 
Contents

Also by J. F. Kaufmann

ONCE UPON A NIGHT

End of January

End of May

End of June

The Fairy-tale End

The Real End

The New Beginning

BLIND DATE

BEST FRIEND AND OTHER LOVERS

December 8

December 9

December 16

December 17

December 19

December 20

December 23

December 24

THE RED CLIFFS CHRONICLES

The Two-Blood Legacy

Guardian of the Realm

About the Author

Also by J. F. Kaufmann

THE RED CLIFFS CHRONICLES

The Two-blood Legacy

Guardian of the Realm

Best Friends

and Other Lovers

J. F. KAUFMANN

Copyright 2020 J. F. Kaufmann

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

_Best Friends and Other Lovers_ is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All trademarks and brand names in this book belong to their respective owners.

The first two stories of this collection were previously published as _Once Upon a Night._

Cover page design Meera Thakore.

To Susan M. Toy, J. P. McLean and Meredith Bond.

Thank you for your friendship and support.

ONCE UPON A NIGHT

End of January

ANGELA

With a strange detachment that made me feel out of space and time, I watched the slow descent of the shiny black coffin into the ground.

Eric had died three days ago when his car smashed into a semi-truck at eighty miles per hour. He was twenty-five. We'd been married for three years, divorced for three days. The divorce decree, issued on the day of his death, had arrived this morning.

I didn't feel anything: no sorrow, no sadness, no relief. Only the dark, cold void.

***

The reception was held at Eric's family house. When I left Eric, I vowed I'd never set foot in it again. Yet here I was.

But then, this wasn't his house anymore.

My small but precious circle of friends—Gabby and Harry Lurie, the owners of the equestrian therapy center where I worked, and my next-door neighbor, Haya—were about to leave. I walked them to the door and waved as they drove away, breathing a sigh of relief. It was almost over.

The only remaining guests were Nick Carter and his twin sister Deanna, Eric's cousins. Their parents, who lived in Bonnybrook, a town some forty miles northwest of Denver, had already left. The weather forecast was calling for snow tonight, and they'd wanted to make it home before it started.

When I came back to the living room, Nick and Deanna looked in my direction and, stopping their conversation, gave me two almost identical smiles, friendly yet a tad awkward. They'd been talking about me, I realized, smiling back.

"How are you doing, Angela?" Nick asked as I approached them. His low, sonorous voice always reminded me of a tiger's purr. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and kissed my hair. He had to bend his head to do that—Nick was at least a foot taller than my five foot two. The kiss was a sweet gesture, even though it implied a closeness that didn't exist between us.

"I'm fine," I said. "Given the circumstances."

Eric's parents had died several years ago, so the Carters had been his only family. They weren't close, though. The Carter siblings' social circles didn't overlap with Eric's, and there was the age gap as well—Nick and Deanna were older by the better part of a decade. From what I had heard, Eric's and the twins' mothers, who had been half-sisters, had always had an uneasy relationship.

I'd met Nick and Deanna only a few times, mostly at weddings and funerals. I knew that Nick was the owner of Carter Homes, one of the biggest construction companies in the country. He was as well known for his wealth as for his philanthropy. He was married to Hannah, one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. She hadn't come to the funeral; Deanna had mentioned something about Hannah visiting a friend in Montreal. Deanna had her own consulting company, and was single.

Regardless of Eric's strained relationship with his family, I liked them all. They seemed like a tight-knit bunch, and they'd always treated me with kindness.

Nick motioned to my right arm, breaking my train of thought. It was resting in a sling, immobilized in plaster from below the elbow to the wrist. "What happened, Angel?"

He'd called me 'Angel' since the day we'd met. I didn't know why; he couldn't possibly have known it had been my childhood nickname, but I liked that he did.

"I fell down the stairs," I said, then blinked—once, twice—trying to clear the sudden blurriness in my eyes. "Thank you for coming, Nick. I know you had to cut short your business trip to be here."

"Don't mention it. Though for a moment, I thought I wouldn't make it. My flight was delayed... the weather... storm so strong... unusual even for this time of year..."

Nick was still talking, only I couldn't make out his words over the ringing in my ears. Then I noticed that his mouth had stopped moving, and he was looking at me. Why did he look so worried all of a sudden?

The room swam in front of my eyes, and a wave of nausea hit me as strongly as if someone had punched me in the stomach. My vision tunneled and darkened, and a burst of colored spots, like some weird inner fireworks, erupted behind my eyelids.

Nick's voice reached me from a great distance, distorted, deep and slow. "Angela? Angel! It's okay, honey. I have you. Take a deep breath."

The spinning slowed down and then stopped. I opened my eyes. "I'm f-fine." Nick's right arm was around my back, supporting my weight; his other hand was gripped around the upper part of my plastered arm. It hurt a bit, but Nick couldn't know that I had a big bruise there.

I managed a tiny smile to hide my discomfort. At least the pain cleared up the fog in my head. The spinning stopped, and the sickness in my stomach subsided.

"Angela, you okay, darling?" Deanna asked. "I'll bring you some water."

"I'm okay, Dee." I twisted away from Nick's arms, leaning against the nearby sideboard. My legs were still wobbly.

"Here," Deanna said a moment later, pushing a glass of water into my hand. "You haven't eaten anything. No wonder you fainted. Do you want me to bring you something?"

"I can't even think of food."

"Make sure you eat something later. I've put all the food in the fridge."

I nodded. "Thanks, Dee. I'll be okay. I'm just tired."

"You need to rest. We'll leave you now. You're not staying here tonight, are you?"

"No. I'm going home."

Nick's eyes moved from me to Deanna and back.

'Home' was a small rented apartment in Lower Downtown, I explained to Nick, who seemed to be at a loss. I repeated what I'd told Deanna earlier: that I'd left Eric a while ago, without going into particulars. I hadn't mentioned the divorce. The moment was wrong. And it was irrelevant, anyway.

The news didn't seem to surprise Nick, as it hadn't his sister earlier. "You should have left him long ago," he said.

Deanna shot him a warning look.

I shouldn't have married him in the first place, I thought, but it was easy to be wise after the fact. "If you d-don't mind," I said, "I should call a cab now."

Nick cleared his throat. "How did you get here? You didn't drive, did you?"

I shook my head no. "The funeral home arranged my transportation."

"I'll give you a ride home, Angel," Nick said.

In the hallway, Deanna hugged me. "Call me if you need anything, okay? Take care."

"I will. You too," I said, as Nick helped me into my coat.

We walked out into a crisp winter night. I turned my head and took a last look at the house I'd once thought would be my home.

"What are you going to do with it?" Nick asked, following my gaze.

"Nothing," I said. It was the truth. I almost never lied, but I was often selective in how much I revealed. I wouldn't do anything with the house because I couldn't. Eric had sold it about a month ago to pay off his gambling debts. He'd made sure I didn't get a penny.

I'd buried him because there was no one else to do it. It'd cost all my tiny savings. I was fortunate that the neighbor who'd bought the house had offered to allow me to hold the reception there, since he wouldn't move in before the beginning of the next month anyway. That saved me some money and lots of explanations.

I could've asked Nick or Deanna to help me cover the funeral expenses; I believed they would have in a heartbeat, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. I also couldn't tell them the house had been sold. I didn't know if they were aware of how deep Eric had sunk. I wasn't ready for their questions, for their help, for their pity. The less they knew, the better. Our ways would soon part forever, anyway.

Nick helped me into his Lexus. I leaned my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, expecting exhaustion to kick in. But my adrenaline was still running high, making me feel on edge.

It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

***

As we approached my apartment, a rush of panic ran though me at the prospect of being alone tonight.

As if sensing my anxiety, Nick turned to me and asked, "Are you going to be okay? Do you have anyone to stay with you?"

I shook my head. Haya would have, but she was working the night shift tonight. "Do you have time to take me somewhere for a drink?"

Nick didn't find my request strange, only reminded me that I'd almost fainted a while ago. "When did you eat last, Angel?"

I wasn't sure. "Last night?"

"Then let's grab a bite first."

We ended up devouring coal-grilled hamburgers and french fries at a 24/7 diner. It was heavenly.

"Do you still want that drink?" Nick asked me later as he opened the passenger door.

Not really, but I still wasn't ready to go home. "If it's not too much trouble," I said, taking his hand to get into the car.

"There's a bar around the corner, or... or we can go to my place. It's ten minutes from here." He scratched his head. "If you want company, that is. Or if you want to talk. I'm a good listener."

I zeroed in on him. "I thought you lived outside the city."

"I also have this condo." He smiled and shrugged, as if apologizing.

Of course he did. And likely many other properties. "All right then," I said. I didn't need a listener, or a shoulder to cry on. Just not to be alone.

Or maybe it was Nick who needed company tonight, someone to listen to him. He seemed a bit down in the dumps, come to think of it.

***

Nick's condo was a luxurious, two-level penthouse suite in downtown Denver. The main floor was a sleek open space with clean lines and lots of white and soft grey. A warm, honey-brown floor, a stylish stone fireplace. Several abstract artworks adorned the walls. Although I didn't recognize them, except one that looked like a Pollock, I was sure they were originals. Nick wasn't a person who'd collect reproductions. The room featured high ceilings, a spiral staircase and a glass wall that offered an unparalleled view of the city and the mountains in the background.

"This is awesome! It's like a glass castle."

My host laughed softly at my spontaneous reaction. "An interesting description. I'm glad you like it."

"Hannah doesn't live here, does she?"

His eyebrows rose. "How did you know?"

I waved my hand, encompassing the entire space. "The lack of feminine touch. This is the ultimate man-cave."

A shadow crossed his face, then disappeared. "I sometimes stay here when it's busy at work. It's more convenient to be close to my office."

Since Hannah didn't work, she stayed at their house outside the city. Made sense.

Or it didn't. If I had a husband who truly loved me and whom I loved, I wouldn't want him to stay in the city while I was miles away from him. Not even for an occasional night or two. And Nick and Hannah seemed like such a couple. But I doubted that Nick would like to hear my opinion, so I kept my mouth shut.

Nick touched my elbow and led me to the leather sofa across from the fireplace. Magazines, files and folders lay scattered on the floor and the coffee table. He collected them into a pile and shoved it under the table. "I apologize for the mess. Have a seat, Angela."

I removed the sling, took off my shoes and tucked my feet underneath me. A wool blanket lay over the sofa back. I grabbed it and threw it over my lap—the tight black dress I wore exposed too much of my legs.

Nick walked to the bar. "What can I offer you?"

"Whatever you're having."

He produced two snifters from the cabinet under the bar and poured a generous amount of golden-brown liquor into them. "Remy Martin. It'll warm you up from the inside. If you don't like it, I'll give you something else," he said, offering me one glass before he claimed the opposite end of the sofa.

I cradled the glass between my palms, then sniffed it. "I've never tried cognac before," I said, and brought the glass to my lips.

"No, wait," Nick said. "Hold the glass in the palm of your hand for a while. Let your body heat warm the cognac. This will bring out the flavors and intensify the aromas."

I nodded and did as he told me.

Nick excused himself and went upstairs to make a phone call.

I kept warming up my drink, pushing back thoughts of Eric's sudden demise. Instead, I forced my mind to consider the woman so apparently absent from this space. I'd seen Hannah Carter only once, but she'd made a great impression on me. She was not only gorgeous—tall, with a fabulous body, blue eyes and red hair—but also classy, intelligent and well-educated. I remembered thinking later, with envy, that some women were blessed with everything: physical looks, charm, brains, wealth. And great husbands.

If she knew I was here tonight, would she mind?

If I were her, I would.

I turned my head to the sound of Nick's steps and my breath caught in my throat.

He'd had a quick shower; his hair was damp. He'd changed into faded jeans and a long-sleeved turquoise polo shirt. He looked even more handsome than he had in the dark suit and silver tie he'd worn before.

"May I, er, try my drink now?" I asked, tearing my gaze away from him.

Stupid. Stupid. What would he think of me?

If Nick noticed my confusion, he didn't show it.

"Small sips. It's meant to be enjoyed slowly," he said, resuming his place on the sofa.

_Like making love to you_.

I didn't know where that thought had come from, but there it was, making my face burn. I lowered my head, gave my drink a bit of a swirl, and tasted it.

It was strong and burned my throat, but it was a pleasant burn. "It's smooth. Very nice," I said. "I like it."

"I'm glad you do."

He picked up his glass from the table. "My Remy isn't primed properly, but it'll do this time," he said, swirled it and took a swallow.

I lifted my head and met Nick's piercing dark eyes. I smiled at him, trying to shake off an uneasy feeling that he knew exactly what I'd been thinking seconds ago.

The smile he gave back to me softened the rugged handsomeness of his face. Not-so-chiseled cheekbones, less-squared jaw or a tad smaller nose would've made him look like a Greek god, but those little imperfections only added to his masculinity. Tall, dark, strong, he looked imposing, even intimidating. I didn't doubt that beneath his hard exterior lay a much more tender side, one he didn't reveal often and not to everyone.

Reliable, strong, gentle. A woman's ultimate dream, if I could have a say in the matter, given my limited and unhappy experience with the opposite sex.

"How bad was his drinking?" Nick asked, interrupting my thoughts. He took another gulp of his cognac, watching me over the rim of his glass.

I shivered from an inner chill.

"Are you cold? Do you want me to adjust the thermostat?"

"No, I'm fine," I said. "It wasn't about the drinking that much."

"Gambling, then? He liked going to casinos."

"Yes. And p-partying. Bringing h-home p-people." I stopped. My throat was tightening, an unmistakable sign that I would start stumbling over words. I'd stuttered as a child, but had mostly overcome it by the age of twelve. Except when I was really upset. Or when I talked about my marriage.

I took a deep breath and relaxed my neck, picturing in my mind the first few words I was about to say. "Bringing home people you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. But that's all past now. No need to dwell on it."

I didn't want to talk about the neglect, abuse, fear. Sometimes I still felt ashamed because it'd happened to me, regardless of what my rational mind was telling me—that I was blameless. I'd been a victim.

Still, I didn't want Nick to know about it. I didn't want him to feel sorry for me. I'd broken the cycle of violence. I couldn't change the past, but I could choose my future.

Nick ignored my hint. "Did he leave unpaid debts?"

"I don't know. I hope not."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "The house. It was half empty. Did he sell it, Angela?"

Darn. "Yes. That money should've covered most of his debts."

Nick's eyes had stopped on my cast. I pulled the blanket over it and took a hefty swig of my cognac. Forget about the proper way of drinking it. I'd do that when I was less stressed out.

"I married him without knowing him," I said, diverting Nick's attention away from my arm. "I was young and stupid."

"You were young and innocent, Angela. I wanted to believe that the marriage would sort him out. And you looked like an angel who came to save him."

Instead, he'd almost destroyed me. "I don't want to talk about Eric anymore," I said in my best non-negotiable voice. "Put on some music, will you?"

"What would you like?" Nick reached out to turn on his laptop.

"Doesn't matter. What I really like is music I can sing along to. And love songs. I'm such a big sucker for love songs. Although, now that I think of it, most songs are about love, aren't they?"

"They are," Nick said, searching through his music files. "Even those you can't sing along to." He touched an icon on the screen. "Here's a nice love song. Just for you."

I smiled when a few moments later Kris Kristofferson's voice filled the room. "Ah. _Me and Bobby McGee._ I love this song very much."

I rested my good arm on the back of the sofa, lowered my head on it, and closed my eyes.

NICK

It flickered through my mind that this was the first time I hadn't been alone in my apartment, my man-cave, as Angela had called it. I had told her only a partial truth. Businesswise, it was more convenient to be close to my office than to spend more than two hours every day on the road, especially in winter time. What I hadn't told her was that I'd bought this place when Hannah and I had separated a year and a half ago, so that she could stay in the house outside the city. I lived here full-time now. Soon, Hannah and I would switch our living spaces, though. By the divorce settlement, she'd gotten this condo, and I'd move to the house. Since she'd been away for a prolonged period of time, she'd told me stay here until winter was over.

Once she moved in, the penthouse would undergo a significant interior revamp and would no longer lack the feminine touch. I'd paid a decorator to design the interior, but Hannah would redecorate it herself, relying on her exquisite taste.

The house would change its look as well. I didn't want to live in the house that had once been our home and where everything reminded me of Hannah. I'd hire another expensive decorator, who would make another beautiful, cold and impersonal space with angular furniture, gray walls and artwork I didn't understand.

Hannah and I would put lots of efforts and money into erasing each other's presence. As if it was possible.

The penthouse wasn't the happiest place in the world, but it was my sanctuary. I was so accustomed to not sharing it with anyone else that Angela should've seemed like an intruder. Oddly enough, she didn't. Just the opposite—the mere sight of her small, curled form in the corner of the sofa filled me with unexpected peace and harmony.

The feminine touch this condo so badly needed. Soft, curvy, tender. A breath of blue, pink and gold. Angela's eyes, lips and hair.

God.

Kris Kristofferson finished his song and started another one, about two lovers helping each other make it through the night.

It fit the mood somewhat. Angela and I would never be lovers, but we were helping each other through the night anyway.

Angela looked so serene that I wondered if she had fallen asleep. Being sure not to make any sudden movement that could disturb her, I settled for the pleasure of watching her. I remembered the first time I'd seen her: a nineteen-year-old girl with long hair of the most unusual color, like very light, smooth, liquid gold. It looked like a halo around her head. She hadn't been a conventional beauty—her cherubic face with the last traces of adolescent gawkiness wouldn't allow it—but rather sweet and pretty. With her rosy cheeks and full lips, she'd looked breathtakingly young. Skinny, tiny, frail, she barely reached Eric's shoulders. He was a big man, a tad shorter than me, but heavier. He'd made Angela look even smaller and more fragile. She was a woman born to be loved, cherished and protected. I doubted Eric had given her any of that.

She'd had an air of pureness and innocence about her. She was delicate, almost ethereal, as if she were made of some higher substance than the rest of humankind. Her exquisite hair, in contrast to her much darker and beautifully arched eyebrows, and glimmering, brilliant-blue eyes framed by thick lashes, made her look almost otherworldly. No wonder she'd reminded me of an angel.

Better than anything else, I remembered her happy laugh.

She had changed a great deal. If back then she'd looked younger, now, less than four years later, she seemed older than her age.

Her face had lost some of its roundness, along with that almost unsettling childlike appearance. Her body was fuller, with a tiny waist, curvy hips and shapely legs. My eyes rested on the soft slope of her breasts under the black fabric of her dress. They were on the smaller side. I liked them big and firm, but there was something in the youthful lift of Angela's breasts that was very, very sensual.

She still looked pure and innocent, but in a way, thank God, that didn't make her look less sexually exciting.

I sighed and settled my gaze back on her face. I shouldn't be contemplating Angela's breasts and the irresistible magnetism of her strange, voluptuous-slash-beatific appeal. And I certainly didn't want to analyze the unexpected burst of delight that surged through me.

She'd turned into a lovely woman, no doubt, but she was solemn, on guard, timid. Her beautiful blue eyes looked at me with the same sincerity and kindness, but I could see the uneasiness and shadows in their depths. Disappointment. Fear.

Why had she waited so long to leave that piece of shit that had been my cousin?

Dee and I didn't care about Eric, but we should've stayed in contact with Angela, I thought with genuine remorse. She was family.

What had my sister once mentioned about Angela's parents? That she only had her mother. No siblings, if I remembered correctly. She'd been alone. Eric had been a gambler, a drunkard, a party animal and God knew what else. Angela's marriage had to have been a living hell.

As if she could sense the direction of my thoughts, she opened her eyes.

"You okay?"

"Eric and I divorced," she whispered. Her voice was so soft that I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right. "The court signed the decree on the day of his death. It doesn't say the time, though. I don't even know if I'm a divorcée or a widow."

Without thinking, I moved closer to her and took her injured hand in mine. It was small, soft and warm. "Why didn't you tell me? Does Dee know?"

She shook her head. "No. I got the papers this morning."

I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Nobody expected Eric to die, Angela, but he did, and now it's over."

She nodded, head down, eyes on her good hand absentmindedly smoothing nonexistent creases in the blanket that covered her lap. Then she looked at me. "He wasn't a good man, but above all, he was unhappy. I hope that his soul will find its peace. But right now, I don't feel much. I'm numb. I only wish I'd never met him. Or that I could erase the last three years from my memory, as if they never happened."

Her words, spoken in a low, resigned tone, pushed all my male instincts into overdrive. I pulled her against my chest, wishing only to make her feel safe, to ease her pain. I buried my face into the golden silk of her hair and inhaled her scent: young, sweet and pure.

"You're a very beautiful, very desirable woman, Angela," I whispered into her hair. "And young. You'll find your happiness. Any guy would be lucky to have you."

Indeed. Who wouldn't be? I thought with a funny little feeling in my chest. Why didn't I like the notion of some guy making Angela happy? What was wrong with me? I'd been alone for very long time, true, uncertain what kind of future was waiting for me, but still.

Still.

This was Angela. The wife of my cousin.

No. Not his wife. His widow. Or his ex-wife.

God, have mercy.

"I guess so," she murmured into my shirt, and I had to think for a moment what she was referring to.

Ah. A man who would... "I'm sure it'll happen. Eventually. Give yourself time, no need to rush."

She lifted her head, no doubt confused by my idiotic statement. "I beg your pardon?"

Her breath was warm and sweet, and the pressure of her breasts against me was wonderful.

And then it happened again. With a thrill mixed with guilt, I felt another powerful jolt of pleasure shooting through my body, hardening my cock.

A fine, barely detectable tremor ran through her. The muscles of her shoulders stiffened under my fingers. Had she noticed my arousal? I released her, retreating to my end of the sofa.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I'm sorry, Angela," I said, placing my elbows on my knees, thus obscuring my erection from her sight.

She blushed like a raspberry. A smile, shy and sensual at once, flashed across her face. "You didn't. And don't be sorry." She removed the blanket covering her legs and stood up. "It's almost midnight. I think I should go now. Do you mind calling me a cab?"

I watched her bending forward, looking for her shoes. Finding one. Putting it on.

Finding the other one. Wiggling her toes, flexing her ankle, as if reluctant to push her feet in. They were dark-grey pumps, the inexpensive, department-store kind. And somehow, each shoe looked different. The one Angela held in her hand was plain, unattractive; the other one elegant and sexy, miraculously transformed by her small narrow foot in a sheer black stocking.

If I ask her before she puts on the other shoe, she'll say yes.

Connecting the sudden, deep desire with some insignificant condition was silly, I knew, yet I held my breath nonetheless.

"Why don't you stay here?" I said before she reached to put on her other shoe.

Angela stopped in mid-motion.

Bad, bad idea, the rational part of my mind said. Angela was young. She was hurt. She'd just buried her husband. I was divorced, my wounds were still bleeding.

Yet, for a reason I wasn't able to explain, nor wanted to, I couldn't let my Cinderella with one shoe leave.

It had something to do with the tightening in my balls, even though I knew I would never take advantage of Angela's loneliness to ease my own.

But even more, it had something to do with what was happening in the area around my heart, sweet and alluring. And just right.

Hell.

Her bottomless blue eyes darkened, a flicker of something in them that looked an awful lot like longing, and she didn't say anything.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't want to be alone tonight," I said. When she still didn't say anything, I added lightly, "You're my first official visitor. I didn't even know how solitary it was here before you came."

"Maybe you should adopt a cat," she said, a tiny smile in her eyes.

She'd refuse, I thought, feeling almost relieved. And, at the same time, so disappointed that it hurt.

ANGELA

"I could stay, I guess," I said, and nodded for good measure before I changed my mind.

I put down the shoe I held in my hand and took off the one already on my foot with a silent sigh of relief. They were new and cheap, and they pinched my toes and rubbed my heels.

Not likely that I'd be able to sleep tonight, no matter where I stayed. But at least here, in this splendid yet unfamiliar space, I could leave my problems behind, if only for a short while.

Nick made me feel safe and protected, even though I had no right to feel that way. It looked like he and Hannah had hit a rough patch, but he was still her husband. And I had been a widow—sort of—for less than three days.

Nick bent to pick up my shoes. "Come, then. Let me show you the room." He took my hand and towed me toward the curved staircase.

Upstairs, he opened one of the doors and stood aside to let me in.

Once again, the sight made me catch my breath.

The guest bedroom was illuminated by the dim, soft light of a single floor lamp. Like on the main level, one wall was made of glass. Behind it, the ink-blue night sky provided an almost otherworldly background. The room was of moderate size, simple and comfortable. It had a double bed with a nightstand on the side. Beside the glass wall stood a coffee table and a beige armchair. The parquet floor was warm under my feet.

"This is beautiful," I said, looking around. "Your apartment is the swankiest place I've ever stepped into."

"What is beautiful," Nick said with a chuckle, "is your genuine delight. I haven't seen that in a while."

It wasn't difficult to impress a girl who'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks with a penthouse that could be featured in _Architectural Digest_ , I thought, but didn't say anything. It would sound as pathetic as it was.

***

The bed was unmade, covered with a quilt in yellow, purple and green.

"It's never been used," Nick said, motioning toward it. "As I said, I don't entertain visitors."

He opened the built-in closet and pulled out a pillow and the bedding set. I watched him prepare the bed for me, his movements swift and sure.

"When is Hannah coming back?" I asked.

At first I thought he hadn't heard me. He was buttoning the pillowcase, his back turned to me.

"Hannah and I have divorced, too," he said in a flat voice, and placed the pillow at the headboard.

It should've surprised me, but it didn't. This apartment, her long stay in Canada, Deanna's reluctance to talk about her sister in-law. "When?"

"Four months ago."

"I'm sorry," I said. I truly was.

"So am I."

"What happened?"

He shrugged and didn't answer. Instead, he pointed to the door at the back. "The bathroom's there. I'll bring you something to sleep in," he said, and strode out.

I walked to the glass wall and peered outside at the glimmering city, pondering Nick and Hannah's divorce. They seemed like a perfect couple: smart, successful and happy. Last time I'd seen them together, everything looked normal. How sad to see all that love gone.

Did true love still exist?

But then, no one knew what went on behind closed doors. Very few people knew about my own nightmare marriage.

Nick returned, an unopened toothbrush and one of his T-shirts in his hand. "Are you going to be able to manage with that arm? Do you need help?"

I reached for the shirt, wondering if I'd indeed be able to take off my dress on my own. The row of tiny silver buttons ran from my neck to the small of my back. Not a very practical fashion detail for someone with a broken arm, but it was the only black dress I owned. Haya had helped me put it on that morning.

"If you could just open the first few buttons." With my good hand I lifted my hair, bound by a black velvet ribbon, and, bending my head, turned around.

Nick's hesitant fingers picked at the first button, brushing against my skin. My stomach fluttered with something sweet and almost forgotten. Nick's hands stilled.

"You okay?"

I felt the tickle of his breath against my neck and nodded, swallowing hard.

He returned to his task, his fingers trembling; the miniature buttons kept slipping from them.

"They're not easy to open," I said quietly. "The eyelets are too tight."

"Nothing's wrong with the buttons," Nick said, his voice soft and husky.

Without lifting my head, I looked at our faint reflection in the great glass wall.

And met his probing, tender gaze. For the longest moment we stood motionless, just looking at each other.

Without moving his gaze from mine, Nick continued unbuttoning my dress, bringing back a sense of reality with his touch.

After a bit of a struggle, the first button gave up, then the second, then the third.

And then I saw him lower his head. His jaw grazed over the nape of my neck, raspy from his day-old stubble.

The feathery touch of his lips on my skin. The soft whisper of my name.

"Angela."

I let out a small moan. My hand let go of my hair and dropped to my side. Tilting my head, I leaned it against his shoulder, feeling the solid pressure of his body behind mine, feeling him growing hard.

Somewhere deep, deep inside me a small spark flickered into life, filling the cold void with light and warmth.

Nick's chest moved beneath my head with the rhythm of my own breathing. I turned and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat, his neck, his jawline, inhaling the scent of his skin, unknown yet strangely intimate.

I lifted my head.

He bent his.

Our lips met in a kiss that tasted of longing, loneliness and need.

"Make love to me, Nick," I whispered as we broke the kiss.

He took my face between his hands and looked deep into my eyes. "I will, Angel. Oh, I will. But only if you're sure. You must be sure."

I ran my finger across his lips. "I am sure."

Scooping me up as if I were weightless, he carried me into his room.

***

It happened slowly, with aching tenderness. Nick put me down on his bed, and gently tugged at the T-shirt I was still clutching in my hands. "You won't need this right now. Sit on your knees and turn around."

He settled behind me, working through the buttons, and tracing the progression of his fingers with his lips. One button, one kiss. One button, one kiss...

I heard him take a sharp breath when he reached the middle of my back and discovered the big greenish-yellow bruise.

"It's from that fall," I said, stopping his question before he could ask. "It doesn't hurt much anymore. There's an ugly one on my left upper arm, too. Don't be alarmed."

"It had to be a really bad tumble."

I knew he hadn't bought my story; he sensed the truth, and he would demand to hear the details later.

The warm and tender hands continued working on the buttons, careful to avoid any pressure that could hurt my arm. My unsettling thoughts retreated.

When he opened the last one, he kissed my shoulder. "Now let's take it off," he said as he pulled the sleeves down over my arms, careful of my injury, and helped me out of the dress. "Let me see you."

I looked down at my body, uncertain, embarrassed, wishing I could be completely naked rather than wearing my cheap black lingerie. Keeping my eyes down, I removed my stockings with awkward, one-handed movements, and rubbed the angry-red impressions their too-tight silicon bands had left on my skin.

But I felt his gaze and flushed, instinctively placing one arm across my breasts, the other one over the junction of my thighs, covering my unsexy undergarments.

Nick took my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipped my head.

"You're beautiful."

I was so unaccustomed to compliments that Nick's admiration made me uncomfortable. No man had ever told me I was beautiful.

"Thank you," I said, hiding my confusion behind a smile.

Nick reached over and pulled on the ends of the velvet ribbon holding my hair. It spilled down my shoulders in soft waves. He picked up a curl and twirled it around his finger.

"So soft and silky. You have the most gorgeous hair, Angela."

He let go of my hair and closed his arms around my torso, unclasping my bra. His hand brushed over my breast, making me shudder in delight.

I helped him out of his jeans; he took off my panties. I pulled down his underwear and glanced at the thick, hard column of male flesh that sprang free. Its tip was broad and deep red, and the little slit was already wet.

My hand reached forward to touch him, retreated, advanced again.

"Touch me, Angel."

I closed my fingers around his erection and moved them up and down its length, feeling the taut, soft skin over the hard core, and the net of blue veins. He closed his eyes and let out a low groan. The muscles of his abdomen strained as he thrust into my fist several times before gently removing my hand.

"If you continue with this, I won't last very long," he said.

He pulled me into his lap and kissed me, his lips first gentle and sweet, then more and more passionate, until we both gasped for air.

NICK

Her hands were clutching at my shoulders when I lowered her onto the bed, as though she was afraid of falling.

I braced myself on my arms, enjoying the sight of Angela's body beneath mine, delicate and lush at the same time.

"You're sexy as hell, do you know that?"

Her face flushed; her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose. I couldn't help but smile at her expression, although her disbelief wasn't funny at all. She hadn't heard that often.

I felt a strange little twitch in my chest. Damn. I'd do anything to make her believe it.

"You have the thickest eyelashes I've ever seen," I said, planting small kisses in the corners of her eyes.

"I have an extra row of eyelashes, that's why," she said. "It's a rare genetic mutation, I was told."

"It's a genetic improvement, if you ask me," I said, lowering my head to lick her nipple, delicate and pinkish, like a tiny rosebud. It hardened under my tongue. I sucked it with great tenderness, fondling her other breast with my hand. I smiled to myself. My hand was full. Angela's breasts were not only delightful, but also larger than I'd anticipated.

She sighed, her body relaxing into my touch.

Her breathing grew heavier as I bit gently and blew air on the wetness of her nipple, and she arched her back toward me. I kissed the red, moist tip and turned my attention to her other breast.

I fought the urge to open her legs and sink inside her. My balls felt like they'd become the size of oranges, painful and tight, and my cock twitched, desperate for release. It'd been too long since I'd held a woman in my arms.

Instead, I started kissing my way down toward her stomach, and lower, aiming for that mesmerizing, honey-gold triangle of curls that attracted me like a magnet.

The foreplay wasn't going to be long. I slid my hand between her legs, brushing my middle finger along the seam of her quim. I pushed my finger inside her. It slid in with no effort; she was ready for me. I withdrew and returned with two fingers.

Angela let out a small whimper and moved her hips to the rhythm of my thrusts.

I wanted to taste her. I wanted to make her come on my tongue, but when I tried to remove my fingers to replace them with my mouth, she cried a breathy, "No!" and clasped her hand over mine to keep it in place.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered into her hair, pulling her closer.

I felt her inner muscles tightening around my fingers, and held her tight as her climax crashed over her.

By the speed and intensity of her release, I would say that I wasn't the only one who hadn't had sex in a long time.

She'd left Eric a while ago, but she hadn't taken a lover, I thought, giddy with the realization.

ANGELA

Nick lay on his side, head braced on his arm, his fingers making lazy circles around my stomach. I could feel his erection pressing at my thigh. Keeping my eyes half-closed, I reached for the edge of the duvet hanging over the bed, and tugged it up to cover my breasts.

His free hand came up and removed the duvet. "Unless you're cold, don't cover yourself. I want to look at you."

My face reddened—my fair skin blushed with great vigor—making me even more uncomfortable. That I was shy didn't help, either. I pressed my legs together and lifted my injured arm to place it over my breast. Nick caught it in mid-air, brought my hand to his lips and kissed the tips of my fingers. "Don't hide from me."

"I like your bedroom," I said to divert his attention away from my nakedness. After all, the room was lavish: a big bed, carefully chosen furniture and accessories, the same spectacular view through the glass wall.

But he couldn't be easily distracted. "Let me see your beauty, Angel."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

His fingers caressed my cheek. "Look at me, Angela."

I turned my head and found his eyes.

"You are," he said dipping his head until our lips touched. "I want you to feel like that."

"Thank you."

He smiled. "Any time."

I lifted my good hand and traced the chiseled lines of his face. The arch of his dark eyebrows. The temples. The cheekbones... The jaw. The long nose with a tiny bump on the bridge. The chin... I breathed in his masculine musk mixed with the scent of soap and traces of sweat. It aroused me, and made me feel protected.

Nick kissed my palm. "Shall I go out to buy condoms? There's a convenience store around the corner."

Oh. Oh. I hadn't even thought about that. "You don't have one somewhere in a drawer by any chance, do you?" I asked.

He shook his head. "The last time I needed them was before I got married. I haven't slept with anyone since Hannah."

I'd never had unprotected sex. I couldn't take contraceptive pills due to some rare allergy to them, so condoms were always my choice of protection. "I'm healthy, and I'm about to have my period," I said as my face flushed. "It's as regular as clockwork. Do you think we're safe enough?"

"I'm healthy, too."

He kissed me, his lips sweet and tender against mine, and pulled me underneath him. I sighed in delight at the weight of his big, strong body on mine. His kisses grew passionate and bold; his hands caressed my neck, my shoulders and my breasts. I felt his cock pressing against my belly, hard and throbbing with need. I moved my hips in invitation, feeling the sweet, aching rush of wetness between my thighs. Nick's hands slid under my knees, opening me for him.

He took me unhurriedly, little by little, easing his cock back and forth to allow my body to become accustomed to his.

"You feel so good, Angel. You're so perfect." He gripped my hips and gave a short, hard thrust, burying his full length into my welcoming, hot wetness.

He began moving inside me in a slow rhythm. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his breathing heavy, and I knew he was fighting the desire to take me hard and fast. But I wanted it harder and faster. I lifted my hips, opening my legs even wider, urging him to push deeper, and tightened around his cock.

I stole a glance at the place where our bodies met. The sight of his glistening flesh pumping in and out of me sent an almost painful surge of pleasure to my womb.

Following my gaze, Nick slid his hand between us and brushed his fingers over my clitoris a few times, adding a little bit more pressure with each stroke.

My breathing quickened; the pressure kept building, unstoppable like a wave. And then suddenly, beyond the physical bliss of the approaching orgasm, something inside me locked into place. It was so thrilling, so magnificent, that I gasped. It was as if our very souls found each other and became one.

I cried out as the pleasure reached its peak and crashed over me in hard, sharp spasms.

I was still convulsing when Nick grabbed my hips and pushed deep into me. Seconds later he let out a low, hoarse groan and, throwing back his head, reached his own climax, filling my womb with his seed. Then he collapsed over me, breathless and sweaty, and buried his head into my neck, murmuring words I couldn't hear over the loud beating of our hearts.

For a while we lay in silence, holding each other. I closed my eyes, embracing the precious sensation of inner harmony. How strange and wonderful, I thought, as my eyelids grew heavy. I'd just given a part of myself to someone else, yet I'd never felt more whole and free.

And beautiful. For the first time in my adult life, I truly believed it.

I was half asleep when I felt Nick cleaning me with a warm, wet towel.

"I have to leave in the morning," I murmured, already sleepy. "Before the clock strikes noon." _And the magic is over._

"Do you need to go to work?"

"No. I took a few days off. But I have other things to do."

"I'll give you a ride after breakfast," he said, his lips touching mine. "Sleep now."

"Okay." I nestled in his arms, spoon-fashion, and fell into blissful slumber.

NICK

Behind the glass wall the sky had turned from dark blue and starry to steel grey.

They had forecasted snow, I remembered, watching the still-sporadic snowflakes swirling in the air.

I was tired, but I knew sleep wouldn't come easily. Instead, I braced my head on my hand and listened to Angela's peaceful breathing. With my other hand, I traced the line of her body under the cover, from her shoulder all the way down to her thigh. And back, following the curve of her hip and stomach. I cupped her breast, giving it a light squeeze. It was round and firm, a perfect fit for my hand.

A part of me longed to recognize Hannah's long, shapely contour under my fingers, feel the heaviness of her much bigger breasts, but my heart knew that wouldn't happen ever again.

Hannah.

My classy, brilliant, beautiful wife. It was still difficult for me to think of her as an ex-wife; Hannah could be many things, but not "ex". She was too complicated for me, as I was too simple for her. I'd tried to be the man of her dreams; she'd tried to be the wife I needed. We'd both failed, which was the only possible outcome—we couldn't become what we weren't.

Beside me, Angela murmured something unintelligible, and placed her hand over mine resting on her hip.

Outside, the wind howled, lashing snow against the glass wall.

I reached for the remote control from the night stand and pressed the button with a tiny glittering blue moon on it. The curtains fell over the wall slowly, without a sound, from top to bottom, like the ones in old theatres between two acts, or when the play was over.

I closed my arms around Angela and kissed her hair, wondering briefly if she was the end, a new beginning, or just an intermission. Then I fell into a deep sleep, for the first time in forever.

ANGELA

I woke up in the same position I fell asleep. Nick's breathing was deep and relaxed, telling me he was still sleeping, his morning erection pressing against my back. I resisted the urge to rub against him.

The room was wrapped in warm darkness. Only a narrow strip of light from the bathroom cut through it. The glass wall was covered with horizontal curtains, obscuring the view.

I could hear the blowing of the wind. My inner clock told me it was about six-thirty.

Oh, just ten more minutes, I thought, and closed my eyes, letting the magic of last night unfold in my mind.

My stomach fluttered, remembering the tenderness of Nick's hands and lips, the hardness of hi flesh, the pressure of his body on mine. His voice, his kisses. The feeling of being safe and protected in the arms of a man for the first time in my life.

I searched inside myself for that incredible sensation of wholeness and rightness that he'd woken up in me. It was still there.

I was smart enough, though, to know it was time to leave this glass castle that touched the sky. I didn't belong here.

I wriggled out of Nick's arms.

He didn't stir. A deep sleeper, I thought, looking at the harsh handsomeness of his face, softened with sleep, and his rumpled dark hair. Desire swelled between my legs, awakening my pleasantly sore flesh.

"I have to go," I said, so quietly that he wouldn't have heard me even if he had been about to wake up. I didn't have the heart to wake him for the promised ride home. I'd take a cab instead.

I was afraid of what the morning after would bring. Everything looked different in daylight. I was afraid to see regret in his eyes. Of him asking me more questions about my marriage. Of an awkward parting, as if we had done something wrong—stay in touch. Take care. Call me if you need anything.

No. Neither of us needed that kind of farewell.

I had to give us the chance to pretend nothing had happened, if it had to be. I'd cherish my memories of the night we'd found each other, if only for a short time.

Nick could do with his whatever he liked.

I kissed him once more, just a light brush of my lips over his, to take the taste of his skin on my lips with me. Taking one last glance at my accidental lover, I gathered my underwear, dress and stockings from the floor and dashed to the bathroom.

I dampened the corner of a small towel and dabbed my face, brushed my teeth and finger-combed my hair. Then I slipped into my clothes, a task that proved to be much more challenging than slipping out of them. I had to leave half of the buttons of my dress open in order to put it on, but my coat would hide that.

Back in the bedroom, I grabbed my shoes and tiptoed to the door, trying to remember where Nick had put my coat and purse last night. Ah, yes. In the wardrobe in the entryway.

Holding my breath, I turned the doorknob.

"You're supposed to leave one shoe here, Cinderella. How would I find you otherwise?"

I squeaked and turned around. "You scared me! I thought you were sleeping."

The curtains rolled up with a soft hum, filling the room with pale, grey light. My eyes darted to the glass wall. The snow was falling fast and thick, blown by the howling wind.

Nick jumped out of bed. In a few long strides, he was in front of me. "I said I'd take you home, didn't I?"

"I was sorry to wake you. You seemed fast asleep."

We stood across from each other, I in my wrinkled dress, shoes in my hand, and he stark-naked, his cock jutting out and upward. His eyes lingered over my body. The raw lust in their dark depths made me feel as naked as he was. As hungry as he was.

I swallowed hard and ran my palm down my dress.

"You tried to sneak out on me," he said with mock hurt. "What a bruise to my ego. And here I thought I'd made a good impression last night."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. I doubt that your ego needs a boost."

"Humor me."

"Last night was incredible," I said, and blushed. _The best night of my life_. "Happy now?"

"Very. Why, then, do I hear a 'but' coming? You don't have regrets, do you?"

I took a deep breath. "No. No regrets. Last night we needed each other, and that's fine, but now—"

NICK

Oh, no, no. She wasn't going anywhere.

I placed my hands on the wall on either side of her, and dipped my head until my lips were only a hair's breadth away from hers. "No 'buts', Angel. I still need you."

I couldn't let her go. I needed her. It was humbling how much I needed her.

I traced the edge of her mouth with my tongue, eliciting small whimpers. Her lips, slightly puffed from sleep and our lovemaking, tasted minty sweet and fresh. Dropping her shoes on the floor, she wrapped her good arm around my neck and gave in to my kiss.

"I don't like this dress," I said and pulled it up, mindful of her broken arm. I bunched it into a ball and hurled it across the room. "At all. Black doesn't suit you."

"Easy! You'll ruin it! It's my... my favorite black dress."

The slight delay in her sentence made me think that it might be the only black dress she possessed.

"I'll buy you a new one. Blue. The same color as your eyes," I murmured against her mouth, silencing her protest with another kiss. I reached behind her and unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts. I drew a nipple into my mouth, sucking it with deep pleasure.

She rubbed against me, moaning. Her body was responsive and she had very sensitive breasts; I'd noticed that last night. I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of her panties and yanked them down. My fingers brushed over the seams of her flesh. "You're wet."

"You've made me, er, wet," she whispered, her face turning an interesting shade of red. She reached down, encircling my cock with her small hand, stroking and squeezing it, gliding down its length, rubbing her thumb over the slit on its top, oozing with pre-cum. I felt my balls pulling and tightening, and grabbed her wrist to stop her before it was too late.

Gripping her butt, I lifted her until her entrance was aligned with my cock.

"Do your bruises still hurt?" I asked as her back pressed against the wall.

"No. Don't worry."

"Wrap your legs around my waist. Let me feel you around me, Angel."

I entered her in a single, smooth stroke and started pumping.

