A Secret Life

A SECRET LIFE Rosemary Hammond

Nora Baird's secret was a harmless one. She loved music so much that she was prepared to risk her job with the great New York opera company by going on-stage to sing with the chorus unofficially, of course! Unfortunately, she was sure that Reed Thatcher, the company's dynamic new director, would take a different view of the situation when he showed clearly that he was attracted to the glamorous young singer he met at a party. lf he found out her connection with the dowdy little pattern-maker in the wardrobe department, she would be in the worst kind of trouble . . .

CHAPTER ONE 'ARE you working late again, Nora?' Blanche Morand asked. Nora Baird glanced up from her work and gave the older woman a quick look. Did Blanche suspect something, she wondered, or am I getting paranoid? 'Not really,' she replied. The tone was casual. 'I just want to finish up these sketches. I have to have them ready for class next week. Do you mind?' she added lightly. Blanche shrugged and slipped her heavy bulk into the shapeless coat that had once been bottle-green but was now a dull muddy non-colour after years of careless wear. She patted her mop of frizzy grey hair and stood for a moment at the door looking back at Nora. 'Well, I'll say goodnight, then. You have your key?' Nora nodded. 'Don't work too hard.' Nora sighed with relief as the door shut behind Blanche and she heard the heavy clomping of her steps echoing down the hall. 'Thank goodness,' she breathed. She thought she'd never leave. Now the enormous wardrobe room backstage at the Metropolitan Opera House was deserted. Nora glanced at her watch. Her timing had to be perfect. The great crystal chandelier would be raised and the houselights dimmed at precisely seven fifty-five. The overture would begin at eight o'clock on the dot. It was just seven o'clock now, plenty of time if she hurried. She put her sketches in the cardboard portfolio and set it at the back of her large work table in the corner of the room. Then she locked the outer door and crossed over to the large storeroom

where all the costumes were kept, row upon row of long racks of colourful garments, from peasant dresses to a queen's ball gown. Nora hurried to the far end of the last rack against the wall where she had hidden the costume. Feeling like a criminal, she took the long green tunic with its darker green stole off the hanger and went across the hall to one of the small fitting rooms. She glanced in the mirror and saw a plain, mousy young woman in a wrinkled tan work-smock with pins stuck into the collar arid lapels. Her smooth black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, she wore no make-up at all, and her lovely deep blue eyes were veiled by tinted glasses in heavy horn rims. Hastily, she removed her rumpled smock and hung it on a hook. Next, she took off. her dark shirtwaister dress and plain slip. She pulled on the green tunic and examined herself in the mirror. The silky fabric revealed a full breast, narrow waist and curved hips that the shapeless smock had concealed most effectively. She gathered up the stole and went into the makeup room next door. She switched on the frame of naked light bulbs around the mirror, then went back to the locked outer door to wait for Ginny to come and help her with her make-up. Tonight was the final performance of Aida, Verdi's tragic opera about the Ethiopian princess who dies in her lover's arms. Since the opera was set in ancient Egypt, the make-up had to be lavish, with the emphasis on dramatising the eyes. Nora heard footsteps, then a light tap on the door. She unlocked it and let her friend in, relocking the door after her. The two girls stood staring at each other. Nora started to giggle.

'That wig!' she cried. 'I hardly recognised you.' Ginny's head was covered in an elaborate construction of black curls and braids, liberally interspersed with bright beads and lacquered to a shining, glossy mass. 'All for the sake of art, my dear,' Ginny drawled in a dripping falsetto. She batted long black false eyelashes and struck a dramatic pose. 'Besides,' she said in her normal voice, grinning under the heavy make-up, 'who ever heard of a blonde Egyptian?' 'Come on, you clown,' Nora said, and led the way into the make-up room. She sat in front of the mirror, pinned a towel around her neck and looked up at her friend. Ginny was gazing at Nora's reflection with appraising eyes. 'You won't need a wig, I don't think,' she said finally. 'We can arrange your hair to look authentic.' She took the pins out of Nora's heavy dark hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Then she brushed the ends under in the Egyptian style, pinning and spraying them in place to make a stiff page-boy. 'Well,' she asked when she had finished, 'how do you like it?' Then she caught sight of Nora's worried frown. 'Hey, what's wrong?' Nora sighed, smoothing down her hair. 'Oh, Ginny, I keep wondering if I shouldn't just give the whole thing up. I mean, this deception is so wearing on the nerves. Every time Reed Thatcher even looks in my direction I'm afraid he's going to see right through me and order me off the stage and out of the Met entirely. Those gimlet eyes of his don't miss a thing.' She shivered a little just thinking about the terrible music director of the Met. She made a face in the mirror at the thought of the arrogant, highhanded autocrat who seemed to delight in humiliating every singer

in the company, even down to the most humble member of the chorus. So far, Nora had escaped his notice, but that was only because she showed up just for evening dress rehearsals and performances. It would have spelt instant disaster to her secret life in the chorus if she had ever attracted his notice in the slightest. 'If I ever get caught. . .' she said, rolling her eyes. Ginny snorted. 'Get caught? How can you get caught? By the time I get through with you your own mother won't know you, much less the terrible Reed Thatcher. Come on, now, we haven't got much time.' She started slathering dark pancake make-up on Nora's fair skin, first her face, then her arms, throat and shoulders. 'Besides,' she went on as she worked deftly, 'you're hooked now. You're what is known as an opera nut. It's really why you're here at the Met in the first place, isn't it? I mean, instead of going to work for a designer or fashion house?' Nora nodded. It was true. She had always fervently believed the human voice to be the most beautiful musical instrument ever created. When she had first discovered her gift for costume design back in high school, she hadn't hesitated a moment. She knew then that somehow she would get to New York and find a way to work at the Met, one of the great opera houses of the world. She was an expert seamstress and eventually, through quiet persistence, was hired, first as a cutter, then a seamstress, now a pattern-maker. 'You're right,' she said as she surveyed her dark image in the mirror. 'I just don't want to lose my job over it.'

'Fat chance of that,' Ginny exclaimed. 'I've seen your designs and I know how hard you work. You just wait. Some day you'll be a top designer—and I'll be the prima donna of the Met.' She narrowed her eyes again at Nora's image. 'I think we'd better concentrate on the eyes now.' She made deft, heavy upward strokes with a black eyebrow pencil, then smoothed dark blue eyeshadow on the upper lids to match Nora's eyes. She carefully traced black eyeliner around both upper and lower lids with a long upward stroke at the corners of her eyes. The effect was dramatic. Nora stood up, draped the stole over her shoulder and turned to the full- length mirror behind her. In it she saw an Ethiopian noblewoman. Ginny was right. No one, not even her own mother, would recognise Nora Baird of the wardrobe department in this dusky, nubile beauty. 'What time is it?' Ginny asked, suddenly nervous. Nora glanced at her watch. It was seven forty-five. Ginny gasped. 'I've got to run. Are you coming?' 'You go on,' Nora said. 'I want to make sure everything is cleaned up here and I have to lock the door.' Ginny slipped out the door and Nora began to straighten the dressing table. She would just have time now to get upstairs and find her position on the stage before curtain time. She took off her watch. Reed Thatcher was a stickler for details, and Nora was sure there were no wrist-watches in ancient Egypt. She switched off all the lights and went out into the hall. The light was dim, the hall empty. She shut and locked the door behind her

