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eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: Using her stunning looks and hypnotically beautiful voice, Marcy Hanson achieved success beyond what she had imagined. But Dirk's charm pervaded her thoughts, leaving her paralyzed by love.Dirk, back to reclaim his love, bursts back into Marcy's life as disruptively as he left, but he brings more than flowers and the promise of romance. He brings a choice: his love for her or her love for music. Now Marcy must choose what part of her heart to follow. Which will she give up?

eBook Publisher: e-reads, Published: 1983
Fictionwise Release Date: December 2001

6 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [537 KB], eReader (PDB) [187 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [175 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [154 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [186 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [209 KB], hiebook (KML) [401 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [195 KB], iSilo (PDB) [144 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [180 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [212 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [232 KB]
Words: 53114
Reading time: 151-212 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

The meeting was growing tense. Marcy shifted her weight slightly on the hard straight-back chair and hunched up her shoulder muscles in an attempt to relieve the tightness that was working its way up the back of her neck. A tiny frown creased her brow as she strained to ignore the war going on inside her head and concentrate fully on what Mr. Gately was saying to her agent, Greg.

There were four of them seated at one end of the long conference table: Marcy, Greg, Mr. Gately, and Mr. Grimes, the last a small, balding man whose only apparent function was to fish information out of a briefcase as it was needed. Greg had set up the meeting here at the agency at her insistence. Usually he handled all of the business connected with her bookings, and he would have dismissed this inquiry out of hand had she not intervened. He didn't understand her interest in pursuing the matter, and Marcy couldn't blame him. She didn't understand it either. There were endless reasons to refuse this offer, and not one sensible reason to consider it. There was just that small, persistent voice from some remote corner of her mind insisting, "I want to, I want to," while every logical brain cell in her head tried to tell it to shut up.

"May I see the photos, please?" Marcy smiled at Mr. Grimes, trying to ease the tension.

"Oh, of course." He hastily pushed a stack of pictures across the table to her.

She started to glance through them, wondering why she was allowing her interest to grow and aware that the small voice was getting louder. "Oh!" She looked up, suddenly realizing that they were all waiting for a signal from her before continuing. "Please go on. I can look while you talk." She had never grown used to the deference that had come with her fame.

"You can see the setup, Miss Hanson." Mr. Gately leaned over to arrange the photos in the right sequence. The moment the two men had entered the room, Marcy had known he would be the one to give the sales pitch, reconfirming that keen instinct for people that had been such an asset to her career. She gave her full attention to Mr. Gately. She liked him. No pushy, flirty nonsense, just that heightened level of intensity so necessary in a good salesman.

"The old inn was a honey to begin with, so we preserved every bit of charm we could while modernizing for safety and comfort. The concept of having a first-class inn and restaurant in conjunction with a top-quality summer theatre seems to be growing in appeal in many parts of the country." He placed the next picture in front of her. "And this is the barn before we started the alterations." Marcy looked at the handsome red structure with white trim as Mr. Gately continued, "Here again, we've gone to great pains to preserve the original exterior. Now,"--he motioned to Mr. Grimes, who handed him a roll of blueprints--"the interior was still under construction when the pictures were taken, so I'll show you the prints for the theatre."

"Oh, my." Marcy felt the familiar excitement as she studied the plans. The attention to detail was impressive. The stage was large, with plenty of wing space and storage room for scenery. There was also good capacity for flying sets, usually nonexistent in a local theatre.

Mr. Gately went on, "The orchestra pit, as you can see, is very spacious."

"Do you have a good lighting engineer?" she asked.

"We have a good lighting engineer, a good director and musical director, good musicians, a good stage manager, and good local talent. What we need is a very good star."

"Sounds good," she chuckled. The moment of banter was quickly replaced by the air of tension as they waited. She glanced across the table at her agent Greg. He gave her a wry smile, then continued to fill the paper before him with intricate doodles. Marcy knew he knew how intelligent she was about her career. She also knew he was sure that her good sense would prevail and she would put aside this short excursion into nostalgia. She looked through the pictures once more and put them down. "All right," she said, "I'll do it."