Her skin was hot and damp. My sharp and musky sweat mingled with hers, much milder, feminine, arousing.

Angela's breath became faster, her sighs deeper.

My thrusts quickened.

"Touch yourself, Angel."

Angela's hand left my shoulder and dipped down between our bodies, stroking us both.

God.

She breathed heavily, lost in her pleasure.

As her orgasm rolled over her, I felt her pulsing around me, her inner muscles squeezing me tight. Her head fell back, exposing her neck, small, white, gracious.

A strange word drummed in my mind in the rhythm of my thrust.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Giving in to the maddening need to mark her, to claim her as my own, I bit and sucked the smooth, rosy skin above her collarbone as I spilled myself into her hot wetness.

_Mine. Mine. Mine_.

***

"Well, good morning," I said with a chuckle sometime later, and kissed Angela's temple. Her skin was sweaty, and tasted sweet and salty. She was wrapped around me, her head resting on my chest. I was spent and tired; the muscles of my arms and legs ached from supporting her weight, but inside her, my cock was still hard.

She looked up at me and stroked my face. "Last night you promised me breakfast."

"Let's waterproof your cast with something so that we can take a quick shower, and then I'll feed you."

I lifted her in my arms, amused by how light she felt in spite of my exhaustion, and carried her to the bathroom.

ANGELA

Nick helped me towel-dry my hair and put on his navy blue robe. It swallowed me, and the sleeves were so long he had to fold them several times before my hands showed up. He wore jeans and a grey T-shirt, and looked mouthwatering.

In the kitchen he started the coffee machine, and made me a cup of lemon tea since I rarely drank coffee. Then he opened the fridge, revealing its well-stocked interior.

"How about eggs and bacon?" he asked.

"Sounds great."

A few minutes later the heavenly aroma of smoked bacon filled the kitchen.

"May I help you with anything?" I asked as he cracked the eggs into a bowl before transferring them to the frying pan.

He took a bottle with orange juice out of the fridge and passed it to me. "The glasses are in the cabinet on your left. And grab the plates, will you? The cupboard behind you, middle shelf."

"Don't you need to go to work?" I asked.

"I often work from home. Why were you in such a hurry to leave this morning? What do you need to do?"

"I have tons of paperwork to finish."

"Let me know if I can help with anything."

"I think I'll be okay, but thanks."

I fetched the glasses and poured the juice into them. The plates were too high for me.

"I need a bit of help here," I said.

"Hey, look at this!"

I swung around, finding him reading something on his phone with an amused expression. "What?"

Nick turned his phone toward me. "Snowstorm warning's in effect. The roads are closed."

"Let me see," I said and grabbed the phone from his hand, skimming over the screen. "'An intense winter storm moves through the area... mix of sleet and snow... up to fifteen inches... winds 40 to 60 mph... visibility down to zero... travel impossible in many areas.'" I looked up at Nick. "How am I supposed to get home?"

Nick placed his hands on the kitchen counter, surrounding me. "You're not going anywhere, Angel. You're stuck here with me," he said with a satisfied grin, as if being snowbound was an excellent prospect. He kissed the tip of my nose and reached behind me for the plates. "Now let's eat. I'm famished."

***

After breakfast, we moved to the living room. Nick settled on the sofa, and I snuggled beside him. He sent a couple of emails and phoned his parents and Dee to make sure everyone was safe and sound. He hadn't mentioned that he had a visitor, nor had I expected him to. I sat quiet and motionless, careful not to disclose my presence.

"Now you and I are going to talk," he said when he was finished.

Oh no. "About what?"

"About that tumble. Falling down the stairs can be fatal, but it usually doesn't leave you with bruises all over your body. Did Eric beat you up?"

His blunt question didn't take me by surprise. I'd expected some sort of interrogation. But why did he need to know? Eric was dead. It was over. "Do we really need to talk about it?" I asked, knowing that it was more of a rhetorical question.

"Yes, we do. I need to know. It was him, wasn't it?"

I shrugged then nodded, looking aside.

"He beat you before, didn't he? When did it start?"

Nick kept his dark eyes on mine, and I knew there was not an easy way out of this. My throat tensed and my lips trembled. I took a few deep breaths and relaxed my jaw. _Slow down, Angela._ _Short sentences_. "About two years ago." A push here, a slap there. Arguing. Threats. Insults... Ap-pologies, promises. T-then more yelling, more verbal abuse, more beatings. "Most of the t-time he wasn't at h-home, though. Or I'd stay in a motel for a day or two, until he was gone again."

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, cursing under his breath. "Why didn't you leave the bastard when he hit you the first time, for heaven's sake?"

Why did many abused women stay with their abusers? We feared them. We were ashamed. We didn't have anywhere to go, nor anyone to turn to for help. "At that time, I didn't have much choice," I said.

"There's always a choice," he said, almost angry.

Yes, in theory. When you didn't have a job, and didn't have a prospect of finding one, because you were not able to read and write fluently, and when the only person who could help you lived hundreds of miles away, struggling to make ends meet, the reality was different.

I was dyslexic, yet no one had noticed, not my teachers, not my mother. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. I'd worked hard to hide it, finding different strategies to learn.

It had taken me some time to find a job that didn't require much reading and writing. It'd helped me, along with Harry and Gabby's generous support, to afford the treatment. And I gained the financial independence that allowed me to leave Eric.

My abusive marriage was never an easy topic to discuss, so I fast-forwarded my story to more recent events, hoping to wrap my story up. "I told him I was leaving," I said. "That was stupid. I should've just left. He went berserk."

"Did you call the police?"

"No. I—"

"Why?"

"As a child, I developed a strong dislike for the social system," I snapped, tired of filtering my life for Nick. "They tried to put me in foster care because my mother hurt her back, then lost her job because of that, and then we got kicked out of our apartment. Fortunately, my godparents were able to get temporary custody of me. They're our distant relatives. I went to live with them on their farm in Texas Hills Country. My family's from there. I stayed there for a year, until my mother recovered and found another job. She had to prove to the authorities that she could take care of me."

Nick opened his mouth to say something, but I shook my head. "Let me finish about Eric because I d-don't think I want to talk about him again. I didn't call the... p-p-police because I also knew they couldn't... p-p-protect me from him." I stopped and took a deep breath. "I used to stutter as a child, and I still sometimes do. Some sounds, like 'd' and 'p' are"—I relaxed my jaw, and even managed a tiny smile—"particularly difficult."

"I haven't noticed until now."

I nodded and continued, eager to get it over with, once and for all. "I moved out and filed for d-divorce, hoping he would leave me alone. And then, a few weeks ago, I returned home from work and f-found him in front of my building. He said he came to talk. He forced me to let him into my apartment. He... he..."

I choked over my words, unable to continue. Everything I'd been trying to erase from my memory for weeks rushed back.

Nick's arms tightened around me. "What did he want?"

"H-he wanted me b-back. I said I'd rather d-die." I paused and took a deep breath. If I continued tripping over every second word, it'd take me forever to finish. Eric was gone, I reminded myself. He couldn't hurt me anymore. "He lost his t-temper and started hitting me. I managed to break f-free and ran out. He caught me in the hallway. I lost my balance, tumbled d-down the stairs and passed out. Haya, my friend—you met her at the funeral—heard the commotion and called the p-police. I woke up in the hospital. This time I p-pressed charges. They looked for him, but couldn't find him. Shortly after, he was dead."

My heart beat fast, but I felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

"What about the money from the house?" Nick asked. "You were entitled to half. Did you get it?"

"Eric made me renounce it." I shrugged. "I didn't want it anyway."

"He left you penniless, didn't he?" Nick said. "Why didn't you ask Dee or me to help you with the funeral expenses?"

I turned my head to look at him. "Why would I? You didn't care about Eric. Not that I blame you."

"I know. I'm sorry. As I told you yesterday, I'd pay for the fune—"

"No!" I said before he could finish and twisted out from his arms to face him. "Yesterday I might've accepted. Today I can't. Please try to understand. I can't take money from you."

"I didn't mean to offend you. I wanted to help."

"I know. It's okay."

For Nick it was simple. He'd offered me the money because he had plenty of it. For me it was even simpler—I had lots of pride and very little practicality, so I'd refused it.

He pulled me against his chest and kissed my hair. "Let's not talk about that now. Tell me about your job. Dee says you work at a horseback riding school.

"It's an equestrian therapy center for children with cognitive, psychomotor and behavioral disabilities," I said. "It's called Happy Hooves."

"Are you a therapist?"

"Oh, no, no. I'm a barn manager. I take care of the horses. I've been working in the office since I broke my arm, though."

Nick looked at me in amusement. "A barn manager?"

A far cry from his ex-wife, I knew, who had a PhD in history or something. "I also train the horses," I added, feeling compelled to defend my job. "They have to be taught to be very gentle, because we work with kids."

"You seem to know a lot about horses."

"I mentioned I lived on a farm for a while. Later, I spent many happy summer breaks there."

"Do you like your job?"

"I love my job."

"You didn't go to college after high school, did you?"

"No."

Another amused look. "You don't sound like someone with only a high school education."

"And you sound prejudiced," I said, more sharply than I'd intended. "I might not have lots of education, but I'm not ineloquent or unknowledgeable. I didn't like school, true, but I liked learning. I still do."

Turning his head to face me, Nick said, "I apologize, Angel. I tried to give you a compliment. It's never too late to continue your education, you know."

Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, thinking we were done with me, Nick asked about my father.

_Oh, for the love of God, will he ever stop?_ I'd never known my father, I told him. His name was Jason Burns. A geologist. He and my mother had dated. He'd been offered a job in a Gulf country, and promised to send for her when once he was settled. She'd never heard from him again. Maybe he'd died. Maybe his name wasn't Jason Burns at all, who knew? I didn't know what he looked like, and he'd never learned that he had a daughter.

"And your mother? Her name is Helena, isn't it? I met her only once. At your..." He stopped. "Never mind. Where is she now?"

"You met her at my wedding, that's right. She moved back to Texas." My grandparents had died in an accident just before my mother had me, I explained, leaving her a tiny farm. Now she lived there, working at the local pastry shop, and had never been happier.

I didn't tell him that my mother's well-deserved peace was the very reason why I hadn't turned to her for help when Eric started abusing me. I couldn't ruin it; I couldn't become a burden. Eric had been my choice, my problem. Not hers.

I looked at Nick and saw more questions coming, so I raised my hand. "Enough about me," I said. "Now tell me about your wife. Why did you two divorce?"

NICK

I blinked at the sudden change of topic. "Why, that was quite a shift of gears," I said, and rubbed my sternum, easing the discomfort that had settled there since Hannah had left. "Hannah and I have never been the perfect match. She's a scholar and has a PhD in paleography. Her world is old books and manuscripts, archives and museums. Hell, before I met her, I didn't even know what paleography was. She worked in California for a well-known institute of medieval studies, and had a promising academic career ahead."

Angela smiled and put her hand under her chin. "Tell me how you two met."

"In New York, by accident," I said, and carried on with a simplified version of one of my most treasured memories. I'd been on a business trip; Hannah had been hired by the Metropolitan Museum of Art to evaluate a manuscript. We'd stayed in the same hotel. Due to a technology glitch during booking, however, Hannah had ended up with a reservation for a luxury suite instead of a standard hotel room. The room she thought she'd booked had been given to someone else. The suite she had been booked into by mistake was already occupied by me—I'd checked in the previous day. Since no other room was available, Hannah was placed in another suite, courtesy of the hotel's management.

The same afternoon, Hannah and I bumped into each other in Times Square while trying to hail the same taxi. I'd offered it to her, but since it was pouring cats and dogs, she suggested sharing. To our amazement, we discovered we were heading to the same Italian restaurant in Chelsea—Hannah to have dinner with her girlfriend, and I to meet with my friend.

Oddly enough, the restaurant staff couldn't find my reservation. Hannah invited me and my friend to join her and her girlfriend at their table.

When our companions left, Hannah and I went to a nearby bar and talked until dawn.

After six months of long-distance dating, during which we saw each other on the weekends in either Denver or L.A., Hannah moved to Colorado and married me.

"So what went wrong?" Angela asked.

"Nothing, at first. But then, she couldn't find a job here. She didn't need to work, but her career was an important part of her identity. To make it worse, I worked a lot. She was lonely and disappointed, although she'd never admit that."

"No wonder she was. You uprooted her from her world. She only had you to make up for everything she'd left."

Angela was right. "And I didn't. Hannah never complained, because there was something that meant more to her than her career or anything else in the world. More than me. The only thing I couldn't give her. A baby."

"Oh. Why?"

I shrugged. "No one can tell. We both seem to be healthy."

"That was a lot of pressure on both of you. Did you want a child?"

I didn't answer right away. Funny, I thought, that no one had asked me that question before: not Hannah, not my family, not the doctors. "I do," I said, "but I've somehow accepted that it might not happen."

"Have you considered adoption?"

"We have."

"You're rich, so you wouldn't need to wait years for an adoption. I don't understand what the problem is then."

Neither did I. Or perhaps I did. Our marriage hadn't been strong enough to survive such a crisis. "Hannah wanted to try everything that medicine could do. We lost each other along the way. The more she focused on the baby, the less time there was for us and our relationship."

"Did you want to divorce her?"

"No." It had been Hannah's call from the beginning. It had been a quick divorce—I'd agreed to her every request." Not that she'd asked for much, but her lawyer and I had made sure she was financially secure for the rest of her life.

"Do you still love her?"

"It's impossible not to love Hannah," I said, carefully choosing my words. "I'll always love her, in a way. Hannah is the most wonderful person. I hope we'll stay in each other's lives, one way or another. She's like a daughter to my parents and my sister's best friend. But if you want to know whether I love her as a lover, a woman, someone who was my wife, I don't know. I'm hurt and confused. We've changed. This struggle, it's changed us. There isn't an _us_ anymore. And I feel guilty because I can't give her a child."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not Hannah's fault either. If we'd had a child, maybe things between us would have been different. Or maybe they wouldn't, but at least Hannah would've been happier. She suffers so deeply. It's cruel. No one deserves that. God, how I wish I was able to take her pain away."

For a moment, Angela was lost in her thoughts. "You know what I think?" she said after a while.

"Tell me."

"Because you two couldn't have a baby even though you're both healthy, I think Hannah and you are destined to have kids with someone else. Sometimes the chemistry between two bodies doesn't work and—"

I must've made a funny expression because Angela looked at me and burst into laughter. "Hey, relax. I'm not nominating myself for the role."

"Nothing like that crossed my mind," I said defensively. Perhaps too defensively. "It's just that your theory is a bit too esoteric for my understanding."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. But it does happen. I do hope Hannah will have her babies one day. Maternal instinct can be very strong."

"Is yours so strong?"

Angela's expression sobered. She smiled sadly. "A family of my own was all I wanted once," she said quietly. "I dreamed of having a husband who adored me. A house with a white veranda and filled with children. I wanted to give them all the love I had. Now I'm not so sure. Dreams rarely come true, no matter how simple they are."

"An adoring husband, a brood of kids and a house with a veranda are fine, but life can offer more than that. You should dream big, Angela."

"That was big enough for me."

"You're young, you have plenty of time. When you're ready, you'll fall in love with someone who deserves you and who wants to have children with you."

In retrospect, the notion that I'd so vehemently denied only moments ago _had_ crossed my mind. I shouldn't have said anything, though, because the mere thought of Angela and that "someone else" made me edgy. I closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled in hopes of restoring my inner balance.

I refocused on Angela. She was shaking her head, a faraway look in her eyes and a pensive smile on her lips. What kind of memory did she stumble upon?

A disturbing thought sprang to my mind. "Angela, did Eric abuse you sexually?"

She tore out of my arms with a swift twist of her torso, leaving a small empty space between us. Turning her head, she leaned toward the table to grab her cup. "No, he didn't."

She sounded certain. Good, I thought with great relief. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Physical and sexual abuse often go hand-in-hand. That's why I asked."

"Are we talking about me again?" She took a deep breath of air and blew it out in a long, audible puff. "Eric never cared much about sex, if you must know," she said, turning her bright-red face to me. "He lost interest in me not long after we married, but that's not abuse."

"It is, in a way. It's neglect—"

"Stop, Nick. Please. I am not going to discuss my sex life— _or lack thereof_ —with you."

Relieved by her answer, I closed the short distance between us. I cradled her face between my palms, caressing her cheeks with my thumbs. "And why's that, Angel?"

She frowned. "Men don't like hearing about women's ex-lovers. It puts them off."

I couldn't help but laugh. Silly girl. "Did it put you off when I talked about my wife?"

"Of course not. It was me who asked you about her."

"Then why would I think less of you if you talked about your lovers? Unless..." I lowered my head until my lips touched hers. She tasted lemony and sweet. "Unless we're talking about lots of lovers."

"Hmm. What would you consider 'a lot'?"

"Like a couple of dozen," I whispered, brushing my lips against hers. "Not because of the quantity, of course, but because it would be one long talk."

She burst into laughter. "Nick, I was a virgin when I married Eric. I didn't cheat on him. I haven't been with anyone else. I'm glad I finally improved my score. I mean, with you." Blushing from the roots of her hair all the way down to the base of her throat, she closed her eyes, took my hand and guided it to her breast.

My sweet Angel. My chest swelled with some strange emotion. I took off my T-shirt, flinging it into the corner, and stretched out on my back. We quickly freed each other from our clothes. Angela sat on her heels between my thighs and gave me a long look from under her lashes.

Swinging one leg over my groin, Angela braced herself on her knees and bent her head.

Yes, baby. Do it. Please.

She took me into her mouth.

It was soon clear that she didn't have lots of practice in this—she hesitated to take in more than the tip of my cock, shyly sucking it and swirling her tongue around it. Her small hand stayed wrapped around the middle, like some sort of barrier she'd decided not to cross. What she lacked in experience she made up for with sweet tenderness and eagerness to please me, and that was insanely exciting.

And she seemed to be enjoying what she was doing. A deep moan came from her throat, sending maddening vibrations right to my balls. Her hand dropped for a moment to brush away the hair from her forehead. I pushed a tiny bit deeper.

She gagged.

I pulled out of her mouth. "Take a few deep breaths," I said with a suppressed chuckle, and pulled her onto my chest, wrapping my arms around her.

"I'm sorry."

I lifted her head and kissed her deep and hard. "No. I should apologize. I' got carried away."

"You're not disappointed?" she asked, her fingers playing with the hair around my nipple.

"Disappointed?" I took her hand and put it over my iron-hard cock. "Do I look disappointed?"

"I almost choked on your, er..."

I kissed her temple. "Feel free to practice on me, Angel. As much as you want."

She sat upright, swung one leg over my groin and braced herself on her knees. Her injured arm on the sofa back, she closed her other hand around my shaft, stroking me.

"I'd never done that before, you know," she said softly.

I raised my hand and stroked her cheek. "I won't hold it against you, Angel."

She turned her head and kissed my fingers. "There are so many things I want to try."

Lord have mercy. "Like what?"

She swallowed hard. "Like, for example, to tell you what I want and how I want it."

"Tell me, Angel. What do you want?"

She closed her eyes and blushed. "I want... I want you inside me," she whispered. I bet it wasn't the first wish on her list, but it was a good start. "Take me, baby."

She gave my cock a little squeeze and guided me inside her. I slid in with no resistance—she was as slippery as seaweed.

Leaning forward, Angela started moving up and down, in slow circular motions. I let her take the reins, savoring the sight of her: her small neck, her white, translucent skin, perky breasts with pinkish nipples, tiny waist, flat stomach. The tuft of soft honey-blond hair between her legs.

Her eyes were closed, but a smile danced on her lips, making her flushed face beatific, as if illuminated from within. Whatever demons had tortured her before were gone, if only for a few precious moments. It made me feel proud thinking I'd chased them away.

Soon I was lost in the fast-building pressure. I stroked her breasts, rolling and pinching her nipples. They pebbled under my fingers. Angela responded with a series of soft moans and hastened her rhythm.

I moved my hands to her back, rounding her cheeks.

"You have the roundest little ass," I uttered, squeezing and caressing her.

Her answer was a long, sensual sigh.

"I can't get enough of you, Angel, do you know that?"

Another deep sigh. She blushed even more, if it was possible, but the smile didn't leave her face. God, I'd never seen anyone turning red with as much enthusiasm as Angela.

I gripped her hips and thrust hard. She clutched at me, her breath coming in fast, high-pitched pants, until we both stilled for an instant, as if suspended in time, and then tumbled over the cliff together, our bodies reaching their simultaneous releases in long, powerful spasms.

Angela slumped over me. I closed my arms around her and buried my face in her hair, which smelled of my shampoo.

I rather liked that.

I couldn't remember the last time I was so content.

ANGELA

The storm continued to wreak havoc on Denver for the next two days, prolonging my fairy tale. And while the torrents of snow threatened to wrap the whole visible world in a thick, white blanket, Nick and I learned about each other.

The more I discovered about Nick, the more I liked him. He was smart and open-minded. He often looked stern and didn't smile much. In spite of his declaration that he didn't have a sense of humor, he was funny and witty. He was a tough businessman—such wealth couldn't be made by a weak, indecisive man—but his honesty and honor were undisputed. He was compassionate, and that was probably what I liked the most about him. Carter Homes had built some of Denver's most beautiful and most expensive residential buildings, but also numerous free homes and facilities for those in need: youth, seniors, single parents, low-income families.

We'd learned many small, seemingly unimportant details about each other.

He preferred beer to wine. I rarely drank at all.

He liked his steak medium-rare. So did I.

His favorite fruit was apples. Mine was peaches.

He had a thing for gummy bears. I liked ice cream.

He liked reading legal thrillers and historical fiction. I liked historical fiction and romances. He'd played rugby as a student, and still did it recreationally. I was a good horseback rider.

When he was deep in thought, he would rub his chin. He didn't like being interrupted while working. He could be moody. Sometimes, while talking, he would place the tips of his fingers together—a subtle, subconscious demonstration of authority.

He was a very sexual man, and a passionate and generous lover. I liked sex too, I'd discovered. Before him, I'd never thought that the physical aspect of a relationship could be so wonderful, so meaningful, so fulfilling. How could I have, after my experience with Eric?

But Nick seemed to know exactly what I needed and he gave it to me selflessly. He made me feel sexy and desirable.

Beautiful.

I loved myself when I was with him.

***

He'd grown up on a farm.

"Did you have a happy childhood?" I asked on our third day together, while we lay in front of the fireplace after long, sweet lovemaking, my head in the hollow of his shoulder.

"It was happy, but modest."

"Oh, I didn't know that. I thought your family was always rich."

"My father was a small cattle rancher, my mother a local teacher. You know how it is: lots of work, never enough money. Mom inherited some money when her parents died, and she gave it to Dee and me to go to university."

He'd come to Denver to study civil engineering. Two years after graduation, he'd left his job and opened a small construction company, accomplishing so much in such a short time.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Thirty-three."

"You sometimes look a bit older." My finger traced along his face. A frown line beside the left eyebrow. A net of fine lines in the corners of his eyes. Long, deeper smile lines. A half-inch scar on his chin.

He caught my hand and gently bit my finger. "The last few days took away a few years, don't you think? I feel younger. And you're, what? Twenty-three?"

"Correct."

"You too look older. In a good way."

I laughed. "A woman can't look older in a good way."

"They can, believe me. You're so young. I'm glad you look a tad older."

"Oh, come on. I'm only a decade younger than you." I rested my head against his shoulder. We fell into silence, each of us immersed in our own thoughts. What was he thinking about?

"How old is Hannah?" I asked.

"Thirty-one."

Why had I brought her into our conversation?

Maybe because I could feel her lingering presence. Did he still love her, even if he believed otherwise? Did she still love him? Did she regret the divorce?

Lots of questions and no answers.

***

Monday dawned sunny and cold.

While Nick was getting ready for work, I put on my clothes. It felt oddly restraining after three days either wearing Nick's shirts or being naked. In a way, it epitomized the world I was returning to, light years away from this paradise.

He was quiet. I was out of sorts, too, but I kept chattering about this and that, determined not to show him my true feelings: I didn't want to leave, but was afraid he would indeed let me go. Forever.

***

Nick eyed my neighborhood as he walked around the car and opened the door for me.

"Lower Downtown is one of the worst zones in the city," he said with a frown.

"This part is safe," I said as he helped me out. "The police station's a block from here."

Safe or not, I couldn't afford to live in a better area. My apartment was in an old but clean and well-maintained building. There were several birch trees in front of it, two benches and a small fountain, now turned off.

At the entrance, Nick took my hand. It looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the right words.

I helped him out. "At this point, you say you had the most amazing time of your life, and we'll stay in touch," I said, half joking, half serious.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers, a tiny smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Is that so? And here I wanted to ask you out for dinner tonight."

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. "Dinner? Tonight?"

"I can pick you up around seven. What do you say?"

"I... I'd love to."

"I'll see you later, then." He bent his head and gave me a lingering kiss. "The last three days were amazing indeed, Angel. But I'm not done with you."

He was already by his car when I shouted, "Hey, wait. What kind of restaurant? What should I wear?"

"I don't care what you wear as long as I can easily take it off," he said, laughing, and drove away.

End of May

ANGELA

Spring was almost over and there were still no ripples from the stone thrown in the pond. Nick and I continued seeing each other. I stayed at the penthouse on the weekends. My toothbrush joined his in the bathroom; I had space on a shelf in the walk-in closet for my clothes. Sometimes, during his frequent but short business trips, I stayed at the penthouse until he returned.

Our relationship was neither secret nor public. I doubted Nick was taking me to the same places he used to take his wife. Even though they were upscale, it was obvious he wasn't a regular guest there. Neither did we visit the same restaurant twice. It was fine with me. I'd spent a ridiculous amount of money on two dresses and two pairs of shoes in order to look presentable in his company, and couldn't afford a penny more.

We continued to live in our secluded world, our perpetual spring, aware that it couldn't last forever. We didn't talk about the future or the past. Nor did we talk about our feelings for each other. We lived in the moment.

I was crazy in love with Nick. No surprise there. I couldn't tell him that, of course. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. If he had feelings for me, I didn't notice. I only knew that he needed me. For how long remained to be seen.

Nick was, however, responsible for the profound change that was happening to me, and I loved him for that. I'd started laughing again. Smiling. Humming. Crying at movies. Sleeping better. My fears and insecurities had loosened their grip on me.

These were the happiest days of my life.

And then, the inevitable happened.

***

It was a Friday afternoon, not unlike many others that had preceded it. I met Nick at his office, where we made passionate love, first on his desk, then on the floor. It was the most mind-blowing sex I'd ever had.

From there, we went for dinner at Fleur de Lis.

The French restaurant was the classiest one I'd ever been to. The food was sinfully delicious but also caloric so I decided to skip dessert. Nick, who had a sweet tooth, couldn't resist it. He ordered chestnut soufflé, for which the restaurant was famous.

Before he tasted it, he scooped some of it up and brought it to my mouth.

"Open," he said. And then he leaned forward and whispered, "And your legs, too."

His hand lazily traveled along the inner part of my thigh, coming close to my panties, damp from the traces of his semen and my wetness, then retreating. Moving forward and pulling back... I made an enormous effort to keep my face straight. When his fingers brushed over my flesh, I lost it and made a funny little squirm.

"Do you like it?" he asked, chuckling.

I wasn't sure if his question was about the soufflé or his little game under the table. My answer was the same either way.

"Exquisite," I said with a sultry smile. Nick chuckled, brushing his fingers along my panties while spooning some more soufflé for me with his other hand.

At that precise moment, I lifted my head and saw his sister walking into the restaurant with a man. Deanna saw us immediately, her eyes wide-open in disbelief. I swallowed the soufflé, pushed Nick's hand away and straightened in my chair.

Taken aback by my sudden retreat, Nick followed my line of sight. "Oh, look," he said, setting his hand on the table. "Dee and Ted." He turned to me and murmured, "They say they're just friends, but I think Ted's in love with her. She's either unaware of it, or afraid to admit to herself that she loves him, too."

I barely listened. Instead, I watched, petrified, as Deanna tugged the man's sleeve and motioned toward us. She didn't look pleased.

And then she strode in our direction, Ted following behind.

"Hey, relax," Nick said. "She doesn't breathe fire."

Judging by her look, she was about to.

"Nick. Angela? What a surprise," Deanna said in an unnaturally cheery voice when the two of them stopped at our table. Nick stood up and kissed her cheek. Then Deanna turned to her companion and said, "Ted, this is Angela, my cousin Eric's..." a small pause, "widow. Eric died this January. Angela, this is my friend, Dr. Theodore Wrangel."

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Wrangel," I said, and offered my hand.

"Call me Ted, please. Nice to meet you too, Angela," he said with a broad, friendly smile. He shook my hand and then greeted Nick.

"Would you mind if we joined you?" Deanna said and, without waiting for an answer, sat in the chair beside Nick's.

"Our table's ready, Dee," Ted said, but Deanna didn't budge. He looked slightly annoyed but followed suit.

"We were just about to leave," Nick said, but Deanna was already talking to me.

"What a coincidence. I was thinking about you today. I said to myself, 'Gosh, Dee, you should've called Angela to see how she's doing.' So how are you?"

It wasn't hard to tell her sentiments from her voice. I felt as if she had caught me doing something shameful.

"I'm f-fine. T-thanks," I stuttered, crumpling the napkin that lay on my lap. My face was burning; my throat constricted. I was overreacting; I knew that. Deanna was close to Hannah, but whatever was between Nick and me wasn't Deanna's business. I was an adult, I reminded myself, and I wasn't doing anything immoral or illegal.

"How's your arm?"

"Arm?" I'd already forgotten about my broken arm. The cast had been removed two months ago. "Ah, t-that. As good as new."

Then Nick's hand touched mine under the table.

Not once did Deanna's dark, smart eyes, so much like her brother's, stray from mine. Her lips were slightly curved upward, but her smile stayed there, without reaching her eyes. It looked more like a grimace. I felt small and insignificant.

"Perhaps we can go out for lunch one of these days," she said.

Yeah. Sure. "That would be nice."

Deanna turned to Nick. "I haven't seen you in weeks. How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"I'm great. Just returned from Florida."

"I didn't know you'd been to Florida."

"You're busy, obviously. Ted had a conference there and I went with him. By the way, Mom said she hasn't heard from you in a while."

Their little bickering game continued for some time, until Ted took advantage of a brief pause in Nick and Deanna's conversation and said firmly, taking Deanna's hand, "Let's go, Dee, before they give our table to someone else."

Deanna threw him a dirty look, but he ignored it. He rose, tugging her after him.

"We should go, Angela," Nick said, and stood up. Normally, I'd wait for him to hold my chair; he had taught me that. This time, I jumped to my feet.

"Talk to you soon, Dee." Nick leaned in and kissed his sister's cheek, then shook Ted's hand.

"Good night, Deanna, Ted," was all I said. I turned and strode toward the cloakroom, leaving Nick two steps behind.

On our way to the penthouse I mentioned Deanna, but Nick just waved it away. I shouldn't be worried about her, he said. I would have been more than happy to forget the episode in the restaurant if it hadn't left me with an uneasy feeling that Nick would've preferred it if his sister hadn't seen us together.

***

The following day, Nick left for Austin. Carter Homes was opening an office in that city, and Nick would be spending three or four days a week there for the next few months."

I stayed at his place—he said he liked the idea of someone waiting at home for him.

It gave me hope, and soothed the anxiety that hadn't left me since the previous night. I couldn't shake off the feeling that the resolution was close. Good or bad, I didn't know.

"I love you, Nick Carter," I whispered to myself, laying that night in the semi-darkness of his bedroom and staring through the glass wall into the ink-blue night sky. "Who do you love?"

I hugged his pillow and cried. I cried because I was jealous of his possible feelings for Hannah.

I cried because Dee had been arrogant and dismissive.

I cried because Nick hadn't stopped her; Ted Wrangel had.

I cried because I'd listened to him and started dreaming big.

I cried because I wanted him. I wanted his babies. Well, not right now, but eventually. I wanted a big house with a wrap-around porch. I wanted to go back to school. I wanted to help children who stuttered to stop stuttering, and those with dyslexia to learn how to read and write before they turned twenty.

And now I was afraid because I knew, once you started dreaming big, there was no way back to small dreams.

So I cried a bit more.

***

When I heard the door opening in the early evening two days later, my heart jumped. Nick had returned a day early! I grabbed my robe and rushed downstairs to greet him.

Only to stop dead in my tracks.

Hannah Carter stood in the hallway, a suitcase beside her. Regal, tall, immaculately dressed. Composed, calm.

"I've come back, Angela," she said after a long silence. Her voice was soft, almost gentle. "You have to leave."

Something resembling a smile flickered across her face. In her deep blue eyes I saw amusement and pity.

"N-nick in-in-v-v-... asked me to s-stay," I stuttered, taking a step back. My throat was so constricted that each word felt like a small stab.

"This is my place," she said in a calm, patient voice, as if she were talking to a half-witted child.

"But you let Nick stay here."

"Him, yes. Not you. We divorced, true, but it's far from over between us. I made a stupid mistake, but I'll fix it. Nick will forgive me. I love him and he loves me. You need to go."

"D-does he know t-that you're b-back?"

"None of your concern."

"I'm not g-going anywhere bef-fore I talk to Nick."

Feeling like I was in a dream, I went upstairs and phoned Nick. The call went straight to his voicemail. I asked him to call me back.

My legs were heavy, my head light. I hastily gathered my clothes and accessories, working like a robot, keeping my brain busy with trivialities: I shouldn't have shoved my dress into my tote bag like that because it would get wrinkled. It cost me a week's salary. Where were my black stilettos that Nick liked so much? Which toothbrush was mine? Had I packed all my underwear?

I tried calling him once more. This time, I didn't bother to leave a message.

Hannah hadn't moved from her post at the entrance. When I approached, she opened the door for me.

"Are you sure you can have him back?" I said in a surprisingly clear voice as I stepped out. "What if loves me?"

I expected some superior remark, anger, sarcasm, rudeness. Everything except what she said, in a voice soft and infinitely said.

"Then... I'm going to be completely alone."

***

My bravado lasted until I arrived home, and then I fell apart. It was almost dawn when I finally fell asleep, clutching my phone in my hand, exhausted from crying, and waiting for Nick to return my call.

NICK

Hannah had returned to Denver and, in a way, into my life. Deanna, who'd never accepted the divorce as a definitive event, had called Hannah the same evening she'd stumbled upon Angela and me at the restaurant.

The divorce wasn't definitive in Hannah's mind, either. Yes, she had insisted on it, but at that time, she hadn't been quite herself.

In my mind, she had left me. She had wanted a divorce and rushed us both through it.

Now, she said she'd made a mistake. She said she loved me.

I believed her. Hannah never lied.

She said she understood what had happened between Angela and me. Angela had been the first woman I'd been with after the divorce, hadn't she? It was more like a need, like an affair, an attempt to prove to myself that life carried on.

It was more than an affair, I tried to explain to her. More than a need.

It happened, she continued, as if she hadn't heard me. I was lonely, she understood that, although she didn't try to find consolation in someone else's arms so soon after the divorce. She was only puzzled by the fact I could have an affair with someone like _her_.

"You can't say that," I said one evening two weeks after her return, when she repeated it again— _someone like her_. I knew where her opinion was coming from. Deanna had made sure I knew what she thought of Angela. "Neither you nor Dee knows Angela well enough to say anything about her, let alone something negative."

"I do know that your cousin was barely buried when she jumped into your bed."

"She was divorced. Or a widow, it doesn't matter. She left Eric long before he died. I was divorced, too. And I was in that bed, Hannah."

"You don't need to remind me of it." The words came out tortured and broken. Then she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Nick, please, think about it from her perspective. You're wealthy, smart, good looking. Not the type of man she would normally come across. She's as poor as a church mouse, she's not educated—"

"She's good-hearted and intelligent."

Again, Hannah didn't hear me. "You're quite a catch," she carried on. "You're more than she could ever hope for. What if she traps you by getting pregnant?"

I knew Hannah was hurt, but this was unfair. It was I who had a more than casual attitude toward contraception when I was with Angela. She often had to remind me to use a condom. Why? Hell if I knew. Perhaps deep inside, I believed I wasn't able to sire a child, in spite of the test results. It had to be me who was sterile, I reasoned. Hannah was perfect in every other way. How couldn't she not be perfectly fertile?

Or perhaps, some primal part of me needed proof that my seed was healthy and vigorous.

Or perhaps an even more primal part of me longed for a child more than I was able to admit.

"If you had a baby with her, it would kill me," Hannah whispered so softly that I could barely hear her.

"Angela's a decent human being, Hannah," I said, diverting the conversation away from the too-sensitive and too-confusing topic. "She's proud and brave." In fact, the two of them were not unalike, but I doubted Hannah would appreciate the comparison.

"If you say so. Still, she can't be more important to you than I am. She cannot, damn her!"

She was important to me, more than I showed her. In fact, I was crazy about her. I couldn't imagine my life without Angela in it.

But Hannah was important to me, too, even now, even when she wasn't my wife anymore. She didn't have anyone except me, Dee, and my parents. They loved her, and she loved them. Hannah had been orphaned and raised by wealthy but unloving relatives. She'd found her true family in mine.

I watched her sitting across from me on the sofa. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy from crying. She'd lost weight.

As if echoing my thoughts, she said, "I'll be completely alone. Again. It terrifies me."

She would always have me, regardless of what happened between us. I couldn't tell her that, though, in spite of my purest intentions, because at this very moment it would sound like pettiness.

"Hannah," I said as gently as I could, "you want children. You want them more than you want me. I can't give them to you."

"I moved here because of you. Please, don't leave me," she said with such desperation in her voice that it broke my heart. "I'll make you happy again. I promise. I don't want children anymore. Only you. We don't need to remarry, but I'm begging you, don't leave me, Nick."

I moved closer and took her in my arms, unsure what to say and do.

Hannah buried her head in her hands and sobbed quietly.

End of June

ANGELA

Two months after my memorable Friday visit to Nick's office, one of my big dreams came true. Only not in the order I wanted it.

" _Nick, I'm pregnant."_

He pales, then blinks several times. "You're what?"

" _We'll have a baby."_

He doesn't say anything, just pulls me against his chest. "Oh, God. A baby. Oh, my Angel!"

" _Nick, I'm pregnant."_

He looks at me as if I've sprouted a second head. Then his eyes move to my abdomen.

" _Pregnant?"_

" _Eight weeks."_

He comes closer and takes my head into his hands. "Pregnant. With my baby... My baby."

" _I'm pregnant, Nick."_

In his eyes I see shock, worry and hope.

" _But how? We used condoms every time."_

I give him a look. "Except one."

" _When you came to my office... Pregnant... With my child," he murmurs. Then a wide smile breaks across his face, replacing the confusion and disbelief. "I'll be a father. Oh, God, I'll be a father!"_

***

I played various scenarios in my head over and over again. They all had one thing in common—the outcome I'd hoped for.

Could I hope, though?

All of a sudden, our lives had become very complicated.

Hannah hadn't stayed at the penthouse—she'd returned to their house—but I'd stopped spending weekends there.

Nick asked me to be patient and give him time to put his life back on track. I understood that. He was an honorable man, with a strong sense of obligation. He was under enormous pressure from his ex-wife, from his family, from his conscience.

And now I too would add to that load.

He fell for me much harder than he was ready to admit; I knew that now, and that was where I put my hopes. Not that long ago, I'd wondered about Nick's feelings for me. But as my perception of myself had changed, I'd gotten most of my answers. I realized that I was worth his love as much as he was worth mine, despite all the superficial differences between us. On a much higher level, we were in perfect alignment, from ethical values to simple lifestyle choices. We knew each other's thoughts. Often, I'd finish a sentence he started. He knew what I wanted before I said it. We were attuned to each other's moods. The sexual chemistry between us was incredible. We were truly two halves of a whole.

Call it passion, call it love, call it a bond. We were not only highly compatible, but also in a perpetual state of 'neuroglia orgy' that Nick had called it once, laughing. It was like the sweetest, most irresistible madness.

Still. It was going to be a shock. It had been to me, and I wasn't still tied to someone else, uncertain if I should break that tie or not. The timing was wrong, and I worried about Nick's reaction. And I felt guilty. I couldn't stop thinking about how much this would hurt Hannah.

***

"Nick, I'm p-pregnant."

Nick had stopped by my place on his way to the airport for yet another trip to Austin. Now we were standing in my kitchen, the small kitchen island between us.

Like many dyslexics, I was excellent at reading people's emotions. At the moment, I wished I wasn't. I didn't like what I saw on his face.

For the longest time he didn't say anything, just looked at me as if assessing me. I saw disbelief, a flash of joy, a flash of anger. Worry. Betrayal. Hope. Love. Back to anger...

Say something. Please.

He finally moved his eyes from my face and fixed them on my abdomen. "You can't see it," I said. "It's only been eight weeks."

A checkered red-and-white kitchen cloth lay on the counter. I folded it neatly, pressing the edges with my palm, and then picked a few tiny specks of lint off it.

"Two months. You had to know it earlier. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did the h-h-home test. It was negative. It h-h-happens s-sometimes."

"Hannah said you'd—"

"I w-would what?" I said.

"Nothing. She'll be devastated."

This was wrong. I knew she would be devastated, and I was sorry about the pain I was going to cause her more than I could express, but this was about me, not Hannah. I said that to Nick.

The kitchen island between us felt like a continent.

"When? How?" he asked.

I looked at him. "When? When I came to your office. How? You d-didn't use a condom. You said you didn't have any. You said you'd p-pull out. You didn't." My voice rose a notch. "You came inside me! T-twice! And now you're asking me how."

Nick walked around the island and pulled me into his arms.

Oh, thank God.

"I'm not blaming you, Angela," he said. "I'm responsible, too. Even more than you. Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

No! No! No!

The rest of his visit was a blur. I remember him checking the time, raking his hand through his hair. Touching my lips, telling me again not to worry. He'd call me tonight. Asked me to tell him if I needed anything.

And then he was gone.

I wasn't able to think clearly. Perhaps I was wrong about his feelings for me. Perhaps he felt trapped. Perhaps he still loved Hannah.

Perhaps I was overreacting. Pregnancy hormones could do that to you.

I wasn't even sure what he'd meant when he said that we'd figure it out. He certainly didn't mean... No. He didn't.

Or did he?

It didn't matter. Having or not having a baby was my private decision, my own choice. He didn't have a say in it, and he knew it.

Did he feel trapped? If he did, then he didn't feel anything for me. If he loved me, he would know I wasn't after a husband. He would know I would never let myself be trapped in another loveless marriage.

I slumped down on the chair and buried my head in my hands. We'd talk. When he figured out what he wanted—and with whom—we would talk again.

In the meantime, I had to go somewhere. I couldn't stay here.

I'd go home, I decided. I'd never asked my mother for help, but now I would. I needed her. I couldn't bear to be so utterly alone. Scared. Confused.

I still had almost two weeks of vacation. I called Happy Hooves and spoke to Gabby. I asked her if it would be okay if I took a week off. Of course it would, she said, and asked me if everything was okay. I told her it was—not that she believed me—and I just wanted to spend some time with my mom. She made me promise to call her if I needed anything.

I sent a short text to Nick, telling him I was going to Texas for a couple of days to see my mother. It seemed pointless to leave him my mother's phone number. I was hurt, and I didn't want to talk to him before we were both ready to talk. Or maybe I didn't want to sit and wait for the phone to ring. I left a message and my spare set of keys in Haya's mailbox so she would know where I was, and asked her to take care of my flowers.

At the bus station, I bought a ticket to Dallas. From there I'd take another bus to Fredericksburg, where my mom would wait for me and drive us to Myra, about forty miles northwest. Our tiny farm was just outside the town.

My anger and hurt lasted long enough for me not to change my mind and get off at the first bus stop.

The rest of my voyage I spent alternating between quiet crying and dozing.

The Fairy-tale End

ANGELA

Sometimes it is necessary to step back in order to move forward.

Nick was in a meeting when my message reached him. "Don't go! I'm coming back. I love you, Angel," he texted back.

I was already on my way to Texas when he sent his message, though, so for a while I didn't know about it. I couldn't see it—I didn't take my phone with me. I had the cheapest of phone plans, so I couldn't use it outside the city.

