wasn't telling him the whole truth, though. Her lashes dropping to hide her eyes, she tackled her roast lamb and herbed potatoes as though she had nothing else on her mind.

  After a short pause Bryce said, "How's your work go­ ing?"

  So he'd accepted her refusal. Somehow she'd expected him to put up more of a fight. ‘‘Pretty well. I finished the final painting for the show three days ago, so today I brought it with me and dropped it off at the gallery."

  For a few minutes they talked technicalities, Bryce sur­ prising her by the depth and extent of his knowledge of the contemporary art scene. Then he said, "I called up your gallery, by the way, and sweet-talked an invitation to your show. I hope you don't mind."

  Her fork stopped in midair. "What happens if I do?"

  "I go anyway."

  Her temper rising, she demanded, "Why do you want to go to my show?"

  "To see your work. Of course."

  "Nothing to do with me," she snapped.

  "Well, no. You've turned me down, remember?"

  So angry she didn't know where to look, and simulta­ neously decrying her anger as totally inappropriate, Jenessa said, "Both of us had decided never to see the other again. Why don't we just stick with that?"

  "We could try. After the show."

  "Oh! You're impossible."

  "Everything's possible, Jenessa."

  "Not with me, it's not," she announced, her cheeks burning with color.

  "I get the message. This restaurant makes fabulous baklava, want some?"

  "I want to be on the bus by myself, going home to my own place!"

  "Where Charles, Corinne and Leonora won't bother you," he said shrewdly.

  "Add your name to the list."

  Bryce signaled the waiter, ordering two servings of baklava to go. Then he said very casually, ' 'Are you sure you aren't dismissing me too quickly? Aren't you the slightest bit interested in my money?''

  Fighting the urge to tip the entire table and its contents into his lap, Jenessa announced, ' 'Bryce, right now I live pretty close to the bone. But next year, when I turn thirty, I inherit my share of my grandfather's trust fund. No, I'm not interested in your money."

  "I'm worth a lot more than your trust fund."

  "How much money can one person spend?" she flailed. "I'm too busy painting to be out shopping. And owning stuff for the sake of owning it has never appealed to me."

  "Something else we have in common," he said. "I got rid of all kinds of stuff a few years ago. For a while, around the time you and I first met, I owned houses in as many countries as you could name, cars in all the garages, and a private jet so I could commute from one to the other. But then it all palled. Overkill, I guess."

  It was his honesty that got to her every time, Jenessa thought painfully. "Why wouldn't you buy houses and cars, with your background? And now you're going to build a school instead." She hesitated. "Who did you live with when you were nine and ten? What were you like?''

  "You wouldn't have wanted to know me," Bryce said dismissively. "We should get moving, the traffic might be heavy. Are you ready?"

  He'd closed her out of his past as effectively as if he'd slammed a door in her face. "I wish you wouldn't come to my show," she said with a touch of desperation.

  He'd already pushed back his chair. Picking up the bill, he said, "I'll meet you at the front desk."

  "You make it very clear that your past is off limits," she said furiously. "Why can't you accept that my future is off limits in the same way?"

  "Because I don't want to," he said.

  Jenessa shoved back her chair, marched to the wash­ room, and maintained a stony silence all the way to the bus station. As he drew up outside, she said in a clipped voice, "Thank you for dinner and the drive. Stay away from my gallery, Bryce. Because never is just fine with me."

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. "Never's a long time," he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  Her body sprang to life, burning with need. As his el­ bow brushed her breast, her nipples hardened beneath her thin shirt. It would have been achingly easy to have suc­ cumbed, to have leaned into his kiss and his body. With all the strength she possessed, Jenessa tore herself free and tumbled out of the car. "I won't have an affair with you!" she cried.

  The sidewalk was crowded. A couple of passersby laughed, a few more stared at her as though she was just one more of the city's eccentrics. She slammed the door of the Jaguar and ran inside; it was only when the bus pulled out of the station that she remembered she'd left her baklava on the floor of Bryce's car.

  She loved baklava. But she sure didn't love Bryce.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The members of Jenessa's family all arrived at the gallery within five minutes of each other, as if it had been pre­ arranged.

  Jenessa was standing near the back of the room, chat­ting to two congressmen. Her work was displayed to its best advantage, the gallery was full, the food and wine of excellent quality, and a satisfactory number of sold stick­ ers had already been affixed to the paintings. Furthermore, the new full-length silk skirt and matching tunic she'd purchased just for the occasion suited her very well, its soft rose-pink flattering to her skin. Her hair was in a mass of curls around her face, and she was wearing the opal earrings Travis and Julie had given her for her last birth­ day.