Greg dropped his pencil as his head jerked up, his face a mask of consternation. "My God, Marcy, they're offering less than half your usual fee. And we're not talking a three-day gig; this is a musical comedy--you'd be tied up for weeks."

Marcy felt a swift twinge of misgiving. She knew he was right. She was out of her mind to say yes. "Greg, I want to do it."

Greg's surprise turned to obvious agitation. His pencil tapped rapidly while he ran his fingers through his hair. "But think of your career! 'Guys and Dolls' was an old chestnut the first time you did it; by now it's a museum piece. Marcy, listen..."

Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. Greg was an excellent agent and a good friend who always worked for her best interests. She had never before made a decision totally against his advice. How could she tell him why she was doing it when she didn't know herself. Her voice was soft but firm. "Greg, I really want to."

He studied her thoughtfully, a worried frown on his face, then gave a brief nod. "Okay, babe, you got it. Come along, gentlemen." He stood and started toward the door. "Let's get the contract worked out."

"Miss Hanson, how can we thank you?" Mr. Grimes shook her hand enthusiastically as Mr. Gately echoed his appreciation.

Marcy smiled, trying to steady the shaky uncertainty she felt inside. "I'll love it, I know I will. Now I'm afraid I must excuse myself; I have rehearsing to do." After a few more grateful remarks, the two men followed Greg into the hall.

Andy Wallace unwound his long frame from the deeply cushioned chair in which he had been silently sitting, watching the morning's proceedings. He walked slowly over to her, studying her face. "Okay, Marcy my sweet, why?"

She basked for a moment in the wave of affection and strength that Andy always offered her. Dear Andy. Her accompanist, arranger, and, most of all, friend, who had seen her through the worst and best of times. Their unique friendship and working relationship had survived many difficulties, including an occasional temptation to allow sexual attraction born of lonely moments to alter it. Suddenly feeling very tired, Marcy leaned against the edge of the table. "Andy, this seems so right for me just now." She knew she sounded plaintive, but that was how she felt. "You know how strung out I've been lately ... the thought of returning to a small theatre sounds like such fun."

Andy winced. "Yeah, barrels of fun," he groaned. "Dealing with amateurs is a laugh a minute."

"But Andy, just the chance to spend some time in Napa Valley makes it worthwhile." Was she trying to convince him, or herself? "You love good wine. Just think, we'll be right there in California where they make some of the best."

"Whoopee." Andy was definitely less than convinced.

She reached out to touch his arm. "Andy, please come with me. You'd be such an incredible help to them, and I work so much better with you."

Andy shook his head in surrender. "I've always been a soft touch for you, ever since the first time we met."

Marcy smiled at him in gratitude, remembering those early days. She had been a recent graduate of Northwestern University--a recent graduate and a very recent divorcée--when she met Andy. "We've been together a long time, haven't we?"

Andy nodded. "Close to eleven years. Remember where we met? That was some ugly little theatre, wasn't it? My first steady job playing the piano." He grinned at her. "I'll never forget the day you walked in to audition for that review. God, you were beautiful, and God, you were awful."

"Now don't be unkind." Marcy tried to look stern, then grinned in return. "You're right. I was lousy. I was so scared. And I'd just received my final divorce papers." She smiled at him affectionately. "You were so nice to me. You went over and over and over that song with me until I sang it right. I still hate that song."

"You got the job," he pointed out.

"Yes, I certainly did, thanks to you. I was so excited, remember? We spent the whole evening at that crummy little bar, talking. I'd never told anyone so much about myself."

Andy sat down beside her on the table. "You were really hurting. Divorce isn't exactly easy."

Marcy stood and walked to the window. She drew the curtain to one side, staring blindly at the busy street below. "That sweet young boy I married. How could I have gone through three years of college with him without knowing what he was really like? I thought we were so right together, the future Lunt and Fontanne of the musical world."

Andy took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. "Yeah, too bad it wasn't just you he wanted. Well, at least it didn't last long." He stopped to light his cigarette, extending the pause before speaking again. "Unlike the episode with Dirk Baxter."