What happened in those short hours?

It happened in a split second, Nick told me later when I asked him about it. "I knew that if I lost you, I'd lose part of myself."

He couldn't wait for me to return. He'd find me and bring me home.

A simple enough plan.

Although...

He only knew that my family was from Texas Hill Country. I'd never specified the exact place. I'd never told him my mother's last name, which was also my surname. He assumed that I was still Angela Holton; he didn't know that I'd taken back my maiden name when I left Eric.

It took him four days to hunt down Haya, who'd been out of town, and endure her long and unpleasant lecture before she told him I hadn't left my contact info with her. She eventually let him into my apartment. After a short search, Nick found my mother's name and her landline number in my old address book.

I was sitting with my mom on the porch swing when her phone rang.

My mom answered, nodded, frowned, smiled and attempted to interrupt Nick several times. Finally she said, "I'm flattered by your proposal, young man, but I'm not going to marry you. Try my daughter." She gave me the phone.

My heart was hammering against my ribcage. "Nick."

"You and your mother have the same voice."

"I know."

A long pause. Then he said, "Angela, I love you. With all my heart. I fell in love with you the moment I caught you sneaking out of my room that morning... Please forgive me. I want that baby as much as you. God, Angel, I never thought I would have a child."

I trusted him. Like me, Nick was incapable of lying. It didn't mean, though, that he was off the hook.

"Angela?"

"I'm here."

"If I lose you, I'll lose part of myself, Angel. I can't afford that. I love you so much."

"I know."

"Will you marry me?"

"I don't want to marry you. I don't want to marry ever again."

"The baby needs her father."

"Her?"

"I'm sure it will be a girl."

"She will have her father," I said. I was also sure that our first child would be a girl. "It doesn't mean that I have to be your wife. We can be together without that piece of paper."

"It doesn't matter to me as long as you're mine."

Mine. I liked that. I'd been his since our first night together. I'd be his forever. "I love you, Nick," I said. "More that you can imagine."

"I know, my Angel. I love you so much. I'm on my way to Myra. We'll talk about everything when I arrive."

It was the happy ending of our fairy tale that had started one stormy January night.

***

Only it didn't happen like that.

That was the ending conjured by my imagination while I lay in bed, motionless, right hand over my abdomen, thinking about Nick and our baby. The room was filled with shadows, but through the window I could see the peachy light of the early morning sky.

Peaches. The sudden breeze brought a swirl of their sweet fragrance through the half-open window. The end of June and beginning of July was the ripening season for Loring and Red Globe peaches in Texas Hill Country.

Strangely, their scent consoled me.

"Mamma?" I whispered, in case she was sleeping.

She wasn't. The rocking chair where she sat creaked. "Are you okay, love?" she asked, jumping to her feet.

"I am."

"Can I bring you something?"

"Yes. Peaches. Do we have peaches at home?"

She smiled at my silly question. "We always have peaches at home."

"From the trees beside the creek? They are the best."

"I'll go and pick some," she said, and turned toward the door.

"No. Don't go. Please."

"Then I'll phone Martha to bring you some." She kissed my forehead and resumed her post. "You know, when I was pregnant with you, I craved peaches," she said as she took the phone out of her pocket.

"A perfect craving for someone being pregnant in Myra."

She smiled. "Absolutely."

I smiled back and placed my left hand over my right.

The Real End

NICK

S _he is not_ _the right woman for you. She'll ruin your life. She'll trap you with the baby, mark my words._

This is bullshit, Dee, and you know it. Angela is the right woman for me. I love her. I. Love. Her.

***

I had a mental fight with my sister at twenty thousand feet on the flight to Austin, and won. I was ashamed that I had ever listened to her at all. Funny, but devastated as she was, Hannah had been more understanding than Deanna.

When my plane touched the ground, I had already come to my senses. I also realized that I might have done something unforgivable.

I'd betrayed the woman I loved with all my heart.

She'd fled to Texas. I'd called her, but she wouldn't pick up. For the next two hours I kept phoning her, until Angela's voice mailbox was full, and I couldn't leave any more messages.

She'd hear them sooner or later, I tried to reason. She knew I loved her. I knew she did. She'd known before me.

She'd forgive me my despicable behaviour and my crude words.

She'd phone me. Or email me. Worst-case scenario, she'd be back from Texas by the end of the week, and everything would be fine.

***

Four days later, there was still no word from Angela. I had to prolong my stay in Austin for a few more days. I started panicking. What if something had happened to her? I'd go see her right away—I was in Texas anyway—only...

Only I didn't have a clue where in Texas she was, except that it was in Texas Hill Country, which included, if memory served, about twenty-five counties. I didn't know Angela's maiden name. Or perhaps she was still using Eric's last name, Holton. Her mother's name was Helen, but I didn't know her surname. It had never occurred to me to ask Angela about it.

I knew her favorite color and what kind of music she liked to listen to. I knew her favorite toy when she was a child. I knew that, whenever she was confused or uneasy, her hands would become engaged in a subconscious battle with invisible wrinkles—on her clothes, on a blanket, on a cushion, whatever was nearby—smoothing them.

I'd known her for months, and I didn't know the basic facts about her.

It crossed my mind that it was because I'd tried very hard not to fall in love with her. And failed. Fortunately.

I called Bryce, a retired police officer who did occasional background checks for me, and asked him to try to find Angela Holton, or Angela Burns, in case she carried her father's surname, born twenty-three years ago in a damned little town in one of the twenty-five counties of Texas Hill Country.

Then I called Dee and asked her to go to Angela's friend, Haya, who, I hoped, was either at home or at the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. Or to Happy Hooves, to speak to—what were their names—Gabby and Harry. These three people were Angela's closest friends; they had to know where she was.

"What? No way!" Dee said angrily. "I don't care where or how she is. Why did she leave, anyway?"

I took a deep breath. It was time for some big revelations. "I don't care what you think of her, Dee," I said. "I love her. She loves me. She's pregnant. With my child. The child I never thought I'd have."

There was a long silence. "Oh, my God... Oh. My. God. Pregnant... But Hannah—"

"We wouldn't have gotten back together anyway. It's over, Dee. Hannah understands that."

"Oh God. I spoke to her yesterday. She said that you seem to truly love that girl. That... that... she wanted you to be happy. She hates Angela, of course, but she said..." Dee was talking with great speed, like she always did when she was confused. "She's an unbelievable human being, really. Hannah, I mean. She said, and these were her words, 'Under different circumstances, I'd like Angela.' Go figure."

"That she is."

"She'll always be my sister, and part of our family, no matter who you decide to marry, you know. But a child... Oh, dear God, Nick. You'll have a baby!"

"Will you check if Angela's back, then, aunt-to-be?"

She didn't say anything. I knew my sister well enough to imagine her facial expression. She would frown and blink, and chew on her lower lip as she processed the news. I heard her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then she smiled. I couldn't see her, but I knew my sister almost as well as I knew myself. It wasn't a big smile—her loyalty to Hannah was fierce—but a smile nonetheless. For me. And for the baby.

"I'll call you as soon as I talk to that friend of hers, Haya," she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice. "Or her employers." And then again, softly. "My God. A baby."

***

"She's still in Texas," Dee said when she phoned me later that day. "I spoke to Haya. Angela probably left her phone at home."

"Likely. She has some cheap crap that can't reach far." She'd refused my attempts to provide her with a better phone. Or a better car. Or a better place to live. Darn, she wouldn't even let me buy her a dress. "Did she leave her mother's phone number with Haya?"

"No. But Haya says that Angela's mother's name is Helena. Last name Werner."

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote it down. "Do you have her address?"

"No. Haya doesn't know where exactly Angela's mother lives. She only remembers it's a small town in Texas Hill Country—"

"I know that much!"

"And it starts with an M. Peaches grow there."

"Peaches grow in the whole fucking Texas Hill Country! Wait, I'm checking online." I frantically googled 'Texas Hill Country towns'. "Here. Marblefalls, Mason, Medina, Meridian, Mountain Home, Myra."

"Haya thinks it's a short name."

"Then Mason, Medina, or Myra."

"It's like a first name—"

"Mason, Medina and Myra are all first names, Deanna. You're not helping me."

"And it has a lot of ethnic Germans... Nick?"

"Right. Werner is a German surname. It's Myra, then! It says here that Medina and Mason are known for apples. Not peaches."

"Nick?"

"YES?"

"Haya told me some things about Angela. Maybe you already know them. I didn't. How could I, after all? We were never close while she was married to Eric."

"Shame on us."

"I was such a bitch. I'm so, so sorry."

"Are you talking about Eric and the beatings? I know."

"There is more. She's dyslexic, Nick. She couldn't read or write fluently until a year ago. Her employers became quite fond of her. They paid for the therapy that helped her learn to read and write."

Oh, Angel. Why didn't you tell me?

"Haya says Angela's smart and knowledgeable, in spite of her lack of education," my sister continued, unaware of my silence. "Well, I knew that much. She learned by listening to books, going to free lectures, watching TV. Now that she can read, she reads non-stop, Haya says. Did you see all the books in her apartment? Haya and I went over to look for Angela's address book or something else that would help us figure out where she went."

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

_Why didn't you leave the bastard when he hit you the first time, for heaven's sake? Why did you stay for so long?_ I'd asked Angela once. She'd said she didn't have a choice.

I'd thought it was because of her lack of faith in social institutions. But there was more to it. She hadn't had anyone to turn to for help. She'd been alone, unable to read and write, without money, without a job, without support. Her mother was miles away, and my family, myself included, had done everything to keep our black sheep Eric, and consequently everyone else related to him, at arm's length. To our shame, the two strangers—Harry and Gabby—and her friend Haya had been the only people she could count on.

"I'm so sorry, Nick," I heard Dee saying. "I hope Angela will forgive me."

"I'm not sure we deserve her forgiveness, but knowing her, she might forgive us nonetheless. She has a heart of gold. I'm going to Myra to find her."

"Do that, Nick. And tell her I'm sorry."

"You can tell her when I bring her home."

I disconnected, called Bryce and gave him Angela's mother's name. And then I was on the first plane for Dallas, where I rented a car and drove to Myra.

Less than half an hour later, Bryce phoned me back with Helena Werner's address.

***

I found their farm easily.

A plump, white-haired woman in a blue-grey dress emerged from the small house surrounded with bushes of white and pink roses. Holding a glass bowl filled with peaches in her hands, she watched me approach.

The woman was in her early sixties; she couldn't be Angela's mother.

"Er, I'm looking for Ms. Werner," I said. "Or Miss Werner. Angela."

"Ah! You must be Angel's boyfriend," she said, smiling. Her eyes were round and brilliant blue. "I'm Angela's godmother, Martha." She smiled, offering her hand. "Martha Vogel."

I shook it. Her handshake was firm, but the hand itself was small, warm and surprisingly soft. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Vogel. I've heard about you. I'm Nick Carter."

"Call me Martha," she said and added, motioning toward the bowl, "Helena asked me to fetch some peaches for Angel."

"Why do you call her Angel?" I asked, without knowing why. Maybe because she was _my_ Angel, and no one else's.

Mrs. Vogel looked at me as if I'd asked why the sun rose in the east. "Because she _is_ an angel. She just misplaced her wings somewhere. Everyone here calls her Angel."

"I do. Where is she now? I need to talk to her."

"She's in the hospital."

No! Oh, no! "Why? What... what happened?"

"She started bleedin' badly yesterday afternoon. Helena took her to the hospital. They'll keep her there for a day or two."

"Did she—"

"Her doctor says if the bleedin' stops, there's a good chance that the baby will stay. It has slowed down. Almost stopped."

I couldn't breathe. I yanked the first button of my shirt and took a deep breath.

"You all right, son?"

"I'm all right. Bleeding. But why? How?"

"She'll be okay, you'll see. They did the ultrasound. The baby's alive. We all saw its heart beatin'."

"You _all_ saw?" I asked.

"Well, Helena and myself were there. Willie, my husband. Suzy, my granddaughter. And Adele, my daughter-in-law, but she's the nurse there anyway." She shrugged. "The doctor that I mentioned is my son. And besides, Angel asked us to be with her."

I was the only one who hadn't been with her while she'd waited to see if our baby was alive.

"She looked much better this mornin', that she did," Mrs. Vogel continued. "She'll stay in bed for the rest of her pregnancy, if it needs to be. Happened to me with my first. Had three more after that. She'll be fine, you'll see."

"Are you sure?" I asked, desperate for any reassurance from this round, sweet woman who looked like a fairy godmother from a child's picture book. Her son was a doctor, after all. She had to know something, didn't she?

"Oh, I'm sure." Mrs. Vogel motioned with the bowl in her hands. "She's cravin' peaches, sweet girl. That's a good sign."

"Where's the hospital? I must go see her," I said and turned to my car.

"Why, of course you must. Leave your car here; you're not in the proper state of mind for drivin', son. I'll take you there. Here," she said and pushed the bowl into my hands. "You give her this. She'll enjoy them better if you bring them to her."

The New Beginning

NICK

Carefully, I opened the door and stepped into the room.

"Nick," Angela said softly. "I knew you would come."

"If I lose you, I'll lose part of myself, Angel," I said. "I won't let it happen."

She smiled at me. "You know, you said that to me already."

"I did?"

"Yes. In my dreams. Now, why are you standing over there? Come here."

I was beside her bed in two strides. "I brought you peaches, Angel."

She patted the place beside her. "Sit here with me," she said, and moved her legs to make room for me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and only then became fully aware of another woman in the room. She stood behind a hospital recliner, watching me intensely. Angela's mother, no doubt, because they looked so much alike.

I rose to greet her, remembering my manners, but she stopped me, placing her hand on my shoulder.

"Nice to meet you, Nick," she said, her gaze softening a bit. "I'm going to the canteen to grab a cup of tea. I'll bring you some. You stay here with Angel."

As if anything could move me from here.

I nodded, keeping my eyes on Angela. She looked sleepy, and she was covered up to her breasts with a white hospital sheet, but her skin had a lively peaches-and-cream glow.

"Angel," I started, but she shook her head.

"Not now. We'll talk later. I've waited for you so long. I thought that as long as I didn't remove my hand from my womb, our baby would be safe. Until you came and took over. Now I can rest."

One small hand emerged from under the cover. The other one was still invisible. "Give me your hand."

I did, and she took it and set it over her hand that rested on her abdomen under the sheets. Then she placed her other hand on top of mine.

Underneath our joined hands, a tiny dot pulsed with life.I couldn't feel it physically, but I sensed it with every fibre of my being.

My child.

I closed my eyes for a moment and saw swirls of orange, pink and gold.

And I knew my daughter would have blue eyes and rosy skin. And her hair, her hair would be light, the color of molten gold.

"Or brown eyes and dark hair," Angela whispered.

Then she smiled and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

BLIND DATE

**Passion knows no rules, nor place, nor time.**

– _Vatsyayana, Kama Sutra_

W _e are in_ _the freight elevator, kissing._

I'm aware that we have very little time before the elevator stops and the doors open. I feel panic mixed with a thrill at the prospect of someone seeing us. He is shirtless and my dress is rolled up to my waist. I look down my body and see the neatly trimmed triangle of my curly light auburn pubic hair, my bare legs and my red-painted toenails.

" _Relax. We have plenty of time," he says, although I hadn't voiced my concern. "This is a tall building and this elevator is slow."_

I want to tell him he is wrong, that the building has only six floors, and we shouldn't be in this elevator at all since we aren't carrying cargo, but his lips are sweet and hot against mine and I can't make myself break the kiss.

His hands cup my breasts, rubbing them gently. My nipples harden.

My fingertips travel across his broad chest and hard stomach. "You are so smooth. I love how your skin feels under my touch," I say. And then my hands move down, to the buttons of his fly.

His rock-hard erection fills my hand and I gently stroke it. A single drop of thick, clear fluid leaks from the small slit and I smear it over the head with my thumb. "You are so big." I sigh with a satisfied grin, lowering myself to my knees. The tip of my tongue moves lazily from the base toward the wide top and back. "I'm not sure I can take all of you," I say, but then I take him nonetheless. The delicious, salty and tangy taste hits my palate and I swirl the tip of my tongue over the engorged head.

He moans and pulls out then lowers me to the floor. Above my head, on the ceiling, a big red number sixteen slowly flips to seventeen. How strange, I think. Or I say. How many floors does this building have?

" _As many as we need," he says. His hands grab my knees and push them apart, and then I feel his hard, hot flesh inside, filling me with his length and width. My wide-open eyes find his, the two moss-green slits framed with long black lashes. His mouth claims mine in a long, luscious kiss..._

***

I fancy myself to be an organized person, but it was one of those days when nothing seemed to go as planned. I was already in the parking lot, a tote bag in one hand, a 350-page manuscript in the other, my rain coat draped over my shoulder, when I realized I'd left my purse in the office. Not just my phone, or my wallet, or my keys. The entire purse.

"Back already, Ms. Carter?" Berendt, the security guard, said, entering the loading bay right on my heels. "I saw you leaving the building five minutes ago."

I shrugged and smiled as we walked toward the freight elevator. "Forgot something upstairs. Have you locked the floor already?"

He pressed the call button for me. "Not yet. I'll do it on my last round."

I glanced at the big, bright number four on the floor indicator. The faint beeping sound coming through the elevator shaft suggested someone or something was holding the doors open.

"It's not out of service, is it?" I asked.

"Probably the cleaners," Berendt said. "They block the door to vacuum and mop. Why don't you use the staff elevator?"

"It's only quarter to six, I know, but I think this binder qualifies as cargo," I said and winked, alluding to the message on the red plank affixed to the wall beside the elevator: _Freight and cargo trips only, Monday to Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Passengers WITHOUT freight or cargo please use staff elevator or stairways._

Then I blushed, remembering last night's dream. I quickly turned away and pressed the call button once more. "Bad karma, Berendt. I've been stuck in the staff elevator more than once."

***

My preference for the freight elevator had nothing to do with the fact that the other elevator in the building, the one assigned to the staff _without_ cargo, was prone to malfunctioning. I prefer using the big, old metal box—the single ugly thing in this gorgeous Art Nouveau edifice in downtown Denver—because Edward Morgan, the man from my hot dreams, used it too. The freight elevator was the only place where I had an occasional chance to be alone with him, if only for the short and silent ride between the ground and the fifth floor, where his office was.

Edward Morgan was the new owner of Urban Gardens, the landscape architecture firm that shared the building with Crimson Ties, a small erotica publisher I worked for. Maybe 'shared' was too ambitious a word. Once the occupant of the whole five floors, Crimson Ties had been reduced to a handful of employees squeezed into several small rooms on the top, sixth level, with claustrophobically low ceilings and squeaky floorboards. The Urban Gardens people enjoyed the rest of the building.

Urban Gardens had also been hit hard with the recent economic downturn, teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. Only a miracle could have saved it. And then, six months ago, no less than that had happened: Morgan Design Studios, a famous architectural firm from Boston, had bought Urban Gardens. Edward Morgan, one of Morgan Design's partners, had come to Denver to help with the transition. He didn't shilly-shally. Backed by Morgan Design's reputation and the fresh flow of money, he secured several big projects in China and the Gulf countries and quickly turned Urban Gardens'—now called Morgan Landscape Design—situation around.

The success had come at the expense of Crimson Ties: we were about to move out of the building to make more space for the resurrected landscape architectural firm.

The prospect of Crimson Ties moving to the outskirts of the city didn't upset me much. I could work from home. Or I could quit and start looking for a job that better fit my education. But whenever it crossed my mind I might not see Edward Morgan again, I would be struck with a strange feeling I was about to lose something that could have been mine if only I knew how to claim it.

It was an irrational sentiment since we'd never exchanged more than polite greetings. At the same time, it made perfect sense—he was the first man to have awakened my numbed sexuality after my divorce two years ago. He'd made a crack, no matter how small, in the block of ice that had held my heart in its cold grip for a long time.

***

It had taken me a while to become aware of Edward Morgan. Who knows how many times I'd passed by, too deep in my sorrow to notice him nearby? It was a bit of a revelation, then, when one fine morning, while he was holding the freight elevator door so I could get in, my stomach fluttered and my heart did a silly little somersault. That same night I brought myself to a shattering release and cried long and hard after that, the first time in a long time. The following morning, I woke up with puffy eyes and a light headache, but some of that dreadful feeling of being dead inside was gone.

Thinking later about that epiphany in the elevator, I realized I must have been a total mess not to notice a man of such captivating presence for so long.

Rather than being conventionally handsome, Edward Morgan was an impressive man: strong head, aquiline nose, square jaw. His hair was dark, almost black, and curled against the nape of his neck. It looked surprisingly soft and sleek, like silk, and it made me wonder how it would feel between my fingers. He had remarkable eyes: moss-green, with rings of gold around the pupils, framed with ridiculously long and thick lashes. He was only a few inches taller than my five feet nine, but his big-boned, hard body radiated great physical strength and vigor that added a few inches to that remarkable frame.

The fine lines around his mouth and the first grey at the temples suggested that he was probably in his late thirties.

Underneath his intense masculinity and self-confidence, I sensed warmth, love and pain. A few times I caught him chatting and laughing over the phone, his sharp face softened, his eyes smiling. He looked much younger then and I wondered who he'd been talking to. Other times I would glance at his eyes and see in them the lurking shadows I knew all too well: hurt, longing, loneliness, physical need. I carried them in my own eyes and they stared at me every time I looked in the mirror.

***

I wanted to know more about Edward Morgan, but I didn't have anyone to ask. I was relatively new to Crimson Ties. When I took the position of a part-time editor, I was saving myself from destructive boredom and despair. It turned out I enjoyed my job more than I'd thought I would and I liked my co-workers fine, but I had no desire for extensive socializing. In return, my colleagues let me be. Unhappiness isn't contagious, but in the last two years, I learned that people instinctively stay away from dispirited individuals.

Edward Morgan enjoyed enormous respect among his employees and it seemed he genuinely cared about them, yet little was known about his private life. Was he married, single or divorced?

I had a feeling he lived alone. Not because he didn't wear a wedding ring— many married men didn't. There was an aura of 'singleness' around him, a thing hard to explain, but let's say his shirts were too immaculately pressed, the way dry cleaners did them; he didn't bring a lunch, preferring to eat out. There was always a pile of papers, blueprints and folders on the passenger seat of his sleek black Mercedes, which was usually in its parking spot in the garage when I arrived and still there by the time I left. All signs of a well-to-do bachelor, not a married man.

It was all circumstantial; I knew that. Edward Morgan seemed rich enough to spare his potential wife ironing and cooking, and provide her with her own car so she wouldn't mind the messiness of his. After all, I hadn't ironed my ex-husband's shirts, nor had I prepared him a lunch box in the morning.

But then, Edward Morgan's marital status was not of great relevance at that point. In spite of the flutters in my stomach, the pounding of my heart and the almost forgotten ticklish feeling between my legs, every time fate put us together in the freight elevator, I would panic then try to cover it by putting on a stern face, looking away and remaining mute. I masked my insecurities with faked but believable indifference, even though my heart wanted to jump out of my chest. By some twisted logic, the more I was attracted to him, the more distant I tried to look.

I wanted to move on with my life. I really did. I was tired of being alone and unhappy, yet I was still hesitant to leave the false safety of my emotional void.

No risk, no pain.

Or perhaps, shy and a bit old-fashioned, I was waiting for Edward to make a move. And perhaps he was waiting for my discreet permission to proceed.

His eyes would often stop on me. Sometimes there was a hint of a smile in their golden-green depths; sometimes they would narrow and darken with suppressed passion and raw hunger. I would tremble from inside, then my heart would threaten to burst out of my rib cage, but that whisper of his emotions would disappear as quickly as it had appeared, and I would wonder if it'd been real or if I'd imagined it.

Did he feel the same silent draw? Had he also been hurt? Did he have someone after all? A wife, a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Did he have erectile difficulties that kept him away from women?

The latter—about EDs—I didn't believe. The former, well, I might never know. In a few days I would be out of this building and Edward's life.

I wish I could have back the time I'd wasted thinking about life instead of living it. I wish I'd smiled at this man, and seen him smile back at me. I could've asked him to go out for coffee. It shouldn't have been that difficult. What was the worst thing that could have happened? He could have turned me down. So what? I would've survived. I had survived much worse.

My eyes stung from the tears that I wouldn't shed. Not now. Not here.

"Ms. Carter, are you okay?"

I blinked and looked at the forgotten Berendt. "I'm okay," I said and smiled, wishing I could throw myself on the old Dutchman and cry like a child.

"The cleaners are done," he said. "The elevator's coming down."

"Finally."

"I'm sorry that Crimson Ties is leaving," Berendt said. "I'm going to miss you guys."

"We'll miss you too, Berendt."

"Have you seen your new office space?"

Before I could answer, the loading dock door opened and Edward walked in, a coffee cup in one hand, an unopened bottle of water in the other. I felt my heart catch in my throat.

He gave me a small nod and said hello to Berendt.

I managed a tiny smile and found something very interesting on the wall above his head.

The elevator stopped with a chime and the door opened. I stepped in, followed by Berendt. Edward threw his coffee cup in the garbage and joined us.

Berendt asked him if he was staying late. Maybe only for an hour or so, Edward said, because he had a meeting later.

I listened to his smooth, calm baritone. His voice always gave me butterflies and I couldn't help but turn away and close my eyes, imagining him, as many times before, whispering seductive words into my ear.

I watched him from under my lashes. Life sometimes had a really weird sense of humor: it gave me an unexpected elevator ride with Edward, which could easily be our last one, and then put a chaperone with us.

Oh come on, Hannah. As if you would do anything even if you were alone.

***

The elevator stopped on the second floor and Berendt got off. Wishing us both a nice evening, he continued walking down the corridor.

So we were alone after all, I realized with a slight delay, in a kind of mental slow motion, as the familiar panic mingled with euphoria set in. Edward was mine for the next thirty seconds or so. I had to think of something to spark a conversation. Could I do better in half a minute than I'd done in several months?

I glanced at the floor indicator. Third floor. Twenty-five more seconds. Think. Think.

We seem to keep bumping into each other. I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Hannah. And you're Edward, right?

Fourth floor. Fifteen seconds.

Do you want to go for a drink after work? Maybe one of these days?

Fifth floor. Five seconds before the elevator would stop, the door would open and Edward would get out of it and out of my life.

I turned to him and smiled, even opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out and my last chance slipped away like sand through my fingers.

I wanted to scream.

Maybe I would have, but at that precise moment the elevator jerked to a stop and the light went off. The emergency light bar below the floor indicator flickered several times and died, leaving us in complete darkness. I issued a small, surprised, "Oh!"

Edward moved, not much, only one small step. Closer to me or away from me, I couldn't tell. "You okay?"

I wasn't. I was.

"I'm okay," I said, a touch of a tremor in my voice. I wasn't afraid of the dark, nor was I claustrophobic, but I had never experienced both sensations at once. The unexpected change of scene had left me unhinged and disoriented, a sort of Alice-in-Wonderland out of space and time.

I heard a rustle. "It won't last long," Edward said in a reassuring voice. "It happened to me a few days ago, although the lights stayed on. Do you have a flashlight with you by any chance?"

A flashlight? Really? I turned in the direction of his voice, pushing back nervous laughter that was bubbling in my throat. "Halogen, LED or head lamp?"

His deep, resonant laugh anchored me to reality, whatever the reality was.

"I was thinking more of those keychain or pencil lights," he said. "Never mind. Can you find the emergency button? It's in front of you, on the bottom of the panel."

I lowered the binder, my bag and my coat beside me, took a step closer to the panel and started touching and pressing buttons until I hit the one that connected us with the call center. I told the woman, who introduced herself as Wendy, that there were two of us stuck in the elevator and that there was no light. She asked me for our names and the building address, and advised that we stay calm, assuring us help would be there as soon as possible, but it might take a while.

"What do you mean?" Edward asked her.

"There's been a major power outage downtown," Wendy said. "I'll call you with any updates."

From below, Berendt banged on the elevator door. "Ms. Carter! Mr. Morgan! Is anyone else stuck in there with you?"

"Only the two of us," Edward said. "But there's no light in here! Can you check why? The building has a generator."

According to Berendt, nothing was wrong with the generator since it provided enough light for other employees to get out safely. Why there was no light in the elevator he couldn't say. But we didn't need to worry; he would stay in the building.

Soon the rush of people leaving the building was over.

"Do you have your phone with you?" Edward said, his deep voice penetrating the dark silence of our small space. "Some cell phones have a flashlight."

"I left it in the office. I was on my way to pick it up. Are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Morgan?"

"Not particularly, Ms. Carter. There are worse things than being stuck in a dark elevator with you."

"That's reassuring."

I'd made him laugh again. "I'm trying to compliment you," he said.

"Then thank you for the compliment. Where's your phone?"

"I left my phone charging on my desk."

"Do you need to call someone? Maybe the call center can do that for you. Shall I call them again?"

He didn't answer right away. "No, not at the moment," he finally said. "I hope we'll get out soon. What about you?"

I had a blind date later that night, but it wasn't something I wanted to share with Edward Morgan. Nor was it something I was looking forward to either. My friend, Elizabeth Chatwin, an architectural conservator, had set me up with her friend and business associate. His name was William, an art dealer and the owner of a commercial gallery in downtown Denver. The moment I'd agreed to meet him, I'd regretted it, but Elizabeth made me promise I wouldn't bow out. I'd owed her that much—she'd invited me to stay with her after my divorce and helped me make it through that horrible time.

Well, who knows, maybe this outage would solve my problem without breaking my word.

"Ms. Carter? Do you need to call someone? Your family?" Edward repeated his question.

I shook my head, forgetting for a moment that he couldn't see me. "I live alone."

I heard him move in his corner as if shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

I probed the floor with my foot to find my things. Picking up my coat, I tucked it over the hand rail on the shorter side of the elevator then lifted my bag and pushed it into the corner.

"What are you doing?" Edward asked.

"Tidying up," I said, trying to remember where I had dropped the binder with the manuscript. "I don't want to trip over something."

I no sooner finished the sentence than my foot hit the binder. I squeaked, lost my balance and flew forward, right into Edward's arms.

"Careful... There," he said, stabilizing me.

But he didn't release me, not even when I was firmly on my feet. We stood still, his arms around me, my fingers clenched around his upper arm. Under the thin, cool fabric of his shirt—it was pale green, my brain recollected, as if that was of any importance—I could feel his muscles, well-defined and hard.

I didn't know how long we stood like that: a few seconds, a minute, a small eternity. Time seemed to stop. Then I felt his head coming close; I could breathe in the warmth of his skin.

I knew what would happen next. I felt it in every cell of my body, in every fiber of my being.

Edward's lips brushed over mine in a soft, warm caress, a gentle probing into my compliance. A whisper of a kiss, an invitation I could accept or reject.

One part of my mind urged me to wiggle out of his gentle embrace. The other one dared me to stay.

Don't think, Hannah. Just do it. It's only a kiss.

Edward was waiting for me to decide, his head close to mine, his hot breath brushing over my cheek. It smelled sweet, of cinnamon and brown sugar.

I placed my hands on his chest, feeling the fast, hard beating of his heart under my palms.

"It could be a bad idea," I said and lifted my head.

"It could be," he murmured and pressed his lips against mine.

A tide of warmth surged through my body as the long-neglected physical need broke out. I felt a sweet tugging in my womb and the rush of warm wetness between my legs. The pleasure was so acute that I cried out.

"Oh God, Hannah," he whispered, silencing my moan with another kiss.

I liked the sound of my name on his lips. "Did you know my name before I gave it to Wendy?"

"Of course I did," he said warmly, his hands cradling my face. "And you knew mine."

I turned into that touch and kissed his palm. "I did."

His head dipped and he kissed me hard and deep, with aching longing that matched my own. His hands slid down the sides of my body, unhurriedly, inch by inch, his fingers learning its contours. They brushed over the outer swell of my breasts, cupped them and held them for a moment, as if feeling their weight on his palms. I could feel them swell, the tender skin becoming tight and sensitive. My nipples hardened, hungry for his touch.

The slow seduction of his hands continued across my ribcage, over my stomach, down to my hips and abdomen, eliciting small, kittenish moans from my throat. His lips didn't break contact with my skin, licking and kissing my temples, the sensitive place behind my ears, my neck, my chin, my mouth, my eyelids. His hands circled my waist, almost closing around it, traced the curve of my hips, stroked my outer thighs, coming closer and closer to the place where I wanted them. But never quite there.

If he only knew how much I needed it. Years had gone by since I'd last made love.

My chest rose and fell, my breathing ragged. I whimpered and panted, desperate for that touch. I pressed against him and shuddered at the incredible sensation of the pressure of his cock, rock-hard and big, on the softness of my stomach. I rubbed myself against him to relieve the maddening pulsing between my thighs. Or to enhance it, I wasn't sure.

I felt lightheaded, as if the oxygen was leaving my body. My knees buckled and my foot slipped on the slick metal floor. Edward's arms tightened around me, holding me in place. "Let's take off your shoes," he said. "You'll be more stable."

I lifted first one foot, then the other and Edward removed my shoes, throwing them into the corner. I let out a sigh of relief as my feet touched the cool ground.

"Damned darkness," Edward murmured onto my lips. "You're too beautiful not to be seen."

I was grateful for it. If it hadn't been for the darkness, we probably wouldn't be doing this now. It protected and liberated us. And it sent all my other senses into overdrive. Every kiss, every brush of our skin, every sound, the scent of our bodies, the sweet taste of his mouth... everything was enhanced, in some sort of sensory high resolution, clear and sharp and rich.

"You're doing fine, darkness and all," I said. "Let your imagination fill in the blanks."

"My other senses are fully employed, have no fear," he said and kissed my neck. His hands sneaked beneath my skirt. "What do we have here? Ah. Stockings with lace. How sexy. But then, I could have bet you were not a woman who would wear pantyhose."

Good then that we hadn't met a few months ago, I thought, remembering the time when my lingerie hadn't been that sexy at all.

He caught my lower lip between his teeth and bit it gently. "They're not black, if memory serves. Rather dark grey. As well as your shoes: soft-grey suede pumps."

"Your attention to detail is incredible, Mr. Morgan."

"That's what I was telling myself, Ms. Carter: Pay attention to detail and the big picture will take care of itself." His lips were again soft and tender on mine, kissing the corner of my mouth. "Now help me fill in those blanks you've mentioned. What's the color of your bra?"

"Smoky grey," I murmured. "Silk and lace."

"You like grey?"

"Some shades of it, yes."

"And I bet you wear some miniature matching panties."

Miniature indeed. "It's, er, a thong."

"A smoky-grey, cheeky thong against your rosy skin. Lord have mercy." He made a low, growling sound, and tugged my shirt from the waistband of my skirt, pulling it up. I instinctively thrust my chest forward, craving his touch. He gave my nipples a light rub, and then, sliding his thumbs beneath the edge of my bra, pushed the cups away. My heavy, swollen breasts spilled out of the bra. His head dipped as he drew a nipple into his mouth, sucking and tonguing it with mind-blowing skill, sending jolts of pleasure directly between my legs.

"Oh God."

"This excites you, does it?" he said, breathing heavily.

"Yes."

"If I could see you now, I'd ask you to play with your breasts for me. Would you do that, Hannah?"

"Yes..."

"Your breasts are perfect. Beautiful. Heavy. Big and firm. And your nipples, they must be pink, given your fair complexion and red hair, right?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I knew I was going too fast, but I just couldn't slow down. "They're pinkish. Yes. Oh."

"Do you like when I suck them? Tell me," Edward whispered into my ear, squeezing and kneading my breasts and rubbing his palms against their hard, sensitive peaks.

"I-I do."

His lips returned to my breasts, drawing me further into his sensual spell. I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle my sobs. _Oh God. I won't be able to stay quiet._ His fingers played with my other nipple, tugging, rolling and pinching it, before his mouth and fingers switched breasts.

I rocked my hips against the hard column of his cock and breathed in short, raspy gulps of air.

His hand reached down and grazed over my needy, wet flesh behind the narrow strip of thong, stopping on my hard, swollen clitoris and rubbing it ever so gently.

I came with a harsh cry. I felt Edward's hand over my mouth, murmuring something that I couldn't hear over the rush of blood in my head, then his mouth replaced it, silencing my moans with a passionate kiss, which triggered a string of post-coital shudders, each of them strong enough to be called an orgasm in their own right.

When it was over, I slumped against Edward, limp and spent, unable to move.

He smoothed my hair and kissed my forehead. "You must be beautiful when you come."

The darkness was good, I thought drowsily; it covered up my shyness and confusion, yet I wished I could've seen him fondling and sucking my breasts and stroking my pussy.

As my heart slowed down, I became aware that Edward hadn't stopped kissing me: my forehead, my cheekbones, the column of my neck, the back of my hand resting on his shoulder. A shower of kisses, as if he couldn't get enough of me. The kind of kisses true lovers share after lovemaking.

True lovers' kisses? Lovemaking?

We were not true lovers, though, were we? We probably never would be. Relationships didn't start with hot sex in the elevator.

"Hannah?"

Two gentle hands cupping my face, the soft lips kissing mine.

No regrets, no ifs, no whys, Hannah.

"It's your turn now," I whispered and ran my palm over the taut muscles of his chest, his stomach and further down to his bulging erection. My fingers found his belt buckle, unfastened it and unbuttoned his jeans. I heard them slide down his legs, the buckle hitting the ground with a rather loud metal-to-metal thud.

"I'm not sure if we can go, you know, all the way," I said. "Unless you have a condom with you. I'm healthy, but... but there are other ways, right?"

He pressed his forehead against mine and laughed softly. "Other ways, huh? Hold onto that thought, will you? I'm healthy too, but as a matter of fact, I do happen to have a condom in my wallet."

"Phew! What a relief," I said with a light chuckle, ignoring the silly pinch of jealousy in my stomach. He certainly wasn't carrying a condom around hoping to use it with me. Or maybe I was just envious because he apparently had a sex life and I didn't.

As if he could read my thoughts, he said, "It's not what you might think. It's been sitting there for a long time. But I sure am glad I have it."

"I didn't think anything at all. But it's good to have it with you. Just in case you get stuck in an elevator with a woman who doesn't carry such things as a flashlight and condoms."

He laughed and reached into his pocket to take out what I guessed was his wallet. After a quick search, a rustle of wrapping foil told me he'd found what he was looking for. "What do you think is a condom's shelf life?" he said.

"A year, maybe two. I don't know."

"We're probably fine then."

"I'm protected," I said to ease his mind. _With the most efficient birth control method—the inability to conceive._ "Don't worry about that part."

He shoved the condom into the breast pocket of his shirt, took off his jacket and threw it in the corner.

My hand trembled—from excitement, from long suppressed desire, from the burning need that was building in my core—when I reached into his boxers and enclosed his shaft. I inhaled the whirl of Edward's arousal and licked my dry lips, eager to taste him.

His cock was big and thick; my hand could barely close around it. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the tender skin stretched over rock-hard muscle, the embossed net of veins and arteries, the engorged head. My other hand curved around his balls and gave them a squeeze.

"Oh, yes, baby. Just like that."

It was; I knew that. I was putting the years' worth of longing into my every touch and every caress.

With some difficulty, Edward pulled my tight pencil skirt up. His hands ran down my abdomen, and further down my thighs, before he placed them on my ass and gave it a quick kneading. The narrow strip of the thong rubbed against the crack between my cheeks, making me hiss in pleasure.

I threw my head back and pressed it against the wall. The cold aluminum felt good against my damp hair and hot scalp. Edward pulled the thong aside and, parting my labia, slid a finger into my sex, slowly and gently. A long, slightly calloused finger, unknown to that part of my body. Yet it felt as if it belonged there.

"You're so wet, Hannah," he whispered into my ear. "I can't wait to put my cock inside you."

Edward's low, sexy voice, his explicit words sent a new rush of moisture between my legs. I moved my head and he caught my mouth, his tongue pushing in, passionate, hot, demanding.

His finger thrust in and out a few more times, slowly and playfully. He retreated, then came back with two fingers, going in only two knuckles deep, stimulating my G-spot. I circled my hand around his flesh and followed his rhythm, pushing back the tide rising in my core.

"God, you have the tightest little quim, Hannah."

Edward pulled out, leaving me with an odd feeling of emptiness, as if he'd removed something that belonged there. I let out a small cry of protest.

I heard him tear the condom wrapper.

"Let me," I whispered and reached for his hand. I took the small disk between my fingers and slid it onto his cock.

"Wait," he said. He stepped out of his jeans and pushed them into the corner. "I just can't do it with these fucking pants around my ankles."

I removed my stockings, and then unzipped my skirt and hurled it in the general direction of my other things.

Edward hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear and pulled down. "And you won't need these either. Step out."

He yanked my underwear down, placed his hands on my hips and gave them a small twist. "Turn around and bend, Ms. Carter. Grab that handrail."

I did as I'd been told, widening my legs for better leverage. I felt his erection nudging between my thighs, teasing me. His big, strong hands stroked my shoulders, my back, the lobes of my ass, before they curled around my waist and cupped my breasts.

"You have a magnificent body, Hannah. So soft and curvy. I want to be inside you." Yet he didn't seem to be in a hurry. He continued with his exploration, as if we had all the time in the world, brushing the tip of his penis against my opening, making me shiver in lust.

Impatient, I reached for his cock and rubbed its head against my swollen flesh. He let me play for a while, while he smoothed my back and buttocks then gently took my hand, brought it to his lips, planting a kiss on the palm, and put it back on the rail.

I let out a deep sigh when he parted me with his fingers and pushed slowly inside, spreading me, widening me, letting my insides mold around him.

At first it stung a bit, my so-long-untouched inner tissues reacting to this sweet invasion, but the burning sensation vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Edward pulled back, leaving only the broad, swollen tip inside me then entered again, repeating the same movements once, twice, and again, and again, each time going a bit deeper.

He bent and kissed a spot between my shoulder blades, then another one a little lower, then another one. His fingers played with the tips of my nipples, still sensitive from his sucking and licking minutes before, his palms cupping my breasts, squeezing and kneading them.

My breathing thickened into a series of short moans, each one louder than the preceding one.

"You make very sexy noises, Ms. Carter. I like them very much," he murmured, grabbing my hips. He pulled back once more, then surged forth, sheathing himself to the hilt.

I'd held that magnificent cock in my hand only minutes ago, but it didn't prepare me for the experience of being impaled on it. It felt incredibly long and hard, but its thickness made me feel stretched to my limits and utterly full.

I bit my cheek to silence my sob of pleasure.

He stopped. "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned. "Am I hurting you?"

"No! Just don't stop," I cried, pushing myself onto him to find the lost friction. "I'll die if you stop!"

He grabbed my waist and started thrusting in long, hard strokes, reaching deep inside me. I didn't know how it was possible, but it seemed that he grew harder, bigger and thicker with every stroke.

"Milk me, baby. Your pussy is so tight around my cock. Oh, fuck!" His breathing became erratic, the movements of his hips faster and faster. He was close.

"You go," I said, panting. "I'll catch up."

He slid a hand between us. "No, baby... It's more fun if we do it together." His finger found the engorged nub at the entrance of my quim and rubbed it ever so slightly.

Behind my closed eyes, the world compressed into a tiny, pulsating hot-white spot and then exploded into a million fragments of light. Deep inside me, Edward grew still and then shuddered in a series of long, hard spasms, the hot burst of his seed filling the condom.

***

"How long have we been here?" I asked some time later as we sat on the floor, our backs pressed against the wall, Edward's jacket under my bum.

He'd put his underwear on; I'd fixed my bra and put my skirt on. I didn't bother with my panties, nor did I know where my shoes were.

"About half an hour, maybe forty minutes. Are you thirsty? Do you want a sip of water?"

"Yes, please."

He grabbed the bottle from the corner and opened it. "Here, have some," he said and pushed it into my hands.

I swallowed a long swig and passed the bottle to him. He took a few small gulps, put the lid back on and replaced the bottle.

I drew my legs to my chest and placed my head on my knees. The luscious whiff of our lovemaking tickled my nostrils: the tanginess of my juices and Edward's semen mixed with faint traces of sweat, latex and oil.