  She should have been happy. Ecstatic.

  But she wasn't.

  She'd come to the gallery this afternoon for a quick preview of the show. As she'd walked from painting to painting, she'd been struck very forcibly by an underlying similarity in style and theme. Many viewers might not notice, for her talent was real and she was technically very accomplished. But she'd noticed.

  Stuck.

  It wasn't the first time Jenessa had used this word. But it was the first time she'd been so convinced that it was the right, the only, word.

  What could she do about it? How could she push be­yond her limits, find what was waiting for her?

  She had no idea. Nor was she any closer to an answer as the show opened and the crowd gathered, the energy in the room humming around her. She felt like an actor in a play she didn't believe in. Successful Young Artist Has Brilliant Opening. Except, under the surface, it wasn't brilliant.

  Charles walked through the door first, holding it open for Corinne, Julie and Travis. Two minutes later, Leonora entered. After Jenessa had excused herself from the con­ gressmen, she crossed the room to greet her family. At least Bryce hadn't come, she thought thankfully.

  "Great crowd," Charles remarked, not quite able to hide his surprise.

  "I've been looking forward to this all day," Corinne said with uncharacteristic warmth. "Ah, here's Leonora... good evening.''

  "Nice to see you, Leonora," Charles said manfully, shaking hands with his first wife.

  Julie embraced Jenessa, Travis kissed her cheek, and Leonora said, "How lovely you look, Jenessa."

  Leonora looked dauntingly elegant in a gossamer gray outfit that accentuated her poise and slender grace. As Jenessa murmured a commonplace reply, other words dropped into her mind like an ambush. I'm frightened of my mother, she thought, and realized it was true.

  It wasn't the best of moments for such a realization. She said hastily, "Why don't all of you look around and we'll talk later?" She managed to produce a smile. "I have to circulate. The gallery owner's phrase, not mine."

  "Go circulate, Jen," Travis said with his lazy grin. "We're in no rush."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Bryce was coming; but she didn't want Travis to know that it mat­ tered to her. Quickly Jenessa allowed herself to be caught up by those in the crowd who wanted to explain her paint­ ings to her, and those who wanted her to do the same thing for them. She wasn't sure which was worse; but at least it took her mind off her family and Bryce.

  Half an hour later, when the noise level was at its high est pitch, a hand fell on Jenessa's shoulder from behind. Her smile froze to her face. How could she know, without even seeing him, that the hand belonged to Bryce?

  Because her body was on fire.

  Swallowing, she turned around. "Hello, Bryce," she said cordially. "So never lasted ten days."

  "But who's counting?" he replied with equal cordial­ ity, letting his hand drop to his side. He'd seen a lot of gorgeous women in his life; what was it about Jenessa that had the power to slice him to the core?

  With a bit of luck, his reaction to her was well hidden. Because, of course, he had been counting the days until he saw her again. Today, he'd even been counting the

  hours.

  She looked utterly and beguilingly beautiful, her cheeks rose-pink, her eyes that brilliant, combative blue, her silk outfit hinting at the body beneath. No wonder he'd been wishing his life away until he saw her.

  He should keep two facts in mind. She didn't want to have an affair with him. And he wasn't willing to offer anything other than an affair.

  How could he break that impasse?

  By dint of a couple of casual questions, he'd found out that Travis had booked his sister into one of the city's finest hotels. "Didn't want her driving home alone late at night," was what Travis had said.

  Neither did Bryce, although for different reasons.

  Jenessa said snappishly, "I wish you'd stop staring at me. Have I got lipstick on my teeth?"

  He pulled himself together. ' 'No... you look very beau­ tiful," he said truthfully, and watched her blush. "You also look uptight. What's wrong?"

  "Charles, Corinne and Leonora are all here," she said glibly. "That's enough to make anyone uptight."

  "I was hoping you'd given up deceiving me when you were seventeen. What's really the matter, Jenessa?" To his horror a film of tears suddenly glimmered in her eyes. She blinked them back. "Go away, Bryce, I'm the star of the show and I can't afford to be caught blubbering on your shoulder."

  "It's available anytime," he said slowly. "We'll go for a drink when this bash is over."

  "Best offer I've had all night—which doesn't mean I'll accept it," she said crisply, and gave a mauve-haired, di­amond-bedecked matron a dazzling smile. Bryce, frown­ing, turned away. An affair meant just that: an affair. A careful distance maintained; two separate lives that met in bed to the mutual pleasure of each. And now he was of­ fering Jenessa his shoulder to cry on?

