“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Copyright

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

“Up until now, confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

Marcia’s nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”

Quentin stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”

Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks—anything to prevent herself from blushing. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“You really get under my skin, Marcia Barnes.”

“That’s mutual.” She had never been kissed like that in her life. Brief, beautiful and bewildering.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the third of three scintillating books by Sandra Field. When Sandra first came up with the idea for her book Beyond Reach (#1806) she fell in love with her characters so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. So she wrote another book. Then another.... And Significant Others was born. Sandra writes:

“This series of three books crept up on me unawares. After Troy and Lucy met in the West Indies, I found myself curious to discover how marriage would change them, hence Second Honeymoon (#1830), again set on an island, this time off the coast of Nova Scotia. Lucy’s laid-back friend, Quentin, and her uptight sister, Marcia, played minor roles in Second Honeymoon. Once Quentin had appeared on the scene, I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d brought him face-to-face with Marcia....”

After Hours is Marcia and Quentin’s story.

Enjoy!

The Editor

After Hours

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was losing it. Going bonkers.

Marcia Barnes stood in the living room of her condo, gazing out the window at the Rideau Canal; along the bicycle path that followed the curves of the canal a couple of intrepid cyclers zipped along, undeterred by the rain. It was a peaceful scene. Trees that had just burst into leaf, tulips in geometric beds, tidy arrays of well-kept houses. Everything neat and in perfect order.

Not like her.

She pulled a hideous face in the plate glass window. However, if this had been an attempt to quell the anxiety that had been with her ever since the meeting that afternoon at the medical research institute where she worked as an immunologist, it failed miserably. At the meeting the director, in a voice as smooth as cream, had spoken of budgetary restraints that might lead to cutbacks in staff. Cutbacks that could go as high as fifty percent. Although Marcia had worked there for seven years, she by no means had seniority.

Her work was her life. Had been as long as she could remember. She’d be lost without it.

She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Thank goodness she’d had the sense to refuse Lucy and Troy’s invitation to dinner. Bad enough that she’d agreed to go to the gallery where their friend Quentin what’s-his-name’s show was opening.

Quentin. The name conjured up Harris tweed jackets and a pipe. An uppercrust British accent. Landscapes modeled after Constable’s, with puffy white clouds and placid brown cows.

The last thing she felt right now was placid—she who everyone thought was so into control. Rather, she felt as though her life, so carefully constructed and so rigidly maintained, was falling into pieces around her.

She went into the kitchen and located her invitation to the gallery—the most exclusive gallery in town. Not that she cared. She didn’t want to get dressed up and go out again. She didn’t want to meet Quentin Ramsey, whose show, called Multiple Personalities, was being touted in such glowing terms. Nor did she want to see her sister Lucy and her brother-in-law Troy, who had arrived in Ottawa yesterday just to be at the opening.

What she wanted to do was fill her bathtub to the rim with steaming hot water and big globs of bubble bath, turn on the most soothing music she possessed and forget all about the outside world. After that she’d go to bed. How else to end a day from hell?

She sighed. Lucy was already puzzled by her refusal to have dinner with them. Although Lucy and Troy lived in Vancouver, they were spending the next two months in Ottawa because Troy was teaching pediatric residencies in two of the city hospitals. They’d brought the baby with them. If Marcia didn’t turn up at the art gallery, Lucy would think something was wrong.

Nothing’s wrong, Marcia thought wildly, rubbing at her forehead. There’s a good chance I’m going to lose my job, the woman I’ve always been has deserted me and I don’t have a clue who else to be, and I don’t want to see my own sister. I don’t even want to be around her. What kind of person does that make me?

Tall, beautiful Lucy, with her mop of untidy curls and her full figure and her rich, uninhibited laughter was the very antithesis of her elder sister Marcia. Or her younger sister Catherine. Or their mother Evelyn, come to that.

Do I envy her? Is that what it is?

Was envy one of the seven deadly sins? If it wasn’t, it should be.

The old-fashioned grandfather clock, which had indeed belonged to Marcia’s grandfather, a renowned neurosurgeon, chimed the half hour. I’m going to be late... Oh, well, that means I’ll miss the speeches at the beginning and I’ll get to meet Lucy and Troy in the middle of a whole lot of people. No chance for intimacy. Sounds good.

Marcia went into the bedroom, which faced west and was filled with the fading light of evening. Raindrops were beating against the windowpane in a miniature tattoo. Firmly closing her mind to the prospect of a hot bath, Marcia rummaged through her closet. Lucy always had been too intuitive for comfort. So the persona of the Marcia she had always been was going to be firmly in place. Cool, competent Marcia, in control of her own life. Unemotional, detached Marcia, who never made demands.

All her movements neat and efficient, she stripped off her work clothes, had a quick shower and dressed in a navy blue linen suit whose tailored elegance was worth every penny she had paid for it. Silky navy hose, Italian leather pumps and discreet gold jewelry came next. Expertly she applied her make-up. Then she brushed her sleek dark hair, in its expensive cut that curved just below her ears, and checked her appearance in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

She didn’t look thirty-three.

Not that it really mattered how old she looked.

Hastily she jammed her big horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. She could have worn her contacts. But her glasses gave her something to hide behind—and to meet Lucy she needed all the help she could get. Grabbing her shiny forest-green raincoat and still-damp umbrella from the hall closet, she left her condo and took the elevator to the basement.

She’d go straight to the gallery, meet the famous Quentin Ramsey, make appreciative noises about every one of his multiple personalities and invite Lucy and Troy to dinner on Sunday along with the rest of the family. And then she’d come home, duty done.

Multiple Personalities, she thought crossly, backing out of her parking lot. What kind of a name was that for a bunch of paintings? Too clever by half. Too cutesy. Altogether too self-conscious. He might be Lucy and Troy’s friend, but that didn’t mean that she, Marcia, had to like him.

Scowling, she pressed the remote control to open the garage door, and drove out into the rain swept evening.

Quentin, too, had checked his appearance in the mirror before he’d left for the art gallery. The amount of money he’d had to spend to get a decent suit that he planned to wear no more than half a dozen times a year had astounded him. He looked like an ad in a glossy men’s magazine, he thought irritably, hitching. at the knot in his silk tie: “The Successful Artist of the 90s. Man-abouttown Quentin Ramsey attending the opening of his highly successful show Multiple Personalities.”

What in hell had possessed him to come up with that title?

He ran a comb through his thick black curls, which instantly went right back to their usual state of disarray. He grinned at himself, feeling somewhat more cheerful. At least his hair refused to do the correct thing. And he’d always hated openings. Hated them with a passion.

He painted to communicate—no doubt about that. He didn’t want his works stashed away in a studio with their faces to a wall. But he couldn’t stand to hear people discussing them, stereotyping them, analyzing all their vitality out of existence with words like “deconstructionism” and “post modern abstractionism”. At least the critics had had to come up with some new labels for this show, he thought, grinning again. Time he shook them up a bit.

Someone would be bound to tell him that his new style was a cop-out in the interests of commercialism. And someone else would be sure to praise his raw honesty. For some reason his kind of honesty was nearly always called raw.

Speaking of which, he’d forgotten to eat anything.