My body was heavy and spent, but my quim, still hot and wet, quivered with residual orgasmic tremors. Or perhaps with a new wave of sexual need; my hunger wasn't sated yet. I fought a desire to rub my clitoris and release the pressure.

"Come, lean on me," Edward said, breaking the silence a moment before it dragged out too long. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me gently to his chest. "I'm a cuddly type, you know."

"Me too," I said and after a moment of hesitation, relaxed into his warm, protective embrace, resting my head in the hollow below his collarbone.

"How long have you been working here?" he asked, his fingers gently moving up and down my arm.

"Less than a year," I said. "It's a... transitional job."

"And before that?"

"Before that, I didn't work for a while. And before that, at the Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies in L.A. I'm an art historian. A paleographer, to be precise."

His fingers stopped their leisured caressing. "Ah. I see," he said slowly, a trace of amusement in his voice. "Where did you study?"

I smiled. An erotic fiction editor with a background in paleography—a little twist I bet he hadn't expected. "Philology at Berkley, art history in Italy, and then paleography at King's College in London."

"You have a PhD?"

"Yes."

"Impressive."

"And if you wonder how I ended up editing erotic fiction—"

"I don't. Life happens."

I pulled myself upward. I thought that Edward would remove his arm from my shoulder, but he didn't. "I moved to Denver when I got married," I said quietly. "And then, as you say, life happened, resulting, among other things, in divorce and this job."

"I know you're divorced."

"How do you know?"

"I asked around."

"I wasn't aware people here knew about it. Can't recall anyone asking me if I was married or not."

He let my comment go. "You don't have children, do you?" he asked instead. "You said you didn't have family here."

"No. I don't have children," I said quietly, with some stiffness in my voice. I didn't like talking about children.

If Edward noticed it, he'd decided to let it go. "Do you have siblings? Parents?"

"My parents are dead. I lost them in a car accident when I was young. I was the only child."

"How old were you?"

"Seven. My aunt and her husband raised me."

"Were they good to you?"

They hadn't abused me. They'd just never let me forget I was a burden. They'd managed to take control of almost all the money and properties left to me by my parents. "It could've been much worse," I said.

He kissed my hair. "I'm so sorry, Hannah. Do you have any other family?"

"No. Not really." My neck and muscles instantly become rigid. I was terribly, terribly lonely. I'd only had my husband, and I'd lost him to another woman. My closest friend here was my ex sister-in law, Deanna, who stayed loyal to me in spite of the fact that she quite liked her brother's new wife.

Edward felt my tension and changed the topic. "Where do you live?"

"Not far from here. I have a small condo."

I also had a penthouse, which was part of my divorce settlement, along with an ultra-expensive car and enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life. My ex-husband had been more than generous. Yet, I'd never lived in the penthouse; I couldn't make myself do it knowing Nick and his then-girlfriend had lived there. Besides, I'd never liked it. The car was parked in the garage; the money in my bank account lay more or less untouched.

My modest editor's salary covered my basic expenses. I hadn't been born filthy rich, nor had I particularly enjoyed it when I was, so going back to a simple, self-supporting lifestyle was easy and liberating.

I did miss my job and the academic environment I was part of. It wouldn't be too difficult to put my career back on track in spite of the five-year gap. But it would likely require moving to another city—experts in medieval secular manuscripts and rare books were not in high demand here—and I wasn't ready for that. Not yet. I hadn't finished picking up the pieces of my scattered life and gluing them together.

My editing job was perfect for my current state of mind and energy level: it was easy and fun, and it provided me with a necessary escapism.

I felt Edward's lips on my temple. "Hey, Ms. Carter, is everything okay? You've been quiet."

"My name is Hannah Reid," I said softly. "Carter's my married surname. I've just applied to change it."

"Hannah Reid." He repeated my name so tenderly that my heart squeezed. "It suits you better."

I chuckled. "I agree. It's more me."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-three. You?"

"Thirty-six. You look younger."

"You too."

"I hope my question didn't make you too uncomfortable."

I sighed. "No. I just don't talk about myself often. That's all."

I heard him move. The tips of his fingers caressed my face and neck; they brushed over my breast. "Your skin is so smooth. Your lips are so soft. I've been dying to kiss you for a long time."

"What was stopping you?" I whispered, moving my head close to him until our lips touched.

"I'm skittish; didn't you notice that?"

"Skittish? You? This is hard to believe, Mr. Morgan."

"You were sending me mixed messages, Ms. Reid. That would unnerve even the bravest man."

I stroked his face with the back of my fingers. "I'm kinda glad then that you gathered enough courage."

"And I'm kinda glad for this outage, you know." One hand gripping the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist, he kissed me with sweet, aching gentleness. I moaned when he deepened the kiss. From thrill, from promise. And although it didn't make much sense, from novelty. As if I'd never been kissed before.

But then, in a way, this was a new experience. No one had kissed me like _that_ before.

When he broke the kiss, I fought to control my breathing. Edward didn't let me catch a break; instead he yanked me onto his lap and made me straddle him. With a deep sigh of pleasure, I moved my hips against his erection, feeling him hard and ready.

He grabbed his jacket, tossed it on the floor behind me and lowered me onto it. Nudging my legs apart, he settled between them and dipped his head.

"I've been dying to do lots of other things to you, Ms. Reid."

_Oh yes!_ "Like what, Mr. Morgan?"

"Like going down on you," he said, pressing his hot lips to my knee. "Kissing you." A luscious kiss on my other knee. "Tasting you." More small, delicious kisses on my thighs. "Licking you. Eating you."

A whiff of his breath over the hot, swollen flesh of my sex; the smooth skin of his face at the juncture of my thighs, the pressure of his fingers on my hips. I shivered, waiting for that first sweep of tongue over my inner lips. Instead, Edward's mouth landed on the soft cushion above my pubic bone and started sucking and kissing it, sending jolts of pleasure to my clitoris and drawing small whimpers of need from my throat.

"I want you to come on my tongue, Hannah," he murmured and moved down to kiss my damp, pulsating flesh. His tongue traced over my cleft, exploring the most secret parts of my body with tender thoroughness and great skill.

He pushed a finger inside me, then two, thrusting in and out while he continued tonguing my clit in a slow, steady motion.

I let out a sob, low and fraught with an overwhelming yearning to belong, to be loved, to be one with another human being, body and soul. My back arched to meet his thrust. I buried my hands in his hair, keeping his head firmly between my widely spread legs.

My breaths came fast and hitched. Sweet tingling curled in my abdomen, pleasure swiftly climbing toward its peak, each torrent more intensive than the previous one.

I reached the top and tumbled over it, biting my lips to silence my cries as the release washed over me, wave upon wave.

As my climax subsided, I became aware that Edward's lips were still on my sex, a trail of delicate caresses on my post-orgasmic, throbbing flesh and the tender skin of my inner thighs. Then they moved up and he kissed my Venus mound once more, ending this chapter of our little adventure at its starting point.

"You taste wonderful," he said, lifting his head, his voice deep and thick with arousal. Bracing himself on his arms, he lifted his torso. The pressure of his hard cock against my still sensitive middle part felt wonderful. "Here, try it."

He brought his lips down to mine, kissing me deep and hard. His mouth tasted salty and buttery, with a touch of sweetness. I'd never tasted myself before. I liked it.

"Now I want to taste you," I whispered against Edward's lips. "Stand up."

Giddy with a sense of unrestrained joy and almost unbearable lightness, I knelt in front of him and freed his magnificent erection. Edward drew in a sharp breath. I stroked him in slow motion, feeling him tremble under my fingers.

Strange, but already his cock felt familiar. My fingers recognized its length and width, the long, bendy run of its dorsal vein, the softness of the skin stretched over the hard core. Marble covered with taut silk. I ran my thumb over the little slit, oozing with pre-cum. My lips came forward, kissing the engorged head.

I breathed in its earthy and musky scent mixed with a faint trace of some expensive-smelling body wash trapped in his pubic hair.

A low, guttural sound came out of his chest.

Tucking my hand under his balls, I gave his cock a series of soft, airy kisses and licks, running the tip of my fingers along its length. I let it slide into my mouth and kept still for a moment, to feel it and to allow him to feel me.

"You feel like fucking paradise, Hannah. Suck my cock, baby, deep and hard."

The excitement carried me away and I closed my eyes, licking and sucking his cock with great passion, with hunger and deliberate control, flicking my tongue over its head, rubbing it, stroking it, savoring its texture, smell and taste.

A deep, sensual sigh escaped from my lips, sending vibrations through Edward's cock, and he grew even harder in my mouth. His scrotum drew up tight; his breathing became hard and ragged. His hands came down on my head, but he didn't try to take control of my movements; he just stroked my hair and my face, letting me choose the rhythm and depth of the penetration.

My body hummed with arousal. The tickling warmth unfurled in my belly; my clitoris swelled and pounded with desire, sending lusty little jolts to every part of my body. My breasts swelled; my nipples pebbled. Overwhelmed with the heat and physical need to be filled, I let out muffled moans, squeezing my legs and clenching my inner muscles to relieve the unbearable pressure. God, I had to slow down. If I continued, I'd come just by sucking him.

A sharp crackling sound came from the floor panel. We froze.

"Mr. Morgan? Ms. Carter? This is Wendy again. From the Control Centre. Are you two all right there?"

"We're all right," Edward said in a carefully neutral voice, a remarkable deed given the circumstances. "It's just hot in here."

I let out a soft chuckle and gave him a few deep and hard sucks.

"You little hellcat," Edward said, his voice a soft murmur, intended for my ears only. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed deep into my mouth. "Don't you dare make a sound, Hannah." Then, clearing his throat, he said aloud, "Any idea how long this is going to last, Wendy?"

"The roads are in chaos. It might take an hour or so. Is there anything I can do for you? Ms. Carter? Do you want me to call someone?"

Edward pulled out of my mouth to let me answer.

I made a tiny whimper in protest. "No, thanks." My voice came out a bit strained, but Wendy's imagination had to be quite wild to figure out the real cause. "Let's hope it will be over soon."

Edward bent and whispered into my ear, "Really? Already tired of me?"

"No, I'm just warming up," I whispered back and took him in again.

He laughed softly. The voice from the outside world continued with the update that neither of us cared about. "The power is back on in some parts of downtown, but not in your area. The traffic lights are still down."

"It is what it is," Edward said, once more in a conversational tone, with just an appropriate touch of resignation for Wendy's sake, all the while gripping my head and deepening his thrusts at the same time. "Ms. Carter and I will manage somehow. We'll call you if we need anything."

"Okay, then. Talk to you soon," Wendy said, her voice disappearing from the dark, warm reality that belonged only to Edward and me.

"Wait," he said, pulling away. "I want to be inside you."

He knelt in front of me and crushed me to his chest, his mouth claiming mine in a ferocious kiss. He lowered me to the floor, jerked my skirt up and, grabbing my thighs, pulled me forward. "Wrap those lovely legs around my waist, Hannah," he said in a deep, husky voice and shoved his hands under my butt, positioning me for penetration. His fingers found my opening and parted my creases.

He rammed himself inside me. My cry mingled with Edward's deep groan into a single sound of primal joy of becoming one.

He moved, thick and impossibly hard inside me, in deep, hard strokes, withdrawing almost completely then rocking me back onto his cock. The pleasure crested higher and higher and my body trembled. Over my own moans I heard Edward's heavy breathing and low growling in his throat.

His thrusts grew faster, his breathing heavier. "Let go, baby. Let go."

"I can't. Not yet."

"Oh, yes, you can. Come for me, Hannah."

"Edward," I whispered—or screamed—I didn't know. I heard our hearts beating, our breath thickening, our ragged moans, our soft sobs. I heard him calling my name, the sound of it rough and dark with passion, and then I started climaxing, loudly and violently, in a series of seemingly endless spasms.

Edward tightened and stilled and then spilled inside me in long, hot spurts.

***

When my senses returned, I was still lying on the floor, Edward's head resting on my chest, his hands gripping my thighs. He was buried deep inside me, still hard. I gave his cock a little squeeze. It responded with a little jerk and we both laughed.

I smoothed his hair, soft, silky and damp on my fingers. "I was too loud, wasn't I?" I said. "Do you think that Berendt could hear us?"

"Does it bother you?"

"I guess it's too late for that."

He chuckled. "Don't worry, Ms. Reid. This is my private property. You have my permission to be loud."

My fingers stilled in his hair. "What do you mean by 'your private property'?"

"Don't stop, please. That feels so good... Morgan Design never rents the space for its studios. We bought this building along with Urban Gardens. It's easier this way."

"How many studios do you have?"

"This is the seventh." Edward rolled onto his back, pulling me atop him. "You know, I came to Denver by chance. My father should have been here, but he had a ski accident in February. Broke his leg. Then my mother couldn't take time off because she had scheduled surgeries. She's a doctor. And my father wouldn't go anywhere without her. My brother Branwell and his wife were expecting their third child, so it wouldn't be fair to send him here for six months or so."

"Is he your only sibling?"

"Yes."

"So I almost missed you."

"Almost. It wasn't a good time for me to leave Boston, no matter how temporarily. It was even more inconvenient for Bran. But it worked out better than I expected."

Temporarily? I braced myself on my palms. "You haven't moved here to stay, have you?"

_He is going back_.

There was a short silence. I wished I could have taken back my question. I really didn't want to know. I didn't want to care.

Then why did I feel like crying?

"My job here is almost done," Edward finally said. "What about you? Are you thinking of going back to California?"

I swallowed down a lump in my throat. "No, not really."

"Don't you want to work as a paleographer again?"

"Very much. And I will. Eventually."

I tried to lift myself up, but Edward pressed me back to his chest. "Hey, don't go. Stay, just a little bit longer."

"I have to, er, clean myself."

He was unaware of my mini-meltdown. "Let me," he said, rolling me back on the floor and pulling out. Thick fluid oozed out from where we had been joined. It tickled and stung a bit.

From what I imagined was the pocket of his jeans he produced his underwear and wiped me clean, slowly, tenderly, with aching care, kissing my knees and my belly.

When he finished, I pulled myself up and started searching for my thong.

I heard Edward pulling his jeans on and fastening his belt. He laughed. "It's a funny feeling to wear denim on a bare arse."

"I can't find my underwear."

"Here," he said and put the tiny piece of silk in my hand. "It was in my pocket."

I put it on. The fabric was slightly damp but warm, infused with Edward's and my scents. Like the air in the elevator, as a matter of fact. "It smells like sex in here," I said. "They will know."

"They won't. Don't worry."

"On the other hand, I don't care," I said with flimsy nonchalance, trying to cover the hurt in my voice. "Next week Crimson Ties is moving out. I'm not sure that I'll keep working for them."

I hadn't fooled him. He closed the distance between us and put his arms around me. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing. Our new offices are almost an hour's drive from my place," I said, offering what I thought would be a conceivable explanation for my sudden change of mood. "It's inconvenient for others, too. We didn't want to leave. See, on my floor, you're not very popular."

"I'm not trying to win a popularity contest, Hannah. What are you going to do?"

_Why would you care?_ You're only temporary here. "I can afford not to work."

"How come?"

"I divorced a very rich man."

Another short silence. "Nick Carter, from Carter Homes? Was he you husband? I've heard about him."

"That's correct." Apparently, you couldn't live in Denver and not hear about Nick Carter, his company and its generous contributions to the community.

"But you said you live in a small apartment?"

"That's correct, too. But I'm not exactly poor and I don't depend on this job. My colleagues don't have that luxury, though," I said in an unnecessarily sharp voice and withdrew from his embrace. He didn't try to stop me.

"I didn't take away their jobs, Hannah."

"I know. I'm sorry," I said, scolding myself for my childish outburst.

I gathered my belongings, fixed my blouse and skirt, and sat on the floor. I squeezed my legs. For the sake of my uncomfortably full bladder, I hoped they would get us out soon.

"Why did you divorce? Do you mind if I ask?" Edward said, lowering himself near me. I could hear his arm rising, as if he wanted to put it around my shoulder, but then he changed his mind and let it drop to his side.

I took a deep breath in, held it for a while and exhaled slowly. "I couldn't get pregnant, although medicine doesn't have an explanation for my infertility. We were slowly drifting apart until we were both unhappy—me because I couldn't conceive, and Nick because he stopped loving me, but couldn't leave me. I had only him. I neglected my career and moved here with him, so he felt obligated to stay with me. It's the wrong reason to stay with someone, but he stayed anyway. He couldn't leave me so I left him. To free us both, although it didn't look like

"You still loved him?"

"At that time, yes. After we divorced, he started seeing another woman, the young widow of his cousin. I though it was a fling. I wanted him back, but it was already too late. He was head over heels with her."

"Did he have affairs when you were married?"

"No, no. He isn't that type of man at all. With that girl... well, they found each other while they were both going through difficult times. She had a hell of a marriage with Nick's cousin. He was an abuser, a gambler and an alcoholic. She left him. He died in a car accident the same day she was granted a divorce. Nick was alone and heartbroken. I still think that at the beginning they more needed than loved each other."

"And after that?"

"She fell in love with him, and he with her, only it took him a bit to realize that. Then she got pregnant and he married her. They had a baby girl. I know Nick's a terrific father. And,"—another deep breath—"Angela was born to be a mother. Nick's happy again. And that's okay. No matter what, I didn't want him to be unhappy. Does it make any sense to you?"

"It does. And that's very noble of you to say that."

I shrugged. "I don't know about that. It used to hurt a lot, that's for sure."

"But you got over it."

I had. I didn't know how and I didn't know when—maybe long ago, or maybe that day a few months ago when I'd spent seven hundred dollars on my new lingerie or maybe only an hour ago—I only knew I had. I felt it deep in my heart.

"I hated Angela. Of course I did. I couldn't help it. But then she almost lost her baby. And..." I sighed. "I went to church, first time in eons, fell on my knees and prayed for her and their child. I don't know if He listened to me, but Angela delivered a heathy, full-term baby girl."

"You're a remarkable human being, Hannah."

"As I said, I want them to be happy. So that I can be, too."

"My wife was very young when we married," Edward said, closing his arms around me. "I worked a lot and she was lonely. And then she got pregnant. I was over the moon; Sandi was never happier. Two weeks before the due date she was in a car accident and died."

I gasped. "Oh, God. And the baby, too?"

"No. Alice survived. She's four now." His voice trailed off. Underneath my head, his chest rose and fell. I could hear the strong thumping of his heart.

I lifted my hand and stroked his face. "You don't need to talk about it, Edward."

He took a deep breath. "It's okay. Things don't go away if we avoid talking about them. The police came to my house to tell me. I rushed to the hospital. Alice had already been delivered by C-section and she was fine. Sandi briefly regained consciousness; she knew the baby had survived and that she was well. And then she made me swear on everything that was holy to me to take care of Alice. I didn't understand why she was asking me that; she knew how much I wanted that child. But she was dying and I thought... I thought she needed that reassurance to go peacefully."

I heard him running his hand through his hair. He was trying to keep his voice steady, but every once in a while, his control would slip and pain, sorrow and regret would break through.

"I was devastated, but Alice kept me going," he continued. "But when she was six months old, a man came claiming that Alice was his daughter. And she was. Sandi had had an affair with him and gotten pregnant. He'd left Sandi when she told him. I was absent from her life so much that I didn't notice anything: neither that she was unhappy with me, nor that she'd had an affair, and that she was heartbroken after that. She'd stopped enjoying sex, or she would avoid it, and I thought, well, I don't know what I thought. That things would go back to normal when I didn't need to work so much or once the baby was born. I pushed her into that man's arms."

I brought his hand to my lips, kissed his palm and rested my cheek on it. "We make those choices for ourselves, Edward. Sometimes they're not even wrong. Sometimes they are. There are no rules."

"I know. I forgave Sandi easily. It was much harder to forgive myself. But I did. I had to, for the sake of my daughter. And my own future."

If I had met someone with whom I was more compatible than I was with my ex-husband, I thought, someone like Edward, would I have ended up in his arms? It wasn't unimaginable. I couldn't blame Nick for falling in love with Angela.

I'd loved my husband, but we had very little in common. I didn't belong to his world and he didn't understand mine. Neither of us were happy, simply because we couldn't fulfill each other's expectations.

Angela was so perfect for him. They had each other, and that was only fair. I had a chance to find my second half. The three of us were fortunate. Edward had lost his wife, but had his daughter.

Or did he?

"What happened with Alice?" I asked.

"I was ready to fight tooth and nail to keep her with me. Fortunately, the man who fathered her made it easy: he didn't want his daughter. He wanted money to stay away from her life. So, I paid him, made sure that he didn't come for more, and adopted Alice."

"I'm so glad."

"She's so smart and beautiful," he said in a warm voice. "She already reads and writes."

"Is she here with you?"

"She's with my parents in Boston, getting spoiled rotten. I fly home every Thursday evening to spend three days with her. She's going to kindergarten this fall. That's why I have to be back home by August."

There was so much love in his voice that my chest tightened. What a story: tragic and triumphant at the same time. An innocent girl, who could have died, or ended up abandoned or unloved, had gotten such a wonderful father and a family that loved her dearly. He had to have been talking to her on those occasions when I'd caught him with a wide smile on his face.

"Does Alice know you're not her biological father?" I asked.

"She's still too young to understand that. One day, I'll tell her. She's my blessing. If we ever get out of here, I'll show you her picture."

"I'd love to see her."

"You yearn for a child, don't you?"

"I do." _Oh god, I do._

He kissed my forehead. "Branwell couldn't have children with his first wife. They were both perfectly healthy and fertile. For some reason, they were not biologically compatible. They divorced and then each married again. Now each of them has three kids. Don't give up your hope of having children, Hannah."

I smiled. "I can't give up. I simply can't."

I pressed my head against his chest and closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids I imagined a path, sunny and bright, unfolding in front of me like a carpet.

***

"Hey, baby. Wake up."

I opened my eyes. Loud voices and heavy steps were coming from above.

"Someone's here. Come on," Edward said and extended his arm to help me to my feet. They're gonna pull us up to the fifth floor, it seems. Who knows when the power will be back."

Not a moment too soon, according to my bladder.

Oh God! I quickly fetched my bag, stuffed the binder in it and put on my coat. No time for stockings. Where were they anyway? I found one shoe and put it on. "The condom! The wrapper? Where are they?" I whispered in panic, abandoning my search for my other shoe.

"In my pocket, don't worry," Edward said calmly. "Hey, come here." He pulled me to himself and stroked my hair. "I have a question."

The noise from outside became louder. "Hurry up, then," I said, barely hearing my own voice over the racing beats of my heart. "They're almost here."

"They're not going to take me away," Edward said, laughing. "Just before this box got stuck, you wanted to say something to me."

"I did? You're sure?"

"I'm sure. You looked at me and you were about to say something, but you changed your mind at the last moment. And then the elevator got stuck and the light went off."

"I can't find my shoe."

He crouched, found my shoe after a short search, then grabbed it and pushed it into my hand. "Here. So? What did you want to say? Or ask?"

"Well..."

"Hurry up, Hannah, he said with a chuckle. "They're almost here."

I took a deep breath. He wasn't going to stay in Denver, but he wasn't going back to Boston tomorrow either. "Okay then," I said, balancing on one leg while putting the other shoe on. "I wanted to ask you if—"

I didn't finish. The elevator jerked hard and moved upward, lurching me forward against Edward. The lights flickered back. We squinted and blinked against the sudden onslaught of brightness, and then looked at each other in bewilderment.

The heat rose from my neck to my cheeks as I looked at the smiling face of the man with whom I'd just shared some of the most intimate moments of my life.

"Well, hello, Hannah."

"Hello, Edward."

"Your question, Hannah? What was it?"

The door opened. "You okay, miss? Sir?" asked a man from the elevator company. He held out his hand to help me out. Behind them stood two of his colleagues and the smiling Berendt with two plastic water bottles in his hands.

"Good to see you guys. We're perfect," I said and turned to Edward. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to go out for coffee with me. I mean, one of these days. I know you're not free tonight."

I didn't wait for his answer. I fetched the water bottle from Berendt and dashed toward the washroom.

"Hannah, wait!" I heard Edward's voice behind me.

"I can't. I'll catch you later," I said without turning.

***

Back in my office, I dug out my phone from my purse and turned it on. Several missed calls and two texts from Elizabeth, all of them friendly reminders about my date tonight.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," I murmured. "It's not gonna happen. Not tonight."

It was seven-thirty, and I still had time to make it, but I just couldn't go. I would bring Edward with me, in my thoughts, on my skin, inside me. I would smell of him, my lips would still tingle from his kisses, my body would yearn for his. It would be wrong to spend the evening in the company of another man. This day belonged to Edward.

I tapped on Messenger and found William's text from yesterday, with the time and place of our date that would never happen.

_I was stuck in an elevator during the outage. Just got out. I'm not going to make it tonight. I'm sorry_ , I typed and pressed the send button.

A moment later I heard a 'ping'.

Got stuck in downtown, too. Please don't cancel. Relax about the 'date' part. Elizabeth's a newlywed and over the moon so she thinks everyone else should be. I need your professional opinion of a book that I've recently acquired.

Darn. _How about tomorrow?_

I'd like you to see it before tomorrow. Please, Hannah. It's very important. You'd be doing me a big favor.

What do you have?

Possibly the 1492 ed. of Decameron.

I almost dropped the phone. _Where are we meeting?_

My gallery, 9:00. Thanks a mill, Hannah.

I have to go home first. Is 9:30 OK?

It was. He typed in the address and thanked me again.

***

I took the stairs down, stopping at the fifth floor. Edward wasn't there. I checked the other floors, but he was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably been caught up with something, I told myself, swallowing my disappointment.

His car was still in its spot. I briefly considered leaving him a message on the windshield, but then decided against it.

It was his turn.

We hadn't only had sex today; we had shared a beautiful and precious intimacy of souls. We'd talked about our pains, exposed our vulnerable sides, and conquered some of our fears and doubts. If Edward felt I'd touched him as deeply as he had touched me, we'd meet again. If not, well, then it wasn't meant to be.

I forced my mind to Elizabeth's friend and the book he wanted me to evaluate. If we indeed took the romantic part out of the equation, this could the beginning of a beautiful business relationship.

I drove out of the garage and into a night wrapped in rain and street lights.

***

Love indeed knows no rules, nor time, nor place.

When you're ready, it will find you, especially with a little push of a talented matchmaker friend.

Even in an art gallery.

Or in a pitch-dark elevator, stuck between the floors.

***

When Edward opened the gallery door to let me in, a big smile on his face, I just stood, dumbfounded. He pulled me in and towed me, still speechless, to his office at the back.

He poured us two glasses of scotch, pushed one into my hand and clinked it with his. "To outages and elevators. Come, let's sit on the sofa and I'll explain everything to you."

I finally found my voice, but the first thought that crossed my fuzzy mind was about Boccaccio's book. "So, the Decameron was a decoy?"

"It wasn't. I have it here. I'll show you later. And I do need your opinion about it."

"Who the hell are you? What's your name?"

"Edward William Morgan. My family and friends usually call me by my middle name."

I took a hefty gulp of scotch. It made my eyes water and burned my throat, but cleared my thoughts, replacing the initial shock with a feeling that this was not the end of a short, sexy affair in the elevator, but rather the beginning of something meaningful and wonderful. "Now, when did you figure out who I was?"

"When you said you were a paleographer and that you studied in Italy. Elizabeth told me you were friends from your Masters' studies in Rome. She said your name was Hannah, that you were an expert on medieval secular manuscripts, and you're divorced and currently unemployed. And that you're brilliant and gorgeous, without going into details." He took up a lock of my hair and twisted it around his fingers. "If she'd mentioned you had Titian-red hair, the deepest blue eyes, and the roundest ass, I would have put two and two together. Hannah's not that common a name."

"Hmm. I'm glad I didn't disappoint you. Although, you still haven't seen my ass. You only touched it."

His hands moved to my butt and squeezed it. "My imagination filled the gap, Ms. Reid. But I plan to see it soon. And perhaps..." He paused and gave me a devilish smile. "Never mind. I'm eager to see all the parts of you I had the pleasure of loving in the darkness, that's what I'm trying to say. Anyway, I guess Elizabeth didn't have a clue about your editing job, did she?"

I shook my head. "She told me you're here to open a new gallery. Did she know about Urban Gardens?"

"I believe I mentioned we were about to incorporate a landscape architecture firm from Denver, yes. But mostly we talked about the gallery."

There were five Morgan Galleries across the continent, he continued, and they were part of his family enterprise. William oversaw that part of the business. Together with his father and brothers, he was involved in the Morgan Design business as well. Once in Denver in his father's stead, he took the opportunity to open a new gallery.

"Are you an architect as well?" I asked.

"I have a degree in art history as well as in architecture."

"Why didn't you tell me you were my date when you realised who I was?"

He tucked his finger under my chin and tipped my head. "We shared something rare and precious. We started opening up to each other. I know you were reluctant to tell me about that blind date and I was afraid, I don't know, that the magic would be lost, once you realized I was your date. I wanted to tell you when they freed us, but you ran away, and I had to check the building with Berendt. When I finished, you were already gone. I was typing you a text when yours came through."

"And how do you know I was hesitant to meet you?"

He took a deep breath. "I was alone, Hannah, for a very long time. I was tired of it. When Elizabeth mentioned her beautiful and smart paleographer friend, I was intrigued. Intelligence can be as sexy as a gorgeous body. I wanted to meet you. But you kept finding excuses. You didn't even ask Elizabeth for my last name or the name of my gallery, am I right?"

I shook my head. "Otherwise I would have connected the dots. I didn't want to go on a date with you, Edward. I wasn't ready. Or I thought I wasn't."

"Don't feel bad,' he said and winked. "At one point I lost my interest, too."

"Oh. Why's that?" I asked with an impish smile.

He cupped my head and kissed me until I was dizzy. "I was smitten with an erotic fiction editor, whom I started bumping into way more frequently than could be coincidental."

I held back my tears, but then I cried a bit nonetheless, when he told me what had drawn him to me: the pain in my eyes I'd tried so hard to hide; the mirror image of his own past anguish, and that he wanted nothing more than to take it away and bring the smile back to my face.

"You would've met me tonight, wouldn't you?" I asked, sniffing.

"Yes, I would still have met you, because Elizabeth made me promise her that. Besides, I wanted to offer you a job. You don't come across an expert on rare books and manuscripts every day."

He pulled me into his lap and made me straddle him. I kicked off my shoes and closed my arms around his neck. He ran his hands over my jean-clad thighs. "Your stockings, from the elevator. I have them."

I laughed. "I couldn't find them. Don't tell me you snatched them as a souvenir."

"I had that smoky-grey thong in mind for that purpose," he murmured against my lips. His hands closed around my waist and lifted me against his erection. "What are you wearing tonight?"

"A pair of grandma's knickers," I said, with a straight face. "Those that come up to the belly button. I thought it would be a business meeting, you know."

"No big deal. They're coming off anyway."

"Or we can turn the lights off."

"Not a snowball's chance in hell, Ms. Reid."

"Agreed. Edward, er, William." I stopped. "What should I call you?"

He lowered my head and kissed me. "Doesn't matter. I like the sound of my name on your lips, no matter which you use," he said, lifted his head and kissed me tenderly.

"Elizabeth never mentioned you were from Boston," I said, sometime later. "Does she think you're here to stay?"

"I don't think so. She skipped that detail, maybe thinking you wouldn't agree to meet someone who was here only for a short while."

She was right; I wouldn't have, but it was irrelevant now. "Well, I met you," I said. "And I'm glad, even if you—"

He placed his fingers across my mouth. "I'm here for the next few months, Hannah. After that, who knows? You might want to move to Boston. Or Alice and I could move to Denver. I kinda like it here. It brings out my inner Westerner." He slid his hands under my butt and lifted me. "Come. I want to see those granny panties. They're my big turn on."

"Where are we going?" I said, looking for my shoes.

"You don't need them. I have an apartment upstairs. We should get to know each other better, don't you think?"

BEST FRIENDS & OTHER LOVERS

A Christmas Story

December 8

Christmas was sneaking up on me once more.

I'd spend it with my family, like many Christmases before. I was fortunate to have loving parents, a great brother, a sister-in-law who I'd grown to love despite the bumpy start, and my little niece, Haya. In two months, I'd have a nephew, too. Christmas with my family would make me feel loved and blessed.

It would also make me more aware of my singleness. I loved my family too much to be jealous of their happiness; I only wished I could have what they so effortlessly did: love and compassion.

Oh well.

I paused for a moment with my task to check on my progress. Almost done, although I couldn't say if I liked the new color of my walls or not. The room looked different, and that was enough.

If only Ted could come with me, I thought as I carried on with my project with renewed vigor, eager to finish it. But my best friend, who'd made many previous holidays bearable, was going to spend Christmas with his Canadian family branch.

It would have been our last Christmas together anyway. Next year, Ted might be out of any holiday combination if he went ahead and married his almost-fiancée, Diedre Fairbank. ( _Almost_ because he had bought her a ring but hadn't proposed yet.) Or he might not. I was cautiously optimistic that he would realize, before it was too late, that she wasn't the right woman for him.

Diedre wasn't the first wrong girlfriend Dr. Theodore Wrangel had dated, nor the first I didn't like. I'd lived through many other wrong or unlikable ones. This was the first time, however, that I'd decided to keep my mouth shut. I'd support his choice even if it ate me alive.

Because? Well, there were a few reasons.

First of all, there was a narrow margin for an error of judgment. My sister-in-law, Angela, had seemed to me all wrong for my brother Nick, for example. She had turned out to be the love of his life. Second, I hated to admit it, but Diedre wasn't a bad person. Under different circumstances, I would probably like her. She seemed to like me, after all, and tolerated my presence in Ted's life. Although, it was easy for her to be nice and accepting—she didn't see me as a threat.

Not very flattering. Sometimes I wished she would dislike me and see me as a threat.

Third, she was what Ted wanted. Funny, because the beginning of their relationship wasn't promising. I would've never thought they'd last this long, let alone contemplate marriage. Then, a few months ago, boom! Diedre was away for a week, and Ted dragged me to New York to help him choose an engagement ring at Henry Winston. I didn't know what he was thinking. I tried to explain to him that I wasn't the right person for this job (if for no other reason, than because Diedre and I had different tastes). Ted wouldn't listen.

And it hurt a bit. I wondered how Ted would feel if I asked him, out of the blue, to help me choose a wedding gown. Pissed off with Ted's tactlessness, I picked what I liked and only assumed Diedre might, too: an emerald-cut diamond ring set in platinum, with two tapered baguette side stones. There was an Art Deco air about it, and I had a thing for that artistic movement. Price? A trifle—the equivalent of a new luxury car. And if Diedre didn't like it, my enamored friend could always exchange it for something more to her refined style. Oddly enough, Ted approved my choice, insisting that his fiancée would adore it.

Later, I regretted my attitude. Ted seemed happy. For how long, I didn't know; I believed that true happiness was an exception, not the rule. Perishable goods. But my best friend deserved his moments of bliss, no matter how long or short.

So, because of all this, I'd decided to step back. Ted and I took each other's opinions seriously, otherwise, I wouldn't have broken up with my last boyfriend (and a few before him), and Ted wouldn't be planning to marry Diedre Fairbank because he would've already been married three times over.

Great. It looked like I'd kept Ted unmarried only to serve him to Diedre on a silver platter.

Distracted with this realization, I stretched out to reach a small corner that I'd missed and almost lost my balance. Damn! I should be more careful. An arm or leg in a cast would make this Christmas unique, but it wasn't the change I needed.

Speaking of changes, a few unwelcome ones were already in effect. No more endless late-night chats with Ted, no evenings and weekends together. Our time was reduced to the occasional coffee in his office at the hospital and lunch in the nearby sandwich shop.

And that was only the beginning. Once he and Diedre married...

I grabbed the wet cloth from the top step of the ladder and removed a speck of blue paint from the white ceiling. There. Mission completed.

My phone buzzed from the back pocket of my jeans. I fished it out, straddling the ladder for better leverage. I glanced at the display, not surprised to see Ted's name on it. Who else would call me at this hour knowing he wouldn't wake me up?

"Hi Ted. I thought you'd be sleeping like a log."

Ted had just returned from Russia, where he was doing a month-long training—he was one of the top cardio-surgeons in the state. I didn't realize how much I'd missed him until I saw him emerging through the airport gate earlier in the morning. We hadn't had time to talk; I dropped him at home and hurried back to work.

Ted chuckled. "Just woke up. It's morning in St. Petersburg."

"So how did you like the 'old country'?" I asked, referring to Ted's family roots. Ted, a descendant of the Russian military aristocracy, was the third generation of the Wrangels born here. His great-grandfather had emigrated to the United States after the October Revolution, bringing with him a good chunk of their wealth. Ted spoke fluent Russian, but had never been in his ancestral country before.

"I don't know about Russia, didn't see much of it, but St. Petersburg is one of the most beautiful cities I've even seen," he said enthusiastically, then carried on about its architecture, museums and history. "You have to visit it, Dee. Maybe we can go together one day."

It seemed that Ted sometimes forgot he was going to be married soon. "Just you and me, or shall we take Diedre with us?"

Ted laughed at his lapse. I wondered if Diedre would've laughed too if she'd heard it. After a short pause, Ted changed the topic. "Do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

Yeah. To repaint my bedroom. In neon pink. "No."

"Good. I'm taking you out for dinner."

"Deal," I said, trying not to sound too thrilled. We'd go out, alone, for the first time in ages, thanks to the fact that Diedre was half a continent and the Atlantic Ocean away in Rome, Italy, visiting her brother.

"Fleur de Lis, eight o'clock," he said. "I guessed you'd say yes, so I made a reservation."

I rolled my eyes. "And if I did have other plans?"

"But you didn't."

Before I could retort, he wished me good night and ended the call.

I climbed down the ladder and placed the roller on the tray. I craned my neck to peek behind the plastic sheet thrown over my beautiful 1910 grandfather clock that Ted had hunted down for me two years ago.

I moved my gaze over the room, the subject of my second nocturnal strike with wall paint and rollers in the past few months. The interior designer who had so skillfully furnished and decorated my condo would have a heart attack if she saw my home improvement projects. After one coat of primer and two coats of paint, instead of the "English Toffee", which had replaced the designer's original choice of the depressing "October Rain", the walls in my living room were now painted in "Caribbean Breeze".

The light turquoise color turned out to be not that light at all. It looked much better on the paint strip than on my walls, but _liking_ it wasn't the purpose of my repainting efforts, after all.

What was the purpose? I wasn't sure. A change that I could control, unlike those I couldn't? I soon might not even live here. I owned a successful small business consulting company and was about to open an office in Austin, Texas. My initial plan had been to send my executive director, Molly, to oversee it, but I just might change my mind and move there myself.

I folded the ladder, cleaned my painting equipment and took everything to the storage room. I spent the next hour dusting, polishing and vacuuming. After a short consultation with my inner aesthete, I decided to rearrange the furniture, too. Perhaps not according to strict interior design rules, but certainly more to my liking.

Twenty minutes of pushing, dragging and pulling later, I turned around and, if not delighted, then at least satisfied, nodded in approval to my redecorating endeavors.

I thought the exhaustion would kick in—I'd started my painting project hours ago—but I still wasn't tired. Thank god it was the weekend so I could sleep as long as I wanted. If I managed to fall asleep at all, that is.

I drummed my fingers against the shiny surface of my walnut Art Deco writing desk, Ted's present for my thirty-fifth birthday. Along with the clock, they were the only two pieces of furniture I truly liked. Everything else was elegant and sophisticated, yet cold and impersonal; a showcase space designed more to awe than to live in.

So, what to do now? Ah, of course. I'd wrap Christmas presents. Ted would get his tomorrow, a bit early this year, but he'd soon.

December 9

Fleur de lis didn't have a very original name, but it was a pleasant place with an excellent French menu and a classy, low-key vibe. It was Ted's and my favorite restaurant in the city. As regular guests, we had our table there, in one of the alcoves with a mountain view. The wilderness of the Rockies paired with the elegant interior and refined food of Fleur de Lis was as charming a blend as it seemed unlikely.

Ted was already at the restaurant when I arrived.

"You look lovely," he said as he kissed my cheek and pulled the chair out for me. "New dress?"

Instead of appreciating his comment, I said, with an edge in my voice, "I look lovely because I have a new dress?"

He smiled. "Come on, you know what I meant."

"I bought it today. Glad you approve."

"Why are you prickly today?"

Lack of sleep, the late-night wall repainting, the pre-Christmas craze at the malls, the last-minute visit to my hairstylist. This dress. It took me forever to pick it, which was unusual. My aversion to shopping was so strong that I couldn't afford to be indecisive. I knew which style suited me and what colors brought out my dark brown eyes and the reddish undertone of my auburn hair. This tight, knee-length, icy pink dress with a scooped neckline was a far cry from the bold, jewel-toned colors I typically wore, and it made me feel half naked.

I'd bought it for tonight because I wanted to make this evening special. It could be our last dinner together. By the time Ted returned from Canada, Diedre would be back from Italy, and I could be in Texas.

***

The waiter came and took our orders: roasted duck with five-spice plum sauce for me and sautéed veal medallion with foie gras for Ted. He ordered wine. White. Ted drank very little, but he knew wines. I drank even less, and knew nothing about them, except that I liked some and disliked others. According to the label, I was supposed to taste lemon, roses, forest berry and dried fruit. I could only say that it was low in acidity, aromatic and would go well with my duck because Ted didn't make wine mistakes.

The food soon arrived. As we ate, we talked. Actually, I did most of the talking. Ted was uncharacteristically quiet. His gaze would stop on me now and then, intense, focused, pleading at moments, as if he was looking for some answers on my face. Or for help.

I was tense, too. I kept thinking that I would lose Ted, one way or another, and it depressed me. I tried to hide it by prattling all the time.

While we waited for dessert, Ted leaned in and placed his hand over mine. "You talk too much. Is everything okay?"

"And you've hardly spoken a word. Is everything okay with _you_?"

"Everything's fine." He tilted his head, studying me. "You did something with your hair."

"Just had it styled," I said, combing my bangs with my fingers. "Do you like it?"

"Very much. And if you tell me it's because of me, I'll like it even more, although I won't know what to think."

His last remark made me chuckle, although it wasn't a happy sound. "It is about you, in a way."

His eyebrow rose. "It is? Humor me."

"It's the end of an era for you and me."

He took a sip of his wine before he answered. "Things are about to change between us, Dee, but it doesn't mean the end of you and me."

I ran my finger around the rim of my glass, and then, before I could think twice, I heard myself asking him, "Are you really going to marry Diedre? Do you love her?"

So much for my resolution to hold my tongue.

"I would never marry a woman I wasn't sure I loved," Ted said. "And it's about time, don't you think?"

Well. I got what I'd asked for. "You forgot to say that your biological clock is ticking. You sound like a woman approaching her late thirties, trying to catch her last train to marriage and parenthood."

"Like you?"

Only Ted could say something like that and live to tell the tale. It stung, though, because he'd hit the mark. Diedre was thirty and I was thirty-six. She had all the time in the world to be a mother; mine was running out.

"You know, I sometimes hate your bluntness," I said. "My biological clock doesn't bother me much. I won't marry and I won't have children. Many women choose not to."

"Did you _choose_ not to, Deanna?"

We called each other by our first names only in two situations: when we teased each other or when we were dead serious.

No. I'd just turned something that hadn't been my choice into my decision, I wanted to say. It was easier that way.

"I've settled for being an aunt," I said. "I have Haya and soon her little brother to love and pamper. And," I glanced at him, "if things work between you and Deidre, I'll have yours, too."

"My children," he said softly. "I'd like that."

I was startled by the suppressed longing in his voice. There was something else there, some underlying meaning of his simple statement, but the pang of jealousy I felt imagining his and Diedre's children prevented me from seeing it.

Sadness wrapped around me like a cold blanket. Ted planned to have children, I thought, staring at the blue and white pattern on the plate until it became a blur. What about me? When had I given up on marriage, love, kids? Why wouldn't I admit to myself I was terrified of my biological clock?