Marcy's startled eyes met Andy's level gaze. Could he see the shock of pain at the mention of the name? She gulped hard, trying to reply in a light tone. "Oh, yes, Dirk. Every girl's dream man: tall, handsome, dynamic, and rich." She turned away. Wow, how could it still hurt like this after three whole years? She felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and she dabbed at them angrily.

Andy rapidly strode to her and put his arms around her. "I could kill that bastard for what he did to you."

Marcy looked up at him, brushing the lustrous black hair from her face.

"That's almost funny. The last thing Dirk said to me was, 'I could kill you for what you've done to me.' All in the viewpoint, I guess." She put her arms around Andy's waist and rested her cheek on his chest. "Oh, Andy, I felt like such a failure at love. Two flops in a row."

Andy stepped back, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "Well, just be glad you're not in the romance business. That's the only place you've been a flop. You're sure at the top of the heap professionally."

Marcy sat on one of the chairs at the table, cupping her chin in her hand. "You know, I've thought a lot about my life lately. It's been a pretty full one. I've traveled over much of the world; dated men most women just dream about; been invited to perform for a queen and two presidents--even a shah. Not too bad." She shrugged defensively. "Maybe I'm destined to be a career girl ... period."

Andy walked across the room and put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the corner table. He was obviously trying to work up to saying something. Marcy decided to help him. "Andy, what do you want to say that you're not saying?"

He smiled. "Sounds like the first line of a song. Okay, here goes. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that it was during that other run of 'Guys and Dolls' that you met Dirk. Are you sure this isn't going to kick up some awful memories? God, Marcy, when that ended you fell apart for months. This whole thing really bothers me. I mentioned Dirk's name deliberately to see your reaction. I saw it, and I didn't like it."

Marcy stared at her hands, mentally fighting back a flood of memories. "Don't worry about me; that was a long time ago. I'm older, wiser, and a lot more sure of myself." She straightened her spine, finding and holding on to her strong inner core, and changed to a light, teasing tone. "After all, I'm practically middle-aged."

Andy's eyes rolled upward. "Oh, no, spare me," he pleaded, "middle-aged, indeed. You're thirty-two going on twenty. I'll tell you what: the day you walk into a room and people can catch their breath in less than a full minute, we'll talk about middle age." He stood very still for a moment, looking at her intently. "You're not just beautiful and talented, Marcy; it's much more than that. You have an aura, a kind of glow that surrounds you, on and off stage. People want to be enveloped in that glow. It's a responsibility, you know, being special; don't forget it." He blew her a kiss and left the room.

Marcy sank into an easy chair, leaning her head back against the soft upholstery. Dirk, Dirk, she thought, I loved you so. She pushed herself out of the comfortable seat, willing the memories to disappear. Instead, a mental picture, sharper than any she had experienced for years, leapt into her mind. A Greek god, her friend Angie had called him. Tall, sinewy, with a devastating combination of ash-blond hair and eyes so deeply brown you could never see the pupils, no matter how close you were. Three years ago--it seemed like a former life.

She shook her head rapidly for a moment, as if hoping the movement would physically dislodge the thoughts from her mind. "Come on, Marcy," she admonished herself, "you still have three engagements to fulfill right here in New York, and you do indeed have rehearsing to do." She went to the corner music closet, selected some of the pieces that needed work, and headed for the practice room where she knew Andy would be waiting for her.

Marcy put down the note from Mr. Gately. It seemed impossible that it had been two months since their interview. She sat at the dressing table and leaned close to the mirror, studying her reflection closely.

"Hey, see anything you like?"

She jumped, startled by the nearness of Angle's voice. She smiled up at Angle's mirror image. "Not much tonight. You were very bright, you know, to quit acting and become my secretary instead. Now you don't have to panic at every new line."

Marcy returned Angle's ironic grin, knowing what was going through the girl's mind. Angie had so often commented on the uniqueness of Marcy's beauty: the contrast of the sparkling emerald-green eyes with the fair skin and black hair, the finely chiseled nose, and the high, almost Indian-looking cheekbones. And Marcy had openly acknowledged her gratitude for the feature so important to someone in her profession: the wide mouth with full lips and perfect white teeth. A singer's mouth, to be sure.