Quentin went to the minibar and pilfered its entire stock of peanuts and pretzels. Chewing absently, he realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Lucy and Troy. He’d turned down their invitation to dinner because he had to be at the gallery early. But, if he had his way, he’d end up the evening at the apartment they’d rented and he’d take off his tie and his shiny leather shoes that were already pinching his feet, and toss back a beer or two. And he’d be sure to admire the new baby. He knew rather more than most people what that baby meant to them.

And as soon as he could he’d get out of Ottawa. Too tidy a city for him. Too prettified. He wanted pine trees and running water and maybe a mountain or two.

Not a hotel room—no matter how luxurious.

He opened the second bag of pretzels. What he really needed to do was take a break from painting and build another house. The bite of saw into lumber, the sweet smell of wood chips, the satisfaction of seeing a roof line cut into the sky—they all anchored him to a reality very different from that of paint on canvas. It was a reality he was beginning to crave.

There was nothing new about this. In his travels around the world Quentin had always alternated periods of intense artistic activity with the more mundane and comforting reality of house construction. What was new was that the house he wanted to build this time was a house for himself. His own walls. His own roof.

He glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation of dismay. Grabbing his raincoat, he ran for the elevator, and in the lobby of the hotel hailed a cab. But as he was driven through the gleaming wet streets, still chewing on the pretzels, his thoughts traveled with him. He wanted to settle down. He’d been a nomad ever since he’d left his parents’ yard at the age of three to follow the milk truck down the road, but now he wanted to have a place that he could call home.

It had been a long time since that little boy had stumbled along the dirt ruts, hollering at the milkman to wait for him. He was thirty-six now. And while he wanted a home, there was more to it than that. He wanted a woman to share that home. To share his home. His bed. His life. But she had to be the right woman.

He gazed vaguely at the beds of tulips that edged the road, neat blocks of solid color that moved him not at all. He’d been considerably older than three—eleven, perhaps—when he’d come to the conclusion that he’d know the woman he was meant to marry from the first moment he saw her. He knew perfectly well where that conviction had come from. His parents had had—he now realized, as an adult—the kind of marriage that happens only rarely. A marriage alive with love, laughter and passion, with fierce conflicts and an honesty that could indeed have been called raw.

He hadn’t been able to verbalize this at age eleven, but he had intuited that there was something very special between the man and woman who were his parents. One of the often-told stories of his childhood had been how they had fallen in love at first sight, recognizing each other instantly as the partner each had been waiting for.

At the age of twenty-five, impatient, he’d ignored that certainty and married Helen. And within six weeks had known that he’d done the wrong thing. He’d hung in to the very best of his ability, and when she’d left him for a bank president twice her age had heaved a sigh of relief and vowed never to repeat that particular mistake.

Quentin was not a vain man, and it never ceased to surprise him that women flocked to him like blue jays to a feeder on a cold winter’s day. Tall women, short women, beautiful women, sexy women. But not one of them so far had touched his soul.

What if he never found this mythical woman? Was he a fool to believe in the romantic dream of an eleven-year-old?

Maybe if he built the house first she’d somehow follow, as naturally as sunrise was bound to follow sunset.

Or maybe he was a fool even to think of settling down. He’d always rather prided himself on being a free spirit, going where he pleased when he pleased and staying as long as he pleased. If he got married, he wouldn’t be able to do that.

The right woman... did she even exist?

He tried to wrench his mind away from thoughts that were, he’d sometimes concluded, both non-productive and infantile. The taxi swished through a puddle and drew up outside the gallery. Pots of scarlet tulips decorated the sidewalk, standing stiff and tall in the rain, like valiant soldiers on watch. I’m lonely, Quentin thought with a flash of insight. Despite my success, despite the incredible freedom of the way I live, I’m lonely.

“Ten seventy-five, sir,” said the cabbie.

With a jerk Quentin came back to the present. He fumbled for the fare, added a tip, and ran for the gallery door. He wasn’t all that free. Because he’d rather be walking the wet streets tonight than going to his own opening.

The owner of the gallery was a woman in her fifties, wife of a senior government official and dauntingly efficient; Quentin always wanted to call her Mrs. Harrington-Smythe rather than Emily—a name that did not suit her in the slightest. As he hung up his raincoat she gave his suit a quick appraisal and nodded her approval.

Wishing he’d left the price tag pinned to the cuff, Quentin allowed himself to be whisked on a tour of the gallery. Her placement of the paintings was all he could have asked; he only wished that they didn’t make him feel as though he was about to undress in public. Emily gave him a copy of the catalog and ran through a list of the most prominent ministers, several deputy ministers and a sprinkling of diplomats.

Not bad for a kid from a little village in New Brunswick, thought Quentin, and did his best to memorize the names. Then the doorbell rang and he steeled himself to get through the next hours without abandoning the good manners his mother had worked very hard to instill in him.

Three-quarters of an hour later the place was humming. Eleven paintings had sold, the bartenders had been run off their feet and Quentin had been extremely civil to the first of the cabinet ministers—who didn’t approve of anything painted after 1900 and wasn’t backward in expressing his views. Then, from behind him, Quentin heard a woman call his name. He turned, gathered Lucy into his arms and hugged her hard. “Wonderful to see you!”

She said softly, “I can’t believe you were being so polite—is this the Quentin I know?”

“I’m on my best behavior. You look gorgeous, Lucy—that’s quite a dress.”

Its purple folds made her mahogany curls glisten, and its décolletage verged on the indiscreet. “I thought you’d like it,” she said complacently. “Troy picked it out for me.”

Troy clapped Quentin on the shoulder. “Good to see you. When this affair is over, we want you to come back to the apartment so we can catch up on all the news.”

“Done,” said Quentin. “As long as you’ve got some beer.”

“Bought a twelve-pack this afternoon.”

Troy was two or three inches taller than Quentin’s five-feet eleven, blond where Quentin was dark, and a medical doctor rather than an artist; but from the time they had met on Shag Island off the coast of Nova Scotia the two men had liked one another. And when Quentin pictured the home he was going to build for himself it was always situated somewhere on the west coast within reach of Vancouver.

Emily was fast approaching, with a man in tow who looked like cabinet minister number two. Quentin raised his brow at Lucy. “Duty calls. Talk to you later.”

“We’ll give you our address before we leave.’ Tucking her arm into Troy’s, she headed for the works in acrylic that were such a break from the abstracts he had been doing on the island.

The second cabinet minister asked several penetrating questions and listened with genuine interest to Quentin’s replies. Then Quentin suffered through a very rich widow with fake eyelashes who simply didn’t understand the first thing about art, and an importer of foreign cars who understood only too well and insisted on inflicting his theories on the artist. Quentin finally got rid of him and headed for the bar. The pretzels had made him thirsty.

He had just taken a gulp of what was a quite decent Cabernet, hoping it would inspire him to plunge back into the mêlée, when the door was pushed open once again. Idly he watched as a woman walked into the foyer.

She closed her umbrella, shook water from it and straightened, the light falling on her face and the smooth swing of her hair. Dark hair that shone like polished wood.

Oh, Lord, thought Quentin. It’s happened. At a gallery opening, of all places. That’s her. The woman I’ve been waiting for.

He plunked his glass on the counter and pushed past several people who all wanted to speak to him, deaf to their remarks. The woman was hanging her dark green raincoat on the rack by the door, all her movements economical and precise. She’s not my type, he thought blankly. Look at that suit. And those godawful glasses. What in heaven’s name’s going on here?