I could still have kids, I reminded myself. If only the father showed up soon.

Fat chance, given my less than stellar track record in dating the right men.

"You don't like her," Ted said, interrupting my depressing train of thought.

My head snapped up. "Who? Diedre? I do."

"No, you don't," Ted made a nonchalant shrug as if my opinion didn't matter to him. "You never liked any of my girlfriends."

I smiled. "That's not true. I liked Mandy. Still do."

"You liked her because you knew we wouldn't stay together."

"Oh, not only because of that," I said.

Mandy was a former model and occasional actress, a voluptuous seductress yet naïve in the purest way. After the initial hoopla—she was a traffic stopper and Ted liked gorgeous women—their relationship quickly fizzled out. To my surprise, it was Mandy who ended it. I liked her even more because of that. It didn't happen often.

Mandy would pop up in my office after a hot night with Ted and, chewing a piece of gum and blowing bubbles through her perfect, red lips, raved about his lovemaking skills. I wasn't someone who blushed easily, but Mandy's stories would turn my cheeks hot and red. She would laugh and flutter her inch-long eyelashes, suggesting I should "try" him. Thanks to her, and some others that backed up her story, I'd learned that the most intimate part of Ted's anatomy featured not only a formidable length but also some extra thickness. I was familiar with his sexual tastes, habits and preferences. I once joked that if she wrote an erotic novel based on her experience with Ted, she might become rich. "Just don't forget to change names," I added quickly when her eyes went round as she considered my idea. I still half expected to receive a complimentary copy of her book one day.

When it came to his other love interests, it wasn't that I didn't like them. As it happens, I'd maintained a sort of relationship with some of them. Not because I'd initiated it; I was mostly indifferent. But they would consider me a friend, or ally, or some sort of a link to Ted once their relationship was over. Our acquaintance would last as long as their hope in reconciliation. In other words, not very long.

One of them, Renee, a TV news anchor, would show up at my condo day after day and cry on my beige living room sofa, leaving a smudge of her tears mixed with mascara on its arm. I waited until she'd gotten over him, then had the sofa reupholstered and the bill sent to Ted. Carly, another stunning model from New York, had called me every night for weeks and we talked for hours about Ted, analyzing him, his words, his behavior, his body language, his lack of commitment.

Ted dated a decent number of women. He seldom stayed long in a relationship, but while it lasted, he was completely devoted to them. Not to mention there was plenty of hot, imaginative sex. He wasn't someone whom they could easily forget.

Diedre Fairbank was something entirely different. Pretty but not a beauty by any means. Intelligent, classy, ambitious. She came from a wealthy and influential family and worked as an assistant district attorney. In other words, she was a quantum leap from the women Ted used to date, and that had scared the hell out of me.

"She's a wonderful person," Ted said.

"Who?" I asked, lost in my thoughts.

"Mandy. Are you listening at all?"

"Of course she is," I said. "See, I liked at least one of your girlfriends. You didn't like any of my boyfriends. Not a single one."

Ted leaned in, frowning. "That's because you have terrible taste in men."

"Not all of them," I said. "You can't tell me Simon Archer was a bad choice."

Ted's jaw clenched. For some reason, he took a strong dislike of Simon from the start. "He wasn't the right man for you."

I'd met Simon through Ted's Canadian cousin, Harper, last spring when she visited Ted. Simon was Harper's cousin, through a different family branch. One evening the five of us—Ted, Diedre, Harper, Simon and I—went out for dinner. I didn't think Harper wanted to play matchmaker; she barely knew me, but Simon and I clicked right away.

He was a widower. When his wife died, a few years earlier, he left his job as a city lawyer and returned to his ranch outside Denver.

Simon and I had a great time together, but it wasn't enough. He was an intelligent, honest and honorable man. And hot. He was still a bit raw, true, but given time, he would put the past behind. If it was up to me, I would've given our relationship a try. Oddly, it was him who, in the end, broke up with me, claiming that I wasn't ready because I had feelings for Ted.

"You're right," Ted said. "Simon Archer was perfect. Alas, perfect isn't good for you. You don't want perfect. You two would bore each other to death."

It was almost rude, but Ted might be right. Simon needed someone to turn his world upside down, and I might not fit the bill. As for my taste in the opposite sex, the proverbial kettle and pot came to mind. "Your choices are questionable, too, Dr. Wrangel." I unfolded my arms, took a small swallow of wine, then gave him a sweet smile. "Or they were. Diedre's perfect."

Ted just laughed and tapped my hand. "Let's not talk about our ex-boyfriends and girlfriends."

"Last time I checked, Diedre wasn't an ex-girlfriend," I said.

He made a non-committal gesture, leaving me to guess the meaning. _Of course, she isn't?_ Or, _she is my ex-girlfriend?_ Yeah, sure.

By the time dessert was served, our mood improved, and our conversation became easy and relaxed, as our silence would've been if we'd decided to eat our strawberries with Grand Marnier and vanilla ice cream in peace. We stayed away from tricky topics, such as our past or current relationships. For a while, everything seemed like countless times before—Ted and I dining at our favorite restaurant.

Ted drove me home. I invited him in for a drink. And held my breath, afraid he would decline.

He didn't.

***

"I need to ask you something," he said as he took my coat and hung it on the rack in the hallway.

Diedre was still lingering on the periphery of my mind, and I didn't like the thought that popped into my mind. "If you're going to tell me that your fiancée wants me as her bridesmaid, I'm afraid I must say no. No way."

Stupid.

Ted removed his coat and hooked it up beside mine. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were jealous, Deanna Carter."

"But you know me better, Theodore Wrangel," I said, resting my eyes, for no apparent reason, on our coats. His was navy blue, knee-length, made of the finest wool; mine was ivory white and long. They looked good together.

I shook my head and pressed the switch to turn on the lights in the living room.

He placed his hand at the small of my back as we walked through the hallway. "It's not about Diedre, and it's not about the wed—" He stopped as my living room came into sight. "What the hell has happened here?"

I flashed him a grin. "You don't like it?"

"No, not really," he said, after taking another glance. "Why did you repaint the walls? Again."

"I needed a change," I said and tugged him in. "What's wrong with this color?"

"It's awful."

"I like it." I shrugged and went to the kitchen to make him a drink. I didn't like it, but what the heck. I could always repaint it. Or just let the future tenant deal with it.

When I returned, Ted was sitting on my beige sofa, looking around the room with a bemused smile. I passed him my water bottle to open. Then he took his glass with a finger of cognac.

The central light was off, but Ted had turned the floor lamps on. It helped to mute the irritating brightness of the wall paint. I kicked off my shoes and intended to snuggle in the armchair across from the sofa.

"Not there," Ted said, patting the spot next to him. "Here, please."

I gave him an inquiring look.

"Please, Dee."

"Okay." I circled the coffee table and sat beside him cross-legged, facing him. My gaze moved across his tired and worried face. Ted lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead.

I placed my hands on his shoulders. His muscles were hard and tense. In a spontaneous gesture, I started kneading them gently. "Migraine?"

"No."

"What's wrong, then?" I asked. "Tell me."

He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a deep breath. "Besides some things I can't control?"

"Like what?"

He shook his head. "Never mind."

"Can I help?"

His eyes opened and he rested his brilliant blue gaze on me. Even after all these years, Ted's eyes, so vivid that you could see them from the other side of the room, still fascinated me. Sometimes I wondered how it would feel to see a pair of such incredible eyes first thing in the morning smiling down at me.

Not Ted's of course. Someone else's, just as blue as Ted's.

"You can."

I tore my gaze from his eyes. "Can what?"

"Do something for me."

"I would do anything for you, Theodore. You know that." There was more truth in my statement than the lightness in my tone suggested. There was little I wouldn't do for him.

"Anything?"

"Anything reasonable."

"Come to Calgary with me."

I blinked and retreated my hands. "What? Why?"

"Come on, it's not an unreasonable request. You don't have other plans, do you?"

"No. I mean, yes. I've planned to go to Bonnybrook, to spend holidays with my family." Bonnybrook was my hometown, a tiny place some forty miles northwest of Denver.

"They won't mind if you come with me."

"Well, no." They would miss me, for sure. My mom was a mother hen, she loved to have us all around. But no, they wouldn't mind if I went with Ted. Still, it was an unexpected invitation, and I didn't know what to say. Before Diedre, it wouldn't have surprised me. Now it did.

"You have some time off around Christmas, don't you?" he asked.

"We're closing the office after the Christmas party, and reopening on January second."

December was a slow time in business consulting, so all my employees had two weeks of paid holiday.

"How much time off do you have?" I asked.

"Two weeks. I booked a flight for December sixteenth," Ted said. "If you're coming, I'll take care of your ticket tomorrow."

I glanced at him. "I don't know. It came out of the blue. Why do you want me to go with you?"

"I'll tell you if you go with me," he said, teasing me. Then he shrugged. "Why not? I spent quite a few Christmases with your folks. I have an idea. If you come with me to Calgary for Christmas, I'll go with you to Bonnybrook for New Year's Eve. How about that?"

Ted didn't need a special invitation. My parents adored him. "Does your grandma know about your plans?" I asked.

"I'll call her tomorrow to let her know. She'll be thrilled. She's always wanted to meet you."

Bridget McCain, Ted's beloved grandmother, was the matriarch of the small but powerful and rich McCain clan. She'd helped Ted's father raise Ted when her daughter, Ted's mother, died.

"A family Christmas?" I asked.

"My family is small. We'll need to go to the McCain Drilling Christmas party, though. My uncle pushed it back to December nineteenth this year so that I can come too. It's the company's fiftieth anniversary and it's going to be extra fancy."

Ted was one of the four owners of the McCain family business, along with his maternal uncle, Mark, his cousin Harper and Bridget herself. McCain Drilling was established by his grandfather, but it was Bridget who'd taken the helm when he'd suddenly died. She managed to turn it into a big, healthy company.

"What about your father and Sonya? Are they coming, too?"

Ted's father, Dr. Anthony Wrangel, was a well-known Denver ophthalmologist; his stepmother, Sonya, a family physician. Bridget liked her former son-in-law a lot, and he and Sonya were both considered a part of the McCain family. It wasn't unusual for them to spend the Christmas holidays in Canada with the McCains.

"Not this year," Ted said, explaining that they were flying to Spain on Christmas Day for a two-week vacation. He took my hand and squeezed it. "Come with me, Dee. We'll have a couple of relaxing days on the ranch. Bridget is easy going, you'll like her."

"I don't think I should go, Ted," I said and gently pulled my hand from his. "I don't know your family."

"You know Harper."

I'd met Ted's cousin only two times, when she came to Denver. "Yes, but this is a family Christmas, and I—"

He reached out and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. "You are my family, Dee."

Once I had been, I wanted to say. Now I felt pushed to the margins of Ted's life. I turned and stretched out my legs to buy some time. Ted grabbed a cushion and shoved it behind my back.

We lapsed into silence. I glanced at Ted. His posture was rigid, his expression worried and uncertain. Strange, because uncertainty and Ted didn't belong in the same sentence. His confidence was almost palpable, and he wore it as naturally as his skin. He was an authoritative man without being arrogant, always in control without being controlling. This day, he seemed thrown off balance.

Once more, he reached for my hand and laced his fingers with mine. Such small intimacies between us weren't unusual, although not frequent. "I'm still waiting, Deanna."

I looked down at our linked hands, thinking about the possible source of his anxiety. Was it Diedre? And while we were there... "What about your fiancée?" I said, untangling our fingers. "What is she going to say?"

"She thinks it's an excellent idea."

"What?"

"Call her yourself and ask her."

"Yeah, sure."

"You don't believe me. Have I ever lied to you?"

"No. Just modified the truth here and there. When is Diedre coming back? After New Year's Eve?"

"I'm not modifying anything. Diedre doesn't mind if you come with me."

"Shouldn't you introduce her to your family instead of me? She's your fiancée."

"She is not my fiancée. Stop calling her that."

"Semantics. You're about to pop the question."

He smiled and tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. "You think you know everything, Deanna Carter, don't you?"

"Let me tell you something, Theodore Wrangel. If I were her, you would be tripping over my dead body before taking another woman for Christmas with your family."

He grinned. "Oh, I like that. So, you're coming?"

I sighed. "Yes. I would love to meet your family. How you're going to explain it to your girlfriend is your problem, not mine."

"Exactly." He raised his glass, finished off his drink and stood up. "Wanna go watch a movie tomorrow? We can grab a bite before or after."

"Sounds good." I pushed myself onto my feet and took the empty glass from Ted's hand.

In the foyer, he pulled me closer and kissed my forehead. "No more painting. Understand?"

I stuck out my tongue at him, even though I was done with redecorating for the time being. Ted was mine for the next several weeks, and the world returned to normal.

"When we come back, you and I will repaint this room. This color is horrendous." Another peck on my cheek. "Sleep well, Dee."

With that, he opened the door and left.

I leaned against the doorframe and touched the spot on my cheek where Ted had planted his kiss.

His. Friendly. Kiss.

Get a grip, Deanna. This was Ted. My friend. Who'd given me a friendly kiss.

Oh, no. I was so not going to fall into this trap. No way I would now start analyzing and reevaluating my feelings for Ted because he was going to marry someone I didn't like. Yes, I was upset and perhaps a little bit jealous because I was about to lose my best friend and one of the most important people in my life, but nothing more than that.

That must be it.

Back in my living room, I removed the present for Ted from my purse and put it in my desk drawer. Now that I would go with him, he'd find it under the Christmas tree, as it should be. From my jewelry box, I took out a small square case with a silver Art Deco brooch. It was shaped like a hummingbird, with aquamarine eyes and the tips of the wings. I'd bought it together with Ted's present, the 1492 edition of Boccaccio's _Decameron_ , in the antique gallery owned by my former sister-in-law and my closest female friend, Hannah, and her husband, Edward Morgan. It was so pretty I couldn't resist it, although I wasn't a brooch person. Hopefully, Ted's grandma was.

I wrapped the brooch in blue and silver paper and placed it beside Ted's present.

***

The next few days were a slow, familiar, lovely heaven. As easy and natural as breathing. It was as if Diedre had never happened. Sooner or later, Ted and I would need to pull back, but for a short while, I had my friend back and it was all that mattered.

December 16

We departed on time. It was a bright, crispy cold day in Denver. According to the weather report, the temperature in Calgary was in the low fifties, thanks to the Chinook, the warm, dry and strong wind that blew from the Rocky Mountains across the Canadian Prairies and Great Plains. The "Snow Eater", as it was called in the Indigenous Peoples' lore, could dramatically raise the temperature in a short period, bringing temporary relief from the harsh Prairie winter.

The flight was short, only two hours and thirty-five minutes. The seat belt sign was already in effect and the plane started its slow dive when Ted turned to me and said, "Before we land, I need to tell you something."

"Not now, Ted." I clutched the armrests with my hands, pressed my rigid back against the seat and closed my eyes. I was a nervous flyer, and the landing was my least favorite part. Ted pried my right hand loose and gently squeezed it.

"Almost there," he said. "It's gonna be fine, you'll see." A short pause, a shift in his seat. "Now about that something..."

The plane dropped down, my stomach surged up. "What?"

"There was a small miscommunication. When I phoned Bridget to tell her you're coming with me, Harper answered."

I dared to throw a glance out the window. The city sparkled beneath us. "And?"

Ted cleared his throat. "I told her, quote, 'Tell Grandma Dee's coming with me'."

I took a few in-and-out breaths. "Theodore, we're going down like a stone, and you're not making any sense."

He chuckled. "That's because you haven't heard the best part. Harper assumed 'Dee' was for Diedre."

I swallowed. "How do you know?"

"She texted me before we took off, with tonight's menu. Grilled steaks for us, she said, and fish for Dee. Harper remembers that Diedre doesn't eat red meat. I texted her to tell her to forget about the fish, but the message didn't go through."

Harper's mistake wasn't surprising—Diedre and I shared the same nickname. To avoid confusion, Ted always addressed her with her full name and I was always Dee, a detail that Harper might not be aware of.

I closed my eyes as the plane continued nearing the ground. Too fast. Definitely.

"Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

He leaned in and kissed my temple. "I was saving it for landing, to distract you."

It wasn't perfect, but it helped. "It's your fault," I said, risking a peek through the window. "If you'd told her 'I'm bringing Deanna', she wouldn't have made a wrong assumption. Did you have a chance to tell her who you are bringing instead?"

"Nah. She'll figure it out soon enough."

A few more sharp turns and drops, and the plane touched the ground. I was too relieved that we hadn't crashed to be ashamed of my flying paranoia.

***

Would Ted's family be disappointed when they learned I was only Ted's friend? I wondered as we waited in the lineup at Customs and Immigration.

I could understand Harper's assumption that Ted was bringing Diedre with him. Diedre was his girlfriend; I was only a friend. Christmas would be the perfect time to introduce Diedre to the rest of the McCains.

It puzzled me, however, that Ted hadn't mentioned Diedre was in Italy, but it could also be that Harper, notorious for her lack of attention to detail, had missed that part.

Harper stood by the automated glass door when we emerged from the Customs and Immigration area with the flow of other travelers—a pretty, fine-boned young woman with a mane of copper red hair, a dust of light freckles over her nose and cheeks, and the same stunning blue eyes as Ted.

When she saw me, her eyes widened. Then she beamed.

"Deanna! Ted!" With a squeak, she threw herself on her cousin. Ted hugged her with one arm, lifted her off the ground and spun around.

"Hey, Harper! Good to see you."

When Ted released her, Harper hugged me. "What a surprise! Welcome to Calgary!"

"Glad to see you again, Harper," I said. "Hope you're not too disappointed to see me instead of Diedre."

"Not at all." She looked at Ted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried—"

At that moment, we heard two almost simultaneous pings from Ted and Harper's phones.

"Well, you just did," Harper said, glancing at her phone before shoving it into her purse. "So, where is Diedre?"

Ted explained Diedre's current whereabouts.

Harper sighed. "Oh, well. Glad you brought Deanna with you." She turned to me. "You don't have any dietary restrictions if I remember correctly?"

"No," I said.

"Excellent." She pulled her phone out of her purse. "I'll tell dad to throw one more steak on the grill."

***

It looked like I would meet the whole McCain clan tonight. Harper's parents and her five-year-old son, Mathew, were at Bridget's ranch. Harper and Mathew would stay overnight so that Mathew could spend some time tomorrow with his uncle.

The drive from the airport to the ranch lasted longer than I expected. The airport was on the north side of Calgary, and Ted's grandmother's estate on the south, outside the city limits, about twelve miles west of a hamlet called De Winton.

While Harper and Ted chatted, I discretely watched her. Harper had a sunny personality, which had helped her through some tough times—two marriages, the first short and abusive, the second short and tragic. She was a widow now. Mathew, her five-year-old adopted son, was the only child of Harper's second husband from his previous marriage.

Ted told me the reason for Harper's visits to Colorado. Her first husband had beat her so severely that he had made some serious damage to her uterus. Harper was told she wouldn't be able to have children. Ted found a doctor who was a specialist for such injuries and sent Harper to him. He worked in a small but ultra-modern hospital in Red Cliffs, a mountain town less than two hour's drive from Denver. After the first visit, she returned filled with hope—her doctor believed he could help her.

The only child to her parents, Harper adored Ted, her six-year-older cousin. Their closeness was evident from their relaxed body language and the way they talked to and teased each other.

They were considerate to keep me involved, Harper by asking me about this and that, Ted by pointing at the significant landmarks.

Harper drove a pickup, so Ted and I were riding shotgun, with me sitting in the middle. Ted sat on the edge of the seat; his torso turned towards me as much as the seat belt would allow it. The elbow of his left arm rested between our two headrests, the palm of his right hand pressed against the dashboard. Beside him, there was enough room for one more person. I was squeezed between the gearbox and him. I wiggled now and then, hoping he'd get the message and move over. He didn't; whenever he said something to Harper, he would lean in even closer.

"You have to talk to Bridget, Ted," Harper said as we passed the southern-most community. "About moving in with Mom and Dad. She's too old to live by herself on the ranch."

"I will," Ted said.

"Just don't mention her age as the reason."

"Of course not."

Harper turned to me. "Our grandma likes to say that she was twenty-nine until she turned forty, then thirty-nine until she turned fifty. After that, she stopped counting her age altogether."

"She does look much younger than her age," I said, remembering Bridget's photos Ted regularly showed me.

"The best proof that the seventies are the new fifties," Ted said, picking a tiny feather from the sleeve of my jacket.

I elbowed him. "Move away, Theodore. You're almost sitting in my lap."

My comment elicited Harper's curious glance in our direction. Ted just chuckled and inched back.

"Also try to convince her to sell that dinosaur of a truck and let Dad buy her something new," Harper said.

"Ah. I'll try but that won't be easy," Ted said with a smile. "She loves that dinosaur."

Once we left the stretch of scattered ranches behind, there was nothing around us but open highway and darkness, until, after a right turn, we hit a less smooth road. Another few minutes, and I saw the lights twinkling in the distance.

***

The McCain's ranch house was an impressive three-story building with a covered front porch. On the left side were two double garage doors. A black Bentley and an Acura were parked in front of it. The Bentley belonged to Harper's parents; the Acura was Harper's second vehicle. Harper said she'd leave it for Ted and me to use during our visit rather than 'risk our lives' with Bridget's ancient pickup.

As we walked toward the house, the door opened and a tiny, smiling woman wrapped in a shawl stepped out.

"Ted!"

"Grandma!" Ted strode toward the small figure and hugged her.

Harper and I waited behind until Ted gently ushered his grandma into the house.

Harper's parents, Mark and Susan, waited for us in the entryway. While they greeted Ted, his grandma looked at me and extended her hand. "Welcome, Deanna."

I took her warm hand in mine. Her handshake was firm. "Hello, Mrs. McCain," I said, smiling at her. "Thank you for inviting me. Sort of."

She laughed and hooked her arm through mine. "I'm happy to finally meet you in person. I've heard so much about you I feel I've known you for a long time. Let's eat now. I don't know about you two, but I'm starving. And please, call me Bridget, like everyone else."

"Then you call me Dee," I said.

She walked me through the spacious living room to the dining room, where the round table was set for five. I was seated between Bridget and Ted.

Only Mathew was missing. He'd tried to stay awake, Bridget said, only to fall asleep before his beloved uncle arrived. Mathew called Ted "Uncle", even though they were not blood-related. Ted was the closest thing Harper had to a brother, and the boy adored him. Harper excused herself and ran upstairs to check on her son.

***

Dinner was hearty and delicious: grilled T-bone steaks, baked potatoes, bean casserole and several different salads. Ted and I also shared a piece of grilled Alaskan halibut, prepared for Diedre. Before dessert was served (an excellent sour cherry pie with vanilla ice cream), I was so full I could barely breathe.

And I was in love with Ted's family.

Mark ran McCain Drilling, which was still strong and successful despite the recent recession. Harper worked with him, and Susan McCain was a high school principal.

Bridget impressed me the most. Her fragile frame was deceiving. Beneath it was a core of steel. Her straight posture and brisk movements made her look even younger than in the photos. Her brilliant blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit.

I soon learned she wasn't just being courteous when she said she'd heard a lot about me. She asked me about my parents, mentioning them by their names, about Nick, Angela and little Haya, about my business. "It's a shame Ted didn't bring you before," she said. "He visited your parents many times."

"Yes, but they live only a short distance from Denver," I said.

"We're not at the end of the world either."

No. Today the end of the world was in Italy.

After dinner, I asked if I could help with the dishes, and was tasked with loading the dishwasher. Ted and his uncle stayed in the dining room, enjoying their after-dinner brandy.

I wasn't shy around people, and I rarely felt awkward in a new social setting, but never before was I so conformable after such a short time.

The house itself added to this pleasant atmosphere. I liked spaces that looked like they'd been built up and furnished over time. Bridget's home had that quality. Spacious, comfortable, practical, with rustic chic and plenty of natural materials. Big windows, dark hardwood floors that made soft squeaky sounds, like a melody, and an impressive red mahogany staircase that led to the upper-level gallery. Fire blazed in a brick fireplace in the living room.

Except for a Christmas wreath on the front door, the house bore no other holiday decorations. A tangy-sweet scent of resin lingered in the air, however, telling me the Christmas tree might be nearby, waiting to be decorated.

Diedre came into my mind once more, with a pinch of jealousy. Next year she might be here. Would she like the casual, wholesome beauty of this home as much as I did? I was the daughter of a small rancher; in my very core, I was a country girl. This was heaven for me. Diedre was coming from old money and had refined, urban taste.

"I'm going to make tea," Harper said as she dried the last crystal glass she'd just washed. She opened the cupboard and took out a teapot and a glass jar with loose leaf black tea. "Deanna, do you want a cup? Or do you prefer coffee?"

"Herbal tea, if you have any. It's too late for me to have caffeine. I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"Oh, you'll sleep like a baby," Harper said. "Everybody does here... Let's see what we have here. Orange spice or hibiscus?"

"Orange spice, please."

Susan finished transferring the dinner leftovers into glass containers, discussing Christmas baking with Bridget.

When the tea was ready, we sat around the kitchen table. Harper and I talked about children—she about Mathew, and I about Haya, her soon-to-be-born brother and my "honorary" nieces and nephews, Hannah and Edward's three children.

"Do you bake, Dee?" Bridget asked once we'd exchanged all the kids' stories, important and meaningful only to us who loved them so dearly.

"A little," I said modestly.

Harper sniffed the air. "What did you make today, Grandma? Ginger snaps?"

"Patti and I made a couple of batches of sugar cookies and ginger snaps today," Bridget said. "But it's not enough."

Bridget explained to me that Patti Sutherland and her husband, Lorne, lived only a few hundred yards from her, in the "old house", the first home the McCains had built on the ranch, in the late 1940s. Patti helped Bridget with household work, while her husband took care of the ranch.

"I can come one morning and help you," Susan said.

Bridget looked at me. "Maybe Dee and I can do some baking?"

"Of course," I said, pleased with her offer.

"Perhaps Dee and Ted have some other plans," Harper said. "I can help you tomorrow when I come to pick up Mathew."

I shook my head. "No, no. We don't have any plans." At least not that I knew about.

"Our only plan is to relax and enjoy," Ted said from the kitchen door. "Harper, why don't you leave Mathew here for a day or two? I promised him over the phone we'd go for a ride when I came. And, well, do some other stuff."

"Like paying visits to various toy stores?" Harper said.

"Naturally," Ted said. "What are uncles for?"

"If it's okay with Dee, he could stay. That would save me some driving back and forth."

I wouldn't spoil the little boy's fun for anything, so I nodded vigorously. "Of course it's okay."

Mark McCain appeared behind Ted, his jacket and Susan's coat draped over his arm. "Shall we, Sue?"

Susan glanced at her phone. "What? Eleven already?"

I was surprised, too. I thought it couldn't be more than ten o'clock. Time flew when you were among the people you liked.

At the door, Susan hugged me, and Mark shook my hand. "It was so nice to meet you, Dee. I'll see you on Thursday, then."

I blinked. "Thursday?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The company Christmas party," Susan said. "I just assumed Ted mentioned it."

Ted wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "I wasn't sure if we wanted to take her with us, so I didn't say anything."

Everyone laughed, and Susan smacked him with her gloves.

I rolled my eyes. "You're not funny, Theodore." Then to Susan and Mark, "Yes, he told me about the party. Thank you for inviting me."

***

I soon decided to call it a day. I wasn't sleepy; I rarely was at this time of the day, but Ted may have wanted some private time with his grandmother and cousin.

In the living room, Bridget lowered herself into a cozy, dark blue armchair. Ted was beside the fireplace, adding a log to the fire. Harper emerged from the kitchen with her teacup.

"Dee, do you want me to refill your cup?" she asked.

"If you don't mind, I will go to bed," I said.

Harper blinked. "Grandma, have you made a room for Ted?"

Bridget covered her mouth with her hand. "Oops! I completely forgot."

They prepared only one room, of course. For Ted and Diedre.

"I'll sleep in my old room," Ted said.

"You can't. It's Mathew's room now. You know what? I'll sleep with Mathew, and you can take my room."

"I can sleep in Harper's room, and Ted can take the bedroom," I offered.

Ted declined. "No, I'll be fine. There are plenty of rooms in this house. I'll crash somewhere."

"Very well," Harper said. "Come, Dee. I'll show you your room."

The sleeping arrangements in place, I stood up and wished everyone good night, then followed Harper up the stairs to the room prepared for Ted and his almost fiancée.

***

Like the house itself, the room was a warm and cozy mix of new and vintage. The old, ornate bed set was paired with a memory foam mattress and trendy bedsheets, the carpet looked old, as well as a heavy linen chest, but the two armchairs were modern looking. The room was big and airy, with an adjoined bathroom. A small fire burned in the fireplace, even though the house had central heating.

Diagonally from the bed stood a lovely piece of furniture that seemed to have ended up on this ranch from a different time and place—a baroque-looking four-seater sofa with a carved wooden frame and dark rose upholstery.

My gaze returned to the bed. If Diedre had come, she and Ted would have made love on this bed tonight.

I glimpsed the scene with my inner eye, and a wave of hot jealousy twisted my stomach.

Angry at myself, I grabbed my suitcase and hauled it onto the bed. I opened it, yanked out my terry robe, nightgown and toiletry bag, and marched to the bathroom.

A long shower subdued the wrath that had overtaken me, leaving me bitter and sad. Everything could have been different. If only...

Too late for the _ifs_.

The room felt too hot now, or my body was, after ten minutes under a hot spray of water. I walked to the window and cracked it open to let some fresh air in.

It was pitch dark outside. The wind still howled. Chinook. The Snow Eater. Ted didn't like it; it gave him migraines.

My body felt tired, my eyelids heavy. I closed the window before the cold night air roused me from sleepiness, and returned to bed. The sound of the strange wind that no one liked but everybody appreciated, was a soothing lullaby. I undressed and slid under the covers and closed my eyes.

Ted would be cranky if he woke up with a headache.

As if echoing my thoughts, a vicious gust of wind carrying dust and dirt hit the windowpane, startling me. The glass rattled, small particles of debris crunching against it. I darted from the bed to check if I'd closed the window properly.

My sluggishness was gone and the thought of Ted, Diedre and their impending marriage threatened to return. Great.

Before I could sink back into my misery, I heard a soft knock, followed by Ted's husky whisper. "Dee, are you sleeping?"

"Ted?" I jumped out of bed, pulled on my robe and bolted to the door.

Ted stood in the hallway. "I have a migraine. Can you give me a massage?"

I had done it countless times before, so I took a step aside to let him in. "Sure."

I turned on the floor lamp and Ted sat down on the sofa and pressed his back against it. I took my place behind him.

"Take this off," I said and grabbed the hem of his shirt, helping him to remove it. I started from his shoulders, with gentle pressure. His muscles were hard as stone.

"It's the wind, isn't it?" I asked softly. "How long does it usually blow?"

"Up to three days," he said, then let out a deep sigh of pleasure, almost like a purr. From a jungle cat.

"The wind aside, you seem tense lately. At moments, you're just not yourself."

"So, you noticed?"

"It'd be hard not to." My fingers stopped. "You're not seriously sick or anything?"

"It's called catastrophizing. Always assuming the worst. Why do you always do that?"

"My inner insecurities, I guess."

"I'm perfectly healthy."

"See, catastrophizing isn't all that bad," I said, relieved. "Now that I know you're healthy, I can deal with everything else."

"Can you?"

There was a sub-context in his question, the meaning of which I couldn't catch, so I ignored it.

"It's Diedre, isn't it?" I said, hoping my voice didn't sound too optimistic. "Are you having second thoughts about proposing?"

My question hit the mark. Ted's already tense muscles hardened even more. He turned his head and looked at me. "Let's not talk about Diedre, please."

"Why not?"

He resumed his pose. "Because."

Okay. So, it was her, but he wasn't ready to tell me what exactly the problem was. I wouldn't insist. Not tonight. I continued massaging him in silence, working my way up to his neck until tension started leaving his neck and shoulders and the muscles beneath became flexible.

"Perhaps I am now catastrophizing," Ted said, after a while, obviously continuing our previous conversation. "Assuming the worst."

"Don't tell me you have inner insecurities?"

"Not less than you."

I doubted that, but it was nice to hear it. "What would be the worst in this case?"

"Imagine you're yearning for something so much that you're ready to risk everything to get it. And then you don't get it."

My stomach twisted again. "I thought we were not talking about Diedre."

"We're not. We're talking hypothetically."

I had no clue what Ted was trying to tell me. I was sure Diedre wanted to marry him. I didn't say anything, just continued to massage him. "You don't make any sense, Theodore."

"You have a magic touch," Ted said changing the topic. "Massage usually isn't an effective treatment for migraines, but you always make the pain go away."

I spread my fingertips over his scalp and started moving them in slow, circular motions. "Maybe I should stop, then," I said. "I heard scalp massage promotes hair growth, and you hardly need more hair."

Indeed. A lot of men would kill for Ted's hair: bronze-brown, thick yet soft, with no sign of thinning. A bit longer on the top and tousled, shorter on the sides. The faint scent of his shampoo tickled my nostrils. Some expensive, imported stuff, like always. Ted had sophisticated taste and liked fine things.

"Just a little bit longer, to make sure it's gone," he murmured and pressed his head against my chest. "It feels so good."

"It's good that you're a cardiologist, you know."

He turned his head upward. "How come?"

On an impulse, I bent and kissed his hair. It wasn't an unusual occurrence. Ted would get a friendly kiss from me now and then. More often _now_ than _then_ , I'd noticed. "There... Because your patients are by default older people. You're so good looking, Dr. Wrangel, that, if you were, for example, a family physician or a dentist, your female patients would fall in love with you all the time."

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down to sit beside him. "It'd be good for business. Having lots of patients, that is. You seriously think I'm good looking?"

I rolled my eyes. "As if you are not aware of that."

He studied me for a moment. "You're a beautiful woman, Dee. From inside and from outside."

"You'll make me blush, Theodore," I said, and perhaps I did blush, a tiny bit.

I stood up. "You're good to go. It's time to sleep."

He sat up. "Do you mind if I sleep here?"

I blinked. "Here?"

"On the sofa. Harper's bed is too short and too soft. I'll wake up with another headache."

"And this sofa's better?" I asked skeptically, eyeing it. It was long and wide, true, but still.

"Come on Dee. We're not going to share your bed," Ted said, his voice bending upwards making his sentence sound like a question.

"Well, suit yourself. I don't want to be responsible for your migraine." I walked to my bed, grabbed one of the pillows and threw it at him.

"Thank you, ma'am." He caught it and lay it down on the sofa, then reached for the throw draped over the sofa back. The room was warm, he wouldn't need more than that.

When Ted turned the lights off, I disrobed and lay down. I could hear him taking off his jeans and held my breath a short, panicky moment, almost sure he'd come to my bed and lay beside me.

But then the sofa squeaked under his weight and I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed.

"Deanna?" he said after a while.

"Yes?"

"Did you bring a cocktail dress, for the Christmas party?"

"Er, no. Slipped my mind." The two black dresses I'd chosen to take with me were still in my closet. I'd wanted to put them on top of my clothes to minimize the wrinkling, then I forgot about them. "I only brought my new pink dress with me. On the bright side, I brought two pairs of shoes."

"The pink dress will do, don't worry."

I wasn't all that sure. I'd planned to wear it for Christmas Eve. "Isn't it too casual for the occasion?"

"It's not a black tie event."

"I'll buy a cocktail dress here. Harper will know where I can find one," I said and yawned, feeling the blessed sleepiness returning to my body, in spite of the presence of my unexpected roommate. Or perhaps because of it.

I might've already dozed off when I heard Ted's voice once more. "Dee?"

"Hmm?"

"I'll go with you. We'll buy you something black and sexy."

My eyelids flew open.

December 17

I woke up to two voices—Ted's and that of a little boy. Mathew. Ted was whispering; his nephew was doing his best not to scream in delight.

I peeked through my lashes. Ted sat on the sofa holding Mathew in his arms. Two small arms closed around Ted's neck. Mathew was a beautiful boy with jet-black hair and dark eyes. His facial features revealed the Asian part of his heritage—Mathew's late mother was of Japanese origin.

"You were not in your room," Mathew said in a voice that could be described as an "intense whisper". "Mom said you might be in the barn, but your boots were still in the closet. Mom says I can stay here. Can we go for a ride?"

"Breakfast first. We can ask Dee if she wants to go with us."

Mathew threw a glance in my direction. "Do we have to?" he asked, disappointed.

"Yes."

"Because she's your girlfriend? That's what mom says."

"Well, a friend."

"Does she know how to ride?"

"You betcha."

Mathew sighed. "Okay then. She can come with us."

"She's cool. You'll like her." Ted lifted him from his lap and placed him down on the sofa. "Now go to the kitchen."

"What about you?"

"I'll be there in a minute. I'm just going to take a quick shower."

"I'll wait for you here."

"Okay, buddy, but be quiet. We don't want to wake Dee."

As soon as the door closed behind Ted, Mathew slid down from the sofa and made a few tentative steps toward my bed. He was curious but also cautious, so he just stood there, craning his neck to get a better glimpse of me.

Careful not to startle him, I stretched and yawned as if I'd just woken up, then opened my eyes and smiled.

"Oh, hi there," I said, propping my head up on one elbow. "You must be Mathew."

"Yes," he said, his smart, dark eyes fixed on me. He was in Superman pajamas, his small feet bare. He must've started his search for his uncle straight from his bed. "How do you know?"

"Your uncle showed me your pictures. I'm Deanna. You can call me Dee."

"We're going for a ride later. I have a pony. Oreo. Uncle Ted gave him to me for my birthday, but he lives in Lorne and Patti's barn."

I pulled myself up. "Ah, I see."

"Uncle will ride Tango, and you can ride Dolly. They're Granny's horses, but they also live with Lorne and Patti because it's too much for Granny to feed them every day."

"Oreo. Hmm. I like it." I said. "Did you name your pony?"

Mathew nodded with great enthusiasm. "He's like an Oreo cookie, black and white. Do you have a horse?"

"Yes. Guess what? His name is Orion. He lives on my parents' ranch in Colorado."

"Orion is almost the same as Oreo," he said, inching closer.

"I named him after a group of stars called Orion," I said. "When I was a little bit older than you, my dad bought my brother and me a small telescope so that we could watch planets and stars. One night when the sky is clear, I can show you where to find Orion."

He came to the bed and sat on the edge. "What is a telespoke?"

"A telescope is an object, like a long tube," I said, showing him the approximate length of an amateur telescope with my hands. "When you look through it, far away things seem much closer, even stars. Here, let me show you." I reached for my phone and googled "night sky", then clicked on images.

Mathew crawled over the bed and settled beside me. I showed him Orion and pointed out some other constellations and celestial bodies.

He was fascinated with the images of planets and galaxies. I discovered he already knew how to read; his vocabulary was impressive, and he understood complex spatial concepts.

A knock on the door interrupted our chat. Harper came in, with an apologetic expression.

"Mathew! I've been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing here in Deanna's room?" Then to me, she said, "I'm sorry, Dee. I hope he didn't wake you."

I gave her a reassuring smile. "I was about to get up anyway." In fact, for the first time in months, I felt rested. After a short struggle to fall asleep, I'd slept through the whole night.

Mathew stood up then jumped down from the bed. "Mom, I found Uncle Ted! He's in the bathroom."

Harper blinked and looked at the bathroom door, suddenly aware of the sound of the running water. Then she turned back to me, her eyes wide open, eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

I could feel the heat rising to my face. "Ted slept on the sofa," I hurried to reassure her. "The bed in his room was too short for him."

Harper's face fell. "Oh, I see. That's why we couldn't find him."

Ted chose that moment to come out, barefoot, bare-chested, with shiny, damp hair. A neon-blue towel was draped around his neck and he was dressed only in jeans, hanging low on his hips. "Harper. You're here, too," he said, rubbing his hair with the towel. His voice was nonchalant as if being in my room and coming out of my bathroom was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't bother to explain his presence.

She eyed him, hands on her hips. "I was looking for Mathew, who'd been looking for you."

"But I found him!" Mathew said eagerly and hurled himself at his uncle. Ted lifted him. After a spree of excited shouts and shrieks, Ted threw Mathew over his shoulder. Mathew giggled in delight.

"Now that we're all present and accounted for, we should leave Dee to get dressed," Ted said and, after grabbing his shirt with his free hand, ushered the rest of the search party out of my room.

***

Harper set off for Calgary after breakfast, and Ted, Mathew and I went for the promised ride.

Dressed in soft, faded jeans, an old sheepskin jacket and an even older pair of cowboy boots, Ted was an unusual but great sight. He looked equally handsome in his three-piece suits, his white hospital coat, or his cowboy clothes. I'd come unprepared for horseback riding, so I was equipped with Susan's jacket and an old pair of sneakers. Mathew proudly wore his western gear, a buckled belt, youth-size Stetson and all.

Although not as strong as last night, the wind was still blowing. A massive, low grey cloud with pale pink edges, arching beneath the turquoise sky, was striking. All around us were rolling hills covered with dry grass and patches of crystalized snow. In the far west stretched the Rocky Mountains, covered with snow.

We walked to Patti and Lorne's house, a single-level dwelling. The McCains had deeded it, along with a few acres, to their long-time employees Lorne and Patti in return for helping Bridget and keeping her company.

The horses and the pony were ready for us when we came.

The wind was so strong that we shortened our ride to twenty minutes. When we returned, Patti was waiting for us with fresh coffee and hot chocolate for Mathew. The Sutherland's house was small, simply furnished and comfortable, filled with a warm holiday atmosphere. Both Lorne and his wife were in their mid-fifties, and by the way they interacted with Ted and Mathew, it was obvious that the McCains treated them not as domestic help, but as family.

***

Back home, Bridget and I set out to do some Christmas baking. Ted took Mathew the city, on the promised toy store expedition.

At first, we filled the silence with small talk as we cleaned the table after breakfast—what we were going to cook for supper, the weather predictions for the next couple of days, the upcoming company party.

Bridget fell quiet for a moment, folding the tablecloth that was on the table and replacing it with another one—an old hand-stitched piece with a Christmas motif. I sensed that she had a more important topic than cookies and weather to discuss with me; she just needed a moment to decide how to bring it up. Her hesitation didn't last long, though.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" she said.

I was pretty sure what she wanted to ask. "Not at all."

"It seems that Ted is in a serious relationship," she said carefully, with a slight rise at the end, making the sentence sound like a question.

"You could say that." Compared to all Ted's previous relationships, this one was quite different.

"He's been secretive," Bridget continued. "If it wasn't for Harper, we wouldn't know anything about it." She tilted her head and gave me a look from under her glasses. "The only woman he ever talks about is you. But you two are only friends."

I laughed. "Yes. I'm safe."

Bridget made an evasive "Hmm", and then asked me openly about my opinion of Diedre.

"I'm asking you because you and Ted are close," she said. "You probably know him better than anyone else. Is she the right woman for him?"

I didn't think a simple "no" would be sufficient, although it was exactly what I wanted to say.

Instead, I tried to describe Diedre to Bridget. Her personality, her family background, her ambitions. I was as honest as I could be, and the picture that I painted was pretty—Diedre was intelligent and competent. Her family was wealthy and influential. She and Ted shared the same values and had similar interests. She was perhaps more ambitious than Ted, but he already had an established career. Ted had a fun, joyful side; she was a bit too serious, but that was hardly a character flaw.

I kept on and on, going further and further from what I wanted to say, until Bridget stopped me. "I heard all that from Harper. It doesn't matter if she has money or comes from money. Ted is rich enough for both. I want to know if you think Diedre will make my grandson happy."

I struggled to find the right words to explain it to Bridget.

In the early days of Ted and Diedre's relationship, I was invited to her birthday party at the Fairbanks's home outside Denver. It was a fifteen-room mansion sitting on acres and acres of private land, with a small private lake, private forest, and a runway for their private plane. The mountains in the background seemed so close that I thought they had to be private, too. Everything reeked of old money and power.

I didn't feel uncomfortable among Diedre's family and friends; they were all pleasant and polite, but it was obvious that I was out of place in their elegant home and among their upper-crust guests. I didn't belong among them.