"Oh, yes," Angie retorted, "I feel terribly sorry for you, you poor wrinkled thing, you." She waved the packet of papers she held in her hand. "And you're right. I was bright. I realized early on the vast limitations of my own talent, and I attached myself firmly to someone headed straight for the top, thereby guaranteeing my tie with show biz--which is obviously the only interesting biz in the world."

"Oh, Angie." Marcy brushed a little more blusher on her cheeks. "I'm twice blessed to have an excellent secretary and good friend all rolled into one dynamic little package." She added a last touch of lipstick, picked up her brush, and swiveled around on the stool to face her secretary. "Now tell me, how are my travel arrangements coming?"

Angie studied the notes in her hand. "The airline reservation is confirmed for one week from today. The tickets will be delivered by tomorrow afternoon. I spoke to Mr. Gately on the phone. They have your accommodations ready at the inn, and a car for you to use while you're there. He'll have someone pick you up at the San Francisco Airport and drive you to St. Helena. Sounds like they're really planning to roll out the red carpet. They're sure counting on you for a successful launch of that new theatre!"

Marcy was brushing her hair. She gave it a final stroke, then shook it vigorously to make it look fuller and swing more freely as she moved. "Well," she murmured as she went to her closet, "I certainly hope I don't let them down." She studied the row of elaborate gowns hanging before her. It was the closing night of her extremely successful run at the King Cole Room in the St. Regis Hotel, and she wanted to look very special. She selected one of her favorites, a kelly-green gown completely covered with sequins. She removed her terry cloth robe and tossed it over the folding screen that stood near the wardrobe closet. Angle moved quickly to help her pull on the skintight dress. Marcy knew that Angie enjoyed helping her dress for a performance: it brought her closer to her beloved theatre's rites. Marcy held up her hair so Angie could close the back zipper. She then stepped into the matching high-heeled sandals and put on the emerald and diamond drop earrings she had taken from her hand case. After making some final adjustments, she faced Angie and asked, "Well, what do you think?"

Angie watched carefully as Marcy slowly pirouetted. This was an important ritual: making sure there were no sagging hemlines or unclosed snaps. Very shortly there would be many eyes focused on that figure. A series of three sharp raps on the door signaled show time. Marcy finished the turn and looked at her friend. "Okay?" she asked. The answer came back, "Perfect. Knock 'em dead!"

Marcy took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked into the hall to meet Andy. He was lounging against the wall, savoring the last few puffs of a cigarette. At her appearance he stopped, letting his gaze travel over her. He slowly extinguished the cigarette, gave her an exaggerated wolf whistle and a broad wink, then started down the hall. They walked in silence, both of them concentrating inward to create the right mood. Andy walked straight ahead into the King Cole Room. The pattern was well formulated. He would walk across the room to scattered applause, sit at the piano, light a cigarette, take a few drags while the babble subsided, put the cigarette in the commodious ashtray where it would burn itself out, and start to play.

Marcy stood outside the door, listening to the rippling chords, sensing the familiar onset of tension, her own personal AA's--anticipation and anxiety--that always started at precisely this time. She heard the low, haunting strain of her theme song, written for her by Andy, that was always used to signal her entrance. Now it was all a sense of timing. She waited to hear the hush of the audience, knowing that all eyes were on the doorway, waiting. Still she lingered, letting the anticipation build to just the right pitch, just to the border of the second A, anxiety. Now. She breathed deeply, lifted her head, and entered.

The wave of applause was instantaneous. A number of men were on their feet. This was going to be a good audience. She added a touch of sensuousness to her long stride and tossed back her hair as she reached the piano. The effect was immediate; she had them in her hand before singing a note. As she passed behind Andy she brushed the back of his hair with her fingers. She knew that people loved being included in a moment of intimacy, loved speculating about the relationship between these two performers. She reached the front of the piano, stood quietly for a moment, looking down, then started to sing. "I'm a lonely lady, please spend some time with me..."