He was still ten feet away from her. She turned, taking the glasses from her nose and rubbing the rain from them with a tissue from her pocket, her face composed as she surveyed the crowded room. She might not be his type, but she was utterly, beguilingly beautiful.

His heart was banging in his chest like the ring of a hammer on boards. Feeling as clumsy as an adolescent, Quentin closed the distance between them and croaked, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She was no more than five feet five and delicately made, so that he felt large and clumsy. Her irises were the deep velvety purple of pansies and her lashes dark and thick; her bone structure was exquisite and her male-up flawless. Last of all, he saw how very soft and kissable was her mouth, and he felt his heart give another uncomfortable thud in his chest. She said in faint puzzlement, “Are you the gallery owner? I thought—”

“I’m the artist.”

Her lashes flickered over unmistakable hostility. “Quentin Ramsey?”

He nodded. “And you?”

“Surely you don’t meet everyone at the door?”

“You’re the first.”

“And to what,” Marcia said silkily, “do I owe that honor?”

“Stop talking like a nineteenth-century novel. It doesn’t suit you.”

So much for the aristocratic British accent, thought Marcia. Not to mention the British good manners. “How can you possibly have any idea what suits me—I could be a professor of Victorian literature for all you know. Are you always so rude to potential customers?”

But Quentin was frowning, struggling to anchor a memory. “I’ve seen you somewhere. I’m sure I have.”

“That’s one of the oldest lines in the book.”

“You cheapen both of us by that kind of remark.”

“Oh, pardon me,” she said. “In my experience, men—”

“I have seen you before.”

“You’re quite wrong—I’ve never met you.” Because I would have remembered you, thought Marcia, trying to calm down. For the blue of your eyes, if nothing else. The deepest blue I’ve ever seen. Deep enough to lose myself.

“What’s your name?”

She took a deep breath. Her imaginary portrait of Quentin Ramsey couldn’t have been more inaccurate. This was definitely no tweed-jacketed Englishman who painted pretty landscapes under the influence of a great master. This man was a rugged individualist if ever she’d met one. Rugged, indeed; he looked as though he’d be more at home with a chainsaw than a paintbrush. She said coolly, “Dr. Marcia Barnes.”

“What? You’re Lucy’s sister?”

He looked as shocked as though she’d just thrown a glass of wine in his face. She said, wondering why she should feel so angry, “We’re very different, Lucy and I.”

“No kidding. But that’s why I thought I’d met you—Lucy has a photo of you in her living room.” Fighting down a tumble of emotions that had an acute disappointment chief among them, Quentin said, ‘You’re the immunologist.’

“Yes.”

Glaring at her, he demanded, “Why haven’t you bothered visiting them since the baby was born?”

“I did! Last November.”

“Sure—you managed to stay for two whole hours on your way to a medical conference. I said visit.”

“It’s really none of your—”

“When a conference is more important to you than your own family, you’re in a bad way. Lucy’s told me about you. ‘Workaholic’ is one way to describe you.”

With studied charm Emily Harrington-Smythe said, “Quentin, may I borrow you for a few minutes? Mr. Brace has. a couple of questions for you before he purchases the largest of the acrylics” She directed a polite smile at Marcia. “If you’ll excuse us, please?”

“With pleasure,” Marcia said crisply.

Determined to have the last word, Quentin announced, “Your sister and brother-in-law are in the other room. If you can spare the time, that is.”

Seething, Marcia watched him cross the room and plunge into the crowd. His black hair was too long, curling at his nape, but at least those penetrating blue eyes were no longer pinning her to the wall. Just who did he think he was, daring to criticize her within moments of meeting her?

Deftly she secured a glass of wine at the bar. Lucy must have complained to him about that visit. It had been short, no question. But she’d just attended a conference on AIDS and had been on her way to another on immunodeficiency syndrome, and an afternoon had been all she could spare.

Even less anxious to meet her sister now, Marcia began to circle the room, turning her attention to the paintings. Within moments any thoughts of Lucy were banished from her mind. The works on this wall were all abstracts—some monochromatic, some boldly hued—and their emotional intensity tapped instantly into all the emptiness and confusion that she was beginning to realize she had been carrying around for quite a long time. The threat of losing her job had made them worse. But it hadn’t given birth to them.

Eventually she found herself in front of a work titled Composition Number 8, whose vibrant spirals of color pulled her into their very depths. Her throat closed with pain. She’d never experienced what the immediacy of those colors symbolized: the joy, the passion, the fervent commitment—moment by moment—to the business of being alive. Never. And now maybe it was too late. Panic-stricken, she thought, I can’t cry here. Not in a roomful of strangers.

I never cry.

“Are you all right?”

She would have known the voice anywhere. Trying to swallow the lump that was lodged tight against her voice box, Marcia muttered, “Go away.”

A tear was hanging on her lashes. The sight of it piercing him to the heart, Quentin said flatly, “I’m sorry I was so rude to you. You’re right. What’s between you and Lucy is none of my business.”

Orange, yellow, a flare of scarlet; the colors shimmered in Marcia’s gaze, swirling together like the glowing heart of a fire that would burn her to a crisp were she to approach it. With an incoherent exclamation Quentin seized her by the arm, urged her toward a door near the corner of the room and opened it, pushing her inside. He snapped the door shut and said, “Now you can cry your eyes out—no one will see you here.”

You will, she thought, and tugged her arm free. “I’m not crying. I never cry!”

“Then you must be allergic to paint. Your eyes are watering and your nose is running. Here.”

He was holding out an immaculate white handkerchief. Marcia said the first thing that came into her head. “You don’t look like the kind of man who’d go in for white handkerchiefs.”

If she’d been looking at him rather than at the handkerchief, she would have seen his eyes narrow. “What kind of man do I look like?”

Blinking back tears that she still didn’t want to acknowledge, Marcia glanced up. “When I was a little girl I used to play with paper dolls. You know the kind I mean? Cardboard cutouts that you put different outfits on with little paper tabs. Your suit looks like that—as though it’s been stuck on you. With no regard for the kind of man you are. You should be wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Not a pure wool suit and a Gucci tie.”

“I’ll have you know I spent a small fortune on this suit.”

She said recklessly, “And begrudged every cent of it.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “How true!”

Marcia’s jaw dropped. His throat was strongly muscled and his teeth were perfect. Even his hair seemed to crackle with energy. This was the man who had created that painting—all those vivid colors suffused with a life force beyond her imagining. She took a step backward, suddenly more frightened than she’d been when the director had announced the cutbacks. More frightened than she could ever remember being. “The suit fits you perfectly,” she said lamely. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

It did fit him perfectly. But it still gave the impression of shoulder muscles straining at the seams, of a physique all the more impressive for being so impeccably garbed. She took another step back. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Nor were the paintings,” Quentin said shrewdly.

She didn’t want to talk about the paintings. She took a tissue and a mirror from her purse, dabbed her nose, checked her mascara and said, “We should go back—you’ll be missed.”

He wasn’t going to let her go that easily. “Why did that particular painting make you cry?”

Because it’s what I’ve been missing all my life. Because it filled me with a bitter regret. Because it was as though you knew me better than I know myself. She said aloud, fighting for composure, “If you and Lucy have talked about me, you know I’m a very private person. My reaction is my own affair. Not yours.”

Certainly Lucy had talked about Marcia. Not a lot, but enough for Quentin to realize that although Lucy loved her sister, she didn’t feel close to her. He had gained a picture of a woman utterly absorbed in her work to the exclusion of her family and of intimacy. A cold woman who would do the right thing out of principle, not out of love, refusing to involve herself in all the joys and tragedies of everyday life.