Wealthy and successful Ted did, yet it wasn't important to him. If he loved Diedre, nothing but Diedre herself would matter. He'd do anything to make her happy.

I could see the path their life together would take—an elegant house in some affluent neighborhood, influential friends, classy cars, summer holidays on the French Riviera and ski vacations in the Swiss Alps. Predictable, pleasant, scheduled. A natural continuation of her secluded, upscale childhood, youth and adolescence. But Ted, who was, despite his wealth, a self-made man, needed a little more—a dash of adventure and challenge in his life every now and then.

I didn't long for that way of life for myself either. After all, I could afford an elegant house, an expensive car and exotic vacations. Then why, in spite of everything, did I feel a sting of envy that twisted my stomach but hurt even more a little bit above it, on the left side?

Because I could see their children, too, who would have their father's brilliant blue eyes and his irresistible smile. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would take after their pretty, smart, serious-looking mother. And they wouldn't be mine, wouldn't take after me, and the realization felt like a stab wound to my heart.

And since when was Ted's smile irresistible?

I didn't dare to examine the origins of my sudden revelation too closely, so I forced my thoughts back to that birthday. Ted's present to Diedre was as appropriate as it was unimaginative—a lovely Tiffany gold bracelet. And Ted was anything but an unimaginative person. Only months before he started dating Diedre, he'd taken me to the Venice Carnival for my birthday. Three unforgettable days...

"Dee?"

Bridget's voice cut through the memories of the sensual, seductive atmosphere of the Carnival. I took a breath. "No. They won't make each other happy; not in the long run."

If I'd thought Bridget would be surprised, I'd be wrong. She just nodded, as if my words confirmed what she already knew. "Tea?"

"Er, yes, please."

Bridget filled the electric kettle with water, pressed the on/off switch, and spooned some tea into a porcelain teapot. The kettle started humming. Bridget motioned toward the table, and we sat down.

"That's what Harper said," she said, "although she couldn't explain why."

"I can't either." How to explain a gut feeling? In many ways, Diedre was more similar to me than to any of Ted's former girlfriends. A strong, independent, no-nonsense young woman. Still, something was missing. I rubbed my forehead. "Each of them would want the other one to be something they're not."

Bridget patted my hand. "See. You can explain. I think I know what you mean."

That birthday party hadn't come to me out of the blue, I realized. It was a metaphor: Diedre was delighted with Ted's present. He undoubtedly had chosen it carefully. For some reason, however, I knew that nothing like going to the Venice Carnival as a birthday present for Diedre had ever crossed Ted's mind.

So, metaphorically speaking, Ted needed a wife who would prefer a weekend in Venice over a Tiffany bracelet.

Not necessarily me, of course, but someone like me.

Silly, wasn't it?

The kettle made a soft click, and the sound of gargling water gradually diminished.

"Let me," I said and stood up.

"The cups are there," Bridget said and motioned at the china cabinet, another beautiful, old piece of furniture that didn't stand apart from the overall contemporary look of the kitchen, but rather complemented it. From inside its old, shadowed belly that smelled of lemony wood polish, I took out two elegant cups with saucers and laid them on the table.

I poured water over the tea and sat back.

"When Harper told us about Diedre, I called Ted," Bridget said. "I was curious, of course, but he wouldn't tell me more than I already knew from Harper."

I wondered if I should tell her about the ring. If Ted hadn't, he had his reasons. On the other hand, I'd been a part of that story, so it wouldn't be gossip.

"He bought her a ring," I said.

Bridget's head snapped up. "What?"

I summarized our trip to New York for Bridget, skipping the small emotional drama I'd gone through. "When a man buys the ring, his intentions are clear," I concluded, my mood souring fast.

Bridget looked confused. Her eyebrows drew together, her eyes narrowed. "Has he already proposed to her?"

"No, not yet." As far as I knew.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head again. "Strange. And you say he took you to help him pick the ring for his girlfriend?"

"We're friends."

"Hmm." She lifted her cup and took a small sip of tea, then grimaced. "Pass me the sugar, please. Why hasn't he proposed yet, then? What is he waiting for?"

I took the sugar bowl and gave it to Bridget.

"I don't know." I didn't want to know.

"Doesn't make any sense."

Maybe he was waiting for the right moment or was planning some romantic proposal that would sweep the cool, pragmatic Diedre off her feet. "I guess the moment wasn't right," I said in place of a more sensible explanation.

Bridget scooped a tiny amount of sugar with a miniature silver spoon and dipped it into her tea. "Want some?" she asked me, motioning toward the sugar bowl.

"No, thanks."

"Ted's had issues with commitment," Bridget said, stirring her tea. "His mother died when he was five. Anthony remarried, but unfortunately, it didn't work out and his wife left him after two years. Ted was close to her, so he was devastated. By the time Anthony married Sonya, Ted was in his late teens. Ted loved Sonya, but he didn't need a mother so desperately anymore. Some years later, Ted himself got engaged, but that didn't work either."

"You think he won't commit because he subconsciously believes he'll lose every woman he loves?" I asked.

"Exactly," Bridget said.

Bridget's reasoning made sense. Ted wasn't a typical playboy; he was a responsible and reliable person in every other aspect of life except in intimate relationships.

"When I heard about Diedre," Bridget carried on, "I was relieved. Alas, it didn't last long. I'm not sure that this relationship is going in the right direction, the ring and all."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "If they are still together, then it's a very odd relationship. Ted dodges my questions about her. He didn't mention the ring. This would be the perfect time to introduce her to the family, yet she's in Italy and—"

She stopped and looked at me as if apologizing.

"And I'm here," I finished.

"And you're here, right," she repeated. "And that's wonderful, don't take me wrong. Only a bit confusing. Or indicative?"

A hopeful lilt colored her last sentence. I didn't want her to go in that direction or, even worse, to help her encourage my own unhinged fantasy. "Ted and Diedre's holiday plans didn't overlap this year."

"If you say so," Bridget said after a short pause, reaching for the tea pot to refill our cups. "In any case, you should tell him what you told me."

"Ted suspects how I feel about Diedre," I said. "It didn't make him change his mind. If he loves her—"

"If he loves her."

"Nothing will. Besides, I might be wrong. I want to believe myself to be a good judge of character, but I make mistakes."

"Like everyone else."

"When it comes to the people I love, I'm subjective. I can't imagine a woman good enough for Ted."

Then it happened again. Bridget's brilliant blue eyes, so much like Ted's, narrowed on me. "What about you?" she said with the same cautious hopefulness in her voice, just like moments ago.

I shook my head. "We're just friends."

She snorted. "Uh-huh. And I'm the next Miss of Canada."

"He's about to propose to another woman," I reminded her. An echo of regret had found a crack in my defenses and slipped into my voice.

"He obviously has his doubts."

"I know that our closeness is sometimes puzzling," I said, forcing cheerfulness into my words. "But Ted's like a brother to me..." I stood up. "Excuse me. I need to use the washroom."

I needed a few moments alone. I was a hair's breadth away from doing something irrational and incorrigible, like bursting into tears and confessing to Ted's grandmother the confusing mix of feelings I could still neither name nor admit.

***

Bridget was spooning flour into a measuring cup when I returned, an old notebook with handwritten recipes open before her on the counter. I helped by whisking butter and sugar, then I prepared the baking sheets. Soon the sweet, homey aroma of Christmas baking filled the kitchen.

For the time being, she seemed to be done with her questions and observations about Ted and his love life. She spoke about her granddaughter instead. Three years after the death of her husband, Bridget said, Harper was seeing someone, and wondered if I knew him. "You dated Simon Archer, didn't you? He's Simon's best friend."

"Jamie Breckenridge?" I exclaimed. "It's a small world indeed."

I'd met Jamie only once, at the beginning of my relationship with Simon. He was a physicist, currently working for NASA. He was considered a genius in his field. He wasn't a typical scientist, though, which made him even more interesting: he wore his hair shoulder-length and tied into a thick ponytail, had tattoos and, in contrast to his too-solemn best friend, was an outgoing, merry fellow. They were so different in every aspect, yet they were as close as brothers. Jamie was thirty-three, the same age as Simon, movie-star handsome, and, as I'd heard, a ladies' man.

I told Bridget what I knew, omitting the tattoos as well as Jamie's playboy reputation. It didn't mean anything. Ted had left a trail of broken hearts behind and look at him now. Almost engaged.

The last thought depressed me so much that I didn't notice Bridget wasn't talking about Jamie anymore when she said, "Why are you just friends? How come you two have never dated?"

"Dated? Who?"

Her eyes turned upward. "You and that grandson of mine."

God, how many times had I been asked this question? How many times had I asked myself this question?

Life was a bitch, that's why. A decade ago, I'd wanted to get married and have babies. Ted hadn't; he'd said that loud and clear more than once. Now he wanted to marry, and I'd given up on my dreams of having my own family.

I glanced at Bridget. "When Ted and I met, I was heartbroken and he had a girlfriend. And later, one of us was always unavailable."

She frowned, unhappy with my lame explanation, but before she could continue with her cross-questioning, we heard the truck pulling in, soon followed by Mathew's cheerful, rapid talk and his uncle's calm baritone.

My stomach fluttered.

Mathew dashed in, smiling like a sun, a rectangular box about his size in his arms. "Dee, look what Uncle bought me! The Polar Express!"

***

After supper, we set to decorating the Christmas tree. The Polar Express would be circling underneath it. After Ted and I secured the tree in the stand, he and Mathew started unpacking the train set while Bridget and I untangled the lights and prepared beautiful vintage glass decorations. Mathew and I sang along to children's Christmas songs playing from my laptop.

The whole house smelled of fir and baking. The Chinook was still blowing outside, and the temperature was unseasonably high. It might change soon, Bridget had said that morning; the warm wind often brought plenty of snow.

I stole a glance at Ted. The wind didn't seem to bother him.

Bridget's question reverberated in my mind.

Why had Ted and I never considered dating?

***

We'd met one summer morning at the Denver Botanical Garden, more than a decade ago. I was making my first shy steps in business consulting, with my brother as my only client. Ted was a second-year resident doctor at St. Joseph's Hospital. Our friendship started with an "Ouch!" from Ted and my angry reply, "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

I was sitting on a bench beside the pond, taking a sort of break after a long, exhausting run that was supposed to dull my emotional anguish. The previous evening my fiancé had broken our engagement. He'd fallen in love with another woman and wanted to marry her...

***

"Earth to Deanna!" Ted's voice and Mathew's laugh reached me with a slight delay.

I looked at Ted and blinked. "Did you ask me something?"

"Pass me the tree topper."

I did, then slipped back into one of my most treasured memories.

***

Head down, elbows on my knees, I stared at the diamond ring on my hand. An expensive piece. The dickhead would expect it back.

I yanked it off my finger and heaved it toward the pond. It didn't go that far; it hit a man running by. He let out that before-mentioned "Ouch!" and I replied with my terse comment. He muttered something under his breath and rubbed the spot on his upper arm where the ring had hit him. Then he bent and picked it up, turning it between his fingers as he inspected it.

"Who broke up the engagement?" he said, giving it back to me.

"He did," I said. "Otherwise I wouldn't throw the ring in the pond, would I?"

"You can find a better use for it."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "My ex-fiancée exchanged it for a pair of diamond earrings."

"Who broke up your engagement?" I asked.

"She did."

"Two needs with one deed, huh? A practical woman."

"Very," he said with a broad smile. "To tell the truth, she had my blessing. To reuse the ring, I mean. If she gave it back to me, I also might've thrown it in a pond."

Using the back of the bench for support, he reached back, grabbed his right ankle and drew the knee forward, then applied the same stretch to his left leg. "The first few days are the worst, but eventually it gets better," he said when he'd finished stretching. Then he extended his hand. "Theodore Wrangel."

I shook it. "Deanna Carter."

"Well, it was nice to meet you, Deanna. See you around." He turned and jogged off.

The next day I sold the ring and donated the money to a local women's shelter, on behalf of my ex-fiancé, and asked the shelter's manager to send him a thank-you letter for his generous contribution.

A few weeks later, Ted and I met again at my friend's party. She introduced me to her new boyfriend, a cardiology resident, Dr. Theodore Wrangel. They soon broke up—she wanted a serious relationship and Ted wasn't ready for it. For a while, I was caught in the middle of their mini-drama.

But soon my girlfriend and I had drifted apart and Ted and I became friends. He kept pursuing his bachelor way of life; I kept hoping to meet Mr. Right. Given Ted's and my different goals and expectations, friendship seemed the only way to stay together.

Years passed, and with them, a parade of his girlfriends, a few of my boyfriends, several heartbreaks and disappointments.

Our friendship survived. Our personalities, although different, complemented and enriched each other. Outside the hospital, Ted Wrangel, a devoted, dead-serious heart surgeon, was an easy-going man, with a wonderful sense of humor. Ted had a rare gift to make life look like magic. I was the opposite—my private life was often serious and rational, yet I approached my business like play—with creativity, fun, innovation and boldness.

In a way, he was the Henry Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle. Before I met Ted, I'd never been outside of Colorado. Befriending him taught me to make sure my passport was always valid and handy. He'd taught me to appreciate literature, music and art. He'd say he'd take me out for dinner for my birthday to a fine French restaurant, forgetting to tell me that the restaurant in question actually was in France. One time he bought us tickets for a Cirque du Soleil show—in Dubai. Then, the following year, we went to Venice. He'd hunt down a particular piece of furniture that I'd mentioned I liked and buy it for me. One Christmas, we ended up diving in the Red Sea.

I accepted those surprises with childlike excitement. His zest for life was contagious and his imagination boundless.

We meant the world to each other. Besides our families, we were the most constant people in each other's lives. I had close girlfriends and Ted had male friends, but our connection was more than friendship. It was an emotional and mental need, almost like food and water; it was protection and safety.

I'd never met the perfect man, and my hopes and dreams of having a husband and children had slowly faded. Still, I'd counted my blessings: I had a loving family, successful business and the best friend in the world.

And then Diedre had come into Ted's life and changed everything.

***

"Houston, we have a problem!" Ted's voice snapped me out of my sweet trance once more. He stood beside the tree, head tilted, hands on his hips. "The electrical cord's too short."

"Failure isn't an option," Mathew said, mirroring Ted's position. "Grandma has a long cord behind the TV." He looked up at Bridget. "Grandma, can we use it?"

I chuckled. Mathew probably hadn't watched Apollo 13, but he knew his line. Thanks to his uncle, no doubt. It was one of Ted's favorite movies.

"And how am I going to watch TV then?" Bridget said and turned to Ted. "There should be an extension cord somewhere in the storage boxes in the shed."

Ted grabbed my hand. "Let's go find it. I need your help."

I gave him a look. "To help you carry it?"

"I can help you, Uncle," Mathew offered.

Ted put his hands on Mathew's small shoulders. "Dee and I will be back in no time. Stay here with Granny."

"What do you need me for?" I asked Ted as we strode toward the garden shed behind the house.

"I brought you out for some fresh air. You seem ruffled. What did you and Bridget talk about today?"

"Nothing in particular." I lied, and he knew it.

"She was grilling you about Diedre, wasn't she?"

First a tactical retreat. "She did, but only because you're not telling her anything." Then a counter attack. "She heard from Harper you were in a serious relationship, otherwise she wouldn't have known. Why all this secrecy?"

"It's not exactly a secret."

He unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The shed was spacious, clean and neat. Ted walked to the wall of wooden storage shelves with transparent plastic boxes on them.

"We need to talk," I said from behind him.

"About what?" he said, without turning.

"About your marriage."

Ted scanned the boxes, tugged one out and lifted the lid. "Ah, here it is..." He turned and looked at me with a satisfied grin. "About my marriage to a woman I haven't proposed to yet, or about marriage in general? All right. Let's talk, Deanna."

"You're having second thoughts, right? That's okay, Ted. Don't rush. Don't do something you'll soon regret."

"I won't regret it."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty much."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am, Dee. But let's talk. I'd love to hear what you want to tell me that I already don't know."

I snatched the extension cord from his hands. "Mathew's waiting for us."

***

Once the tree was decorated and the Polar Express ran cheerfully through a small village beneath it, Ted and Mathew watched a movie while Bridget and I prepared dinner. I couldn't stop thinking about my relationship with Ted, analyzing my feelings for him.

Investigating.

Evaluating.

Inspecting.

Putting them under the microscope.

Was he more than a friend to me? Or I to him?

Had he even considered me as a girlfriend? And what was wrong with me if he hadn't? Why could we be such close friends but not lovers?

While I examined my feelings, Bridget was examining me. She chatted about this and that, light, small talk, but I felt that her vivid, probing blue eyes looked at me with a newly awakened interest. She smiled and nodded from time to time, in silent encouragement, as if she could read the thoughts wrestling in my mind.

I felt almost relieved when it was time to go to sleep. I nestled in the bed with my laptop on my knees and skimmed through my emails. There was nothing important in them that would require my immediate action, which was fortunate. Then I opened one of my downloaded books and tried to read. It didn't work; I had to read the same sentences over and over. My mind was still somewhere else; I listened for the sound of Ted's steps.

Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. I heard Ted's steps, stopping in front of my door. I waited for a knock, breathless. And counted. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

The floorboards cracked, and he proceeded down the hallway toward his room, which was, if I had it right, two doors away from mine.

I'd give him enough time to take a shower, I decided, but not enough to fall asleep.

A few minutes later, I got up, reached for my robe and put it on.

I tiptoed to his room and knocked. "Ted, it's me," I whispered.

"Dee?"

"May I come in?"

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes. No. I want to talk to you."

"Now? Wait a sec."

There was a flurry of activity on the other side of the door. By the sound of it, he was putting on jeans. Then the door swung open. Like this morning, Ted was shirtless, clad only in his jeans. According to Mandy, he didn't own any sleepwear, and always slept naked. I learned quite a few interesting things about Ted from her.

That was why I now looked at his taut stomach and wondered if he wore his briefs under the jeans, or if he just pulled them over his naked... well... lower part of the body.

"What happened, Dee?"

I tore my gaze from the thin line of dark hair that ran down his belly button and disappeared behind the waistband. "It's about Diedre," I said quickly, before I changed my mind and fled back to my room.

He reached for my hand and drew me inside, closing the door behind me. "I know you didn't come to kiss me goodnight. Why can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"Because by tomorrow I might lose my nerve."

"Deanna Carter lose her nerve? I'd like to see that happen."

"Put something on, for Pete's sake!"

He watched me with an expression of confused amusement as if I'd told him a joke, but he wasn't sure he'd gotten it.

"Why?" he asked, rubbing his hand over his abdominal muscles. "You've seen me shirtless before."

We stood close enough to each other for me to feel the warmth of his body, smell his scent, hear his breathing.

I wanted to touch him, to run my palm over his skin, to feel its smoothness over the hard muscles. Instead, I snatched his T-shirt from the back of the armchair and hurled it at him. "Because this is a serious conversation."

He caught it and pulled it over his head. His magnificent torso disappeared from my view.

It was the same Ted I'd known for many years, I reminded myself. My best friend. I'd seen him in his underwear, although accidentally; certainly, in his swimming trunks, many times. I'd seen him sleeping, I'd rubbed his burning skin with diluted alcohol to take his fever down when he'd had a bad flu a few years ago. I'd seen his chest, the V of his abs so hard and well-formed that you could bounce a nickel off them. I'd seen his elegant, narrow feet with long toes, I knew his natural scent beneath that of soap and shampoo.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of him as a man before. Yet, it was as if I saw him for the first time.

And just like that, something inside me, in my very core, started rearranging into a new sequence.

I didn't dare to look at Ted, terrified that my face, always an open book to him, would give me away.

I had to stop this distortion, so I did the only thing that made sense. I turned to leave.

Ted's hand reached up, pressing the door. "Not so fast, Deanna. It's just become interesting."

He walked me to the armchair and made me sit down while he sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard and crossing his long legs at the ankles.

"You obviously think I shouldn't marry Diedre," he said. "Do you care to explain why?"

The soft fuzz that had grown around the edges of my mind cleared out. Determined to ignore my inner turmoil, I told him what I'd said to his grandmother earlier that afternoon: Diedre was great, but she was not the right woman for him.

"We have a lot in common, you have to admit," Ted said when I finished.

"Yes, but it doesn't make you compatible." Well, I wasn't sure about that, because Ted and I were different yet compatible, but it sounded good. I rubbed my forehead. "Do you love her?"

"You've already asked me this question, remember?"

I remembered. He said he'd never marry a woman he didn't love. Afraid of his answer, I didn't push it.

It was a stupid idea to come to talk to Ted. He was a grown man, free to marry whomever he liked. So what if he made a mistake? Fifty percent of marriages failed anyway. It didn't make sense to worry in advance; there was always enough time to worry afterward.

I stood up. "I don't want to see you hurt and I don't want to lose you. I think you're going to make a mistake, and I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't tell you that, but this is your life and your decision."

"That's all? No other reasons?"

"These are good reasons, Ted."

"Not that you've convinced me, but keep trying," he said with a smug smile. "Now about the Christmas party—"

Right. The party. Some sense of normalcy returned. "What about it?"

"Mark booked one of the banquet halls at the Palliser Hotel. Most of our business partners will be there. If you still think you need a dress, I'll take you to the city tomorrow to buy it."

I welcomed the idea of spending a couple of hours somewhere else, free from the seductive spell of this house that smelled of fir, cinnamon and ginger and tackled my deepest yearnings. And away from Ted, until I sorted out my acute emotional mess. "I'll ask Harper to go with me."

That didn't work. "Harper's taking Bridget to her hairstylist, as far as I know," Ted said. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

December 19

Ted ushered his grandmother and me into the beige-and-blue splendor of the Palliser's Crystal Ballroom, with thirteen crystal chandeliers sparkling from the gilded ceiling, ornate walls and arched windows. A few tasteful details revealed the nature of the party—a huge Christmas tree decorated in blue and silver, vases and bowls filled with ornaments, piles of blue and white plates trimmed with gold, set on the ends of three long banquet tables. Soft Christmas music floated from invisible speakers, adding to the festive atmosphere.

The party and its guests—about two hundred employees and business partners—and the fact that most of the invitees would come so close to Christmas—was a clear testimony to the true size and influence of McCain Drilling.

Mark, Susan and Harper had already arrived. Jamie Breckenridge was with them. He greeted me, recognizing me even though we'd met only once, briefly. Save for us and the discreet hotel personnel, the grand room was empty.

Harper assessed my dress and whistled. "Wow! You look like a million dollars, Dee!"

"You don't look bad yourself," I said, taking in her deep turquoise dress, matching suede stilettos, an elaborate updo and immaculate makeup. Her parents looked elegant in their formal clothes—a dark suit for Mark and a soft grey fit-and-flare cocktail dress for Susan. Harper's escort was unconventionally dashing in his formal attire, with his handsome face, dark, long hair pulled into his signature ponytail and the flashes of tattoos that peeked through the snowy white cuffs of his shirt.

The family matriarch was beyond beautiful with her stylish haircut, a touch of makeup and a platinum grey dress with a bolero jacket.

But it was Ted who took my breath away. He was a gorgeous combination of elegance and nonchalance—a charcoal suit, a snow-white shirt, a tie with a subtle blue and bronze pattern.

The McCains were all too well put together by any measure.

My dress was a trifle on the daring side for this occasion, and it made me a bit self-conscious. It was Ted's fault—he'd insisted I should buy this dress and not any other out of dozens or more I'd tried earlier that day.

I glanced at my reflection against the dark window. If it hadn't been for one small detail, tonight's outfit would be ordinary. The collar. The two-inch-wide strip, made of black lace and connected to the dress at the shoulders, exposed a hand-sized triangle of skin between my neck and the top of my breasts and turned it into a sexy little dress.

Perhaps too sexy. I shouldn't have let Ted talk me into it. I reached for my silk shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders.

Well, at least he'd helped me to find a hobby-size telescope for Mathew in no time, even though he insisted it wasn't necessary. It wasn't, of course, but the little boy might expect an additional Christmas gift from Santa, now that I was here. I wouldn't disappoint him for anything.

Ted's breath brushed over my skin. "Are you cold?"

I almost bucked from a jolt of pleasure.

That morning, I was able to convince myself that the emotional whirlpool I had been sucked into the previous day was just temporary insanity. Now every nerve in my body came alive.

The warmth of Ted's hand penetrated through the fabric of my dress and made my skin tingle. "No," I said without turning, my voice small. "My dress is too revealing."

"Nonsense." He turned me around and gave me an approving look. "You definitely should wear sexy clothes more often, Dee."

He slipped his hand through the crook of my elbow and we walked toward a group of people that had just come in. "By the way, Harper just told me that Arless might show up tonight."

Ah. Arless Dexter, Ted's first love. The infamous fiancée, who'd left him just before their wedding, then exchanged her engagement ring for a pair of earrings. Soon she'd gotten another one, though. After a brief engagement, she married another man, two decades her senior.

Arless, now a widow, was the owner of her late husband's multimillion-dollar business—a heavy machinery manufacturing company—and one of McCain Drilling's key business partners. I knew that she and Ted were in touch. She had come to Denver a couple of times. On business, allegedly. My feeling was that she wouldn't mind picking up where she'd left off with Ted, but I didn't think that anything had happened between them during those visits. That had been before he'd met Diedre in any case.

"Have Arless and Diedre ever met?" I asked once we had a moment alone.

"No."

"Does she know you're almost engaged?"

"How can she? People don't usually announce 'almost-engagements'. Let me tell you something, Dee. When I get engaged, you'll be the first to know."

"How come you didn't know Arless would be here?"

"When Mark sent the invitations, she initially declined, saying she would be out of the country. Which she is, most of the year. She has lots of contracts in the Far East. She returned early, though. A family situation."

"And not because she heard you were coming, too?"

"Maybe. Does it bother you?"

Of course it bothered me. "No, why would it?"

He kissed my forehead. "Because you're protective of me, aren't you?"

My blood hummed. Warmth spread inside me like wildfire, then surged to my lower belly. "What are friends for?" I murmured and managed a smile.

Fortunately, someone approached to greet us, giving me a chance to gather my wits.

***

Half an hour later, just before I breathed out a sigh of relief, certain that Arless had changed her mind, a dramatically beautiful and self-possessed woman stepped into the ballroom. I knew immediately who she was.

The party was in full swing, yet all eyes turned to her as she walked toward the McCains. Mark and Susan seemed genuinely pleased to see her. Bridget's face was unreadable. Arless and Harper hugged each other, then Harper motioned toward Ted and me.

She was four years older than Ted, although, if I didn't know, I would never have been able to tell. She didn't look ten years younger than her age, either, a luxury many women of her stature could afford. It made her even more attractive, in my opinion. She'd be beautiful when she was eighty. She had a certain air of natural dominance and authority, not unlike Ted. No wonder they didn't stay together. The alpha male and alpha female, a combination that would never work.

As Ted and Arless greeted each other, however, I couldn't help but notice what a stunning pair they were—good looking, vibrant, confident. The natural blonde Arless, with her smart blue eyes, perfect facial features and a tall, curvy body was a great visual match to dark-haired, masculine Ted. I smiled to myself. Ted wouldn't like the comparison, but they looked like a hot perfume couple from a glossy magazine advertising the same brand of fragrance for _her_ and _him_.

Arless's long gold hair was skillfully arranged to look festive and casual at once. Her black cocktail dress was almost too formal, but she'd applied the same trick as me, counting on small details. She'd paired her dress with red high heels and a magnificent ruby necklace and earrings, and managed to look sexy and classy. There was a subtle intimacy in the way she placed her manicured hands on Ted's biceps and kissed his cheeks, a trifle too close to the corners of his mouth for my liking. Still, the surge of jealousy that had shaken me many times in the last few days was absent.

Ted introduced me to her simply as Dee. Arless's eyes widened ever so slightly as she gave me a quick once-over. Since she had never met Diedre, I was sure Arless thought that I was her.

If I was an unpleasant surprise, Arless didn't show it, and her self-control was quickly re-established. Everything was in order again: her tone, her smile, her body language, her politeness toward me. Beneath that perfect demeanor, I sensed something I couldn't identify. Regret? Defeat? I didn't know, but it was that underlying sentiment that made me like Arless Dexter more than I was willing to admit.

***

A group of two men and a woman came to say hello to Arless. Ted and I soon left them and continued mingling with other guests, joining and leaving the small groups scattered around the ballroom. Company parties were not an unfamiliar setting for me, and I felt at ease. Quite a few people knew my brother, who owned one of the biggest construction companies in the country.

As I quickly learned, hearing a word here and two there, Arless Dexter was one of the very few females in a top position in the oil and gas industry. She was a capable businesswoman, who'd been the heart and soul of her company long before it became officially hers, and a trustworthy business partner at that.

Coincidentally or deliberately, we met half an hour later in one of the most clichéd places of all, the powder room.

I was washing my hands when Ted's larger-than-life ex-fiancée sailed in.

I glanced at her gorgeous reflection in the mirror and smiled. Ted wouldn't misguide her on purpose about my role in his life, yet I still felt I should tell her who I was.

It turned out to be unnecessary. Arless caught my eye and smiled back, looking slightly baffled. "So, you're Deanna Carter, huh? I always wanted to meet you. I heard a lot about you, as you did about me, I'm sure." She tilted her head and studied me for a moment. "Ah, I see now. At first glance, you and Diedre look alike."

I'd heard that one time too many. I suppressed an urge to roll my eyes.

"I thought you two hadn't met in person," I said, as I turned and pulled a sheet of paper towel from the dispenser to dry my hands.

"We haven't, that's right. I googled her; that's how I know. Besides, I have my sources." She smiled. "I should have googled you instead. By the way, when did they break up? Ted and Diedre?"

I crumpled the paper towel into a ball and threw it into a metal basket bin. The wretched engagement ring popped into my mind. "They're still together, as far as I know."

"Are they? Then why are you here and not Diedre?"

If she could be blunt, so could I. "I'm here because Ted invited me. As for why Diedre is not, you should ask Ted."

She didn't say anything, and for a brief moment, she seemed far, far away. Then she blinked and smiled. "Once, I loved Ted, or I thought I did. I hurt him badly. I would hate to see him hurt again."

"He's a big boy; he'd survive," I said, unsure of the purpose of this confession. "Besides, I doubt Diedre is set to break his heart."

"Who was talking about Diedre?"

"I'm not following, I'm afraid," I said. "Who'd hurt him, then?"

She shook her head. "You still don't get it, do you? And here I thought we women always know."

"Know what?"

"When someone falls in love with us." She smiled. "Why do you think he dated Diedre? He was looking for you in her, it's so obvious."

Even if I knew how to reply to her, I didn't get a chance. The door opened and two women came in, glancing then nodding at Arless and me, then proceeding toward the stalls.

For the rest of the evening, I was rewinding Arless's words in my head.

Was she trying to tell me that Ted was in love with me? Could he be? Was I in love with him? Now, after more than a decade of friendship?

I asked myself those questions over and over again, stealing glances at Ted as if the answers were written on his face.

***

After the party, which ended just before eight p.m., Ted said he'd take me out for a proper dinner. I agreed, although food was the last thing on my mind. I needed some private time with my best friend, who was rapidly turning my world upside down.

I needed answers.

Susan and Mark took Bridget to the ranch while Harper and Jamie Breckenridge went somewhere else together.

Our destination was a cozy Italian restaurant owned by Ted's friend, Enzo. Once I forced myself to focus on my veal medallions in white truffle sauce, my taste buds realized how excellent it was, although in a bizarre, distracting way.

I was more aware of the wine, an aged Chardonnay with a strong and complex flavor. While Ted barely touched his, I'd drunk two glasses in short succession.

When I grabbed Ted's still full glass and took a hefty swig, he removed it from my hand. "Take it easy, honey," he said. "I need you sober."

"I'm sober. What do you need me for?"

"We need to talk."

"About what?" My voice, small and a notch higher, sounded like a squeak.

"Let's start with something my grandma asked me yesterday. Why did we never date, Dee?"

"She asked me, too," I said. "What did you tell her?"

"I asked first. In any case, she wasn't satisfied with my explanation."

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I wasn't the type of woman you dated... I don't know, Ted. We were friends."

"Were?"

My subconscious wasn't that nonchalant at all. "We started as friends; that's what I wanted to say. You had a girlfriend, and I was heartsick. Wrong timing."

"And later?"

"One of us was always in a relationship. Usually you."

"In other words, you've never considered me as a boyfriend. Ouch. It does wound my male pride."

What about my female pride? He hadn't considered me as a girlfriend either. Besides, he was wrong. "Don't put words in my mouth. It did cross my mind, once or twice. It's natural. You're good looking and intelligent."

"Just good looking and intelligent? What about charming, sexy, fun?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's irrelevant now. Once upon a time, I wanted family. You didn't. Now you've changed your mind—"

"Or matured. Men sometimes need more time to grow up."

"I've changed my mind, too."

"Did you?"

"Again, beside the point. You bought a ring for another woman." I reached for my glass that the waiter had just refilled and took a sip. "Didn't you?"

He took my other hand in his, brought it to his mouth and kissed my palm. Desire rushed through my body, so strong that it was painful, taking my breath away. "This is what I want to talk to you about, so stop drinking, please."

Too late, I was afraid. My thoughts were a bit foggy and my body felt heavy. I pulled my hand back. "Your engagement?"

"Among other things."

I swallowed panic. "When do you plan to propose? Do you plan to propose?"

"As soon as I'm sure that my bride-to-be won't hurl my engagement ring at me when I ask her to marry me."

The only thing that stopped me from complete despair was the lingering feeling of warmth on my hand where his lips had touched my skin and the mischievous, boyish sparkle in his eyes I knew so well. He was toying with me.

"So, you need to be sure she loves you? You should have thought about it before you bought her the ring," I said, reaching for his glass and finishing it off.

"Yes. Because, at this point, I'm not sure. She's been sending me mixed messages. I need you to know—"

Whatever it was, it had to wait. Enzo was approaching our table carrying a tray with two desserts and three cups of espresso, bringing with him some sense of reality.

Once Enzo left, a quarter of an hour later, I waited for Ted to continue our discussion. He didn't.

He stood up instead, holding out his hand to help me to my feet. My legs were shaky, and I felt lightheaded, from both the wine and the emotional storm that was raging inside me.

Ted held my hand as we walked out. His touch brought up another burst of sensations—a rush of heat through my blood, coiling in my core, the loud thump of my heart.

As we drove home through the deserted streets and then the quiet, dark countryside, fragments of our conversation buzzed in my head like a swarm of bees. What did he mean when he said he had to be sure Diedre loved him? Or, had he mentioned her name at all? No, he'd said... What did he say? I lost the thread of my thoughts then happily found it again. He'd said, "my bride-to-be." There. He didn't say Diedre. So, it could be anyone. It could be me.

My thoughts seemed to me like some sort of mental kaleidoscope. The moment I caught one, the invisible tube would turn, and the thought would reconstruct itself into something else.

I would never marry a woman I wasn't sure I loved.

Why have we never dated, Dee?

She is not my fiancée.

Are they still together? Ted and Diedre?

My head was spinning. I pressed it against the cold glass of the side window and stared into the darkness until the colorful, ever-changing whirl stopped.

The strange emotional rearranging that had started the previous night was over. It was as though I'd suddenly found the correct angle to view a seemingly ordinary thing and discovered its depth, hidden colors, hidden sounds—a whole new meaning I was now ready to acknowledge and name.

I loved Ted.

"We need to have a serious talk, Ted," I said, straightening up.

Ted turned onto the rough road heading toward the house. "Yes, but not now. You have to sleep off that extra alcohol in your body."

"I'm not drunk." I wasn't. The _extra alcohol_ had vanished from my system the moment the big truth revealed itself.

"You had more wine than usual and it's late. We'll talk tomorrow."

I nodded. Maybe we both needed to sleep on it.

***

The house was dark and quiet when we arrived. The lights in Bridget's bedroom were on and Ted went to check on her.

Upstairs in my room, I undressed, took a shower, then lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come.

For the next few hours, I kept dipping in and out of light slumber mingled with fragments of the previous evening. Around six, I gave up. I went to the bathroom and did my morning routine, got dressed and turned on my laptop to do the most mundane thing of all—catch up on my work.

December 20

I often did my computer work while listening to music. It was the reason why I didn't hear what was going on downstairs until, around seven-thirty, my door opened, and Ted stepped in. His face was ashen pale, and his eyes darkened with worry.

I yanked off my earphones and jumped up on my feet. "Ted! What happened?"

"Dad and Sonya were in a car accident. I'm going to Denver."

I swallowed. "Oh, God. Are they going to be okay?"

"Their injuries are serious, but the doctor I spoke to said they're not life threatening."

He didn't sound completely convinced. "I'm coming with you," I said.

"No, please stay with Bridget. I'll be back in a day or two, I hope. If not, you might still make it to Bonnybrook before Christmas."

I took a step closer and took his face between my palms. "I'll be with you this Christmas, Theodore Wrangel. Here, in Denver, or over the phone, it doesn't matter."

This Christmas, and all those that would come, I wanted to tell him. Because I love you, and I think you love me.

It wasn't the right moment for such confessions, so I didn't say anything.

Ted lowered his head; I lifted mine. And we kissed.

His lips were soft and warm; his breath fresh and minty. My arms closed around his neck. He pulled me closer against him, deepening the kiss.

It felt wonderful, that new and strangely familiar sensation of his intimate touch, his taste, his scent, as if we had kissed countless times before, not in reality, but dreams. It was right and natural, like breathing.

"Wait for me," he whispered against my mouth.

I nodded, still kissing him.

Long after he was gone, I stood in the same place, touching my lips with my fingers, wondering if the kiss we had shared was indeed a reality or a dream.

***

Mark, Susan and Harper postponed their traditional pre-Christmas skiing trip to Canmore, a ski town in the Rockies, one hour's drive west of Calgary, where they had a cottage. They waited for news from Ted. It was only after Ted was gone that I learned he'd flown to Denver with the McCains' private Learjet. It only added to my anxiety. My brother owned the same one, and I knew they were reliable small planes, but Nick seldom used it during winter. The weather in this part of the continent was too unpredictable.

The weather report was good, however, at least for that day. It was very cold, although sunny and windy. Ted phoned around ten with good news. His father and stepmother suffered some broken bones, cracked ribs and lots of cuts and bruises. No internal injuries, fortunately. They'd spend Christmas at the hospital, but Ted believed they would be released soon after that. He said he'd stay for two more days then fly back to Calgary.

The Christmas atmosphere returned to the ranch.

Bridget and I made the final decisions about the Christmas dinner menu and baked more Christmas goodies—shortbread cookies, truffles, crinkle cookies, peppermint tea cakes. We wrapped the presents and arranged them under the tree. She shook her head and smiled when she saw a tiny parcel with her name on it, then placed her own for me next to it.

She knew something had happened between Ted and me, or would happen soon. It would be hard to hide such happiness, after all. I radiated with it. I loved Ted and I knew he loved me. We found each other, after so many years.

She didn't ask me anything, but she couldn't stop smiling. There were no more talks about Diedre, the ring, the engagement that I now knew would never happen. Or it would, because I was sure he'd bought the ring for me from the beginning. A few details of this crazy, breathtaking love story were still unclear, yet not for long.

December 23

In the next two days, Ted called or texted me several times. There was so much we wanted to tell each other, but, as per our unspoken agreement, we decided to wait until he returned.

On December 23, Ted told me that his father and step-mother were doing great and that he didn't need to stay in Denver any longer. He'd hired a nurse to stay with them once they were released, then booked the first available flight, on December 26.

"I'm sorry, Dee," he typed. "I wanted to be with you this Christmas more than anything."

"There is another Christmas coming," I typed back, referring to the Orthodox Christmas, observed two weeks after December 24. The Wrangels were not very religious, but they were traditionally baptized in the Orthodox Church. Their Christmas was an intimate celebration. In the last decade or so, I was the only person outside the family who was ever invited to join them.

He finished the message with a kiss-blowing emoji and a "Miss you, Dee."

"Travel safely. Miss you, too," I replied back, adding a big, red heart.

Harper phoned sometime later asking if Susan and Mark could bring Mathew over for a couple of hours on their way to Canmore. She needed to go somewhere, and she wouldn't bother me and Bridget, she said, but her regular babysitter was away, and she didn't want to leave Mathew with an unknown person from an agency... She talked too fast and too much, her voice bubbling with excitement and happiness. It wasn't difficult to guess the reason—Jamie Breckenridge.

Of course, I said. I understood too well; she wasn't the only one who was in love with the entire world. I would do much more for her than to look after her adorable son.

Mark and Susan arrived shortly after with Mathew in tow. Bridget was still sleeping. I asked the McCains if they would stay for coffee. They declined because they wanted to reach Canmore before the weather changed. Short but strong blizzards were forecast for later that morning.

I shivered involuntarily when they mentioned the blizzard, stopping myself short from asking them not to go when I realized how ridiculous it would sound.

I glanced through the window, half expecting to see the stormy clouds rolling over the prairies. But the sun shone bright and the sky was deep blue and clear.

When Susan and Mark left, I made hot chocolate for Mathew and coffee for Bridget and myself.

When Bridget joined us, however, she asked for a cup of mint tea, complaining about an upset stomach. I looked at her sharply, assessing her.

She smiled and shook her head. "It's nothing," she said. "I suffer from occasional indigestion."

"Did you mention it to Ted?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes. "He made me see three different doctors. I probably ate something I shouldn't have. Did Ted call?"

I confirmed and told her he was coming back on December 26.

It wasn't an issue for Ted's practical grandmother. "Then we'll have Christmas dinner on December 26," she said. "Now, if you two don't mind, I'll go back to bed. I didn't sleep well last night."

***

Mathew and I went outside for a walk, even though the temperature had dropped below zero degrees Fahrenheit. When we returned, I taught him how to make simple origami decorations. I helped him hang them on the Christmas tree.

It was eleven o'clock when the day that was supposed to be quiet took a turn toward crazy. I remember because we were in the sitting room when I'd heard the chime of the grandfather clock and glanced at it.

My phone made its characteristic sound. My first thought was that it was Ted, and my heart jumped.

It was Molly, my second-in-command, checking my whereabouts because she'd seen Ted the previous night.

I explained to her what had happened.

"He was with Diedre," she said. "I thought she was in Italy."

I paused, trying to make sense of her words, but my thoughts took flight like a flock of ducks startled by a hunter's gunshot.

Molly was giving me more details—Ted and Diedre at Fleur de Lis, where Molly and her sister had dinner. She'd caught only a glance of them, and no, she didn't think Ted saw her.

My sanity returned if only for a moment, telling me that Ted and Diedre's meeting had to be a coincidence. She either returned earlier than she had planned, or she hadn't planned to stay in Italy for Christmas in the first place. I'd just assumed she would. Then again, my unsettling thoughts returned. Did Ted know she was back? Did I know what was going on between them or did I just convince myself that my hopes and dreams were Ted's, too?

Molly kept talking about her plans for Christmas, asked me when I would decide who should go to Austin, when I would return to Denver and so on. I responded with vague answers, while my mind was going through the details of the last few days.

Was it possible that I made such a gross miscalculation?

Yes.

No.

Yes. No. Yes. No.

We had kissed yesterday, but who started that kiss?

"Molly, we'll talk later. I have to go," I said, cutting her off, and disconnected.

It took me a few long minutes to gather my wits. Ted would return soon, and I would know what was going on.

I smiled at Mathew and started folding another piece of paper to show him how to make an owl. Yet I couldn't get rid of the feeling that this day had more challenges waiting for me.

***

It was one o'clock when the sky suddenly darkened, and the wind picked up.

"Dee, it's snowing!" Mathew said, excited, and ran to the window. I followed him. "Snowing" was a gross underestimate. The visible world was rapidly disappearing from our sight as if someone was pulling a thick, greyish-white blanket over us. A blizzard. Within minutes, all we could hear and see was the howling of blowing snow.

It was one-fifteen when Bridget emerged from her room, barely standing on her feet.

I rushed to her, grabbing her around the waist a moment before she collapsed.

"Bridget! What happened?"

"My stomach hurts."

I touched her cheek with the back of my hand. She was burning.