and ran as fast as she could down the deserted corridor and up the winding spiral staircase to the stage level. Three hours later, Nora stood on the brilliantly lit stage of the Metropolitan Opera House singing the final chorus of Aida. The colourful costumes, the lavish set, the soaring passionate music from the orchestra and the row upon row of spectators in the dim theatre filled her with an exaltation and thrilling fervour that nothing else on earth had ever aroused. As she sang the melody, familiar now after ten performances, a little twinge of guilt dampened her joy. Nora Baird, she thought, impostor. But, she reasoned for the hundredth time, I'm not doing any harm. No one knows except Ginny. She glanced at her friend standing next to her, heard the lovely quality of the beautiful soprano voice. How she envied Ginny her gift. Yet Nora knew she was good at her own job and she enjoyed it. She worked hard to improve her skills. She knew she had enough originality and talent to become a top designer some day and was content to learn slowly, in the wardrobe department at the Met and at night-school classes in costume design at the National Institute of Design in Manhattan. She had worked for two years, now, at the Met, under the watchful eye of Blanche Morand, the wardrobe mistress. She was patient with her menial duties, knowing that a practical apprenticeship in the actual construction of someone else's designs would be invaluable to her career. She had faith in her gift and knew her day would come. To thunderous applause, the final curtain slowly came down. There would be curtain-calls for the stars and principal singers, but

the chorus was free to go. Nora loved to listen to the applause. She knew it wasn't for her, but her secret forays into the chorus made her feel as though she was a small part of it. She glanced at Ginny. The two girls grinned at each other and walked off the stage. They both knew better than to utter a sound until they were in the wings. Reed Thatcher had already dressed down the whole company for chattering on the stage before the great hall was empty of the last spectator. 'We are selling an illusion,' he had instructed them in his clipped impersonal voice. He had stood imperiously on the podium, baton tucked under one arm, arms crossed in front of him. 'The audience comes here to listen to Aida, not your babble.' The force of the tall man's personality, the command in his voice that made it clear he expected to be obeyed, and his brilliant successes in opera all over the world had held the whole company spellbound. Even the temperamental soprano had shut the mouth that was notorious for its poisonous barbs. Now, however, on their way to the dressing rooms, it was safe for Ginny and Nora to speak. 'Ginny, you were marvellous tonight. Your voice gets better all the time. Richer and more confident.' Ginny knew the praise was genuine. 'Thanks, Nora. You were in great voice yourself.' They looked at each other and laughed, both of them well aware that although Nora could read music and carry a tune, she had no voice to speak of. It wasn't a glaringly bad voice or an offensive one, it was just not a performer's voice. She had sung in church and school choirs while growing up back home in Oregon, but

knew her limitations and had quit singing altogether until she took this job and met Ginny. It had been Ginny, in fact, who had suggested the duplicity that took Nora out on to the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. Early in their friendship, Nora had expressed her admiration for Ginny's voice and told her how much she loved opera and envied her friend the thrill of actually participating in such a glorious event. Ginny had given her a searching look. She had come to know and like Nora as a quiet, industrious, colourless mouse in the wardrobe department. She wasn't exactly shy, just intensely reserved and always hard at work. This was the first time Ginny had ever witnessed a display of passion from the aloof girl. 'Can you read music?' she had asked. 'Carry a tune?' 'Sure,' Nora had replied. They had been in Ginny's apartment. Ginny went to the piano, took out a piece of choral music from Carmen and started playing. 'Sing along with me,' she ordered. Nora obeyed, and when they had finished, Ginny sat at the keyboard deep in thought. 'You have access to costumes and make-up, don't you?' Nora nodded, bewildered. What was Ginny driving at? She told her. 'There's no reason why you can't sing in the chorus. You certainly don't add anything, but on the other hand your voice blends well with mine. Just get in a costume, put on plenty of make-up and walk on-stage at the last minute. No one will ever know.'

That had been six months ago. Since then, Nora had sung in every opera. Ginny had been right. No one ever noticed her. With chorus and extras sometimes adding up to a hundred people, one extra slave-girl or gypsy or peasant made no difference. She couldn't make every performance because of her night-school classes, and, of course, she wasn't paid for her singing. Still, she would rather go to the opera than do anything else she could imagine. 'Are you coming to the party?' Ginny asked her as they made their way through the maze of corridors and people milling about backstage. 'Oh, no,' Nora replied. 'You know I never go to parties. I have nothing to wear, anyway.' 'You could find something in wardrobe that would be suitable. Come on. Loosen up a little and have some fun.' They had descended the spiral staircase. People were all over the place now, shouting to one another, still in their Egyptian costumes and exotic make-up. Nora shook her head firmly. 'Not tonight. Remember, I have to work tomorrow.' 'Tomorrow's Sunday,' Ginny protested. 'Not even you work on Sunday. Come on,' she urged. 'I'll go get changed and stop by wardrobe to pick you up.' Nora hesitated. The exhilaration of the performance was still with her. Her normal caution was submerged under the impact of that heady experience. Did she really want to go right back to her

basement apartment after all that excitement? There could be no harm in at least making an appearance. 'Oh, all right,' she said. 'Why not?' 'Good girl,' Ginny said. 'See you in half an hour.' Nora went back into the dark cavernous wardrobe room and switched on the light. The dress forms with half-finished costumes on them for Pagliacci, the next opera, stood around the room like silent sentinels, guarding it. She hurried to the small dressing room and removed the green costume. Slipping the tan work- smock on over her underwear, she took the costume back and placed it on the rack where it belonged. She glanced over the hundreds of costumes hanging there, looking for something suitable to wear to the party. She had the choice of every conceivable outfit, from beaded satin ball gowns to gay peasant costumes. Finally she settled on a midnight-blue chiffon from an old production of La Traviata which had been done in modern dress. The opera had failed and the costumes never used again. Audiences wanted traditional fare, and that mistake was never repeated. The bodice of the dress was transparent chiffon from the shoulders down to a low bustline, with a heavier silk lining underneath which just barely covered the breast. She had to take off her bra because its straps would have shown through the thin chiffon. The skirt was a whirl of accordion pleats. As she zipped the dress up the back and felt the slippery material slide over her bare skin, she shivered a little at the sensation. She

glanced in the mirror and saw that although the dress felt indecent, and the lining was cut so low that the upper half of her full breasts was exposed, still the thin chiffon covering gave the illusion of modesty. She removed her stage make-up and applied a little blusher and powder, then a trace of rosy lipstick. The dark blue of the dress enhanced her eyes. She brushed out her hair and coiled it loosely at the top of her head in a sophisticated style totally unlike her everyday severe bun. Then she loosened a heavy strand in front and pulled it over her forehead, pinning it securely under the thick chignon. The less she resembled Nora Baird from wardrobe, the less chance there was of her secret being discovered. There was a sharp rap on the outer door. Nora slipped on the highheeled sandals she had found in the shoe section of the storage room and ran to the door. 'Who is it?' she asked in a low voice. 'It's me,' came Ginny's reply. Nora unlocked the door and Ginny slipped inside. She stared at Nora. 'Wow,' she said. 'You look terrific! No one will ever recognise you.' 'Is it indecent?' Nora asked. Ginny eyed her appraisingly. 'Well,' she said slowly, 'not quite. It's a clever dress. Shows a lot, but doesn't flaunt anything. It'll do.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Just stay away from Ken.'