And this was the woman he’d been waiting to meet for the last ten years? Or—more accurately—the last twenty-five? His intuition was giving him that message. Loud and clear. But maybe it was wrong.

He’d made a mistake when he’d ignored his intuition to marry Helen. Could he be making another—if different—mistake now? Had he willed Marcia into existence just because of his own needs? Because he was lonely?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Marcia said fretfully.

Quentin made an effort to pull himself together. “The woman Lucy described to me wasn’t the kind of woman who’d start to cry because some guy streaked paint on a piece of canvas.”

Marcia wasn’t sure what made her angrier—that Lucy had talked about her to Quentin or that his words were so accurate. “Oh, wasn’t she? What—?”

A peremptory rap came on the door. Much relieved, Marcia said, “Your public awaits you. You’d better go, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Quentin. Are you going to Lucy and Troy’s place when this shindig is over?”

“I am not.”

The door opened and Emily Harrington-Smythe poked her head in. “Quentin? I really need you out here.”

“I’ll be right there.” He reached out and took the glasses from Marcia’s nose. “You have truly beautiful eyes. Who are you hiding from?”

“From people as aggressive as you.”

She grabbed for the glasses. Laughter glinting in his own eyes, he evaded her. “You can have them back if you promise to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I’m sure any number of women in this gallery would be delighted to have lunch with you—but I’m not one of them.”

“I’ll wear my jeans.”

His smile was very hard to resist. Marcia resisted it with all her will power. “My glasses, please.”

“I’ll get your phone number from Lucy.”

“My telephone displays the number of the person calling me. If I think it’s you, I won’t answer.”

“It’ll take more than modern technology to defeat me, Dr. Marcia Barnes. Because you still haven’t told me why my painting made you cry.” He passed her the glasses and dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “See you around.”

He strode out of the room. For the space of five minutes he hadn’t felt the least bit lonely. Taking Emily by the arm, he said urgently, “Composition Number 8 in the catalog—I want you to put a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on it.”

Emily said bluntly, “I can’t do that. Not when it’s listed.”

“Then mark it ‘Sold’.”

“It’s not,” Emily said with indisputable logic.

“It is. I’m buying it.”

“Quentin, what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you behave so erratically at an opening.”

“I’m buying Number 8,” he repeated patiently. “There’s nothing particularly erratic about that.”

“You can’t buy your own painting! Anyway, Mr. Sorensen has his eye on it, and he wields a lot of influence in this city.”

“Too bad. Mr. Sorensen isn’t getting it. I am.”

“But-”

“Do it, Emily,” Quentin said with a pleasant smile. “If you want another Quentin Ramsey show next year.”

His shows were enormously successful financially. “Very well,” Emily said huffily. “But I’ll have to charge you the full commission.”

“After tonight I’m sure I can afford it,” he said. “That looks like the last of the cabinet ministers. I’ll go and do my bit.”

Trying to push out of his mind the image of a woman’s long-lashed violet eyes swimming in tears, wondering how she’d react when he presented her with an extremely expensive painting, he made his way toward the man in the gray pin-striped suit.

CHAPTER TWO

MARCIA stayed behind in the room that she now decided must be the gallery owner’s office, struggling to subdue a mixture of rage at Quentin’s effrontery and a truant amusement at his persistence. Mr. Quentin Ramsey, she’d be willing to bet, wasn’t used to women who said no. Not that she’d been playing games with him. She was in enough trouble at work, without adding a man who asked questions she didn’t want to answer, who had blue eyes that seemed to burn their way into her very soul and who was—she could admit it now that she was alone—sexual dynamite.

It wasn’t just his body, its hard planes ill-concealed by his tailored suit. His fingers were long and sensitive, the backs of his hands taut with sinews, and his face with its strong bones had character more than standard good looks—a character hinting at the complexities of the man within. It was an inhabited face, she thought slowly, the face of a man who’d tasted deeply of life, experiencing its dark side as well as its light.

She’d noticed an awful lot in a very few minutes. Too much for her own peace of mind. Altogether too much.

Every instinct she possessed urged her to head straight for the coat rack and leave. But if she did so Lucy and Troy would have a fit. She squared her shoulders and marched back into the gallery, purposely not looking at the painting so unimaginatively called Composition Number 8.

She picked out Quentin immediately; he was talking to a man in a pin-striped suit with every evidence of courteous attention. But then his eyes swiveled to meet hers, as though he’d sensed her standing there watching him. He winked at her. Marcia tilted her chin, turned her back and headed for the far gallery.

Lucy and Troy were gazing at a small work in one corner. Troy had his arm draped around Lucy’s shoulders while Lucy’s body language said more clearly than words that the man holding her was the man she adored. Again hot tears flooded Marcia’s eyes. I’ve got to stop this, she thought frantically. Right now. I’ve avoided marriage and commitment like the plague. So why does the sight of my sister’s happiness make me feel like a failure? Smarten up, Marcia! she made a gallant effort to gather the shreds of the control for which she was so famous. Then, her lips set, her chin high, she said casually, “Hi, Lucy... Troy.”

Lucy whirled, ducking out of the circle of Troy’s arm. “Marcia—I’m so pleased to see you!”

Marcia had never encouraged hugging. Lucy contented herself with kissing her sister on the cheek and Troy brushed his lips in the vicinity of her other cheek. Then Lucy stood back, scrutinizing her sister. “You look tired,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Exactly the question Quentin had asked. “I’m fine—-I’ ve been exceptionally busy at work. What do you think of the show?”

“There are four silk screen prints on the other wall that I lust after. And I think the acrylics are brilliant—such a departure.” Lucy put her head to one side. “This one, for instance—it’s a jewel.”

In exquisite detail Quentin had painted three little girls running through a meadow full of wildflowers; it was a tribute to his talent that the work was entirely without sentimentality. “They look like us,” Marcia blurted.

“Oh...I hadn’t thought of that. You and I and Cat, you mean. You’re right—two brunettes and a redhead!” Lucy laughed. “Maybe he saw the photo I have of the three of us on the piano.”

“Would you like to have it?” Troy asked, his slate-gray eyes resting affectionately on his wife.

“I would,” Marcia heard herself say.

Lucy was gazing at her speculatively and Troy’s eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Aghast, Marcia sputtered, “I didn’t really mean that—I don’t want it, of course I don’t. You get it, Lucy.”

“Have you met Quentin?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. Very briefly. Please, Lucy, forget I ever said I wanted it. Buy her the painting, Troy.”

“I’ll get it for you, sis,” Troy said. “I didn’t give you anything for your last birthday.”

“But we never give each other expensive presents!”

“This will be the exception that proves the rule... I’ll be right back.”

And Marcia, for the third time that evening, found her eyes brimming with tears. Lucy drew her further into the corner, shielding her from the other guests. “You’re not yourself—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go into work.”

“Darn your work, Marcie!”

Lucy only used Marcia’s childhood name when she was upset. Marcia said, “I’m going to phone Mother in the morning—could you and Troy come for dinner on Sunday? Catherine’s free.”

“Love to,” Lucy said promptly.

“Come around six, then... I do wish Troy wasn’t buying me that painting.”

“Too bad we can’t take it home right away. It’d look perfect in your bedroom.”