The songs followed each other in planned sequence: love song, jump tune, whimsy, blues. She played the audience like a fine instrument, provoking a ripple of laughter, a few sighs, and some sniffles as eyes were wiped. How she loved it. The sense of rapport, the applause, the sheer power of control. It was all there tonight, a perfect closing performance.

Now it was time for an "Andy original," one of her own favorites. "I can't forget the way you smile..." Thank you, Mr. Wallace, Marcy thought as she reveled in the delight of being able to create such a velvet sound. "And ev'ry step is a lonely mile..." She gazed pensively at the first tables, then let soulful eyes scan the room as she finished the phrase in a husky voice, "Without your hand holding mine."

Suddenly the room seemed to stand on end. It couldn't be! The tall, powerful figure alone at the rear of the room, his face shadowed in the dim light, stood absolutely still. She became aware of the insistent beat of the piano, she had missed her next line and Andy had filled in, but he was trying to bring her back on course. Somehow she got through the rest of the song, like a well-programmed robot.

She looked frantically at Andy and saw that his eyes were searching the audience, trying to locate the source of her distraction. As he focused on the solitary figure, his eyes widened and shifted quickly to Marcy, clearly startled. Dear God, she thought, it really is him. What do I do now? It's far too soon to end the set. As if reading her mind, Andy launched into a jump tune that had a long introduction designed, usually, to give the program a change of pace. Obviously at this moment he'd chosen it to allow Marcy to pull herself together. She walked behind Andy, placing her hands on his shoulders, another familiar gimmick turned oh-so-useful.

"Marcy." Andy's hushed voice cut through the music. "Come on, sweetie, show the bastard you're just fine without him."

She gripped the shoulders of her good friend, letting his strength surge up through her fingers, then straightened her back, smiled down at him, and said aloud, "Okay, Andy, let 'er rip."

He grinned at her and increased the tempo. It was a favorite showstopper: a raucous, funny song tossed back and forth between the two of them, the only melody Andy ever joined vocally. The crowd roared their approval. Marcy braced herself against the ferocity of the stare she could feel clear across the room, throwing herself headlong into the performance as Andy took her from one high-powered tune into another. No low-key back-off numbers in this show. The audience was enthralled as Marcy went from full-volumed, stinging heartache to whispering melancholy to fanciful flirtatiousness.

All the while, Marcy felt the adrenaline flow. "Look at me, Dirk," she was shouting inside, "look at how good I am, look at how well I've survived. You said I couldn't live without you; well, look at me, look at me."

The pace quickened, the intensity mounted. Half of the people in the room were on their feet. The waiters had stopped to watch, the bartenders had quit mixing drinks, the place was electric as Marcy belted out the end of the closing number, a reprise of her theme song. "How can I tell you how much I need you, I'm just a lonely lady, in need of love." Her arms fell with the final crescendo of the piano, and everyone in the audience leapt to their feet. Marcy was in a daze, dimly aware that her hand was firmly clasped by Andy's, as wave after wave of roaring applause washed over her. She had never been better. She had never had a better audience. She should give them an encore, but she couldn't. She simply could not. With a deep bow and a big smile, she garnered enough strength to stride, not crawl, to the exit.

The moment she passed through the outer door, her step faltered. She was immediately buoyed by Andy's firm grip. "Oh, Andy," she gasped.

"I know, honey." He started to propel her forward to her room. "It was a shocker, but you were wonderful."

At that instant, Angie appeared at her side. "Marcy, are you all right?" The anxious face peered up at her.

"Angie, did you see him?"

The troubled blue eyes narrowed in a frown. "Yes, I sure did. I heard the applause clear down the hall, and I thought, Wow! Marcy's really on tonight. I'd better catch this. So I slipped into the back of the room and almost tripped over him." Somehow they reached the dressing room and closed the door safely behind them.

"Did you speak to him?" Andy asked the question Marcy seemed incapable of uttering.