Nora smiled. Ken was Ginny's current live-in boy-friend, a trumpet player in the orchestra. Nora presented no threat, she knew, because he was besotted with the small blonde Ginny. Deliberately shying away from any kind of romantic entanglement herself, Nora had made her career everything since coming to New York. Besides, none of the men she had met seemed interested in the only kind of relationship she thought worth having—a solid, lifetime's commitment. The party was being held in the backstage lounge, large enough to hold the hundred or so people who had stayed on for the festivities, but small enough to lend a feeling of intimacy. Some members of the orchestra had organised a small dance band. As Ginny and Nora approached the lounge they could hear it playing above the buzz of conversation and occasional laughter. Nora had a pang of anxiety as she stepped into the crowded, noisy room. She really had no business here. She turned to tell Ginny that she had had second thoughts when she saw that Ken had appeared and was whisking her off on to the improvised dance floor. Someone thrust a glass of champagne in Nora's hand. Oh, well, she thought, one glass of champagne won't hurt. Then I'll leave, she promised herself. The music stopped and there was a short drum roll. The general manager of the company, Niles Thordarson, stepped on to a makeshift podium and raised his hands for silence. He was a tall, heavy-set man with a fringe of grey hair and a commanding manner. The room fell silent. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, 'I'm not going to make a speech.' There was a smattering of applause. The man grinned. 'I just want

to thank each one of you for your part in making this new production of Aida such a huge success.' More applause, louder this time. He raised his hands again for silence and got it. 'I especially want to thank our music director, Reed Thatcher, for his brilliant supervision of the whole production. Now, I know Reed is not always everyone's favourite person during rehearsals, but you'll all have to admit that without his rigid adherence to the highest standards of perfection, we wouldn't have made Aida the resounding success it has been this season.' More applause, interspersed with nervous laughter at the accurate assessment of Reed Thatcher's reputation as a slave-driver. Niles Thordarson searched the room. 'Reed?' he called. All eyes turned towards the tall dark man standing at the back of the room. Nora saw that Consuelo Valdez, the prima donna of the Met, was standing at his side gazing up at him, clinging possessively to his arm. Some called out, 'Speech, speech,' but Reed Thatcher shook his dark head and raised a hand. 'No speech,' he called out in his ringing baritone. 'You've all heard enough of them from me.' There was laughter, then a burst of hearty applause and the band started playing. The lights were dimmed and couples began to drift out on to the dance floor. Nora stood in the shadows sipping her champagne. Someone kept refilling her glass and by now she was feeling a pleasant glow. Several young men had asked her to dance, but she used her old trick on them of smiling sweetly and murmuring that she was waiting for someone. She was enjoying herself immensely. She loved being in such close proximity to these singers, some of them world-famous. The dark Spanish beauty, Consuelo Valdez, who had sung Aida, danced by in the arms of Niles Thordarson. The short pudgy

baritone, Francesco Martini, was singing a popular ballad with the band, his golden voice hushed and romantic. Nora felt very happy. A short while later, she glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight. She had been up since six and had worked a long day in the wardrobe as well as singing in the performance tonight. Like Cinderella, she thought, it was time to leave this enchanted fairyland and go back to reality. She set her glass down on a nearby table and started towards the door. Before she reached it, she felt a firm hand clamp possessively on her arm. She turned around to look up into the piercing grey eyes of Reed Thatcher. 'You haven't danced yet,' he said in a low voice. Nora stared up at him in amazement. He had changed from the white tie and tails of the orchestra conductor into a white-knit turtle-neck and muted tweed jacket. He was frowning, his mouth set in a straight line. Nora knew he rarely smiled. Even in her light-headed condition, Nora was determined not to be intimidated by the broad shoulders and commanding presence of this tall man with the cold grey eyes. Not only was he arrogant and tyrannical, but had a reputation as an outrageous womaniser. If rumour were true, he had had affairs with at least half the reigning prima donnas in the world. He was a dangerous man, she knew, in more ways than one, but her disguise gave her a kind of Dutch courage. 'That's right,' she said coolly. 'I haven't.'

He raised heavy dark eyebrows at her, and then, before she could move away from him, he had swept her into his arms and they were dancing. Nora tensed, ready to assert her independence and break free, but she didn't. Perhaps it was the champagne she had drunk, or the excitement of the performance, or the slow romantic tune the orchestra was playing. Perhaps it was even the feel of Reed Thatcher's arms around her, or the roughness of his coat as he pulled her closer against his chest—maybe the scent of wool, tobacco and aftershave. In any event, she didn't want to make a scene or call attention to her clandestine appearance at the party. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift along with the beat of the music, following his sure step. His hand had closed around hers. She raised her arm to rest on his shoulder, and he pulled her even closer, so that her body was moulded against his, his strong hard thighs pressing against hers as he led her around the dance floor. As they danced, Nora tried to piece together what she knew about Reed Thatcher. The world of opera was a hotbed of gossip. She wondered now how much was fact and how much fiction. The one thing she did know was that his professional reputation was based on solid accomplishment. He was considered one of the finest opera conductors in the world, and also made occasional guest appearances conducting symphony orchestras. He was young, she thought, to have reached the top of his profession, surely not yet forty. Having worked with him at the Met for two years, she knew that his success was based as much on a meticulous attention to detail as it was on his personal flair and unquestionable gifts. Everything, from costumes to singers,

from the lighting to interpretation of music, was under his direct supervision. But what about his personal life? She knew from the press releases about him that he had never been married and that he was a wealthy man by now, but what kind of man was he? 'Do I have a smudge on my nose?' His voice startled her, and she realised she must have been staring at him. She lowered her eyes. 'No,' she murmured, 'I was just wondering if all the rumours were true.' Did I say that? she asked herself. What in the world has got into me? 'What rumours are you talking about?' he asked smoothly, his voice teasing, intimate. 'I've never been in jail. I'm not a heroin addict. I was kind to my mother when she was alive.' She couldn't help smiling up at him. 'That's nice to know, but I meant the rumours about you and your prima donnas. Like Consuelo Valdez, for example.' He looked down at her, half frowning, half amused. 'If you're asking me if I'm having an affair with Consuelo at the moment, the answer is no.' His mouth quirked up slightly. 'But, then, neither have I lived an entirely celibate life. However, I am highly selective in my tastes. In other words, the reputation is quite out of proportion to reality. But don't spread that around.' When the music stopped, they were in a darkened corner of the room. He withdrew his hand from hers and put it lightly on her

waist. He moved back a step from her and looked down at her, a curious light in his eyes. 'I haven't seen you before. Are you part of the company?' he asked. Well, she thought, wardrobe isn't really part of the company. 'No,' she murmured. She began to wish she hadn't drunk so much champagne. The music started again. He pulled her towards him but didn't move. He put a hand under her chin and tilted her face up. 'You have the most incredible eyes,' he said. 'They're almost purple.' His hand moved to cup her jaw. 'You're very beautiful.' Suddenly, Nora's head began to clear. What in the world am I doing? she asked herself. I'm not even supposed to be here. This man is Reed Thatcher. If he should find out I've been singing in the chorus, he'd put a stop to it immediately. Not only that, but I'd probably lose my job in wardrobe. She began to pull away from him, desperate now to leave. He only tightened his hold on her and began to move in time with the music. 'No, you don't, mystery lady,' he breathed in her ear. 'I'm not letting you go just yet.' As his arms went around her again, Nora's resistance weakened. He'll never find out, she thought as she placed an arm around his neck. Monday I'll be back in my smock and slaving down in wardrobe and he'll never make the connection. It had been a long time since she had felt a man's arms around her. This time it would be safe. She would enjoy the evening, then