A painting of Quentin Ramsey’s in her bedroom? No way, thought Marcia, and from the corner of her eye saw Emily Harrington-Smythe parting the crowd with Troy in her wake. “An excellent choice,” Emily said, sticking a little red circle beside the painting. “Congratulations, Dr. Donovan.”

“Happy birthday, Marcia,” Troy said, with a lazy grin at his sister-in-law.

The painting was hers. Whether she wanted it or not. Standing on tiptoes, Marcia kissed Troy on the chin and said limpidly, “Thank you, Troy, that was sweet of you.”

“Let’s go and find Quentin and tell him what we’ve done,” he rejoined.

In sheer panic Marcia said, “I’ve really got to go—I was in the lab at six this morning. But I’ll see you both on Sunday.” Giving them a quick smile, she almost ran from the room.

Quentin was standing in the far corner of the gallery with three very attractive women—two of them blondes, the other a voluptuous creature with glorious black curls. He was laughing at something one of them had said. Marcia pulled on her coat, picked up her umbrella and scurried out into the rain.

Marcia’s mother, Dr. Evelyn Barnes, was a forensic pathologist, a poised and gracious hostess and a demon golfer. But when Marcia phoned her from work the next morning, Evelyn sounded unusually flustered.

“Dinner? On Sunday? With the family? Let me get my book... I—Marcia, could I bring someone with me? A friend?”

“Of course. Is Lillian in town?”

Lillian was her mother’s best friend, who had moved to Toronto only a month ago. “No—no, it’s not Lillian. It’s a man.”

Evelyn always had an escort to the concerts and dinner parties she frequented, but never allowed these undoubtedly very fine men to mingled with her family. “You’re being a dark horse, Mother. What’s his name?”

“Henry Woods. He’s a broker. I—I’d like you to meet him.”

Trying very hard to hit a balance between unmannerly curiosity and diplomatic uninterest, Marcia said soothingly, “That’s just fine. Six o’clock?”

“Lovely. We’ll see you then.” Evelyn, who usually liked to catch up on all the family news, smartly cut the connection.

More slowly, Marcia put the receiver down. If she didn’t know better, she’d say her mother was in love. Her cool, unemotional mother in love?

It didn’t look as though her dinner party would be dull.

At five to six on Sunday Marcia was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The same perverse instinct that had caused her to claim the painting of the three little girls had induced her to ignore the elegant but rather dull outfits that made up the bulk of her wardrobe, as well as her horn-rimmed glasses. She was wearing black stirrup pants with a long black sweater emblazoned with the golden face of a lion; her pumps were black with gold buckles. Despite the addition of the mysterious Mr. Woods, this was only a family dinner, she thought defiantly, adding scarlet lipstick and big gold earrings that dangled against her neck. Besides, it had rained all weekend.

The security buzzer sounded and Lucy’s voice came over the intercom. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. Before Marcia could say anything, Lucy handed her sister the baby so she could take off her coat and said ingenuously, “We brought Quentin along. I hope you don’t mind? The cocktail party he was supposed to go to was canceled because the hostess had the flu.”

Christopher Stephen Donovan grabbed at Marcia’s earrings and drooled down the shoulder of her sweater. Quentin’s eyes were even bluer than she remembered them. Marcia backed up so that they could come in and mumbled untruthfully, “No, that’s fine. No problem at all.”

Lucy handed Troy her coat and swiped at Lucy’s shoulder with a tissue. “He’s teething again—I keep telling Troy someone should invent a better method for the acquiring of teeth. Here, I’ll take him now.”

But Christopher had locked his arms around Marcia’s neck and burrowed his face into her shoulder. He smelled sweetly of baby powder and warm skin, his weight solid against her body. Her arms tightened around him as she rested her cheek on his wispy hair. Oh God, she thought helplessly, here I go again. I want to weep my eyes out. I’m cracking up. I’ve never wanted children. Not once in my thirty-three years.

Quentin, meanwhile, had been hanging up his coat and combing the raindrops from his hair—more to give himself time to collect his wits than from any urge for neatness. His first glimpse of Marcia in all that black and gold had sent a jolt through his system as though he’d grabbed a live wire; he’d simultaneously wanted to look his fill and throw her down on the carpet and kiss her senseless. Then Lucy had given her the baby, and, as though the carpet had moved beneath his feet, he’d seen her holding his child, their child, the fruit of their love.

You’re nuts, he told himself astringently. She hasn’t even agreed to have lunch with you and you’re already into fatherhood? He said, “Marcia, I brought you these. They were selling them at the market.”

Marcia looked up. He was clutching a large, inartistic bouquet of mixed flowers—oranges clashing with pinks, purple next to magenta. His gaze locked with hers and she found herself quite unable to look away. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Lucy can show you where to find a vase.”

“Left my suit back at the hotel,” he added.

He looked extremely handsome in soft-fitting gray cords and a dark blue sweater. “I see,” Marcia said inanely.

Quentin handed the bouquet to Lucy and stepped closer to Marcia. “He’s going to pull your hair out by the roots... Let go, Chris.” Then she felt the warmth of a man’s fingers against her nape and felt his breath stir her hair. Every nerve in her body sprang to jangling life. Her shoulders rigid, her breathing caught in her throat, she heard Chris mumble a protest; his little fist tightened on her hair and she winced.

“Easy, Chris...there we go.”

With infinite gentleness Quentin had loosened the baby’s hold. As he eased the child out of her arms his forearm brushed her breast. The shock ran through her body; he must have felt it. She flashed a desperate glance around and saw that Troy and Lucy were watching her with considerable interest. I will not blush. I will not, she told herself. She said in a strangled voice, “I’ve got to keep an eye on the dinner. I’ll be right back.”

Troy started setting up their portable playpen, Quentin swung baby Chris high over his head so that he gurgled with laughter, and Lucy followed Marcia into the kitchen. “Is Mother coming? Yummy—something smells delicious.”

Glad to talk about anything other than Quentin, Marcia said, “She’s bringing a man,” and relayed the gist of the phone call. Before she’d finished Catherine arrived and sauntered into the kitchen, and she had to go through her story again.

Dr. Catherine Barnes was petite like Marcia, elegant like their mother, and did research in pancreatic cancer. “I’m on holiday for three whole weeks,” she crowed. “I’m looking after Lydia’s dogs next week, so I’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. You look like you could do with some sun, Marcia, you’re much too pale.”

Cat was a fitness freak who could always be counted on to say it like it was. “Thanks,” Marcia said drily. “But it does happen to have been raining for the last four days—or hadn’t you noticed? Would you pass around the crab dip, Cat? And I’ll get Troy to pour drinks.”

Lucy had jammed the flowers in Marcia’s largest vase. “Where’ll I put them?”

Quentin was standing in the kitchen doorway, minus Chris. “I’ll put them in the middle of the table,” he said.

Marcia had placed an attractive arrangement of silk flowers that matched her china as a centerpiece. She watched Quentin plunk it on the sideboard and put the motley bouquet in its place. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked—making decisions without consulting her, taking over as though he owned the place. As he came back in the kitchen she said frostily, “The only thing missing from that bouquet is skunk cabbage.”

“Better luck next time.”

“Next time? You don’t look the type to enjoy city life. I can’t imagine you’re going to stay in Ottawa for long.”