Angle shook her head. "No. His attention was glued to Marcy, and he didn't even see me, so I waited for the show to end, thinking I'd say something to him as we left. But, Marcy, you were so incredible tonight that I got totally caught up in the last number, and, when I looked up, he was gone."

Marcy fell onto the sofa in the corner of the room. "Oh, why did he have to come back into my life? And why, in heaven's name, do I still react this way?" Suddenly all the control and belligerence fell away, and she began to tremble.

Andy sat beside her and took her into his arms. "Hey, sweetie," he consoled, "it's only natural. You haven't seen him in all these years, and we were just talking about the whole business so recently. Of course you'd overreact."

Marcy sat bolt upright, still slightly hysterical. "Angie," she said, "help me get my stuff together. I have to get home. And call the airline tonight. Book me on the first plane you can get to the West Coast. If they have nothing to San Francisco tomorrow, I'll go to L.A., or anywhere in that direction, for that matter. Just get me at least three thousand miles from here."

Angie immediately pulled two suitcases out of the closet and started to pack. "Would you like me to spend the night with you?" she asked solicitously.

Marcy was in a total daze. "No," she answered, "you go home to your family. Andy can drop me on his way. I'll be fine. To hell with Dirk Baxter."

Andy was watching her anxiously as he unlocked the door to her apartment. "I'll come in and look around."

Marcy held up her hands to stop him. "Oh, Andy, thank you for your concern, but we're blowing this all out of proportion. Dirk was probably in town, saw that I was appearing at the St. Regis, and gave in to plain old curiosity. And here we are, acting like he's some mass murderer, when he's simply a very normal man I had an unhappy love affair with."

Andy nodded his head as he put the two suitcases inside the foyer. "Yeah, you're right," he conceded, smiling ruefully. "That's the trouble with us creative types--we're awfully dramatic." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her tenderly: "Listen to me, my girl. Go to bed, get a good night's sleep, then, by all means, do fly the coop tomorrow. Go to the sun country and lie on the beach, or go look at redwoods. Go to Las Vegas and gamble away some of your hard-earned money, even, but for God's sake, relax for a week."

Marcy smiled. "It's a deal," she agreed.

Andy stopped at the door and raised an admonishing finger. "Now promise me, you do nothing even remotely useful until I meet you in St. Helena on the twenty-second."

"I promise, I promise, I promise!" Marcy laughed as she pushed him out the door. "I'll become such an indolent slob that I may not show up at all."

Andy stopped and grimaced in mock consternation. "Hey, now let's not get carried away."

Marcy watched him enter the elevator. She gave a final wave, closed the door, turned the key, and slid the bolt. She carried the suitcases into her bedroom, vowing to unpack first thing in the morning. "Here I go again," she muttered, "unpacking in time to pack." It was good to feel her sense of humor returning. She headed for the bathroom, kicking her shoes toward the closet as she went. She turned on the shower and peeled off her clothes. She stepped in under the hot stream, reveling in the deliciousness of heat, water, and sweet fragrance as she shampooed her hair and sponged Badedas over her body. What did people do before the shower was invented, she wondered as the muscles in her back and neck began to relax. Feeling greatly refreshed, she turned off the faucets and stepped out of the stall onto the thick, mauve-colored carpet. After drying herself briskly, she began to blow-dry her hair. Her thoughts reran the events of the evening. The fact that Dirk could still cause such a violent reaction after all these years filled her with a helpless fury. "Damn him," she said aloud as she pushed the gentle natural curl into her damp hair.

Just then the doorbell rang. Marcy put down the dryer, momentarily puzzled. Of course. She'd left her script in Andy's car. Undoubtedly he'd decided to bring it up in case she wanted to review it during the coming week. She quickly ran a brush through her hair and reached for the buff-colored robe that hung on the hook on the bathroom door. "Be right there!" she called as she tied the sash.

She padded down the hall to the door. As she slid the bolt open she said, "Just a minute, Andy, I have to undo all these locks." She mischievously stuck her hand out and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "Okay, pal, hand it over." Her hand was caught in a strong, warm grip. She knew immediately it was not Andy's. "Dirk!" she gasped.