disappear forever as far as he was concerned. She rested her head on the broad shoulder and let herself be propelled along by the hard body of this dazzling man. As she melted against him, she heard him draw in his breath and felt his hold on her tighten. His hand moved slowly up and down her back, a sensuous intimate movement that sent chills along her spine. His cheek was against hers, and she could feel his lips brushing her ear. Somehow he had managed to manoeuvre through the crowd out into the deserted corridor. The next thing she knew his hands were on her shoulders, his cool mouth pressed against her own, tentatively at first, then, when her lips softened against his, more demanding. She could feel his heavy breath on her cheek, the flutter of his eyelashes, the strong hands moulding her shoulders as he forced her lips apart and probed her mouth eagerly with his tongue. When he raised his mouth to look into her eyes, brushing her hair back from her forehead, her bones seemed to melt in ecstasy. 'My God,' he muttered, then claimed her lips again in a slow sensuous seduction. As his mouth closed tantalisingly around her lower lip, she reached up a hand and buried it in his thick black hair. His hand slid down from her shoulder in a clinging motion and cupped her breast, pushing it up above the underlining of the dress so that the peak was clearly visible under the transparent chiffon. She groaned as his thumb slowly teased the nipple until it hardened into a thrusting, throbbing point. As his hand crossed over to caress her other breast, he moved his hot mouth along her jaw and pressed his lips against her earlobe.

'Let's get out of here,' he muttered. Alarms went off in Nora's head. More than anything else she wanted to stay with this tremendously magnetic, sensuous man. She never would have dreamed that cold, forbidding exterior contained such warmth and depth of passion. Never had she responded to a man the way she had Reed Thatcher. It wasn't just the champagne she had drunk. It was the man himself. Every look, every word, every movement of that tall graceful body and those strong sensitive hands thrilled her to the core of her being. Oh, she was tempted—to forget the job, forget her good sense, forget her moral scruples, her career. Her senses urged her to do this, but reason told her that to do so would destroy her. But how was she going to get away? She would have to trick him. Everything in her rebelled against it, but she knew she had no choice. If she were discovered now it would mean the end of her career before it even got started. And for what? A one-night stand with a notorious womaniser? She hadn't had that much to drink. With her hands still in his hair, she moved her lips to his ear. Tenderly, she rubbed her cheek over the crisp sideburns and kissed the soft lobe of his ear, almost weeping at the thought of leaving behind so much joy. 'All right,' she said, 'you wait here for me. I'll run and get my coat.' Her voice was choking with emotion. 'I'll come with you,' he said, not relinquishing his hold on her an inch. She threw her head back and looked up at him, smiling weakly. 'To the ladies' room?' she asked.

Her heart turned over at the sight of the virile handsome face, and she almost changed her mind. He smiled at her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. 'Hurry back,' he said, his eyes boring into hers hungrily. 'I'm not a patient man.' She put a hand longingly on his cheek, sick with the knowledge that she would never touch him again. He clasped the hand and moved it to his lips, kissing the palm. Then he released her and she tore herself from him. The ladies' room was around the corner, next to the spiral staircase that led down to the wardrobe section. At the top of the stairs, Nora took off her sandals, then raced down the metal steps, sliding her hand along the round iron-railing bar for support. She didn't dare turn on a light inside the wardrobe room, but she knew it so well that she managed to find her way in the dark. She closed the inside door to the work room and turned on the hall light. Swiftly, she tore off the midnight-blue chiffon and with fumbling fingers dressed in her work clothes. She hung up the costume in the rack where it belonged, returned the silver shoes to their place in the long shoe closet, and scrubbed her face clean of make-up in the rest room. She pinned her hair back severely and slipped into her old plaid coat. Nora glanced around, tidied up any last traces of her presence, and turned out the light. She groped her way to her own work table and grabbed the cardboard portfolio that contained her sketches. She opened the door into the corridor a crack and heard only the distant noise from the party still going strong upstairs.

Slipping out into the dim corridor, she locked the door behind her and moved stealthily on her rubber-soled shoes to the employees' entrance at the side of the building. Just as she was about to shut the door behind her, she heard rapid footsteps clattering down the metal staircase. A tall figure appeared at the bottom. Her heart lurched painfully at the sight of Reed Thatcher. His hands were thrust in his trousers pockets. In the dim light she could just barely make out the puzzled scowl on his fine features. Silently, she eased the door shut and ran off down the street to hail a taxi.

When Nora finally stumbled, exhausted, into her apartment half an hour later, her heart was still pounding. Did it really happen? Standing alone, shivering in the cold kitchen, she touched her bruised mouth with trembling fingers. Of course it happened. She would never forget it. Later, lying in her narrow bed, remembering the feel of Reed Thatcher's lips on hers, his hands on her body, Nora groaned. She tossed and turned, wondering whether she had made the wisest decision of her life—or the most foolish.

CHAPTER TWO NORA slept late on Sunday morning and awoke at nine o'clock to the sound of a light rain pattering on her window. Her first thought on waking was of the party the night before and her encounter with Reed Thatcher. In the light of day it all seemed unreal, and she wondered seriously if she had only dreamed it. As she stretched lazily, however, she knew it wasn't a dream. She lay back on her pillow, her hands behind her head, and stared up at the ceiling. She could still feel the sensation his kisses had stirred in her, the closeness of his hard male body pressed against hers. She shivered a little and jumped out of bed. She had to put Reed Thatcher out of her mind. The girl he had kissed last night didn't even exist. By the time she had showered and made breakfast, a pale sun had emerged and dispersed the clouds. Nora's basement apartment was really only one very large room with a tiny kitchen alcove and a bathroom. She loved every square inch of it, even though the three barred windows across the front let in very little light. To compensate, she had painted every available surface a stark white, from the concrete walls and floor to the odds and ends of furniture she had picked up at second-hand shops. To gain the more cheery effect she aimed at, she had upholstered the lumpy couch and two chairs in bright yellow. On one wall, over the white divan that made into her bed at night, hung an enormous fabric print, a riot of spring flowers and leaves—green, lavender, pink, yellow, blue—on a white background. There were needlepoint pillows she had done of the same motif on the yellow couch and white divan, and cheap washable throw rugs on the floor in the same bright colours.