“I wasn’t going to—but I’ve changed my plans,” he said. “A friend of mine who’s away owns a place in the Gatineau Hills, so I’m going to stay there for a while. You and I still have to have lunch—or had you forgotten?”

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

“Up until now confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”

He stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”

Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks, and her cheeks stayed only as pink as the heat of the stove warranted. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. A man of your experience should be more adept at distinguishing between a woman who’s startled and a woman who’s ready to fall at your feet.”

Quentin was by now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Dear me... a woman has never once thrown herself at my feet. Does that make me a failure as a man? Although it does sound rather a deranged thing to—Oh, thanks, Troy. I’ll have a beer.”

Had Troy been listening? Appalled, Marcia said stiffly, “You’ll have to excuse me... Oh, there’s the buzzer—that must be Mother.”

Evelyn Barnes looked very attractive in her rose-pink dress with her gray hair softly curling round her ears. Her usual escorts were tall, patrician-featured men, who considered themselves essential to the running of the country; Henry Woods was short, stout, bald and unassuming, with a pair of the kindest brown eyes Marcia had ever seen. She warmed to him immediately. She made introductions all around, Troy passed the drinks, and Marcia set a place for Quentin at the table, seating him where the flowers would screen him from her view.

Two and a half hours later Marcia was plugging in the coffee-machine in the kitchen. She was pleased with the success of her dinner party. Quentin and Henry bad proved to be witty and entertaining, Cat had thrown off her normal reserve and the baby had filled any gaps in the conversation. As for herself, she’d managed to avoid anything but minimal contact with Quentin. He couldn’t move out to the Gatineau Hills fast enough for her.

She reached in the refrigerator for the cream. But the container was almost empty and she’d forgotten to buy a new one. She went back in the living room. Troy and Quentin were getting out the chess pieces while Evelyn was giving Chris his bottle. “I’ll have to run to the corner store—I’m out of cream,” Marcia said. “Won’t be a minute.”

Quentin got to his feet. “I’ll come with you. I need to walk off some of that excellent dinner.”

She couldn’t very well tell him to get lost. Evelyn wouldn’t approve of that. So Marcia got her purse, pulled on shiny black boots and her raincoat and went out into the hall with him. His belted trenchcoat gave him the air of a particularly rakish spy.

“Let’s take the stairs,” Quentin said. “I shouldn’t have had a second helping of that chocolate dessert—deadly.”

“It was only Belgian chocolate, whipping cream and butter,” Marcia said, wide-eyed. “Oh, and six eggs too.”

“It should be against medical ethics to make caffeine and cholesterol taste so good.”

“It’s Cat’s favorite dessert. That article she told us about was interesting, wasn’t it?”

But Quentin hadn’t braved the rain to talk about Cat. As they went outside he opened Marcia’s umbrella, held it over their heads and pulled her close to his side, tucking her arm in his. “There,” he said. “Alone at last.”

His strong-boned face was only inches from hers; his gaze was intent: She said coolly, “This is a big city—we’re scarcely alone.”

“Don’t split hairs, Marcia. There are just two people under this umbrella-tell the truth for once.”

“All right, so we’re alone. So what?”

“Why did my painting make you cry?”

“Quentin, I have guests who are waiting for their coffee—come along!”

“You’re bright, you’re competent, you’re a dab hand with Belgian chocolate—and you’re scared to death of your own emotions. That’s quite a combination.”

Besides a rum and cola before dinner, Marcia had had two glasses of red wine with dinner. She said, pulling her arm free as she turned to face him and wishing that the umbrella didn’t cloister them quite so intimately, “You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth. You’re wasting your time, Quentin. I’m thirty-three years old—not fifteen. If I’m scared of emotion I presumably have adequate reasons, and if I’m as bright as you say I am they must be good reasons. I’m also much too old to be spilling out my life story to every man that comes along.”

Quentin didn’t like being bracketed with a procession of other men. He wanted to be different. He wanted to shake her up. As raindrops spattered on the umbrella he stroked the smooth fall of her hair with his free hand and said huskily, “You look like an Egyptian goddess in that outfit you’re wearing.”

Hot color flared in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t have worn it if I’d known you were coming,” she said, then could have bitten off her tongue.

He pounced. “You don’t want me seeing the real you?”

“I don’t know who the real me is anymore!” Marcia exclaimed, then rolled her eyes in self-disgust. “Telling the truth seems to be addictive. Quentin, it’s pouring rain. Let’s go.”

“Maybe I call you to truth,” he said quietly. Then he clasped her by the chin, lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips. Her lips weren’t cold; they were so soft and desirable that he lost all track of time and place in the sheer pleasure of the moment. When she suddenly jerked her chin free, it came as a physical shock.

“You mustn’t do that,’ she gabbled. ”You scarcely know me. You can’t just go kissing me as if we’re lovers in a Hollywood movie—and now you’ve got lipstick all over your mouth.”

She sounded anything but unemotional, and her first, instinctive yielding had set his head swimming. Quentin fished in his pocket, producing another handkerchief. “You’d better wipe it off,” he said.

“So that’s why you carry a hand kerchief—I should have known,” she said nastily, and scrubbed at his lips with painful vigor.

He was suddenly angry out of all proportion. Pulling his head back, he said, “Let me tell you something—my dad was a lumberjack in a little village in New Brunswick that I’m sure you’ve never heard of—Holton, in the Kennebecasis Valley—and my mom cleaned the houses of the rich folk. A white handkerchief was the mark of a gentleman to her, and when I won a provincial art competition at the age of twelve she gave me six boxes of handkerchiefs. I may not qualify as a gentleman but I loved my mother, and that’s why I always carry a white handkerchief.”

Marcia stood very still. Water was dripping from the prongs of the umbrella and her feet were getting cold. She said, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”

She was looking straight at him, and her apology was obviously sincere. “Okay. But you really get under my skin, Marcia Barnes.”

“That’s mutual,” she snorted, and wiped the last of the lipstick from the corner of his mouth. His nose was slightly crooked and there was a dent in his chin; his brows and lashes were as black as his hair. As for his mouth... She shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. She had never been kissed like that in her life. Brief, beautiful and bewildering, she thought, tugging at his sleeve and starting off down the sidewalk, even through his coat she could feel the hard muscles of his arm.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Then Quentin said abruptly, “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“I can’t.”

“Tuesday, then.”

“You’ll be in the Gatineau Hills.”

“I have a car. It’s less than an hour’s drive.”

“The store where I can get the cream is in the bottom floor of that apartment block—I won’t be a minute,” Marcia gasped, then darted from under the umbrella and ran inside.

The harsh fluorescent lighting and the aisles packed with food restored her to some kind of sanity. One kiss and I would indeed have fallen at his feet, she realized grimly, taking the container of cream out of the refrigerator and marching to the checkout. But just because my hormones are doing a dance like daffodils in springtime doesn’t mean I have to have dinner with the man. In fact, it’s precisely why I shouldn’t have dinner with him. I’m in enough of a muddle without adding a wild card like Quentin Ramsey to the pack.

She paid for the cream and went outside. Quentin was waiting for her, a tall, blue-eyed stranger standing under a streetlamp. He did call her to truth, she thought unhappily. To truth and to emotion—a devastating combination for a woman used to hiding herself from both. How was she going to convince him that she didn’t want to date him? Normally she had no trouble getting rid of men who forced their attentions on her.

As she cudgeled her brains, he forestalled her. “If you’re too busy at work to have dinner through the week, I can wait until next weekend.”