  That sort of intimacy was strictly against his rules. Al­ ways had been.

  He started wandering from canvas to canvas, his height giving him an advantage over the crowd; and as he did so, his frown deepened. In the next half hour he learned a lot about Jenessa. All the paintings were exquisitely ren­ dered, some realistic, others full of mysterious swirls of color that bordered on abstraction. Yet each of them breathed an underlying menace, a threat never explicated enough to be challenged, yet too deeply rooted to be over­ come.

  That she was, deep down, very unhappy was utterly clear to him. That she was a complex and sensitive artist was also clear. Both these conclusions made him ex­ tremely uneasy.

  Jenessa Strathern wasn't his usual type. He liked ra­ tional, cool women who, if they had hidden depths, had the sense to keep them hidden: in the same way that he guarded his own secrets.

  He hadn't been paying attention to anything other than the paintings. To his dismay, Bryce suddenly realized he'd ended up in the middle of a gathering of Stratherns that included the artist. Trying to smooth the frown from his forehead, he greeted them all pleasantly. "A fine show, Jenessa," he said sincerely, "you're to be congratulated."

  Charles, who had obviously not understood the paint­ ings at all, said valiantly, "Very pretty colors. Corinne and I bought one that will go with our living room in Back Bay."

  "You bought one?" Jenessa repeated, taken aback.

  "We're proud of you," Charles said gruffly.

  "Oh," said Jenessa.

  She looked dumbstruck. Into a silence that was lasting too long, Travis said cheerfully, ' 'Julie and I will have to go soon, sis, because of the baby-sitter. But we'll see you at the hotel for lunch tomorrow. Why don't you join us, Leonora?''

  "Unfortunately I'm getting the night flight back to Manhattan ...I'm teaching a class first thing tomorrow morning."

  "So you came all this way just for one day?" Jenessa blurted.

  Leonora smiled. "I did. And glad of it."

  Clumsily Jenessa muttered, "Thank you."

  "A pleasure," Leonora responded. "Does anyone want to share a cab with me?"

  Corinne said smoothly, "What a good idea. Ready, Charles?"

  "Of course. Of course, a fine idea." He looked straight at his daughter with his faded blue eyes. "I hope we'll see you again before too long, Jenessa."

  Jenessa mumbled something indecipherable, her fingers pleating the silk of her tunic. There was a general exodus, during which Travis drawled, "Coming, Bryce?"

  "I want to take another look around now that the crowd's thinned a bit," Bryce said. "I'll talk to you to­ morrow."

  In the last few minutes he'd been keeping track of all the changes of expression on Jenessa's face, from uncom­fortable and disconcerted to trapped. She now looked panic-stricken. Making a mental note to make sure she didn't slip away without him, he said blandly, "Jenessa, the gallery owner's trying to get your attention."

  "So she is," Jenessa mumbled and walked away with none of her usual grace.

  By the time Bryce had finished a second perusal of the paintings, the gallery doors had been locked and most of the guests had left. With a possessiveness that part of his brain deplored, he walked up behind Jenessa, putting an arm around her waist. "Ready to go?" he asked. "My car's parked just down the street."

  She tensed like an over-nervous race horse; then, gauche as the teenager she'd been, she introduced him to the gallery owner. Bryce said something more or less in­ telligent about the paintings, the owner suggested Jenessa phone her in the morning and left to supervise the caterers. Jenessa said weakly, "I should get a cab."

  "You need a good stiff drink. Come along." Keeping his arm snug around her waist, Bryce steered her toward the door.

  Outside, the air was hot and humid, the street alive with traffic. Once they reached his car, Bryce said, "There's a nightclub not far from here where they play great jazz. We'll go there."

  Jenessa, for once, didn't argue. Easing her feet out of her high-heeled sandals, she sighed, "That's better. Promise me one thing, Bryce—you won't as much as mention the word art."

  He laughed. "I-don't-know-anything-about-art-I-only- know-what-I-like...didn't anybody say that to you to­ night?"

  She laughed as well, wriggling her shoulders against his leather upholstery. "Nobody but you."

  Like a prism splitting sunlight, joy swooped through Bryce's chest in all the hues of the rainbow. Jenessa was sitting here. Beside him. In his car. Deep in his heart, he hadn't been at all sure that the evening would end this way. But it had. And now the rest was up to him.

 

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