It seemed that the most terrifying event of my life was happening again, down to the scariest details.

Nick and I, both fourteen, home alone. Mom and Dad were away, checking out some second-hand machinery for the ranch, and Nick and I were on Christmas break. Nick had had a stomachache for two days but made me swear not to tell mom and dad because then they wouldn't let him have a sleepover at his friend's.

He had appendicitis as we soon learned. I didn't know that then; didn't even know what the word meant. I only knew that he was very, very sick and that I had to do something. And quickly. I figured out we'd get to the hospital faster if I drove him there instead of waiting for the ambulance to make its way to our ranch and back through the blizzards.

So, I did. I dragged my half-conscious, feverish brother into our old minivan and took off. Our tiny town didn't have a hospital. The nearest one was in Fort Collins, some twenty miles northeast of Bonnybrook. It took me more than an hour to get there. The longest twenty miles of my life. I drove as fast as I could, relying on my inner sense of direction and distance because I couldn't see anything except the thick, white curtain of swirling snow.

We got there just in time, the doctors later said. It was a reckless but brave decision, Bonnybrook's sheriff and the father of the boy who Nick supposed to have a sleepover with, told me later, warning me not to sit behind the wheel of any motor vehicle again before I got a proper license. I promised it with my fingers crossed behind my back, grateful that the previous summer my dad had given in to my endless pestering to teach me how to drive.

Since then, blizzards mortified me, and I never drove through another one, light or strong.

"Dee, what's wrong with Granny?" Mathew's small voice cut through the memory of my worst nightmare.

I looked down at the little boy. He looked scared.

"She has a tummy ache," I said. "But she'll be okay, don't worry."

"Maybe she ate too many sweets."

Mathew's response elicited a tiny giggle from Bridget.

"Where does it hurt?" I asked her, sensing the answer. "Your stomach or your abdomen?"

"It started in my upper stomach; that's why I thought it was indigestion, but then the pain moved down."

I walked her to the couch, pulled off the sofa throw Bridget was covered with and gently probed her abdomen. Bridget let out a muffled cry.

"This isn't good," I said quietly so that Mathew couldn't hear me.

"It might not be what you think it is," Bridget whispered.

We didn't need to clarify what the "it" was. If you were prone to catastrophizing, it didn't mean that the worst wouldn't happen. "And what if it is?"

I had no medical knowledge and I couldn't tell for sure if it was appendicitis as we both suspected, but all my instincts were telling me it was something serious.

"I'm calling an ambulance," I said. Bridget nodded then glanced through the window. She didn't say anything, but I knew what she was thinking about. How long would it take them to come under these conditions?

The nearest hospital was about fifteen miles away, on the southern edge of the city. We'd passed by it on our way to the McCains' Christmas party. I grabbed my phone, dialed 9-1-1 and answered the dispatcher's questions about Bridget's age and current state. Bridget told me the address and I repeated it to the dispatcher.

The ambulance was on its way, the dispatcher said.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty. I called the emergency line again, not even trying to hide my panic, and was told to calm down and that the paramedics would be there as soon as possible.

Mathew, frightened by my voice and my frantic rushing between the couch where Bridget was lying and the window, started to cry. I tried to console him, taking him into my lap and whispering to him that everything would be alright.

Another ten minutes passed, and I realized that I couldn't wait any longer.

Over the top of Mathew's head, I threw a glance at Bridget. She seemed to have fallen into an uneasy slumber.

I took a deep breath, put Mathew down on his feet and looked at him. "Houston, we have a problem," I said in a conspiratorial whisper. "You and I need to take Granny to the hospital."

He sniffed and squared his tiny shoulders. "We won't let anything happen to her. Not on our watch."

"Not on our watch," I repeated and winked at him. "Now, do you know where your Granny keeps her truck keys?"

"In the glass fish bowl in the hallway. The fish died long ago, so now Granny keeps her keys there."

"Go fetch them."

Seconds later, he was back, the keys clutched in his small fist. "Here, Dee."

"Mathew, you're the best!" I said, and he beamed.

Once again, I glanced through the window and shivered. The storm was still raging, even stronger than before. I wished I could leave Mathew with the Sutherlands, but I knew they'd gone to the city to stay with their son's family over the holidays. Someone from the neighboring ranch was taking care of the horses, but I didn't know those people and wouldn't leave Mathew with them. Besides, I hadn't a clue how far the next ranch house was.

Mathew had to go with us.

"I need your help, young man," I said to him, forcing as much confidence into my voice as I could muster. "Go get dressed. Full gear—snow pants, jacket, boots, cap, mittens. Come back here and then you'll give me a hand with Granny. Okay?"

He nodded vigorously. "Okay."

I walked back to the couch and stroked Bridget's forehead, brushing away a lock of her soft, white hair. She opened her eyes.

"Bridget, your truck is working, right?"

"Of course. Why?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

"We can't. The storm—"

"It's easing up." I lied, without a blink.

I rushed upstairs, skipping every second step. I grabbed a pillow and bed comforter from my room and brought them down then hurried to the garage to warm up the truck.

The cherry-red Chevrolet had a manual transmission, a small advantage in snowy conditions. It was older than I expected, probably from the late 1980s. From outside, it looked perfect—clean, with shiny chrome bumpers and brand new winter tires. Better still, it was a full-size truck, with four doors. I climbed in, jabbed the key into the ignition and turned it.

The old engine roared to life and I released my breath. "I'm counting on you, old man," I murmured and patted the dashboard.

Mathew was dressed and ready to go when I returned.

Not until I reached to lift Bridget from the couch did it cross my mind that she might be too heavy for me to carry.

She wasn't. She seemed as small as a child and seemed to weigh as much, or perhaps my fear had brought up a strength I didn't know I possessed. All the time I was listening to hear the sound of the ambulance siren. How long would it take the paramedics to drive fifteen miles under these conditions? I checked the weather report. It hadn't changed since the last time I looked. A severe snowstorm warning was still in effect for this area. The visibility was almost zero, and the wind was 85 kilometers per hour. Residents were advised not to drive unless necessary.

I quickly converted metric kilometers to the more familiar miles. It was equally ugly, no matter the measuring system.

"They have to say that," I murmured to myself. "But this falls under the 'necessary' category, doesn't it?"

"What are you saying, Dee?" Mathew asked.

I smiled at him. "Are you ready for a snowy adventure, Houston?"

"Yes!" he shouted and punched the air with his small, mittened fist.

I called the emergency line once more to tell them I was bringing the patient to the hospital. The dispatcher tried to stop me. I ignored her and told her instead what type of truck I was driving. We'd meet the ambulance, I said, and then they could take over.

A few minutes later, we were on our way to the hospital. Bridget lay on the lowered back seat, under the thick comforter. Mathew was riding shotgun.

It was worse than I'd imagined. I switched on the hazard lights. The speedometer indicated that I was driving thirty kilometers per hour. That was just above twenty miles per hour, the school zone speed. We were lucky that there was almost no traffic on the road, save for the few other crawling cars. Gusts of wind played with the truck as if it was a toy, trying to push it from one side of the road to the other. I managed to keep us on the road, or what I guessed was the road. Around us there was nothing but gentle slopes, like snow dunes, wind and the endless whiteness.

Although I turned on Google Maps on my phone, I didn't completely trust it, knowing that sometimes their best and safest routes were not always the best and safest. I let my inner app, my sense of direction and my memory, run in the background.

I drove too slowly for the sick woman in the back, but too fast for the child in the front (the most dangerous place in collisions), praying that Calgarians listened to the warning and stayed off the roads. I knew once this scary ride was over, I'd break into pieces, but right now, every atom of my energy was focused on my task.

Soon I saw the outline of a cluster of spruces near the end of the dirt road. I turned left and hit the highway, asphalt peeking out here and there beneath the snow, only to vanish from my sight again in the next moment.

If I was on the right road, several miles further down there should be the small Orthodox Church.

I glanced at the frightened, overdressed child curled up on the front seat. "Mathew, I need your help. Look for the church. Do you remember it? Did he know left from right? Probably not. "It'll be on my side. See if you can spot it through my window. It has a round roof."

"I know that church," Mathew said, straightening up and leaning forward to get a better view. His brows were drawn together and his expression serious. "Dee, is Grandma going to die?"

I risked another glimpse at him and smiled. "Not on—"

"Our watch!" he finished.

"Right!"

I patted his knee. "We'll take her to the hospital, and the doctors and nurses there will help her."

"Uncle Ted is a doctor. Why didn't you call him?"

"He had to go to Denver, remember? It would take him a while to get here."

"Is Uncle Ted coming back?"

"Yes, soon."

"May I call my mom?"

"Once we arrive at the hospital."

I heard Bridget's soft moan from the back seat and looked in the rear view mirror. "Bridget, we'll be at the hospital soon," I said and sent a silent prayer to any god or spirit who might be listening. Then I saw her lips moving.

"Don't call Mark or Harper. Not until this bastard lets up. I don't want them to drive in this weather." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I won't, don't worry." It was bad enough that I had to drive a sick elderly woman and a child of five right through this shit.

We drove in silence for a while until Mathew cried, "The church! Over there! I can see it."

"Great job, Mathew!" I said. "You've got yourself the biggest ice cream you're allowed to have."

"I can only have a small one."

Then you'll get another pony. "Maybe your mom will let you eat a bigger one when I tell her how much you helped me."

The pretty church with its round dome was not more than a blur, but both Google Maps and I agreed, we were heading in the right direction. At the first intersection, I turned left and immediately saw why the ambulance hadn't come. It stood on the other side of the road, in a shallow ditch.

We passed by. I followed the patches of bare asphalt and managed to stay on the road.

Then I finally heard them, the sirens, carried by the wind. I pressed the horn and kept my hand there.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. The ambulance materialized out of a furious cloud of snow. Finally, we came to a halt; the ambulance stopped on the other side of the road. Men rushed out and yanked the back door open. In the blink of an eye, Bridget was on the gurney, carried by two paramedics to the back of the ambulance. Hand in hand, Mathew and I trotted behind them.

The paramedics were working on Bridget as we drove; one of them talked to the hospital via the radio attached to his shirt. To me, it was like a different language—all jargon and codes. I held Mathew in my lap and clung to him as much as he clung to me. Bridget was conscious and in great pain.

I touched the small mound of Bridget's hand resting under the blanket. I remember telling myself I had to keep her awake. If she stayed awake, she'd live. It was my mantra, and I kept repeating it to myself.

So, I talked. I told her about my first drive through a blizzard with my sick brother in the back seat. "He survived," I said. "You'll be fine, too. If you need to get through a storm, I'm your best bet."

She smiled weakly. "I know you are."

I told her why Nick, my twin, was my baby brother. Like the Biblical Jacob, he came into this world holding my heel with his tiny hand. I was his big sister, stronger and taller until the winter we turned twelve and then, overnight, he towered over me. I told her why I'd finished university three years after him—there was money for just one of us. I had worked to support him, so that he could focus on his studies. He finished a year early and then supported me so that I could study without taking a student loan.

I told her how Nick was always a better student in everything except math. I wanted to study it, but I never regretted that I didn't because I also wanted a better life, not only for myself but also for my parents. Pure math wouldn't make it happen. I sometimes entertained myself with solving mathematical problems. Then I talked about my mom and dad, a schoolteacher and a rancher, who'd worked their butts off so that Nick and I could have a normal life. Now they didn't need to worry about money anymore.

I told her how Ted and I had met and about the engagement ring I threw at him. I told her about the joy and fun he'd brought into my uneventful life and everything I'd learned from him.

I told her I loved him and planned to marry him and that she must recover because I wanted us to get married on her ranch.

I didn't know what she thought about my blabbing, but I believed she smiled at the last part.

The ambulance stopped.

When we jumped out, the storm was still strong but had lost its bite. "It's almost over," I heard someone saying. I calculated that our crazy charge through the blizzard gave Bridget maybe thirty or forty extra minutes. Would that be enough, or were we too late anyway?

***

I wasn't Bridget's family, so all the doctor could tell me was that she needed surgery. A police officer came to talk to me. I gave him Ted's cell number and Mathew provided him with his mother's.

Poor boy. He was hot, thirsty and hungry. Scared. He needed to pee. I removed his jacket and boots, took him to the bathroom and asked a nurse for some water. I couldn't buy it for him from the vending machine since I didn't know where I'd left my purse. In the truck? Did I have it with me in the ambulance? I didn't know what had happened to my cell phone either.

The nurse brought him a banana and some crackers, likely her own snack. A few sips of water and some food in his belly calmed him down. He climbed into my lap and dozed off.

***

Sometime later Harper stormed in, pale and agitated, in an unzipped jacket and unlaced boots. Jamie Breckenridge came right after her, carrying her handbag.

"Mathew! Dee!" Harper sunk on her knees in front of us, waking up her sleeping son. He blinked and looked around, making sense of his surroundings, then threw himself into Harper's open arms.

"Mom! We drove through the storm! Me and Dee brought Granny to the hospital."

Harper collapsed beside me onto the long, narrow seat, covered in red and green fabric. Jamie Breckenridge also took a seat, leaving a narrow strip of space between himself and Harper, as if he was unsure how close he should be.

I filled Harper in about the details of our two last hours: Bridget's sudden illness, waiting for the ambulance that wouldn't come, our driving here. She listened, nodding and rocking Mathew back and forth.

I could imagine what was going through her head—the horror of the things that might've happened. Bridget could've died. We could've had an accident. Something could've happened to Mathew while she was with Jamie. She felt guilty, too, no matter how irrational it was, for leaving Mathew with us while she was with Jamie.

"Harper," I said, "It's over. Nothing happened."

Except that Bridget could still die.

Jamie offered to bring us a coffee. I nodded gratefully, Harper absentmindedly. When he asked Mathew if he wanted a juice or water, the boy cast him a curious stare then looked at his mother. This seemed to reconnect Harper with reality.

"Mathew, this is my friend Jamie. If you're thirsty, Jamie will bring you something to drink."

"Yes, please," Mathew said, without moving his eyes from Jamie.

As soon as Jamie left us in search of the nearest coffee shop, the same doctor that had talked to me earlier approached us. His posture and his expression told me that he had good news.

Bridget had an emergency appendectomy, he said. "Her chances for recovery are excellent. Her appendix didn't burst. She was brought in without a minute to spare." He turned to me. "You drove her in, right?"

"Yes," I said and placed my hand on Mathew's shoulder. "This young man and I."

"You might have saved her life." Then to Harper, "You'll be able to see her in about one hour or so."

***

The storm outside was over. The storm inside me had just begun.

Harper told me she had phoned her parents. They were on their way to the hospital. She had also briefly spoken to Ted. "He said he'd be here as soon as possible, probably later today."

At the mere mention of Ted's name, my stomach made a flip. "To catch a flight in on December 23? Good luck with that."

"He said he was coming with a private plane."

"The company's?"

"No. Dad's pilot couldn't wait for Ted," Harper said. "Ted's flying back with Diedre's father's plane, I guess."

Oh.

I swallowed, sensing, from her clipped voice, that there was something else to it. Something I didn't want to hear. "How are his father and Sonya doing?" I asked, running away from the fire I could smell but still could not see. In vain. The nape of my neck prickled, and I rubbed it.

"Fine, fine. Recovering." She paused then turned to me. "Do you love him?"

Drawing upon all the strength I could summon, I said, "We're friends, Harper. That's all."

"She's pregnant."

Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

I repeated the word in my head over and over until it lost its meaning and became an empty shell.

"I overheard him talking to her." Harper's voice was close and distant at the same time, strangely distorted. "I didn't have time to talk to him. It's odd. By the way he spoke to her, she wasn't thrilled with the news, neither was he. He sounded as if they were talking about someone else's child, not his."

Nothing happened. We're still friends. I wasn't really in love with Ted. I was just lonely and desperate and perhaps a bit jealous because Ted had found the woman he wanted to marry, and I didn't even have a cat. I'd move to Austin. I'd call Simon Archer and see if we could start over.

And then my world shattered into a thousand pieces, and each of them pierced my heart.

Harper was still talking. "I like her, but I don't think they'd make each other happy."

"When did you hear Ted talking to her?" I asked, doing my best to sound normal. It helped that Harper didn't look at me. Instead, she stared at the floor. "Where?"

"Just before he left. He stopped by our place. He was in Dad's study, and I was passing by. I didn't hear a whole lot— "

"What did you hear?"

Harper lifted her head gave me a strange look, startled with the urgency in my voice. It caught me off guard, too. "He said, 'You can be a mother and have your career, like millions of other women.' Something like that."

"What exactly did he say?" I asked, this time softer. "Try to remember."

"He said, 'Diedre, it's not your decision only. That baby has a father as well.' That's all I heard. I left. I didn't want to be caught eavesdropping." She placed her hand over mine. "I'm so sorry, Dee."

"Me too."

Jamie returned with our coffees and water for Mathew and the conversation about Ted and Diedre and her pregnancy ended.

Soon Mark and Susan arrived. More flustered questions and answers, more consultations with the doctors. The tension eased when we were able to briefly see Bridget. She was tired, but alert. Although pale, her skin had lost the ghastly shade of sickness.

To me, everything was in a haze. I stood aside, allowing the family to be close to Bridget's bed.

If someone asked me, I wouldn't be able to describe the room, even as I stood there; reality seemed a little bit warped. Yet some details were astoundingly clear. I remembered looking through the window, thinking how fast the night was falling. The wind had died out, but the snow was coming down in thick, swirling flakes. I remembered Bridget's soft, tired voice, telling her family that I had saved her life.

I remembered a tall doctor in his mid-thirties stepping into the room. He had a broad forehead, aquiline nose and melancholic blue eyes, and looked exactly like the Holy Roman Emperor Josef II from my grade twelve history book. I remembered Harper's excited voice as she introduced us all to him. Dr. Gerd Falkenstein, from Colorado, the specialist whom she had visited a few months earlier. He'd come to Calgary to do a complicated, urgent surgery on an unborn baby. I remembered him gently touching the blanket over Bridget's abdomen and telling her she would recover sooner than she thought. His hand seemed to glow a bit. He turned to Harper and told her that he and Lani, whoever Lani was, hoped Harper would soon visit them in Red Cliffs. Then added, in a voice so low that I wondered how I could hear it at all, "As a friend. You don't need my medical expertise anymore."

Or I'd just imagined all of it—the doctor that looked like an emperor, his eyes, filled with life and joy, his soft voice and almost hypnotic movements of his lips, the faint, reddish radiance around his hand. Well, that was definitely a fabrication of my tired, agonized mind. People didn't glow and they didn't look like reincarnations of long-ago dead royalties.

"I'm going to look for my purse and phone," I said to no one in particular. Or I just left, I didn't remember. Harper and Mathew came out right after me. Jamie waited for them. I told Harper to go, and that I would catch a ride with Susan and Mark.

Catch a ride to where? To the ranch, I guessed, where I would wait for Ted to tell me he was going to be a father.

I didn't know how long I wandered around, from one hospital wing to another, wondering if hospitals had lost and found offices. Hospital personnel passed by but I couldn't make myself ask for directions.

Once I remembered to follow the signs, I quickly found the emergency department. A paramedic searched for my handbag and phone but couldn't find them. I'd left them in the truck, it seemed.

I made my way back to Bridget's floor. The corridor was quiet; no one was at the reception desk. No one was in the family waiting area, either. I tiptoed to Bridget's room, knocked softly and opened the door.

Bridget was sleeping, and the room was otherwise empty.

Susan and Mark must have assumed that Harper had taken me with her.

Now what?

I could go and ask for help. The hospital had Harper's cell phone number, as well as the McCains'.

Or I could just sit here, beside Bridget's bed, and wait for them to discover that they'd misplaced me.

I was tired. Bone tired. Tired like never before in my life. It took every last ounce of my strength to move the heavy armchair at the foot of Bridget's bed. I took off my boots and sank into it, propping my feet on the edge of the bed.

I closed my eyes and drifted off.

That baby has a father as well.

I woke up with a start. Diedre's pregnancy would explain her early return to Denver. Then dinner with Ted the previous night made sense as well.

But something was off. Ted and I had spoken yesterday. He'd have known already that Diedre was pregnant, wouldn't he? He'd learned that while he was still in Calgary. He wouldn't break such news to me over the phone, but wouldn't I recognize in his voice that something had happened? It wasn't a small thing. I would know; we couldn't hide much from each other. Then he'd texted me that morning saying that he missed me.

The door quietly opened and the doctor that looked like Emperor Josef came in.

"I thought I might find you here," he said. "I don't think the McCains heard you when you said you were going to look for your purse."

"A misunderstanding," I whispered back as I placed my feet down and straightened up in my seat.

"And not the only one that happened today."

I looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Everything will be fine, trust me, Ms. Carter."

"How do you know? Who are you? You look like—"

He laughed softly, interrupting me. "Emperor Josef II? The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it? My family is originally from Austria, so he might be my distant ancestor, who knows. Anyhow, consider this. It's Christmas. Maybe it's your turn for a Christmas miracle."

"Will Bridget recover?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure she'll have a long and healthy life."

"You said Harper was fine now."

"So, you heard that? I was sure only she could hear me."

"I know that she was badly injured. That's why she went to see you."

He smiled. "Yes, she's perfectly fine, as I said. That's all I can tell you. She's my patient." He paused. "Well, she was."

I wanted to ask about Ted and Diedre and whose baby she was pregnant with. He certainly knew the answer, it looked like he knew everything, but I was afraid I would sound like a woman who came to a psychic to tell her the future.

He must have had some extrasensory perceptions, though, because he seemed to follow my line of thought. He glanced at his wristwatch.

"Dr. Wrangel will be here soon. He'll explain everything. But if I were you, I wouldn't worry too much. And you know Harper. She's a wonderful young woman, but prone to jumping to assumptions."

"So—"

He shook his head. "It's not my place to tell you. Now, off I go. Tomorrow morning my wife and I are going back to Red Cliffs."

I smiled. "Merry Christmas, then, Dr. Falkenstein. To you and your family."

"Merry Christmas to you too, Ms. Carter. And keep quiet until Ted comes. You're not supposed to stay here, as you know."

And with that, in a very old-fashioned and sweet manner, he took my hand and kissed it. "Come to visit us sometime. Red Cliffs is an hour or so from Denver. Even less from your parent's ranch."

Before I could ask him how he knew where my parents lived, he was gone. Dazzled, I resumed my seat. I would have thought he'd been a dream if I hadn't felt a deep sense of peace inside me, in my very core, erasing fears, frustration, heartache. It was followed by a strange awareness I couldn't even transfer into words, only sense it—waves upon waves that came and went, ever-changing in the unchanging ocean.

The ocean was Ted and me, and our love.

Diedre might be pregnant, in which case he'd marry her. It would change everything, of course, except my love for him. It was soul-wrenching, yes. I didn't want to think about how I would live without Ted. But on some other, higher level, it was liberating because I now knew what love truly was. I didn't think that many people got a chance to experience it.

The door opened. I leapt off the chair at the same moment Ted stepped in. We just looked at each other, standing a few feet apart, yet wrapped around each other, touching without physical contact, two waves in the ocean of life.

***

I was first to talk. "Bridget will recover."

"I know," he said, smiling.

Desperate to know the truth, I blurted, "Harper says Diedre's pregnant."

Ted chuckled. "How the hell does she know?"

Was it a yes, or a no? "She overheard you talking to Diedre before you went to Denver."

"Ah. And she was quick to make her conclusion. Logic isn't always Harper's strongest asset. Well, Diedre's pregnant, but not with my child."

Not with my child. I didn't need to know more than that. "That's good," I said, "because I love you, and I want to marry you."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Did you just propose to me, Deanna Carter?"

"I did, and you'd better say yes."

The space between us disappeared. The next moment we were in each other's arms, kissing, murmuring words of love in the soft darkness of the hospital room. The place wasn't very romantic, true, but the backdrop of dramatic, swirling snowfall was, and everything was fine, as Dr. Falkenstein had promised.

***

Ted kept his left hand on the steering wheel and held mine with his right. My head rested on his shoulder. It felt familiar and safe, it felt new and exciting.

Ted and I.

I closed my eyes and drew in the scent of his skin. Familiar. New. Arousing.

When had it happened?

I didn't know and didn't care. It had happened at exactly the right moment. Everything that had happened before was just a prelude.

The snippets of memories filtered through my mind. Our first meeting at the park, the beginning of our friendship, his girlfriends, my boyfriends.

I wasn't jealous of his girlfriends. They didn't matter because they weren't a threat.

Until Diedre came into his life.

I thought I'd known Ted better than I knew myself, but, paradoxically, it was Diedre who'd helped me see him in his full complexity. His iron core and smooth edges. His endless ability to love. His intensity, his passion and his fire. His pains and aches, his doubts and insecurities. I was ready for that man and I fell in love with him.

"When did you realize you loved me?" I asked Ted in a dreamy voice.

Ted pulled me closer and kissed my temple. "I guess you've always been more than a friend to me. But when you started dating Simon Archer. That pushed me into panic mode. I could find no fault in that man, damn him, except that he had no sense of humor."

I laughed. "He does!"

"If you say so. Anyhow, contrary to your other boyfriends, he was someone who deserved you, someone you could love. I realized I could lose you forever."

"But Diedre, and the ring, and—"

He turned his head and brushed his lips over mine. "The ring was Diedre's suggestion."

"What?"

"I told you she had a funny bone. Anyhow, we broke up shortly after you two met for the first time. We liked each other, but we both loved someone else and—"

I interrupted him. "Why didn't you tell me you broke up?"

"You were away. In Austin, I think. There was no drama and no hard feelings between Diedre and me. We stayed close. I confessed that I loved you, which she already knew. She said I dated her only because she reminded me of you."

"Hmm, Arless said something similar," I said, describing our brief encounter in the washroom.

"Arless knew, even if she hadn't met you before that night. She was pissed at me. Apparently, every time she came to Denver, I would take her out for dinner, and talk about you."

"She's a wise woman. So, tell me about the ring. How did Diedre come up with that idea?"

"I told her that I wasn't sure you loved me. 'Tell her you're going to propose to me,' Diedre said. 'Ask her to help you pick the ring and see what happens.' I thought it was a crazy idea, but decided to test it nonetheless."

I laughed. "Well, Diedre's a prosecutor, she knows how to yank the truth out of someone."

"It worked. The trip to New York told me you might love me after all. Only, you were oblivious to it. That's why I asked you to come here with me. I hoped that, I don't know, that your love would somehow reveal itself, break free."

Everything made sense now. Ted's strange changes of mood and his uncharacteristic insecurities.

"It has," I said softly. "I love you. If you'd married Diedre, I would've moved to Austin. I decided I wouldn't... I couldn't—"

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the top of my fingers. "As if I would ever let you go."

I planted a kiss on his neck. "Now tell me about the baby. What is Diedre going to do? Who's the father?"

"A defense attorney whose client was on trial for fraud some time ago. Diedre was the prosecutor. They fell in love working on that case. Shortly after, the two of them had a brief affair and she got pregnant. She was scared and alone, and she panicked."

"I thought she was still in Italy."

"No, she returned last week. She called me. I took her out for dinner and repeated what I'd told her over the phone, when Harper overheard. She talked to the guy. I met them both last night. It seems he truly loves her, and he's delighted about the baby. As for their careers, there might be some complications, but to be honest, the risk is small. And they don't care. They're truly happy."

I was glad to hear that. I realized that I did like Diedre Fairbank after all.

***

The ranch house was dark when we arrived, and Bridget's truck, abandoned that afternoon on the road, was parked in the garage. Mark and Susan had gone straight from the hospital to pick up the truck, then checked on the ranch house. That was why they didn't figure out until they got home that I wasn't with Harper. Fortunately, before they could raise the alarm, Ted found me at the hospital.

Inside, the house was warm and quiet. A huge fire burned in the fireplace; the tiny green, red, blue and yellow lights wrapping around the Christmas tree twinkled in the shadowy light; outside, snow was silently falling in small, sparkly crystals. This was our night, I thought, and it couldn't be more perfect.

My purse sat neatly on the coffee table. Beside it, my phone was charging. I checked it and found several messages from Nick and my parents, and a few from Ted from earlier.

I quickly replied I'm ok, talk to you tomorrow, and muted my phone.

"They know you're fine," Ted said from right behind me, circling my waist with his arms. "I called Nick as soon as Harper contacted me. He offered to let me use his jet. That's why I was able to come back today."

I turned and closed my arms around Ted's neck. "Harper told me you were coming with Deidre's father's private plane."

Ted chuckled and kissed my lips. "You'll get used to Harper and her way of thinking."

Then he scooped me up and carried me up the stairs into the bedroom.

***

My back touched the cool bedsheets as Ted lowered me on the mattress. He sat on his knees, leaning over me, his fingers interlaced with mine. My heart hammered against my chest, I heard a rush of blood in my ears and felt a sweet pulling between my legs.

"Are you sure, gorgeous?" Ted asked me softly.

My womb tightened and I let out a small sigh. "I'm sure."

Ted's head dipped down and his lips touched mine in a long, soul-deep kiss.

He undressed me slowly. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.

I soon lay naked. Ted pulled back and slowly moved his gaze over me, from my face to my neck and breasts, my stomach, my legs, then made the same trip in the opposite direction, until our eyes met again.

He'd seen me in shorts and flimsy tops, or my swimsuit many times before, but he'd never seen the intimate parts of my body. I felt shy, yet somehow liberated. I knew that with Ted I could be who I was. My skin was taut and flawless, my body well shaped and toned, but I carried a few extra pounds, my hips were a bit too wide and my breasts, although still firm, on the large side. It didn't matter.

"You're perfect," he whispered.

No, I wasn't, but I felt perfect, nonetheless.

Somewhere at the fringes of my fuzzy brain I wondered why we'd waited for ten damned years to make love, but then every sensible thought deserted me, reducing me to a bundle of emotions and needs, as Ted, still completely clothed, bent his head and started kissing, licking and nibbling his way down to my breasts.

They swelled under his lips and tongue, the tender skin tightened, the nipples pebbled. He kissed and sucked one with the utmost tenderness, while his fingers played with the other one, rolling it between his fingers and pinching it with a gentle force, enough to elicit a tiny bit of sweet pain. A delicious, arousing sensation shot through me like an erotic lightning bolt. His fingers kept me on that edge where the border between stinging and pleasure blurred, becoming a single grand sensation while his mouth sucked me with such a deep, rhythmic pressure that I felt dizzy. I'd never been so aroused in my entire life. I was a single brush of his fingers over my wet, sleek folds away from climaxing.

"It's too much. Slow down," I whispered in a series of breathy moans.

He stopped, swung his leg over me and rolled down beside me, draping his arm around my waist. "I don't dare to undress. If I but touch you, I'll come."

I chuckled and pushed him on his back. "We're done talking, Theodore Wrangel," I said, attacking his clothes with remarkable speed and efficiency. "If you fire up too soon, well, the night is long."

I stole a glance at the only part of Ted's body unknown to me until now, at least not firsthand, although I'd known about it. From Mandy, of course. She didn't exaggerate. Ted's cock was long and thick, with a ruddy head and prominent veins. In contrast to his well-shaped, elegant body, his powerful penis looked almost savage.

Ted flipped me until I was beneath him, fished out a condom from the pocket of his jeans.

If it looked spectacular, it felt even better. Ted entered me in slow, careful strokes, giving me time to adjust to him, to accommodate him. His gaze never left my face, looking for the sighs of discomfort. There were none. When he fully settled inside me, I felt the incredible sensation of being utterly filled. No. More than that. Possessed.

And when he moved, his magnificent cock caressed my aroused, swollen, slippery flesh reaching deep and wide, stimulating my clitoris, my folds, the tender inner tissue. My skin tingled, my ears buzzed, my vision blurred. Sweetness coiled in my abdomen, tightening with every stroke, my nipples ached. I didn't need Ted to touch my clitoris, or do it myself. His cock was more than sufficient.

My arm reached up, slid behind Ted's head and brought it down to my lips. When his tongue took my mouth and started sucking it in the same rhythm of his thrusting, I knew I was on the brink of the mother of all orgasms.

Ted knew that too. One more hard surge, a quick scraping of his teeth over my earlobe, his hot whisper, "Come for me, my love," and I tumbled over.

We fell asleep in each other's arms, woke up before dawn and made sweet, sleepy love, then dozed off again.

December 24

I thought that our first "morning after" might be a bit awkward, but it wasn't.

When we woke up, the sun was shining in the deep blue sky and the ground was covered with a thick blanket of sparkling snow. Ted called the hospitals, first in Calgary, and then in Denver. Bridget had a peaceful night and was feeling great; Ted's father and stepmother kept recovering quickly. I spoke to Nick, then to my parents. They knew something had happened between Ted and me; they could tell from my voice. I didn't try to hide my happiness. When my mother said, "You're coming with Ted for New Year's Eve?" it wasn't a question but a statement, and I knew she'd guessed exactly what had happened.

After that, we took a shower together and loved each other in the tiny stall.

After breakfast, we nested in the sofa in the living room with two mugs of freshly brewed coffee on the table. Beside the window stood the Christmas tree, with the Polar Express and the piles of presents beneath it. Later, we'd take them to the hospital and open them in Bridget's room.

Ted pulled me into his lap until I straddled him. My hip bone rubbed against something he was keeping in his left pocket. A bump, shaped like a square box.

My heart picked up.

"I love you, did I tell you that already?" he said and kissed the tip of my nose.

"You did."

"Now I need to ask you something."

I smiled. "Ask me."

He gave my backside a light slap. "Lift your bum," he said. When I did, he reached into his pocket and took out a jewelry box made of dark blue satin. "Well, you already asked me, and I said yes—"

"You didn't say anything."

"I did, with everything but words. Now let me do it." He took a deep breath. "I apologize, I didn't come up with a more romantic way to ask you." He flipped the box open and removed the ring, then took my left hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. "Deanna Carter, will you be my wife?"

I lifted my hand and looked at it. The ring, my beautiful, outrageously expensive ring danced and sparkled in front of my teary eyes. "Well, the prelude was quite romantic," I said, sniffing.

"It's pointless to ask you if you like it."

"I've chosen what I liked," I said, laughing and crying at the same time. "Yes, Theodore Wrangel, I will be your wife. I love you; did I mention that already?"

"You did. But keep telling me," he said and lowered me on the sofa. "I'll never grow tired of hearing it."

"That strange doctor was right," I said, locking my arms around Ted's neck and reaching for his lips.

"Gerd Falkenstein? What did he say?"

"He said it was my time for a Christmas miracle."

"Our time," Ted corrected me. "He was right. Merry Christmas, Dee."

"Merry Christmas, my love."

Outside, the wind died out, but it started snowing in earnest.

###

Dear Reader,

_Thank you so much for finding the time to read_ Best Friends and Other Lovers _. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving me a review at your favourite retailer._

_If you have comments or questions, please contact me at_ mailto:jfkaufmannyyc@gmail.com, or visit my blog at www.jfkaufmann.com. _I'd be happy to hear from you._

_Now, I invite you to take a glimpse into_ The Red Cliffs Chronicles, _a world hidden within our own._

Yours,

J. F. Kaufmann

THE RED CLIFFS CHRONICLES

_Welcome to a world hidden within our own._

Book One: The Two-blood Legacy

Meet Astrid Mohegan and Jack Canagan—a young wizardess unaware of her legacy, and a handsome wolf-man hesitant to take over his responsibility. Until their paths cross. Between them and the future—an ancient alliance to honor, a brutal enemy to outwit and a war to win.

Drawn to each other by a power neither of them understands, tied by unbreakable bonds they had no choice but to accept, Astrid and Jack know the unimaginable still could happen and that they could lose everything, including each other.

Did destiny bring them together only to separate them for an eternity?

Prologue

Astrid

Fear swept over me like a tide.

Trapped in my wolf body that didn't know how to fight and was too weak to run, I watched my stepfather's four mercenaries closing in on Jack and me.

_May Jack be safe._ I prayed. _May Jack be safe._

" _No time for prayers!"_ A different voice inside my head snapped, startling me. The voice of my dynes, my other spirit. _"We have to fight them."_

A miracle I didn't have time to dwell upon.

I growled in approval, the feeling of dread evaporating like mist in the morning sun. My muscles tightened, my mind cleared. Strength replaced weakness, hope overlaid despair. _"Tell me what to do,"_ I said.

" _Let me take over!"_

I chuckled, despite the grim reality. _"The stage is yours, wizardess."_

Sensing something had shifted, Jack, also in his wolf shape, turned to me and paled, taking in my blue, wizard eyes instead of the amber of my wolf's.

" _The asanni has joined the team,"_ I said in my wizard voice, a tad less deep and husky than that of my wolf _._

" _No! Astrid, no. Run toward the forest! You must run!"_ Jack yelled, his voice thick with dread. Not for himself. For me. Jack was a great warrior, but I was his great weakness.

" _Forget it, Jack! I'm not leaving you. Where is their weak point? Where should I aim?"_

" _Astrid, listen! The blond one at the front is the leader; the one on his left is the strongest. I'll go after them. You try to outrun the other two. You can do that. Run now!"_

" _No! Where are they weak? Tell me!"_

" _Oh, God! Neck! Break the neck! And watch out for weapons!"_

I murmured a spell in my old wizard tongue and found Jack's eyes. _"Jack, jump and roll over me!"_

" _What?!"_

" _Just do it!"_

Jack knocked me down. We rolled several times, moving away from our enemy.

When we separated, two identical werewolves stood in front of them.

"What? What's that? I told you to grab him first!" the leader screeched. "She's a witch! Look what she did! They both look like him! Which one is she? Take them both! Take them both!"

" _The hell you will!"_ I closed my eyes and cast a spell.

" _Moðir Eldær vara hlíf ... Moðir Eldær vara hlíf."_

Mother Fire, be my shield.

" _Astrid, no! No!"_ Jack was shouting at the top of his lungs.

My big, powerful body burst into flames, charging toward the enemy with a speed I hadn't dreamt I possessed.

My first prey dropped on the ground even before I reached him. I jumped over him and followed the other one, who pulled out a knife and bolted toward the woods, faster than a shadow.

Still not fast enough. A few long strides and I was in front of him. Our eyes met. His were filled with fear. Mine, I supposed, with anger.

" _Drop_ _the knife. I don't want to kill you,"_ I said, but then remembered we couldn't communicate telepathically. He was a Tel-Urugh, an ancient blood-drinker.

With a flick of his wrist, the knife flew low from his hand, catching a sunbeam on its curved edge, before its tip pierced my leg.

The world compressed into a single particle and I drowned in darkness.

Chapter One

Three weeks earlier

Jack

The phone on the nightstand made a hum, jerking me upright. I glanced at the display and felt a prickle at my nape. A call from Tristan Blake at 1:35 a.m. could only mean trouble.

I pressed the answer button. "Is Astrid okay?"

"She's fine," Tristan said. "We've just got a call from Copper Ridge. The same woman who phoned us before. She says a month ago Seth sent a couple of his people to look for Astrid."

"A month ago? Why didn't she tell us until now?"

"Because she didn't know until now. Seth's up to something again."

I rubbed my chin. "That's what we heard, too. Did his people come close to Astrid?"

"No," Tristan said. "They looked for her in the wrong place. Dallas."

"Dallas? Hmm. I wonder what made them go there. She's never had any connections to Texas."

"A smokescreen? Perhaps they wanted us to believe they had no clue where she is."

"It's possible," I said. "Or perhaps someone sent them on a wild goose chase. But who? That lunatic Seth must be stopped. The sooner the better."

"Copper Ridge may need some help to take him down."

"I know. We'll help them."

"We can keep Astrid safe as long as it takes," Tristan said. "Between Liv, me and your people here, she's well protected, but it's a band-aid solution."

Brother and sister team, the Falconers, had been sent to Rosenthal a while ago to watch over Astrid. Not that Tristan and Livia Blake needed help; their job was to monitor her surroundings for anything unusual. They'd been told to keep a distance so that she didn't know about them, but to stay close enough to protect her, if necessary. It was time, however, for a more radical move.

"She should come to Red Cliffs," I said. "She's too precious to us to risk anything happening to her. I'll talk to James. If he agrees, I'll come to Rosenthal and talk to her. Convince her to come with me to Red Cliffs." I let out a frustrated sigh. "Stubborn little mule. She should've come long ago."

"Astrid's been reluctant to go to Red Cliffs, true, but she had reasons to be. Try to understand."

"She'd better come this time."

"That depends on you, Jack," Livia Blake said in her slow, sensual drawl. The voice came from somewhere behind Tristan. With her sharp hearing, she could heard our conversation. With _my_ sharp hearing, her voice was as clear as if she were talking on the phone.

I smiled. Some of the tension caused by Tristan's call eased. Livia Blake could have such an effect on people. "Hey, beautiful. I was wondering where you were."

"Hey, handsome. Haven't seen you in ages."

"Okay, that's it," I heard Tristan again. "I am not teleconferencing again. Livia, if you want to talk to Jack, keep the phone pressed against your ear, not mine."

I heard Livia sigh. "Okay. Pass me the phone, love" Then, a moment later, "Jack, Astrid's a sensible person. She'll listen to you. By the way ..." She let her voice drift off. I knew Liv long enough to know what was coming. I could picture the spark in her eyes and a hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth. "She's beautiful, you know."

"She's pretty, yes," I said. "I saw her pictures. Liv, darling, if this is one of your little matchmaking schemes, you shouldn't bother. You know they don't work with me."

"Should I remind you that your last girlfriend was your own choice, yet it didn't work either?"

She was right there, I'd give her that.

"Astrid is exquisite, you'll see," Livia said.

"I believe you. Liv, listen, don't tell Astrid Seth's people were looking for her. I'll talk to her. Keep her safe until I take over."

"Pfft, a piece of cake," Liv said. "They can only get to her over our dead bodies, and that won't be easy, you must admit."

"Next to impossible," I said with a chuckle.

"Are you coming alone?" Tristan asked, half joking, half serious. "Maybe we should have two guest rooms ready? Knowing James, I won't be surprised to see him, too."

"It's understandable. She's his niece, and he worries about her." Liv said.

"I'm going to bring her to him." This time she was coming with me even if I had to tie her up, toss her over my shoulder and carry her to Red Cliffs. "See you soon, then. And don't worry about the room. James's not coming with me if I can help it. And I plan to stay at Astrid's. I need to know her better."

Before Livia could make a comment, I finished the call.

***

Two days later, I stood behind an old spruce tree in Astrid's backyard, waiting for Tristan.

She'd just returned home. I watched as she unlocked the door, turned the light on and stepped in. One by one, the other lights went on.

I followed her aura—the clear outline of the body heat some of us were able to see—as she moved through the house. It was bright blue, unlike the deep red of typical wolf-peoples' aura. From the hallway to the kitchen, to the living room, bathroom, bedroom and back to the living room again, where she walked to the window and closed the blinds.

Did she find my scent inside the house?

Probably not. The search seemed to be over. She was back in the kitchen, opening the fridge and bending over in front of it.

***

I had arrived at Rosenthal earlier that morning. Astrid had been already at work, so I'd taken the opportunity to look around her house. I wasn't proud of it, but I wouldn't apologize either. The Falconer siblings' reports were focused more on her surroundings and the potential dangers than on the things I needed to know: what kind of person the young surgeon Dr. Astrid Mohegan, alias Dr. Rosalie Duplant, really was.

The reason was simple: unbeknown to her, Astrid, the daughter of a wizardess and a werewolf, was a rare, precious, powerful _ellida_ , the mighty force of good and the highest authority of a werewolf clan. That's why I had to bring her to Red Cliffs. She belonged among us and we needed her as much as she needed us.

The other reason for this incognito visit was more mundane—I'd wanted to look for traces and scents of other people in and around her house—werewolves, wizards, _Tel-Urughs_ , humans. Anyone who could do her harm. I knew Liv checked her place twice a day. It'd be hard to imagine anything slipping her attention. Still, another pair of eyes—or better, another nose—wouldn't hurt.