Her balance faltered as the tall, muscular man stepped through the opening.

"Hello, Marcy." How could such a simple, straightforward greeting cause this mental conflagration? Just "Hello, Marcy," and she was rendered speechless. Dirk seemed to have forgotten that he was holding her hand, and she was incapable of removing it as his dark stare burned into her flesh, causing tingling currents to vibrate beneath her skin. Could this really be happening, or was it just another of those middle-of-the-night fantasies? She didn't know what to do. Never had she felt so completely unprepared and inept. The intense shock and mounting anxiety of the evening bubbled up once more, threatening to choke her.

"Why did you come here? Why couldn't you just stay away?" Her acute discomfort and confusion made her voice sound harsh and bitter.

The black eyes clouded for an instant. "I wanted to talk to you. I wanted..." He stopped.

Marcy was mesmerized. Despite his polished sophistication, Dirk exuded an animal magnetism that had always overwhelmed her. Now, the combination of his closeness, the strength of the hand holding hers, those incredible eyes burning their way into her soul, was disintegrating three years of painfully built defenses against a memory bank filled with vivid love scenes. All the old, well-remembered responses were beginning: the hot flush creeping over her skin, the burning hunger building inside, the desire to reach out to him--to touch, to hold, to fold herself into his hard masculinity ... all instantly set in motion by the simple fact of his presence.

Marcy panicked. She had to escape this now, stop it now. If it started again her destruction could be complete. Pure unreasoning fury engulfed her. "Dammit!" she lashed out at him, "why did you come back? Why did you have to start it all again?" Jerking her hand free, she slapped her palms against his chest and tried to shove him backwards. "Get out of here," she stormed. "Get out right now!"

He caught her by the wrists, immobilizing her with steely strength. His eyes were two chips of black ice, angry and confused. "Marcy, what the hell are you doing?" he snapped. "Stop this!"

She couldn't stop. She wanted to run. A sensation of claustrophobia escalated the panic. She felt the old, familiar love-prison closing around her. She started to struggle, shoving, twisting, pulling. All the while Dirk just silently held her in his iron grip, like a fisherman waiting for a fish to play out its energy.

Then, as abruptly as the rage had started, it ended. Marcy stopped, her strength spent, and forced herself to look into the oh-so-familiar, oh-so-exciting face. He's still the same, her tumbling mind acknowledged, the sturdy oak waiting patiently for the storm to pass.

"Are you quite through?" he asked, his tone one of tight control.

"Yes," she said simply.

He let go of her wrists. He seemed glued to the spot, uncertain, uncomfortable. They eyes met and held in tingling awareness of each other.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, Dirk..."

"Marcy, I just wanted to talk to you. Please don't be frightened." He pulled her into his arms, putting a comforting hand on her still-damp hair. "Lord, you smell good." His lips brushed her temple as he breathed in deeply, apparently inhaling her sweet clean scent. "You took a Badedas shower." His eyes held hers, and she felt the memory of the Badedas showers they had shared ripple between them. "Marcy, Marcy." The deep voice had dropped to a growl. "Why must you still be so indecently beautiful?"

The black-ice eyes had turned to brown mink, and she was falling into it, cushioned by it, engulfed in it. That wonderful face was coming closer. Marcy heard the prison doors clang shut in her mind as the tantalizing lips opened slightly just before they closed over hers.

Like a lonely exile who is finally home, her body leaned into the familiar haven of Dirk's body. Her lips parted eagerly as the speculative kiss quickly deepened into a passionate exchange. Two desert-dry wanderers tasting the first drop of water.

Dirk's hands moved over her back and down to her waist. "You don't have a hell of a lot on, do you." The husky voice brushed her ear.

Marcy felt all of her willpower retreating, and she made a last-ditch attempt to recoup it. With great effort she pulled back and looked up at him. "You wanted to talk?" Her voice held no conviction.