Her work table was set below one window for maximum light, but she had invested in a really good draughtsman's lamp that clamped on to the edge of the table and swung in whatever direction she needed the light. After she had tidied up her breakfast dishes and thrown the white afghan over the divan bed, she put on jeans and a sweatshirt and settled at the work table to finish her sketches for class. For every opera presented by the Met each season since she had been working there, Nora made her own costume designs, both as a project for class and for her own amusement. Although she had never even shown her sketches to the head designer of the company, she was learning a great deal from the exercise. When the time came that she thought she was good enough, then she would see about getting some professional advice. The next opera on the schedule, Leoncavallo's Pagliacci, was the tragic story of the clown, Canio, who was betrayed by his adored wife, Nedda. The costumes would have to be gay and of peasant type, and she had already worked out a colour scheme and some preliminary sketches. She took the large white sheets of drawing-paper from her portfolio, laid them out on the table and stared at the designs she had made. Her mind refused to concentrate on them. She found herself sitting staring into space, her chin propped in her hand, reliving in her mind every moment of last night. She wondered what he had done, what he had thought, when he found she had disappeared last night. Had he been disappointed. Angry, more likely. Reed Thatcher was not accustomed to being stood up by anyone, much less a nobody from the wardrobe department.

Yes, she decided, he had most definitely been furious, and she was glad she'd never have to face the wrath of that formidable man. He wouldn't thank any woman for wounding his enormous ego, much less Nora Baird. The telephone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She jumped a little, startled, then went to answer it. 'Hi, it's Ginny,' came her friend's voice. 'What happened to you last night?' Nora hesitated. Should she tell Ginny what had happened? Better not, she decided. No one must know. If he ever found out just who his mystery woman was, her life would be over, her career ended before it started. Besides, it would never happen again. Better close the book for good. 'Oh, I got tired and came home. You know I don't like those parties,' she finally replied. 'I thought I saw you dancing with Reed Thatcher,' Ginny probed. 'The great man himself.' 'Yes,' Nora said slowly, 'we danced.' 'How was it? I mean, when I saw you it looked as though he was going to eat you.' 'It was just a dance,' Nora said evasively. 'You didn't go home with him?' Nora was shocked. 'Of course not!'

'Oh, come on, Nora, don't be such a prude. This isn't the Victorian age. I know plenty of women who would be only too happy to share Reed Thatcher's bed.' 'Well, I'm not one of them,' Nora said, knowing she lied. 'It was just a dance.' 'Well, better luck next time.' 'There won't be a next time,' Nora said firmly. 'If he finds out who I am, he'll absolutely kick me out of the chorus, and probably get me fired from my job in wardrobe.' Anxiety welled up in her. 'Promise me, Ginny, you won't tell anyone.' 'Sure, Nora, don't worry. I won't tell. I'd get in trouble, too.' She hesitated. 'You're sure you didn't go home' with him?' 'I told you I didn't. You know I'm not interested in that kind of involvement. Why are you so insistent about it?' 'It's just that you both disappeared about the same time.' 'He—he didn't come back?' Nora asked. 'No, and Consuelo Valdez was furious. That's how I knew he'd gone. She was running all over the place looking for him. I think they've been having a discreet affair.' 'Well, Consuelo Valdez has nothing to fear from me. As I said, I don't exist as far as Reed Thatcher is concerned, and I want to keep it that way.' After they hung up, Nora returned to her work table, determined to work on her sketches. All day, her mind kept wandering back to

Reed Thatcher, but she firmly resisted, and finally managed to concentrate on her work long enough to make some real progress. She went to bed early. It had started to rain again and she lay on the narrow divan listening to the drops pattering on the window. From the street came the sound of tyres squeaking on wet pavement and an occasional skid. She began to wonder why Reed Thatcher hadn't gone back to the party, especially if Consuelo was waiting for him. Had he looked for her? She wished with all her heart she could have stayed. She imagined him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. What if she had come back inside instead of rushing off? She pictured herself going back to him. He would have smiled the slow smile that lit up that granite face, opened his arms to her, held her, kissed her again. He would have taken her home with him, or come here to her apartment. Nora's whole body began to burn with desire as she imagined him lying in bed beside her now. Yes, she thought, and then what? What if I had given up my career, my whole future, for a few weeks or months of an affair with him? It would be insane. Still, she was tempted. She could see herself, dressed in the same midnight-blue chiffon, going to his home, ringing the doorbell, offering herself to him. 'No, no, no!' she said aloud, pounding the pillow with her fist. The sound of her own voice in the empty apartment sobered her, brought her sharply back to reality, and at last she fell into a fitful sleep.

During the next few days at work, Nora was in an agony of apprehension, terrified of running into Reed Thatcher. She had visions of him catching her unawares and recognising her. She could see him pointing an accusing finger at her and ordering her out of the opera house, the stern face cold and forbidding, the voice full of contempt. Common sense told her that in the first place it wasn't likely she would even run into him in the cavernous backstage area of the opera house, and, in the second place, even if she did, he'd never recognise his mystery lady in the drab little seamstress with the shapeless smock, severe hair-style and glasses. When she finally did see him, the following Friday, she was so taken by surprise that she didn't have time to be frightened. He made one of his rare appearances in wardrobe that morning. As musical director of the Met, the costuming of an opera wasn't strictly his province, but because of his mania for perfection in every detail, he usually had something to say about it, and when he did it was never complimentary. He strode into the workroom without any warning, scowling, his grey eyes searching the room for Blanche Morand. He was impressive in his dark trousers and pullover, with just the collar of a white shirt showing at the neck. 'Mrs Morand!' he barked. Nora was at her work table in the corner of the huge room, and when she saw him all the colour immediately drained from her face. She felt light- hearted and almost fell off her stool as she stared at him, transfixed.

Blanche came waddling out of one of the dressing rooms, her mouth full of pins, frowning at the interruption. When she saw him standing there, his hands on his lean hips, grey eyes blazing, she slowly removed the pins from her mouth and gave him a weak smile. 'Mr Thatcher,' she said, rushing towards him. 'What can we do for you?' He thrust a piece of red material at her. 'You can see to it that the costumes you make in here correspond to the designer's drawings,' he snapped. Blanche held up the material. It was the red blouse that Consuelo Valdez would wear in the first act of Pagliacci. Nora recognised it immediately because she had worked on it. Oh, lord, she groaned to herself, what did I do wrong? Blanche examined the blouse carefully, then gave the tall man a bewildered look. 'What's wrong with it?' she asked. 'What's wrong with it,' he ground out through clenched teeth, 'is that it's not the costume in the drawing. Who made it?' Blanche thought a moment. 'Miss Baird—Nora— did the actual sewing, but someone else made the pattern and did the cutting.' Reed glanced around the room at the ten faces staring at him, open-mouthed. 'And who is Miss Baird?' he snapped. Blanche hesitated a fraction of a second. 'I am,' Nora said weakly. Reed flicked a glance in her direction. 'Are you responsible for this travesty?' he asked curtly.

He grabbed the red material from Blanche's hands and started to walk towards Nora. Her heart simply stopped beating. She wanted to die on the spot. It was the end of everything. Then, as she gazed at him, coming towards her, she suddenly realised that this was no way to live, cowering in corners, jumping at shadows, terrified that the dangerous Reed Thatcher lurked behind every door waiting to leap out at her and ruin her life. She suddenly felt very calm. Terrifying he might be, but still he was only a man, a human being. And so am I, she thought. She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. 'I did the actual sewing on the costume, yes,' she said in a clear voice. He held out the red costume. 'Then will you please tell me why you chose to change the neckline? Or have you suddenly promoted yourself to costume designer? Maybe you don't like the designs,' he went on nastily, 'the designs I approved. Maybe you think you have a better idea.' A dark, overpowering fury mounted in Nora. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks. She slid off her stool and walked slowly towards him until she stood before him, hands clenched rigidly at her sides. She looked up at him, so close she could hear his heavy breathing, see the little pulse beating below his ear. 'I said I sewed the costume, Mr Thatcher,' she said coldly, one word clipped out after another. T did not make the pattern. I did not cut it out. If it doesn't suit you the way it is, I suggest you tell Mrs Morand how you want it altered so we can redo it to your satisfaction.'