Astrid's house was small and had only two bedrooms. The interior was clean and simple: modern, dark brown furniture, plenty of free space, sliding doors dividing the kitchen from the sitting area and her small office. Natural colors prevailed: off-white walls, a beige sofa and armchairs, dark parquet floor. It would've appeared gender neutral if it hadn't been for the decorative accents in different shades of pink: the cushions, the carpet under the coffee table, the lampshade, the woolen blanket on the sofa, a big bouquet of pink roses in a vase.

Hanging on the wall there were several Japanese ink paintings with a four-season theme: orchards, bamboo, chrysanthemums and plum blossoms. More sumi-e artworks of misty landscapes, flowers and small animals adorned the opposite wall.

When I stepped into her tidy, almost spartan bedroom, the floor made a high-pitched squeak. I nodded in silent approval: a nightingale floor, designed to make a sound when walked upon. The dry boards creaked under the pressure of footsteps and the flooring nails rubbed against clamps, producing chirping noises. A simple and efficient security device assuring nobody could sneak into her room. I'd heard about it, but never seen one. Smart girl.

She loved music. I'd heard she had an exceptional singing voice, trained for years. It was so beautiful that she could be an opera singer if she wanted. Or rather, if she could afford the fame and publicity that would come with such a voice.

I checked a pile of CDs in front of her stereo: Guns'n' Roses' _Use Your Illusion_ was the last one she'd listened to. The jewel case lay open, and the disc was still in the player.

I shook my head, smiling. Who on earth still listened to CDs?

Besides heavy metal and hard rock, the recordings that had been recently played contained Amy Winehouse, Queen, Santana. Dire Straits' _Sultans of Swing._ I smiled—my all-time favorite. A big box beside the bookcase was filled with classical music: Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn—symphonies, concertos, operas. Several different productions of Mozart's _The Magic Flute._

I browsed through her books, hundreds of them packed tightly on shelves that covered a whole wall. Her literary tastes were also interesting. "Tell me what you read, and I'll tell you who you are." Hmm. In Astrid's case, it wouldn't be so easy. She seemed to like everything from Aristotle to Asterix. Classic titles stood side by side with contemporary bestsellers and graphic novels. A lot of supernatural romance fiction. On the floor beside the sofa, with a bookmark tucked somewhere in the second half, lay a signed copy of _The Name of the Rose_ by Umberto Eco, read numerous times, judging by the condition of the book.

Lots of medical books and magazines, but that was hardly a surprise.

Astrid's neat, modest little nest didn't reveal much about her except that she was a down-to-earth young woman who loved books, music, movies. And the color pink.

At least I was sure about two important things: no one had looked for her here, and she wasn't in a relationship. The only scents in the house except hers were Liv's and Tristan's.

It didn't seem right to further invade Astrid's privacy. I looked around to make sure everything was as I'd found it. I'd only leave traces of my scent outside her house. I was curious to see if she would notice it.

***

I kept my eyes on the house, following her from the fridge to the kitchen table. She pulled out a chair and sat.

I expected her to start eating, but the blue outline of her body was still, like it was frozen.

_Something is wrong_ , flashed through my mind only a second before her scent reached me from behind and her cold fingers closed around my throat in a strong grip.

At the precise moment when her hand touched my neck, a gentle, warm wave washed over me, reaching every cell of my body and every corner of my soul. She winced, and I knew she'd felt it too. Her grasp first loosened then tightened again.

Oh, God.

"Who are you and why are you watching me?"

Her voice was soft, alluring. A tell-me-the truth-and-I might-let-you-live kind of soft and alluring.

Before I could answer, Tristan appeared in front of me seemingly out of nowhere.

"Wrong time to be late," I said to him.

"Tristan." Astrid acknowledged his arrival.

"It's okay, Astrid," Tristan said with suppressed laughter. "You can let him breathe."

My attacker released my throat and I turned. She took a step back and, tilting her head, studied me with open curiosity.

***

"Sorry, you two," Tristan said. "I see you've already met but let me make a formal introduction. Astrid, this is Jack Canagan from Red Cliffs. Jack, this is Astrid Mohegan. Why don't we go inside the house?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Jack Canagan. I've heard of you. You're my Uncle James's stepson."

With a curiosity that matched hers, I took in the tall, slender, golden-haired and blue-eyed young woman I knew only from photographs. They didn't do her justice.

I cleared my throat. It didn't hurt, but her grip had been strong. Good. She was nobody's fool. "It makes us some sort of family, doesn't it?"

Chapter Two

Astrid

I waved toward the sofa. Tristan and Jack sat on opposite ends, while I took a seat across from them, in the armchair.

"It looked like you left your aura at the kitchen table," my visitor said. "A nice little trick."

"I knew you were close, watching me. I didn't see you, but your scent was all over my backyard."

He shifted in his seat and smiled. "Good to know you detected it."

"Would've been hard not to." His scent was strong. And pleasant.

"And an unfamiliar scent didn't scare you?"

"No," I said. "My instinct told me there was nothing to be afraid of."

Jack laughed at that. "Yet you perform your Vulcan nerve pinch on me, huh? Just in case?"

"Right. Instincts are great, but they can be wrong."

"Clever thinking," he said.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He moved his head from left to right to stretch his neck muscles. "You caught me by surprise, I have to admit. Where did you learn that little maneuver?"

"A friend of mine taught me."

"You have a strong grip."

"Strong? I was careful not to hurt you."

"Better to remember not to upset you then," Jack said with a lopsided smile.

After our little verbal tennis match, which Tristan watched with an amused expression, we fell silent.

Jack looked around the room, his gaze shifting from my bookshelves to me, from me to the sumi-e paintings on the wall, and from the paintings back to me.

I watched him from under my lashes. He was a man who felt comfortable in his own skin. Confident, strong. Funny, but it seemed he belonged here, in my small living room, sitting on my sofa with his long legs outstretched and his arm relaxed over the back of the sofa.

I couldn't help but also notice his clean, proportional facial features, beautiful amber eyes, light brown hair and powerful physique. And, oh, his scent. Soap, clean clothes, musk, a hint of sweat. He smelled good.

Just before the quietness had become too long, Tristan broke it. "Astrid, Liv and I have known Jack for years. You're safe with him. And you know why he's here. I think you should consider what he has to say."

"So, you and Liv knew about this?" I said. It was more a statement than a question. Of course, they'd known.

"I asked them not to tell you," Jack said in Tristan's defense, before Tristan could say anything. "I didn't want you to take a hike."

"Jack phoned two days ago," Tristan said. "I'm sorry, Astrid."

I waved him off. "It's okay, Tristan. I understand."

I did, really. When it came to me, nothing was simple. Liv and Tristan were my friends, but also my protectors. My safety took priority over friendship and loyalty. I wouldn't have run away even if I'd known Jack Canagan was coming, but he couldn't know that and had all the reasons to be wary. I had a reputation of being uncooperative. In the past, I had refused to have anything to do with my Red Cliffs' family and my clan.

"Take a day off tomorrow," Tristan said. "You've been working for ten days in a row."

I shook my head. "I can't. Mrs. Fontaine is getting a new kneecap. I have her scheduled for 8 a.m."

"I can operate on her," Tristan said.

He could, of course. In addition to being the Rosenthal Hospital CEO, Tristan was an exceptional surgeon. But Charlotte Fontaine was my patient and she expected me to fix her knee. "I'm not tired. I'll be fine."

"Okay, then." Tristan slapped his palms to his knees and stood up. "Keep your mind open, Astrid. That's all I ask. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I will. I promise. Say hello to Liv," I said to Tristan as I walked him to the door.

***

"I've been expecting someone from Red Cliffs to show up sooner or later, but now that you're here I don't know how to feel about it," I said when I returned. "You want me to go with you."

"That's right," he said simply.

I shook my head. "I can't just pack and leave. People know me here. I have a house. I have a job. I have several surgeries scheduled for the next couple of weeks, and I plan to do them all."

"Then we'll leave when you wrap things up."

"We? You plan to stay here until I'm ready to go?"

The corners of his lips tugged into a smug smile. "I'm not leaving without you."

Yeah. I guess he wasn't. "It could be a long wait."

"I'm not in a hurry."

I sighed. "I need coffee. Do you want a cup?"

"Please. Half teaspoon of sugar."

I almost reached the kitchen when he added, "Is it okay if I stay here with you? At your house? I think that's easier for both of us."

_In my hous_ e _? Did I hear that correctly?_

I glanced at my guest. He didn't look as if he'd been joking.

His request, natural and crazy all at once, brought up all sorts of conflicting emotions. Why would I allow a man I'd met less than an hour ago to stay at my house? Because Tristan and Liv knew him? Because he was my kinsman? Because he looked and smelled sinfully masculine? Or because of that wonderful warm current that had splashed over my body when I had touched his throat?

I could still feel the traces of it. I wanted to feel it again.

"Er, sure," I heard myself saying. My blood hummed with excitement I didn't dare to explore further. "You're welcome to stay."

***

"You've lived among wizards and humans, but how much do you know about us?" Jack asked when I returned from the kitchen with two mugs in my hands.

I passed him one and took my place on the armchair. "A little. I wasn't aware of my connections to Red Cliffs until my teenage years."

"It wasn't your fault, I know. But you were born in Red Cliffs and your father was a werewolf. You've known that since you were a teenager. This is your world, too."

I moved my finger around the rim of my cup several times before I set it down on the table. "Yes. Of course," I said, glancing at him from under my lashes. "Did my uncle send you?"

He confirmed with a nod. "Very few things in Red Cliffs happen without your uncle's knowledge. He and your grandparents agree that the safest place for you is Red Cliffs."

"I'm aware of that," I said. "I'm not sure if you know, but last year Seth's people tried to kidnap me. My grandfather and my uncle decided I had to go to Red Cliffs. I was supposed to drop everything and go. I couldn't do that."

"So, you chose to drop everything and come to Rosenthal instead. Why? It wasn't an idle threat."

I took a sip of my coffee and grimaced. It was too strong and too hot. "Because at least it was my decision; that's why. Uncle and Grandpa treated me like a child. Like someone who wasn't capable of making her own decisions. Besides, Tristan and Liv offered to come here with me to protect me. It was enough."

"Well, your uncle thought that might not be enough. Six months ago, he sent two of our people to watch over you."

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Why wasn't I surprised? Because one way or another, somebody had been watching over me my entire life, that's why. "How come I haven't noticed anything?" I asked.

"They masked their scent and they didn't come close enough for you to sense them."

But I'd sensed _him_. "You wanted me to find your scent, didn't you? Why? To test my sense of smell?"

"Yes," he said with no hesitation. "We don't know much about your werewolf side."

"I don't know much about my werewolf side either," I said. "Nor have I a clue how to deal with the little I know about it."

He gulped his coffee. I couldn't help but smile at his expression. He didn't enjoy it any more than I did. "It's, er, strong. Anyway, we can help you to understand it. _I_ can help. You are our kin, you are not alone."

I rubbed my forehead. "I want an ordinary life. Here I can have it."

"You can only _pretend_ to have it, and you know that. You're a half wizard, half werewolf. Not an orthodox heritage. As a werewolf, you don't belong to the human world."

"Which world do I belong to? I'm a wizardess who can't use her powers and a werewolf who can't control her wolf. Do you know how much trouble I have with my transformation?"

"I've heard. We'll see why. Your werewolf is not a wild, crazy 'someone' living inside you. It's a part of you, a mirror image of your wizard side, only more intense. Your _asanni_ and your _blaidd benywaidd_ are in harmony."

He knew our word for a wizardess—asanni—but I had never heard the word blaidd benywaidd before. The meaning wasn't difficult to guess, though. "Blaidd benywaidd _?_ Is this what you call a werewolf?" I asked.

"Were _woman;_ she-wolf. You're a blaidd benywaidd. Well, a half, to be precise. I'm a _blaidd_."

"And my other half? What do you call it?"

"It's called dynes," he said and explained that _dynes_ —and its masculine equivalent, _dyn_ had a dual meaning. Depending on context, they referred to both our human spirit and our human physical form. Our people were called _gwerin y blaidd_ and the humans that lived among us and knew about our existence— _gwerin_. "All these words are from _Hen Iaith_ ," Jack summarized his concise werewolf vocabulary lesson, "our old language, related to Archaic Welsh."

"Dynes. Blaidd benywaidd", I repeated softly. I liked the sound of those words. So soft. They carried more meaning than "human" or "she-wolf."

For a while, we talked about our old languages, of which we—werewolves, wizards and Tel-Urughs, the ancient race Tristan and Livia belonged to—had only limited use. We lived among humans, we needed to blend with them, so adopting their languages as our lingua franca had been a practical solution.

Still, we kept our old languages alive. We learned them as children, we spoke them among ourselves, we read and wrote in them. Wizards perhaps had the most concrete benefits of their ancestral language, _Mál_ , similar to Proto-Norse. Our spells would work only if cast in Mál, otherwise they didn't work at all.

Werewolves, as I learned from Jack, used their old language not only for ceremonies but to communicate with their kind, who were dispersed all over the planet as well. For werewolves, Hen Iaith functioned as their common language. Jack mentioned what I'd learned from Livia before—that Tel-Urughs had also preserved their old tongue, _High Akkadian_ , the predecessor and the only surviving relative of the long-ago lost tongues of Summer.

Jack's smooth baritone put me at ease, made me lower my guard. He was a friend, not a foe, I thought. Someone I could trust. My kin.

Bizarre as it was, I had a feeling that this man sitting across from me wasn't a stranger, but someone who'd been part of my life forever.

He told me of the clans that lived on the American continent, their origins, history, traditions.

"I'll need to learn a lot," I said. "I know very little about this part of my heritage."

"You'll learn, don't worry," Jack said gallantly. Then he looked at me for a long moment. "Is it just your difficult transformation or is there something else?"

Did I imagine a touch annoyance in his voice? "I'm sorry?"

"Why can't you accept your blaidd benywaidd?"

No, I hadn't. The feeling of closeness vanished. "When you see my change, you'll understand my lack of enthusiasm," I said sharper than I'd intended.

"I'm sometimes too frank. I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath. "Don't make assumptions, you don't know me. I don't have a problem with what I am. Or, I wouldn't if I could control my, er, blaidd benywaidd. But I can't. It scares me that I don't know what happens to me during transformation. I black out. I can't initiate the change, I can't turn back by will. It makes me weak and vulnerable. You can't call this 'harmony' of my two parts."

Jack leaned forward. "I can help you go through it the next time and every time after that. As long as you need me. You'll have memories, you'll be able to connect time. You have to learn how to control the change. It's easy and natural."

"For you. You are not a half wizard."

Jack ignored my remark. "Do you change every month? No exceptions?"

"It was irregular at the beginning, every three to four months, but I always knew when it was coming." I rubbed my forehead. "Look, can we stop here now? I have to be at the hospital at six o'clock in the morning."

He rose. "You know, you can be a doctor in Red Cliffs. We need occasional medical attention. Not too much, but still."

I glanced up at him from under my lashes. "I'm an MD, Mr. Canagan, not a veterinarian."

It flashed through my mind that he might feel offended, but he just laughed. "I'm sure we wouldn't mind. By the way, where am I going to sleep?"

"In the spare room down the hall. The bedsheets, pillows and blanket are in the closet. I believe you have your pajamas and a toothbrush with you."

We stood across from each other, with the coffee table between us.

"I have a toothbrush," he said with an innocent grin.

Right. He didn't look like someone who wore pajamas. "I have just one bathroom, and I'll need it between five and five-thirty. After that, it's all yours."

"Yes, ma'am. My car is parked a block from here. It's going to take a minute to get there and back. Don't get into trouble in my absence."

"I'll do my best, I promise," I said and walked toward the kitchen.

"Astrid?"

"Yes?" I stopped and turned to him, surprised to find him right behind me. I took a small step back. Jack reached for the cups I was holding, both still almost full. "Let me help you with that." His fingers lightly brushed mine. The same warm sensation I'd felt when I'd touched his throat earlier that evening ran from my fingers through my entire body.

"Out of curiosity, why Rosalie Duplant?" he asked.

I smiled. "She was an opera singer from eighteenth-century England, the most famous Queen of the Night of her time. You know, from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_. Good night, Jack."

Book two: Guardian of the Realm

Man by day, wolf by night, Brian Canagan lives an isolated life on his splendid mountain estate. Lonely and tormented by his past, he needs a new focus. Funding a small heritage project feels like a good fit.

Restoration architect Elizabeth Chatwin needs a professional breakthrough. When a mysterious man offers her a dream job, she grabs it with both hands, ignoring the unsettling oddities surrounding her employer.

Brian's unexpected attraction to his sassy, brilliant architect awakes him from his emotional slumber. Risking unforeseeable consequences of exposing his world to Elizabeth, he'll lure her into it, hoping she has enough courage to love him – both the man and the beast.

Caught in a whirlpool of her own conflicted feelings, aware that she's missing the crucial details about the irresistible man she's fallen for, Elizabeth must decide whether she should follow her heart or her instincts.

Chapter One

Elizabeth

The situation was slipping out of control.

"Mrs. Fontaine, please don't make this more difficult than it has to be," Sam Wakefield, Rosenthal's sheriff, said. "I don't want to handcuff you, but I will if I have to."

Charlotte Fontaine squared her delicate shoulders and braced her hands on her hips. "Cuff me? How dare you, Samuel Wakefield? I've known you ever since you were knee-high to a duck."

A twinkle of humor in his eyes, the formidable sheriff pulled on his best law-enforcement expression. "I'm really sorry, ma'am, but you have to come with us. You're under arrest."

That day's public protest to save a historic city block from destruction, including the popular Cosmopolitan Hotel, seemed to me like a carefully staged event. Nonetheless, I had my own professional and personal reasons for supporting the demonstrations.

It was time to intervene.

"Oh, for chrissake, Sheriff," I said, "you can't throw one of Rosenthal's most popular citizens in jail. This will backfire, you know."

Sheriff Sam Wakefield (under normal circumstances, my friend), turned to me with a sly grin. "You, on the other hand, are certainly not a prominent Rosenthal citizen. Now please turn around."

Before I could blink, cold metal closed around my wrists with a click.

The sheriff turned to his deputy. "Officer, escort Mrs. Fontaine to the car. And you, Elizabeth Chatwin," here he gave me a little push, "you are under arrest for trespassing, creating a public disturbance, disorderly conduct, and reckless endangerment. So far. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you..."

"Great job, Sheriff, arresting two women!" Dr. Ned Prentice shouted as he maneuvered a big sign that read _Save the Cosmo!_ "The city government, including the police, should've been on this side of the barricades, helping us save the Cosmo from those urban wreckers!"

Dr. Prentice was Rosenthal's beloved physician as well as the vice president of the Save the Cosmo! Committee, the group of heritage passionate Rosenthalers, who'd organized the protest. The president of the committee was my fellow arrestee, Charlotte Fontaine.

The sheriff rubbed his neck. "Give me a break, Doc! The owner wants to sell it; you know that."

"Then the City could've bought it out!" someone else yelled.

"Yeah. It's common practice for a city government to be in the hotel business. Move over, folks, let me pass."

A young cameraman from the local TV station was recording the entire interaction, including our arrests. I jerked and kicked a little bit for the sake of some additional publicity for our noble cause.

"We want to save a building that is one of Rosenthal's landmarks and should be protected as a historic site!" I said, looking straight into the camera. "And now they're arresting a sixty-two-year-old woman with fragile health! Help us save the—"

Before I could say another word, the sheriff had me in the back of his car.

"I'm sixty, dear," I heard Mrs. Fontaine say before the young deputy opened the back door of his cruiser and, holding her hand, helped her in.

The flashing lights on, both cars pulled away and toward the police station, a few blocks south.

Looking at me in his rearview mirror, Sam said, "That was low. Fragile health, my ass. Look at her; she doesn't look a day over fifty and she's as healthy as a horse."

"Ned Prentice's brother is the judge. Mrs. Fontaine will be at home for her afternoon tea."

"Yes, she will; you're right. But you will not, hon."

"I don't care. I bet there's a nice little room in your station where I can camp overnight." I pressed my forehead against the bars between the front and rear seats. "Sam, you're not going to charge me with all those offenses, are you?"

"Now, sweetheart, I'm afraid you don't understand," Sam said with a suppressed laugh. "You and your mob blocked the busiest street in town during rush hour—"

"Rush hour in Rosenthal? You must be kidding!"

"And placed the city in a virtual state of lockdown."

"For about twelve minutes, until you and your forces crushed—"

"Forces? It was only me and my deputy."

"Until you and your deputy crushed our peaceful protest," I said. "There."

"For which you never got permission from the city."

"And why didn't we?"

Sam signaled and turned left. "Because Lottie was advised not to apply for permission. Elizabeth, nobody in Rosenthal wants to see the Cosmo knocked down, but you can't expect the city officials or the police to join the demonstrators. Lottie needed some media attention, and she got it. Her arrest was the cherry on top."

"I was arrested, too," I reminded him.

Sam winked. "You're collateral damage."

Just great.

He pulled into the police parking lot, cut the engine and turned to me. "The City would buy out the hotel if there was money for that. It's a historic building. Alas, our budget is smaller every year. Lottie and her committee know that, so they're determined to find an investor who will restore the Cosmo before it's too late."

"It's not only the Cosmo," I said. "The entire Baker Block is in danger." The heritage block, which included the Cosmopolitan Hotel, was the heart of the city.

"Of course not. All the buildings in the Baker Block are from the same period, all of them in good condition. Lottie's clever. If she saves the hotel, the whole block may be saved. I wouldn't be surprised if she already has an investor in mind."

"The whole of Rosenthal is helping her, in one way or another."

"Including you and me. See, I risked the reputation of the police department by 'crushing' her protest, and you will get a criminal record."

Oh my god! Criminal record! "Sam, you're joking, aren't you?"

"I have to charge you, for the sake of authenticity. But don't worry; I bet Lottie's lawyer's already in the station waiting for us. He'll bail you both out. Now let me uncuff you, honey. You must be uncomfortable. By the way, are you free on Thursday night? I need someone to stay with Jacob."

Sam was the single father a of four-year-old boy. I loved Jacob and always looked forward to spending time with him.

"I'll make sure I am," I said with a wide smile.

***

Most of the charges against us were dropped, except for causing a public disturbance. Which would've also been dismissed if Mrs. Fontaine, against her lawyer's advice, hadn't insisted we'd intended to cause it.

I'd had no such intentions, of course, but since I was the Save the Cosmo!'s professional consultant and Charlotte Fontaine's friend, it was a matter of loyalty to support her statement.

The lawyer assured us we'd end up with some light community service.

"I'll give you a ride, and then I'm going home," I said to Mrs. Fontaine as we left the police station and walked toward my car. "All I need now is a cup of tea and a hot bath."

"What you need is a glass of wine," she said and slid her arm through mine. "I'm throwing a party tonight, to celebrate our release, and you're coming with me."

This could be a perfect chance to learn more about Mrs. Fontaine's grand plan. I was part of it, after all.

"Sure," I said. "But can we stop by my house, just for fifteen minutes? I need to change into something more party-appropriate."

"No, you don't," Mrs. Fontaine said and took a step back, her eyes scanning over my attire: a light beige coat, a knee-length turquoise dress and three-inch-heel pumps in the same color. "You're already dressed for a party, darling. You were overdressed for the protest."

Chapter Two

Elizabeth

"Yes! We did it!"

Charlotte Fontaine thrust her small, manicured hand into the air as we watched the TV in her living room. "We made the evening news! This is better than I expected."

I laughed. "Yes, we did it indeed, and _you_ made the evening news. They cut _me_ out. On the bright side, my heritage efforts will be saved for posterity in my police record. And I owe you bail money."

She dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry about it. Listen, there's a bottle of your favorite unoaked Chardonnay in the fridge. Why don't we have a glass while we're waiting for the others?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Fontaine," I said, touched by her consideration. I'd mentioned once that only certain unoaked white wines didn't give me migraines, and she'd remembered.

I went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine and filled two glasses. Back in the living room, I passed one to Mrs. Fontaine and sat across from her in an armchair. Sipping my Chardonnay, I watched as she phoned the committee members one by one, inviting them to join us later to celebrate our victory.

Charlotte Fontaine, a petite, feisty woman with vivid blue eyes, was the widow of the former Rosenthal mayor. Our acquaintance had started last November, when Mrs. Fontaine had contacted CBB Restauration, the small Montreal-based company owned by me and my partners Rick Barclay and Alain Besson. CBB stood for the initials of our last names. We specialized in architectural conservation and restoration and she'd offered us a job: to evaluate a little nineteenth-century hotel and estimate the cost of restoration, with a possibility of carrying out the work on it.

I hadn't been in the office when she'd phoned, but my partners had accepted the offer without a blink. It was a harsh time in the heritage building restoration business and the big jobs were few and far between.

Excited about the contract, Rick had offered a competitive price. He told Mrs. Fontaine our specialty was churches and that we had only done a few public buildings. "I'm not concerned about that, Mr. Barclay," she'd said. "I've checked your credentials; you always do exceptional work. You'll find the structure of the Cosmopolitan not very different from a church from that time period, including the stained-glass windows and doors. We have permission from the owner to do an estimate, so I'd like one of you to come here and take a look." Rick had suggested me, and Mrs. Fontaine agreed, adding that, if the cost of the renovation was reasonable, I might lead the project.

I was grateful to her. Both Rick and Alain were more experienced and had been in the business longer than me. I worked on small parts of the projects. I guess our employer figured I'd have more time for her venture than my partners.

The following week I arrived in Rosenthal, and Rick and Alain had gotten several significant conservation projects on the West Coast, thanks to Mrs. Fontaine and her connections.

I settled in a lovely little house left vacant after the previous owner, a friend of Mrs. Fontaine, had moved out of town.

The rent was ridiculously low. I even had a car at my disposal—a six-year-old Honda Accord—and a small cash advance in my account.

***

Everything had been just perfect, only I didn't think I'd enjoy my new life for long.

The small hotel's future wasn't looking bright. It was set to be sold, along with the entire block, to the land developer with the highest offer. So far, only one company—Urban Imprint—had shown interest in buying it. Unfortunately, they were more focused on building new structures than in restoring and developing existing ones, regardless of their potential historical significance.

The grim perspective didn't discourage the heritage passionate Rosenthalers and the mastermind behind the plan for saving the hotel—Charlotte Fontaine.

The moment I saw the Cosmopolitan, I fell in love with it and I wanted more than anything to restore it to its former glory.

Neglected due to lack of money and proper care, the Cosmopolitan was still a beautiful structure. Built between 1870 and 1872 as a much smaller replica of the famous neo-classical Hotel Royale in Vienna, it had forty-two guest rooms, the original furnishings, stained-glass windows and doors, rosewood paneled elevators and marble bathrooms with heated floors.

For almost a century and a half, the small hotel had been the center of the town's social life. Rosenthalers, well-to-do, cosmopolitan, sociable, albeit a little bit snobbish and eccentric, were proud of their town and its history and loved their little hotel dearly. There they held their wedding receptions, celebrated birthdays and other important days, welcomed their amateur golf guests from all around the world and promoted the work of local writers and painters.

When my cost estimation assignment was done, I didn't return to Montreal. Mrs. Fontaine didn't have any trouble convincing me to stay in Rosenthal for a few more months and join the Save the Cosmo! Committee as a professional consultant.

***

"Elizabeth, darling, please check if I uploaded the evening news to YouTube properly, will you? I want to send the link to a friend of mine," Mrs. Fontaine said and passed me her iPhone.

I smiled as I watched the short video. I didn't need to check anything. When it came to modern technology, Mrs. Fontaine was the savviest senior I knew.

"All's good," I said and passed her the iPhone.

She took it and speed-dialed a number.

"Rowena? Hi, Lottie here... I'm fine, thank you. How's Ahmed? And the little fella?... I _promise_ I'll visit you as soon as my little business here is done... Yes, the hotel and a few other buildings. We had a public protest today, and guess what? They arrested my architect and me, can you imagine? My lawyer bailed us out... No, no, we're okay, don't worry. We were on the news. I'll send you a link. Did you check our website? _save-cosmo-exclamation-mark-dot-com_ , all one word... You did? Great! Did you have a chance to talk to Jack and Astrid? Maybe Millennium Properties would be interested in buying it or investing in the renovation."

Ah, there we were. Sam was right. The entire purpose of today's commotion was to try to find an investor who'd save the Cosmo and the Baker Block from demolition. And yes, Charlotte already had someone in mind.

Mrs. Fontaine was giving Rowena—whoever she was—a frank account of the events related to the future of the hotel and the block. "Even if my friends and I had enough money to buy it out, what would we do with it?" she said. "We're not business people. Trust me, Rowena, it's a good investment. Once renovated, the hotel can be profitable again. The other four buildings of the block are also versatile. They can be turned into anything. They're beautiful structures. We can't let them destroy them... Yes, you're right... It'd be great for our economy, but we need a big investor. That's why I thought maybe if Millennium Properties..."

As Mrs. Fontaine listened to her friend, the smile on her face widened. "A land developer? Why, that would be great! ... Ahmed's cousin? Right, I remember you mentioning him. And you think he'd consider? ... Thanks a lot, Rowena... I know... What is his name again?... Uh-huh... I'll text you my architect's cell phone number. He can call her anytime. Her name is Elizabeth Chatwin... Yes, she's young but very capable... All right then, talk to you soon. Say hello to everybody. Kiss Aydan for me, will you? Bye now."

Mrs. Fontaine placed the phone on the table, beaming. "Well, I just might've found us an investor."

I chuckled. "The one that can call me anytime? And who are all those people—Rowena, Jack, Ahmed, his cousin? How well do you know them?"

"Rowena Vandermeer and Dr. Ahmed Demir are my friends," she said, taking a seat across from me. "Dr. Demir used to live and work in Rosenthal for years. He's originally from Turkey; his family is very old and noble. Astrid, Rowena's daughter, also lived in Rosenthal and worked in the hospital. She's an orthopedic surgeon. And then she married Jack Canagan and moved to Colorado. They're my close friends, too. I visited them last year."

Too many names; I wasn't sure I'd gotten who was who. "And who's Aydan? Rowena's grandson?"

"No. Astrid and Jack have a daughter. Aydan is Rowena's son with Dr. Demir."

Aware of my arched eyebrow, she explained, "Rowena was a teenager when she had Astrid. Anyhow, Astrid and Ahmed had been friends and colleagues. And then Ahmed met her mother, fell in love with her and also moved to Colorado. So romantic, isn't it? The house you live in is Astrid's house, you know. And the car you drive, it was hers as well."

Interesting. "The house has a nightingale floor in the bedroom," I said. "Did she have it built, or did it come with the house? It's so beautiful. I'd never dreamt I'd live in a house with a nightingale floor."

Now it was Mrs. Fontaine's turn to raise her eyebrows. "Nightingale floor? What's that?"

"A sort of safety device. It's called _uguisubari._ It's a wooden floor designed to make a chirping sound when you walk on it. They were common during the Edo Period in Japan. Why did she need a nightingale floor? Was she in danger?"

Mrs. Fontaine shrugged. "Nah. It must be because she liked all things Japanese, you know, ink paintings, sliding doors, minimalist design, things like that. Back to our business, the Canagans own a real estate company, Millennium Properties. Have you heard of it?"

I hadn't, so Mrs. Fontaine explained that Millennium Properties was a profitable medium-sized real estate enterprise. Best of all, the recent recession didn't seem to have affected it at all.

"You think Millennium Properties would be interested in buying the hotel and the rest of the Baker Block?" I said.

"I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask. Rowena promised to talk to Astrid and Jack, but before that, she says she wants to have a word with Ahmed's cousin. He lives in Copper Ridge."

"Where's Copper Ridge?"

"Why, near Red Cliffs, in the Colorado mountains, of course."

I'd never heard of those places before, although Mrs. Fontaine's voice clearly suggested I should have.

"Anyway, Ahmed's cousin is a developer," Mrs. Fontaine carried on, "very rich, an architect."

"This is great! This is the best news we've heard in the last two months."

Mrs. Fontaine blinked once, twice. "He's a bit of an eccentric. But it's not our concern."

"What do you mean by eccentric?"

"Maybe eccentric isn't the best word. Perhaps not very social. He lives on his estate with two caregivers and his secretary. He was in some kind of accident, so he's in a wheelchair. He can walk, but with difficulty and he's in and out of the hospital. He underwent numerous surgeries and he's doing better, but could be quite moody, according to Rowena."

No wonder he wasn't in good spirits. "Maybe he's depressed. Maybe he's in chronic pain, who knows? Why does she think he'd want to get involved in this? Is she trying to pull him out of his despondency?"

"Rowena says he's passionate about heritage buildings, or at least he used to be before the accident."

"What is his name again? Maybe I know him."

"Khalid Nouri."

I smiled. _"Eternal Light."_

Mrs. Fontaine's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"That's what his name means in Arabic. It doesn't sound familiar, though. Maybe Rick or Alain have heard of him. I'll ask them."

"They might not have heard of him. Rowena mentioned he lived in England before he came here," Mrs. Fontaine said and then changed the subject. "You speak Arabic?"

"Yes. I lived in Egypt for several years when I was a child. My father was a professor of Oriental Studies at the Al-Azhar University."

"How about your mother? She was also a university professor, wasn't she?"

"A medievalist. She was an expert on the Early Middle Ages." I reached for Mrs. Fontaine's MacBook Pro that sat open on the coffee table. "Now, let's google our Mr. Nouri."

"Oh, don't bother now. Medievalist, you say. I wondered how you got your middle name. Bertrada. Very old, but beautiful."

"Thank you. I was named after one of my mother's favorite research subjects, Queen Bertrada of Laon."

"Charlemagne's mother... It suits you, you know." Mrs. Fontaine refilled my still half-full glass.

I took a sip of wine. "How old is he?" I said, eager to know more about our potential investor.

Mrs. Fontaine stood up, closed the Mac and unplugged it. "Our guests are about to start showing up. We won't need this tonight. How old is who?"

I sighed. " _Mr. Nouri_."

All I got from Mrs. Fontaine was a strange faraway look and an unexpected answer. "That's the million-dollar question, my dear."

I looked at her, puzzled. Sometimes, Mrs. Fontaine had bizarre answers to simple questions.

Before I could ask what the heck she had meant this time, the doorbell announced the first group of our party guests.

Chapter Three

Brian

"We're coming over, Brian. I've just heard something very interesting. We need to talk."

I rubbed my neck. God, she wouldn't give me a break.

And she knew I didn't want anybody to call me Brian, not until I was ready to reclaim my past. She thought I was ready, and I didn't have a say in it. That was my friend Rowena; stubborn and pushy.

And she knew I didn't want anybody to call me Brian, not until I was ready to reclaim my past. She thought I was ready, and I didn't have a say in it. That was my friend Rowena; stubborn and pushy.

"No, we don't need to talk, Rowena. Not tonight. I'm tired," I said, knowing I hadn't discouraged her in the least.

"Are you in pain? Are you about to shift?"

"Not yet." It always happened around midnight; it hadn't changed. "Although, if I could, I'd turn now."

"It's that bad, huh?" she asked, her voice soft and filled with concern.

It was. I was in constant pain in my human form. It was a part of me, and I'd gotten so used to it that now I was able to stay in my painful form almost all day.

It was close to nine o'clock in the evening. Three long hours before I could transform into a blaidd—a wolf-man—and have a long run through the woods. My blaidd didn't feel pain, only my _dyn_ , my human entity, did. I still limped, true; my wolf leg was as damaged as its human counterpart was. My sense of smell was somewhat weakened, but my wolf vision had almost fully recovered, and my mind was less unhappy in my wolf body than it was in my human form.

"I'll be fine," I said. "So where's the fire this time?"

"Listen, Ahmed and I will be there in twenty minutes. Hal's coming with us."

Hal Mohegan was our mutual friend. Like me, he was presumed dead. "This sounds like a damn TV intervention," I said. "I don't like it."

"It's time to sort out this mess, Brian. I want to marry the father of my child, but I can't because I'm still married to Hal. And you're —"

"I know." I didn't need her to remind me that I was still married to Eve, who had married James Mohegan (Hal's brother and my best friend), believing I was dead. After she recovered from the shock of my resurrection, I could only picture how thrilled she'd be to discover she was living in a polygamous marriage.

I heard Rowena exhale. "Okay, forget about that now. It's about a business proposal. Is Azem there? We'll need his legal expertise."

I sighed. "Where else could he be?" Azem Nimmani was my lawyer, my personal assistant, and my friend. And one of the three people whose company I could tolerate for more than one hour. The other two were Harriet and Jason Killian, my temporary caretakers. All three of them were from Winston, a clan up in the Canadian North, where I had spent a quarter of a century trapped in my wolf form. And dead to the rest of the world. They had come with me to Copper Ridge to help me with the transition, as Harriet liked to say. From the wolf-man to the man. From dead to alive.

"I don't know," Rowena says. "He's always running errands for you because you don't want to move your lazy ass from the house. You know, for a person who calls his home the _tinselhouse_ and always complains about how over-furnished and over-decorated it is, you spend an awful lot of time in it."

"I neither furnished nor decorated it, so I have the right not to like it. As you remember, I didn't buy it because of its looks, but because it's isolated and big. And I'm going to get rid of its Rococo charm soon. I plan to renovate it, top to bottom."

"You could've done it already."

"I've started. I finished my study."

"You removed the knick-knacks and extra furniture and stored them in the attic. Is that your idea of renovating?"

"And my bedroom. It's new."

"Only you don't use it."

I sighed, frustrated. "Doesn't your baby need to sleep, Rowena? Isn't it a bit late for a visit?"

"Ha-ha. Nice try. Aydan's still awake, but a short ride to your house will help him fall asleep. See you in twenty."

***

Azem joined me in THE library and I told him about Rowena's phone call.

I had to admit I was curious about what kind of business proposal Rowena had in mind. It had to be something much bigger than her regular weekly attempts to fix my life or she wouldn't have dragged Ahmed, the baby and Hal with her.

"How's your leg tonight?" Azem asked as he poured us both a glass of scotch. We sat in the library, waiting for our late-night visitors to arrive.

I took a good swig and closed my eyes in almost-pleasure. "No worse than usual. Let's see what Rowena wants."

"She always wants the same thing; she just changes her tactic each time. Once she runs out of ideas, she'll simply order you to stop hiding. She's the Copper Ridge einhamiress, therefore your alpha, so you have to obey her. But she wants you to quit all this self-pitying on your own and start living your life."

I first thought I'd misheard him, but when I realized I hadn't, rage swept over me.

"Damn it, Azem, I'm not ready to become Brian Canagan again. Look at me, I'm a cripple. I'm half the man I once was!"

"I didn't know you before they brought you to Winston half-dead twenty-five years ago. But from all I've heard, you were nothing like this. What are you so afraid of? Don't you want to be with your family and friends?"

"If I were Brian Canagan from twenty-five years ago, you'd never talk to me like this."

Azem stood up and, bracing his arms on the desk, looked straight into my eyes. "If you were that Brian Canagan from twenty-five years ago, you wouldn't feel sorry for yourself twenty-four hours a day."

"What the hell do you want from me?" I jerked up from my seat, but a sharp pain slashed through my leg up to my spinal cord and nailed me back. I breathed in and out several times, fighting nausea.

Azem was right; that's why I was so mad at him. "I feel miserable most of the time. I don't need others to point out the obvious to me." I exhaled, feeling old and tired. "A part of me died that day. I don't know who I am anymore, Azem."

"It's time to figure it out," Rowena said in her resonant voice as she entered the library, followed by Hal and Ahmed, who carried the sleeping Aydan in his car seat.

***

"So, an urban developer wants to buy an old city block in some small Pacific Northwest town, knock it down and build an apartment complex or something. What's wrong with that?" Azem said.

"The developer is Urban Imprint, and they are infamous for their dubious business ethics and their cheap and ugly strip malls they like to build," Rowena said. "They hope to get it for peanuts because the market is lower than ever. The block is old and beautiful. And there's this little hotel. She turned her laptop to me. "Here. The Cosmopolitan. Built in the 1870s. Look how cute it is. Astrid says it's the heart of the city. Urban Imprint would bulldoze it as well."

"How do you know about all this?" I asked.

"Lottie Fontaine, a friend of mine. Ahmed and Astrid know her well. Lottie's the president of a group that is trying to gain public support to save the buildings from demolition and find investors who'll restore them. They organized a protest today in front of City Hall."

"Who's the owner of the block?"

"The City. Except for the hotel, which is private property."

I shifted in my seat and stretched my bad leg. Damn, it hurt. "That's a big job far away from here, Rowena. I can't travel; you know that."

"Pfft, a piece of cake. With today's technology, you can do most of the work from here. And that young architect that Lottie has hired can travel here if necessary."

"What young architect?" I asked.

The baby started crying. Rowena lifted him from the car seat. "Lottie hired a restoration architect to do the cost estimate for the renovation... I have to feed Aydan. We're going to use your study, Brian, if that's okay."

I smiled. "Go ahead. Do you need anything else?"

"We'll be fine. By the way, where are the Killians?"

"Visiting some friends."

"Do you need me, Rowena?" Ahmed asked.

"No, love. Will you and Hal explain to Brian the logistics and financials?"

When she left, I turned to Ahmed. "How do you think I can buy a city block when I don't have access to my money? Officially, I'm still dead. You had to lend me money to buy this house, remember?"

"I will lend you the money again," Ahmed said. "It's a loan, Brian, only interest-free."

"We're talking about big money here."

"Do I need to remind you that you're rich?"

"Hypothetically speaking." My wife and my son had inherited my wealth. Later, Eve had given everything to Jack. She was a wealthy woman in her own right.

"I'm sure Jack will transfer all your assets back to you once he learns you're alive."

"It'll take time."

Ahmed shrugged. "I'm not in a hurry."

He had solutions for everything. "You rebuilt half of Copper Ridge," I said. "I'm surprised you have any money left."

"I have much more money than I need. Once this block in Rosenthal is yours, you and I will invest in rebuilding it. I'm sure Millennium Properties would also like a part in it. I'll talk to Astrid, Jack and James."

"You'll also need to talk to Hal and me," I said. "We're also partners. Or we will be again."

Hal laughed. "The dead-silent partners for now. We have to change that."

I took a deep breath. "So we will, Hal... Ahmed, why don't you do it yourself? You don't need me. I can announce my return in a less dramatic way."

"I'm a doctor, not a land developer. On the other hand, I'd like to do something for Rosenthal. I lived there for twelve years; I have a soft spot for it. Rosenthal's always been a wealthy little town, but now they're really struggling. This will be a nice boost to the local economy. This is Rowena and Hal's idea, I'm financing it, Azem's taking care of the legal aspect. And you, my friend, you're going to roll up your sleeves and do the actual work."

"It's not an intervention. It's a conspiracy," I said, suppressing an involuntary smile.

"I think it's a great plan. It's time you and Hal resume your lives," Azem said. "Your families and friends need you back."

"Not to mention everyone loves somebody else's wife," Hal said with a chuckle.

"Except you," Ahmed said, slapping Hal's shoulder. "At least, Violet isn't married."

And me, Ahmed, I thought. I still loved my own wife.

Hal turned to me. "We're no more than ghosts now. Neither dead nor alive. I'm tired of it. I want to carry on with my life. Damn it, I have to hide every time I come here, and Violet must sneak out of Copper Ridge to spend a few days with me in Winston. Peyton's already suspicious."

Violet Kincaid was the love of Hal's life, as well as Rowena's best friend. Peyton was Violet Kincaid's daughter and, as I'd heard, Astrid's best friend. Peyton and her wizard husband had had a baby daughter. Violet, naturally, wanted to be close to them, and not to travel back and forth between Copper Ridge and Winston.

"There is an easy way to fix it," Azem said. "Everything can be done in one day, but first I need you two legally alive."

"It's not that simple," I said. "Not at all."

Hal looked at me. "It doesn't need to be complicated, either, Brian. Everything's gonna be fine in the end; remember what Ellida Morgaine told us years ago? And this _is_ the end, isn't it?"

About the Author

J. F. Kaufmann started her writing career in newspapers and magazines. In addition to this collection of contemporary love stories, she is also the author of two fantasy novels of _The Red Cliffs Chronicles_ series.

She lives is Calgary, Canada.

Visit her blog at www.jfkaufmann.com.