"Marcy." The mink gaze caressed her. "I've completely forgotten what I came here to say." She gasped as he lifted her into his arms and moved smoothly through the doorway into her softly lighted bedroom. With two giant strides he reached the king-sized bed and lowered her to her feet beside it. With one fluid movement he untied the sash and pushed the robe off her shoulders to the floor. She stood absolutely still, breathless, unable to stop him or reverse the direction of events. "God, Marcy, I'd almost forgotten how incredible you are."

The panic started to bubble again as the vise of desire tightened. "Dirk, no, we can't do this." The no did not echo the open invitation in her heart.

With a groan Dirk lifted her again and lowered her onto the middle of the downy quilt that covered the bed.

Instinctively she reached up to push him away, only to feel her hands pinned to the bed by his, and the weight of his body on hers. Leaning on his elbows, he riveted her with his dark gaze. "I can't stop it, can you?" Never taking his eyes from hers, he brought his face closer.

His tongue traced the outline of her lower lip, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Then he covered her mouth with his commanding lips, kissing her with that intensity that no one else had ever matched. Her own lips responded, opening slightly to allow his tongue to commune with hers. As his hands expertly found the secret places of her pleasure, Marcy felt herself sinking in an ocean of erotic memories. Reason retreated as passion grew, and her body began to move under the unforgotten touch of this lover-stranger.

Some time later, from deep inside a cloud of desire, she became aware that his hands had stopped moving over her body, and his lips were gone. As she felt his weight lifting from the bed, her eyes flew open. "Don't move," he whispered, his voice husky.

She seemed to be immersed in the soft quilt as she lay there, watching the tall man by her bed remove his clothes, tossing one garment after another over the small chair at her bedside.

Was there a persistent little voice somewhere in her head? What was it saying--stop, run, flee? She couldn't remember why that made sense, so she simply waited. Dear heaven, he was as glorious as before. The tight-muscled body with its perpetual tan, the long well-shaped legs, the flat stomach--he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen.

Now as naked as she, he sat beside her and leaned over her. She closed her eyes, savoring the touch of the fingers and lips that were doing such devilish things to her senses. At exactly the perfect moment, he joined his body to hers, transporting her entirely into that world of rapture she had never expected to revisit. Totally spent, holding the only man she had ever truly loved, Marcy drifted in a voluptuary sea. "Oh, Dirk, Dirk," she sighed.

With a sudden, abrupt movement. Dirk pulled himself from her and stood up. Through startled eyes, she watched him pull on his clothes with angry, jerking movements.

"Dirk?" As she whispered the name, his troubled eyes moved to her. "Dirk, what are you doing? Where are you going? I thought..." She stopped as the gaze flickered. The ice eyes were back, and the frost glazed the voice that froze her into silence.

"I'm afraid we both stopped thinking the moment I walked through the door."

Could this remote man be the lover of just a few moments ago? Dirk was sitting on the chair, tying his shoes. He stood and put on his jacket before speaking again in a voice that now sounded flat and rusty. "Dammit, Marcy, I was so sure you couldn't possibly still have such an effect on me. I thought I'd gone beyond..." He stood rooted, as though fighting an inner battle, then wheeled sharply and, without another word or another glance, strode out of the room. She heard his footsteps crossing the front hall, heard the door open and close.

She lay in the big bed, totally drained. There was nothing left inside; it had all been used up. Why? Why had this happened? Then the memory of his words swept over her. Why, he hadn't been able to get over her either! All those endless months of yearning, when she had felt so alone in her need of him, he had been suffering too! Maybe there was still time, maybe there was still a chance for them.

Then the bubble popped. Nothing had really changed. All the reasons for their split were still as real as ever. The only mystery was why he had returned at all. Marcy sat up, clutching the pillow to her breast. "Dear God, dear God," she moaned. It was a cry for help. "Please, I can't go through this again." She had almost forgotten the incredible pain of loss, had almost forgotten how physical the hurt could be. She was panicked. She must stop it now--put aside this incident, pretend it had indeed been a dream--before Dirk Baxter once again invaded every inch of her brain, every vessel of her heart, every molecule of her body, and she had to sweat him out of her system like an alcoholic sweating out his need for liquor. Completely exhausted by her emotions, she buried her head in the pillow and let the sobbing begin.