He glared down at her. Nora was terrified he'd recognise her, but determined to stand her ground. She didn't flinch. He was so angry he seemed to look right through her. 'Thank you very much,' he said at last, biting out every word, 'for your invaluable suggestion.' His lip curled in contempt, his tone was scathing. Abruptly, he turned around and strode back to the petrified Blanche. He thrust the offending costume back into her hands. 'All right,' he said, 'since the expert over there'— he jerked his head at Nora—'thinks the damage can be remedied, you'd better get to work on it. Tonight is the first dress rehearsal. Have it ready for Miss Valdez by seven-thirty.' He strode out of the door and let it slam behind him. In the total silence that reigned after his departure, his footsteps could be clearly heard, marching down the hall and up the metal steps of the spiral staircase. When, finally, they could be heard no longer, the ten people in the room glanced uneasily at each other. As they began slowly to return to their work, the hum of the sewing machines and low buzz of tentative conversation filled the room. The crisis was over. Blanche and Nora stared at each other. Then the older woman grinned. 'Well, you really let him have it,' she said. 'I'm impressed. I'm also surprised you still have your job.' Nora grinned ruefully. 'The day is young.' Blanche walked over to her and sighed as she handed her the costume. 'Sorry you had to bear the brunt of that. I tried to tell him it wasn't your fault.'

Nora shrugged. 'He wasn't in any mood to listen to explanations. He didn't even want one. He only wanted to draw blood.' Blanche gave her an admiring glance. 'You stood up to him, though. I didn't know you had it in you. You're always so quiet, so anxious to please. I envy your courage.' Nora laughed. 'Thanks, but you won't envy me if I lose my job. What happened with the costume, anyway?' . Blanche's eyes narrowed. 'It was Consuelo's idea.' She made a face. 'The costume wasn't sexy enough for her. She talked the pattern-maker into changing it so that the bodice was cut practically down to her navel.' 'I guess I can't blame her,' Nora had to admit. 'She's got the body for it, unlike most prima donnas.' She took the costume. 'Here, give it to me. I'll work on it today.' By noon, Nora had the new bodice cut out. It wouldn't take long to sew it up, but she'd have to get a fitting with Consuelo before the rehearsal. Ginny appeared at the door just as Nora was beginning to tack the pieces together. 'Hi,' she called. 'Ready for lunch?' Nora glanced at her watch. 'Oh, all right. I guess I'll have time if we hurry.' It was a brisk October day in New York, the air still fresh from the recent rain and not yet polluted by the horrendous traffic. Nora took a deep breath as they walked along the pavement. She was glad to get away from the job for a rest.

They decided to go to a Schrafft's around the corner. As they ate their sandwiches Nora told Ginny the story of this morning's encounter with Reed Thatcher over the costume. Ginny stared at her, eyes goggling. 'And you actually said that to him?' she asked in amazement. 'I don't believe it.' Nora laughed. 'I hardly believe it myself now that it's all over.' Her eyes narrowed. 'But, Ginny, I was so mad. What right does he have to come barging in there and start yelling at us before he even knows what really happened? And it wasn't even our fault.' Ginny shook her head sadly. 'There's no justice.' They finished their lunch in silence, mulling over this unhappy truth. On the way back to the opera house, Ginny brought up the subject of the dress rehearsal that night. 'You're coming, aren't you?' she asked. Nora frowned, thinking it over. 'No,' she said finally, 'I'd better not.' 'Do you think he recognised you this morning?' Ginny asked. They had reached the employees' entrance. Nora recalled how she had stood there that night peering in at Reed standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her. 'No,' she said. 'I'm sure he didn't. He was too mad.' 'Well, then, why not? Are you going to give up your secret life in the chorus?'

Nora bit her lip. 'I hate to do that, but it's too dangerous. Even if he didn't recognise me today, in my work clothes, he might spot me in the chorus.' 'Wear a blonde wig,' Ginny suggested. 'With your fair colouring you could get away with it.' She gave Nora an appraising look. 'Or better yet, just wear your hair loose. That changes your whole appearance. You'll be in a costume, with heavy stage make-up.' Nora pondered this while they walked down the corridor to the wardrobe room. At the door, she stopped and turned to her friend. 'I just don't think I'd better,' she said. 'Not just yet, anyway. Maybe when we get a visiting conductor. Besides, I'll be slaving on that dratted costume clear up to rehearsal time. I won't have time to change.' 'Suit yourself,' Ginny said as she started up the metal staircase, 'but I think you're being silly.' Nora went right to work on the costume. Blanche had arranged a fitting with Consuelo Valdez for four o'clock, and by that time the bodice was tacked securely in place. All Nora would have to do now was fit it on Consuelo when she came, make the necessary adjustments and stitch it up on the machine. She went into one of the dressing rooms and waited for the soprano. Finally, at four-thirty, she heard a flurry of activity out in the work room. The high-pitched voice of Consuelo Valdez, loudly complaining, carried back to the dressing room. In a moment, she swept into the little cubicle, her black eyes flashing fire, her red gash of a mouth curled in angry contempt. 'What is this foolishness?' shrilled the heavily- accented voice.

The luxurious mink coat slid to the floor. Consuelo stood there imperiously, every inch a prima donna, hands on hips, ready to do battle. She fixed Nora with a baleful look. Nora thought, I'm damned if I'll pick up that coat, and prepared herself for a contest of wills. By now she wasn't even worried about her job. Having burned her bridges thus far, she might as well just go all the way. Ignoring the beautiful fur lying in a huddled heap on the floor, Nora held up the new bodice. 'We've had to alter the bodice of your first act costume,' she said calmly, 'to conform to the designer's drawing.' The soprano drew herself up, her whole body quivering with fury. 'By whose orders?' she demanded, her voice venomous. From behind her came a low clear voice. 'By my orders, Consuelo.' Nora looked up to see Reed Thatcher looming in the doorway to the dressing room. He stooped and picked up the fur and threw it casually on a chair. Quickly, Nora turned her head away. The soprano's voice swiftly altered its tone from an imperious stridency to a seductive coyness. 'Now, Reed, darling,' she wheedled, 'what is this nonsense about changing the costume?' Nora watched them out of the corner of her eye and started fussing with the costume hoping not to be noticed. She needn't have bothered, she thought wryly, her mouth full of pins. They seemed

to have eyes only for each other and weren't even aware of her existence. She watched covertly as Consuelo placed her brightly-manicured hands on Reed's chest, moving up and down the dark sweater seductively. 'Now, darling,' she pouted, 'what are you trying to do to me?' Reed's voice was reasonable when he replied, but not placatory. 'We have to use the costumes as designed, Consuelo. You know that. If we change yours we have to change them all.' 'But, darling, shouldn't the star stand out?' Consuelo wheedled. Disgusted, Nora saw Reed take those clawlike hands in his and bend down to kiss their finger-tips. 'You don't need a low-cut costume to stand out, Consuelo. That would be overkill. The point of the costuming is that Nedda is so seductive, in the way she moves, the words she sings, the quality of her voice, that she doesn't need suggestive clothes.' Nora's heart leapt as he turned his glance on her. 'Do you have the original sketch?' he asked, one hand outstretched. Wordlessly, Nora placed the drawing in his hand. He examined it carefully. 'Now, you see, Consuelo,' he said, forcing her to look at it, 'the bodice has elastic around the neck so that Francesco can pull it down over your shoulders in the seduction scene.' 'But in that scene I am in the back of a wagon!' she wailed. 'All the audience sees is my legs!'