Marcia bit her lip and started to walk back the way they’d come. “Quentin, I don’t want to see you again. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but that’s the way it is.”

“Why not?”

She said childishly, “Because. Just because! Okay?”

“No, dammit, it’s not okay! I know you’re attracted to me, and I’m willing to bet you don’t lose your cool with anyone else the way you have with me. My painting made you cry, your whole body responds when I touch you, and the more I see of you the more I figure Lucy doesn’t have a clue what makes you tick.” He drew a harsh breath. “Plus she told me how much you wanted the painting of the three little girls—the one Troy bought for you.”

Spacing her words, Marcia seethed, “I can want a painting. That doesn’t mean I have to have dinner with the artist. You’re not a stupid man and that’s not a very complicated message. So why aren’t you getting it?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he said tightly. Although his features were inscrutable, Quentin was beginning to feel scared; any time he’d visualized finding the perfect woman she’d been as delighted to discover him as he her.

If Marcia had used her common sense she would have changed the subject. “I don’t understand you—why are you pushing me so hard?” she cried.

“If I told you, you’d laugh in my face.”

“Then please just drop it, Quentin.”

“I can’t!” He took a deep breath, trying to think. “I’m going to be seeing a fair bit of Troy and Lucy over the summer, so I’m bound to see you again. Unless you avoid them for the next two months, of course.”

“I’ll make sure when I go and see them that you’re not included,” she snapped.

“So you’re not indifferent to me... If you were, you wouldn’t care if I was there or not.”

“I don’t like being harassed.”

His steps slowed. “That’s an ugly word.”

“Then don’t do it.”

Her jaw was set mutinously. The pale sweep of her cheekbones made him ache somewhere deep inside. He said desperately, “Marcia, I don’t think I’ve ever begged a woman to spend time with me... I guess I’ve never had to. So if I’m not doing this well it’s because I haven’t had any practise. I’m begging you now. You’re important to me in ways I don’t understand but that I know to be real. Give me a chance—that’s all I ask.”

To her infinite relief she saw they’d reached the driveway to her building. It took all her courage to look up at him, and the torment in his face almost weakened her resolve. “There’s no point—please believe me.” She tried to smile. “I’m sorry.”

She was right, she knew she was; she was being sensible and rational. She had never thought of herself as an overly adept judge of male character, but she was certain that any relationship with Quentin wouldn’t be shallow. Better to end whatever was between them now rather than later.

So why was she filled with the same bitter regret that his painting had called up in her? And why did she feel as though she’d just trampled on a whole field of daffodils?

She stalked into the building and up the stairs, and before she unlocked her door forced a bright smile on her face.

The next two hours were purgatory. But finally Evelyn and Henry stood up and everyone else followed their lead.

Quentin pushed back his chair, trying to stretch the tension from his shoulders. Troy had trounced him royally at chess because his mind had been anywhere but on the game. His thoughts had been going round and round in circles that had ended up exactly nowhere. He should have kept his cool with Marcia. Kept things light and on the surface. Instead he’d kissed her before she was ready, and badgered her as if his sole intention had been to push her away.

For a man she’d said wasn’t stupid, he’d sure blown it. Nor did he have any idea what he was going to do next. According to Marcia, there wasn’t any next.

He was the last one to go out the door. Marcia shrank away from him, and he saw that there were faint blue shadows under her eyes. Filled with a passionate compunction, and another emotion that he wasn’t quite ready to label fear, he said roughly, “If you change your mind, get in touch with me. You can always reach me through Lucy and Troy.”

“Yes... yes, of course,” she said, already starting to close the door.

She couldn’t wait to be rid of him—that was the message. Quentin headed for the elevator where the rest of them were waiting, somehow made appropriate small talk until Troy dropped him off at the hotel and then headed for the bar. There were times in life when only a double rum would do.

CHAPTER THREE

THE following Sunday Marcia had lunch with Lucy. When they were settled in an alcove in the salad bar that was Lucy’s favorite and they’d made their choices from the menu, Lucy took a sip of her wine and said with sisterly frankness, “You don’t look so hot, Marcia.”

Marcia knew that she didn’t, and she knew why. Opting for part of the truth, because she certainly wasn’t going to talk about Quentin, she said, “Last Tuesday I was. called into the director’s office and informed that due to budget restraints the junior staff are being required to take a week’s holiday without pay. As soon as possible. So as of Friday afternoon I’ve been on vacation.”

Lucy went right to the heart of the matter. “What does that do to your research?”

“The particular drugs I’ve been working with aren’t available either—all of a sudden they’re too expensive. So almost three months’ work could go down the drain.” Marcia grimaced in frustration. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“How secure is your job?” Lucy asked bluntly.

Marcia twirled the stem of her glass, not looking at her sister. “I might lose it,” she said, and heard the telltale quiver in her voice.

Lucy reached a hand across the tablecloth. “Oh, Marcie...”

Marcia bit her lip. “It’s crazy—there are lots of people much worse off than I am. But I really love my job.” She took a big swallow of her wine. “They’re supposed to make an announcement within two or three weeks.”

Lucy said gently, “Your whole life revolves around your research.”

“Stop it, Lucy, or I’ll be blubbering all over you,” Marcia said with a watery grin. “Have some bread.”

“‘Blubbering’, as you put it, can be a perfectly fine response.”

“Not in a crowded restaurant.”

Lucy slathered butter on a slab of crunchy French bread. “I suppose you’re right. So what will you do with yourself all week?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Not for anything would she reveal to her sister that the thought of seven more days with absolutely nothing to do filled her with panic.

“I’ve got an idea! You can go to Quentin’s cottage in the Gatineau Hills.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marcia said sharply, her nerves shrilling like a burglar alarm at the sound of his name.

“He won’t be there—it’s perfect. He left for New York today. One of his works got vandalized in a gallery in SoHo, and he felt he had to go and see the damage himself. He said he wouldn’t be back until Friday or Saturday.”

She could get out of her condo and away from the city. “I never was much for the great outdoors,” Marcia prevaricated.

“Troy and Chris and I were there all day yesterday—it’s a beautiful spot on a lake, with lovely woods and wildflowers. And the cottage is luxurious. Not what you’d call roughing it.”

“I couldn’t do that without asking him, Lucy. And it’s too late if he’s already left.”

“I’ll take full responsibility—you see, he was hoping we’d stay there. But Troy gets his lunch hours free and a couple of afternoons through the week, and I like to spend all the time I can with him. So I’m sure it’d be fine with Quentin if you stayed at the cottage.”

Marcia was sensitive enough to pick up what Lucy wasn’t saying. Lucy and Troy’s first child had died at the age of seven months—a tragedy that had ripped apart the fabric of their marriage; they had lived separately for over a year. Now that they were back together Lucy hated to be away from Troy, and, she had once confided to Marcia, she felt safer when Troy was near for Chris as well.

Marcia said spontaneously, “Chris is a sweetheart, Lucy.”

A film of tears covered Lucy’s gray-blue eyes. “Yes, he is—we’re very lucky. Now that he’s older than seven months, I feel so much more relaxed too—silly, isn’t it?” She helped herself to another slice of bread. “Do you ever think you might want children?”

“What kind of a question’s that?” Marcia said lightly.

“You looked very sweet holding Chris—even though he was dribbling all over you.”

“I’ve never been a mother but I’m sure there’s more to it than standing around looking sweet. How are Troy’s courses going?”