'But you come out of the wagon when you attack him with the knife,' Reed insisted. Nora could tell by his tone that his patience was wearing thin. 'Come on, Consuelo, be reasonable. Just try it on.' 'Oh, very well,' she muttered gracelessly. 'But only for you.' She started to unbutton her black silk dress and slipped it off in a swift jerky movement. She handed the dress to Nora, then stood there in her lacy half-slip and plunging bra totally unself-conscious under the eyes of the tall dark man lounging in the doorway. Nora was quite familiar with the various stages of undress that were common sights backstage. In the theatre, no one paid any attention to people standing around in their underwear, especially in wardrobe. Still, it unnerved her to have Consuelo flaunting her body this way under Reed Thatcher's steely-grey eyes, even though his appraising gaze was totally professional. In her confusion, Nora clumsily pulled the bodice down over Consuelo's creamy shoulders, and in the process jabbed her with a pin she had somehow neglected to remove. 'Ouch!' Consuelo screamed, and glared at Nora. 'You did that on purpose, you little bitch.' Nora reddened. She would have made an angry retort, but the last thing she wanted was to create a scene. 'Sorry,' she muttered, removing the pin. The bodice in place, Consuelo gazed at her reflection in the fulllength mirror. She posed, lifting her shoulders, twisting from side to side, front to back, frowning. The red bodice fitted perfectly. It

was a good three inches higher at the neckline than the old one, but still seductively clinging. 'No,' Consuelo announced in ringing tones. She stamped a foot. 'No. I will not wear this—this rag!' She whirled to face Reed, who stood white-faced and grim. 'Nedda is a beautiful, seductive woman, not a village seamstress,' Consuelo spat out. She ripped the blouse off, threw it on the floor and pulled her black dress from the hanger. As she silently buttoned up her dress, Nora stooped to pick up the discarded red blouse. In the mirror she had a clear view of Reed's pinched face. She saw Consuelo steal a surreptitious glance at his reflection. 'Surely you understand, Reed . . .' Consuelo began, obviously taken aback at what she saw in the tall man's forbidding expression. Reed had raised a silencing hand. 'Either you show up in that costume tonight,' he broke in with an icy voice, 'or you don't come at all.' He turned and stalked off. In the mirror Nora saw Consuelo's shocked expression. Then, drawing the red-tipped hands down her body, she smiled and closed her eyes. 'What a man,' she murmured. She opened her eyes and glared at Nora. 'But he cannot dictate to Consuelo Valdez.' She scooped the fur coat up off the chair and marched out of the room. Nora stood in the dressing room for a full two minutes listening to the high heels tapping on the wooden floor of the work room. Then

a door slammed and there was silence. The disputed bodice still hung limply in her hands. Now what do I do? she wondered. Finally, she decided. Reed Thatcher was the boss. She would follow his orders. She glanced at her watch—it was five o'clock. From the work room she could hear the whirring of the sewing machines as the others rushed to finish the last-minute alterations on the costumes for tonight's dress rehearsal. By the time Nora had painstakingly stitched up the bodice, taken out the tacking threads and pressed it carefully, it was seven o'clock. Everyone else had gone. She hung the costume on a hanger. All the other costumes had been delivered to the singers' dressing rooms, but Consuelo's dresser hadn't come to pick hers up as she usually did. That meant Consuelo intended to carry on a contest of wills with Reed Thatcher. Her first move would be not to show up at tonight's rehearsal. Nora shrugged as she put on her coat, ready to go home at last. She envied Consuelo her gorgeous voice, but the life-style was not her cup of tea. The two, unfortunately, seemed to go together. As she started out the door into the corridor, she could hear the familiar, stirring strains of the overture to Pagliacci coming from the stage upstairs. It was a full orchestra and cast tonight instead of the usual piano accompaniment. She stood there, her hand on the doorknob, leaning against the closed door, and shut her eyes as the thrilling melody invaded her senses, reducing her to nothing more than a passive receptacle for the beauty of the music.

Darn it, she thought suddenly, why not? She longed to be on that stage, hearing the music close by, mingling with the singers and dancers. Why should she give it up? She wasn't doing any harm. Reed Thatcher had obviously not recognised her today. Her appearance was entirely different under the harsh light of the work room, and he certainly hadn't expected to see her there. She was safe enough, and the pull towards that stage was overpowering. Besides, deep inside, she was a little resentful at the way he had treated her today, ignoring her as though she were a stick of furniture, without a thank you or by your leave for all the extra work she had done on that stupid costume. She made up her mind. She'd do it. She dashed back inside, threw off her coat and ran back into the storage room where the costumes were kept. She found one of the extra costumes they always made for every opera and carried it, flying, to one of the dressing rooms. She undressed hurriedly, then slipped on the full black peasant skirt with its little lacy apron, and the blouse, exactly like Consuelo's, only white instead of red. Five minutes for make-up and combing out her hair and she was transformed. She locked the door to the work room behind her and faced up the spiral staircase. From the wings she could see that the entire cast was assembled and in their places on the brightly-lit stage. The overture was finished and Tonio, sung by the baritone, Francesco Martini, was just beginning the long prologue. Nora moved as swiftly as she could, stepping carefully over the cables and props backstage, until she was behind the backdrop. She cautiously slipped through the opening of the curtain to join the chorus at the back of the stage, taking her place next to Ginny. Reed Thatcher, looking harried, was standing on the podium at the front of the stage. His dark hair was tousled over his forehead, the

sleeves of his black sweater pushed up above his elbows. After the prologue was finished, he started speaking to the assembled company. Listening carefully, Nora realised he was once again going over the story of the opera. She knew the story well, of course, as did every member of the cast, but his explanation of it was more than just a summary of the action. It was a passionate evocation of the mood. 'The important thing to keep in mind,' he was saying, the lowpitched voice loud and clear, 'is that these are volatile people. Actors. Singers. Strolling players. They are not pillars of the community who live by conventional standards, but, in a sense, outside society with their own laws and customs. Something like this company.' Someone giggled loudly. Reed darted the offender a quick, murderous glance, then continued. 'So we have Nedda married to Canio. He adores her. Is insanely jealous. Nedda is a flirt, a tease. She has aroused Tonio, whom she cares nothing about, to such a pitch of passion and desire that he is driven finally to force himself on her, almost rape her.' He paused. 'Maybe he does rape her, I don't know. However, we won't include that in this production.' A nervous titter of amusement rippled through the crowd. 'Okay,' Reed said, 'let's go. The players have arrived in town in their wagon.' He pointed to the old-fashioned cart in the centre of the stage. 'Nedda and Tonio are alone. He sees his chance, makes his move, and pow!' He slammed a fist into his open palm. 'We have one of the most exciting scenes in all opera.'