“Fine. You didn’t answer the question.”

“I’m not going to. Because I don’t know the answer.”

Lucy stared at her thoughtfully. “You didn’t hit it off with Quentin, did you?”

Marcia scowled. “Did you invite me out for lunch just so you could subject me to an inquisition?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, with one of her insouciant grins.

The waitress gave Marcia her Greek salad and Lucy her seafood salad. “Can I get you anything else, ladies?”

“That’s fine, thanks,” Marcia said, and picked up her fork.

She was worried sick about her job—that was an undeniable fact. But there was another reason that she looked far from her best. And that reason was Quentin. She’d only met the man twice, but somehow he’d insinuated his way into her life, so that his rugged face came between her and the computer screen and his loose-limbed stride accompanied her down the corridors of the institute. At work, where she was so disciplined, she’d more or less managed to keep him in order. But at home in her condo it was another story.

She hadn’t slept well all week. But when she did sleep she dreamed about Quentin, night after night. Sometimes they were dreams so erotic that she woke blushing, her whole body on fire with needs that even in the darkness she could scarcely bring herself to acknowledge as her own. But at other times she woke from nightmares—horrible nightmares that left her heart pounding with terror and her palms wet.

They were always the same: she was drowning in the sea, being pulled down and down into the deep blue depths of a bottomless and merciless ocean, and when she suddenly saw Quentin’s face through the swirling currents and tried to signal to him to rescue her he was always out of reach, his black hair waving like seaweed, his smile full of mockery.

“I really don’t want to talk about Quentin, Lucy,” she said shortly.

Lucy, known for being impulsive, chewed on a mouthful of shrimp and said nothing. Marcia picked at her black olives and decided they’d used too much olive oil. She said at random, “What did you think of Mother’s friend Henry?”

“I thought he was a sweetheart. Do you think she’ll marry him?”

“Mother? Get married again? No!”

“She must get lonely sometimes. Troy and I live in Vancouver, and you and Cat are both very busy women.”

“Workaholics, you mean,” Marcia said drily. It was the word Quentin had used.

“I’m trying to be polite,” Lucy chuckled. “Oh, Marcia, it’s so neat that Troy and I are having a couple of months in Ottawa! I love Vancouver, and I don’t have to tell you how much I love Troy and Chris—but I do miss my family.”

It was the perfect opportunity for Marcia to say that she missed Lucy. But was it true? Or did Lucy, with her tumbled curls and her untidy emotions, simply stir Marcia up in ways she both resented and feared? “Families are complicated,” she said obliquely.

“Mmm, that’s true enough ... You know, it’s funny, but I really thought you and Quentin would like each other.”

“Lay off, Lucy.”

“When we saw him yesterday he looked as awful as you do. And he didn’t want to talk about you any more than you want to talk about him.”

“Then maybe you should take the hint.”

“But he was such a good friend to me on Shag Island—I met him there, remember, when Troy and I were separated.” Lucy speared another shrimp. “He was like the brother we never had.”

Marcia could not possibly picture Quentin as her brother. She said flatly, “He’s too intense for me—he came on too strong. I’m sorry I spoiled your fantasy, but there it is. Now, can we please talk about something—or someone—else?”

Lucy sighed. “Troy’s always telling me I’m a hopeless romantic. Okay, okay—I’ll drop it. But I will give you the key to the cottage and the directions. You should take your own food—Quentin’s not what you’d call a model housekeeper. And, providing you leave there by Friday morning, there’s no danger of you running into him. More’s the pity.”

Marcia glared at her. Lucy went on hurriedly, “Next Saturday why don’t you come for dinner with Troy and me and we’ll go to a movie? Cat’s offered to baby sit.” She gave a shamefaced smile. “I’m still not comfortable leaving Chris with a sitter who doesn’t have an MD after her name. Silly, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s very understandable,” Marcia said, sharing the last of the carafe of wine between them. “What movie do you want to see?”

As Lucy began discussing the merit of various new releases Marcia found herself remembering the year that Lucy had lived in Ottawa and then on Shag Island, and Troy had lived in Vancouver; their unhappiness had been a measure of the depth of their love—she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she hadn’t understood that. She had been helpless to fix what was wrong, and that, too, had been a new experience. She liked to feel in control of events.

Maybe, she thought slowly, that was the year when she’d begun to sense the sterility of her own life; the tragedy that had struck Lucy and Troy had been the origin of a confusion and a lack of focus that was both new to her and horribly unsettling.

And that made Quentin fifty times worse.

“There’s that new historical movie too,” she said. “One of the technicians at work saw it and really liked lit.”

For the rest of their lunch they talked about anything but family and men, although Marcia did find herself clutching the key to the cottage and a map sketched on a paper placemat when she went back to her car. And why not? she thought rebelliously. If she spent all next week in her condo, she’d be talking to the plants. A few days beside a lake with lots of books and no people would be just fine.

But she’d leave there Thursday evening, to make sure that she didn’t meet up with Quentin.

Marcia got away on Monday morning, her little gray car loaded with food, clothes, books and a portable TV. She drove along the eastern shore of the Gatineau River, humming to herself. How long since she’d done something like this? Too long. Her vacations tended to be carefully planned affairs with equally carefully chosen friends, not last-minute escapades all by herself.

She was going to read all the novels she’d bought in the last year that had been stashed on her shelves because she hadn’t had time to get at them. She’d experiment with some new pasta recipes. She’d watch the shows she always missed on TV because something needed doing at the lab. She was going to have a great time.

Marcia got lost twice trying to follow the penciled squiggles on her sister’s map; Lucy wasn’t blessed with a sense of direction. But finally the little side road she had been following forked in two just as it was supposed to. When she took the right fork within three hundred yards she saw a wooden gate with a plaque attached to the post. “Richardson” it said. That was the name of Quentin’s friends, the ones who owned the cottage.

Marcia got out, opened the gate, drove through and closed it behind her. Her car bumped down a lane overhung with newly leafed beech trees and red-tasseled maples. Then she emerged into a clearing and braked.

Through the lacy fretwork of the trees the lake sparkled and danced. A carpet of white trilliums patterned the forest floor. And the cottage—the cottage was beautiful.

It was a house more than a cottage, a cedar house with a wood-shingled roof and a broad stone chimney; it merged with its surroundings perfectly. Smiling fatuously, Marcia drove to the circle of gravel at the end of the driveway and parked her car.

Over the deep silence of the woods she could hear the ripple of the lake on the shore and a chorus of bird song. The front of the house, which faced the lake, was made of panels of glass set in thick beams reaching to the peak of the roof. The tree trunks and the blue of the sky were reflected in the glass.

Like a woman in a dream she walked up the stone path to the front door. The key turned smoothly in the lock. She stepped inside and gave a gasp of dismay.

What had Lucy said? Something about Quentin not being a model housekeeper?

That, thought Marcia, was the understatement of the year.

Clothes were flung over the furniture, books, newspapers and dirty dishes were strewn on the tables and the floor and an easel and a clutter of painting equipment decorated the corner with the most light. She wrinkled her nose. Over the smell of turpentine and linseed oil was a nastier smell. From the kitchen. Bracing herself, she stepped over an untidy heap of art magazines and discovered on the counter the remains of Quentin’s supper: a wilting Caesar salad over which three houseflies were circling. The anchovies were the source of the odor.

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