He took up the baton from the music rack in front of him and tapped it lightly on the wooden stand. 'Places everyone. Let's begin.' The orchestra began to play the haunting prelude to the seduction scene. Nora was transported by the beautiful music and unconsciously edged her way to the front of the chorus to see better. Francesco Martini, as Tonio, began walking towards centre stage, looking for Nedda, who was supposed to appear from the opposite wings at a certain passage in the music. The moment for Consuelo's appearance came and went. The soprano didn't appear on cue, and Reed, exasperated, banged the baton down so hard Nora thought he'd broken it. 'Consuelo,' he barked, 'that's your cue, damn it.' He waited. All eyes were turned in the direction of the spot where she was supposed to make her entrance. No Consuelo. Nora, holding her breath, wondered if the temperamental prima donna was making good her threat not to appear in the altered costume. Reed stood stock-still at the podium, his arms folded in front of him, waiting. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Consuelo's dresser, a timid grey-haired woman in a shapeless black dress, appeared on stage. 'Senor Thatcher,' she called hesitantly in her thick accent. Reed glared at her. 'Madame Valdez was suddenly taken ill.' He frowned at the dresser for several seconds. Then the finelychiselled lips curled in a knowing mockery of a smile. He set down his baton and jumped lightly on to the stage.

'Very well,' he said briskly, 'we'll just have to muddle along without her.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'All right,' he said finally, 'we'll use a replacement.' He strode towards the back of the stage where the chorus was gathered, gave the group of singers one sweeping glance, then looked straight at Nora. 'You,' he said. 'You can substitute for Madame Valdez.' There wasn't a flicker of recognition in those steely eyes. 'You do know that part, I presume.' He grabbed her by the wrist and led her over to the wagon in the centre on the stage, in full sight of the whole company.

CHAPTER THREE NORA stumbled along after him in horror, too petrified to open her mouth. The strong firm hand on her wrist was inexorable. She couldn't have broken free of that iron grip even if she'd been able to summon up the will to try. She longed to sink through the floor. Penetrating the buzzing sensation in her head was the dim awareness that she was standing in the centre of the stage and all hundred or more pairs of eyes were fastened on her. Except for the awful roaring noise pounding in her ears, there was total silence. Then she realised that Reed Thatcher was speaking to her in a low voice. 'You do know the part,' he repeated severely. It was one of his dogmas that each member of the chorus should know every principal part thoroughly. 'Uh—' Nora stammered hoarsely. Then, as she cleared her throat, inspiration hit her. 'I have laryngitis,' she croaked. Reed made an impatient gesture, frowned and glanced at his watch. 'Okay,' he said in exasperation, 'we're losing precious time. Just say the words. All I really need is a body.' He grasped her by the shoulders and moved her backwards on to the tail-board of the wagon, forcing her down upon it. He stood back and examined her thoughtfully while she cringed, frozen by fear. He shifted her backwards a little so that her legs stuck out straight in front of her, then pushed her shoulders back so that she was gently reclining, supported by her hands on the floor of the wagon.

Reed beckoned to Francesco, who was standing patiently to one side examining his fingernails minutely. 'Ready, Francesco?' The baritone nodded. 'Okay, let's go,' Reed said, and resumed his position at the podium. The music started. Francesco walked stiffly over to Nora, singing his part of the duet. As the familiar strains of the music and the baritone's golden voice reached her ears, she began to relax. Maybe it would be all right, after all. She knew the opera by heart, having heard it dozens of times and studied the score. She was confident she could at least speak the words. Francesco advanced towards her woodenly, his every motion exaggerated, like a robot. The little baritone was as notorious for his poor acting as he was for his glorious voice. Nora began to enjoy herself. The odd situation gave her the heady illusion that she was actually a real opera singer and she spoke her lines right on cue, keeping the orchestra's tempo, entering into the part with enthusiasm. She cowered realistically away from Francesco as he leaned over her menacingly. Suddenly, the spell was broken by an irritated rapping from the podium. The orchestra stopped. Francesco drew back and Nora looked up to see Reed Thatcher run a hand through his heavy black hair in exasperation. 'No, no, Francesco,' he called, trying to contain his rising frustration. 'Not like that.' Nora's heart sank as the tall man marched purposefully to the centre of the stage, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed. The next thing she knew he was looming, wild-eyed and dishevelled, behind Francesco. The baritone took one step back from the wagon and folded his pudgy arms across his chest so that they rested on his paunch. He was a mild man, but ready to defend himself.

'I am a singer, Reed,' he began, 'not an actor.' He lifted his head to do battle. Reed seemed to be struggling for control. He drew a deep breath and the lines of tension on his forehead deepened. Nora was still leaning back in the wagon, too terrified to move. The tall man ignored her completely. 'I don't expect the impossible, Francesco,' he said to the singer, his voice low arid soothing. 'I just want you to try something.' He cupped his chin in his hand and scowled down at Nora as though she were one of the props. Then, swiftly, he bent over her and grabbed her shoulders. He pushed her back farther on her elbows so that she lay almost prone. He stood back, hands on hips, and examined her again from head to toe. He lifted her skirt so that one thigh was visible, and pulled down the elastic top of the peasant blouse over her shoulder until the upper curve of one breast was just barely visible. Nora's whole body was a sheet of flame. Not only was she mortified beyond belief by this display of bare flesh in front of the whole company, but the touch of those strong hands as they brushed the tender flesh of her breast, her thigh, sent ripples of sensation through her that unsettled her deeply. Yet, even in her agonised embarrassment, she knew that every action he made was totally detached, impersonal, and that his only objective was to get the maximum effect out of the scene. To him, she was only an object to be manipulated, not even a genuine performer. In a way, this realisation made her position less painful. Why, then, she wondered, do I feel disappointed?

She didn't have time to pursue the question. Now he was barking at her. 'Okay, sing your line to give him his cue.' She opened her mouth to remind him that she was too hoarse to sing, but he raised an imperious hand. 'All right, say the line. You can do that, can't you?' She nodded and cleared her throat. '"You can spare yourself your suffering," ' she quoted in a low voice. 'Right,' he muttered. He turned to Francesco, dismissing her. 'Okay, Francesco, you're in love with her, remember? Only she despises you. Not only that, but she's married to Canio, your best friend, your boss.' He beckoned to him. 'Now, come on over here. Stand in front of her. Lean over her. You've got her trapped and she's got to listen to you. Lean over her. She's been laughing at you. You're boiling mad. You want to hurt her, possess her, rape her, if necessary.' Eyes cast down and shuffling his feet uncomfortably, Francesco allowed Reed to place him in the proper position. He stood in front of the cringing Nora and gave her an apologetic look. Reed pushed him forward so that he was forced to lean over her. 'Now,' he commanded her, 'give him his cue.' He lifted an arm in the air and the orchestra began to play. ' "You can spare yourself your suffering,"' she said, feeling like a fool. The smooth baritone voice came in on cue. ' "No, I love you and I want you, and you will be mine,'" Francesco sang woodenly. 'No, no, no!' Reed shouted in despair.

There was total silence on the huge stage. Someone in the back of the chorus coughed nervously. Nora felt as though her arms were going to fall off. She glanced at Reed. He was staring down at the stage, deep in thought, his black hair falling over his forehead, his face like thunder. Cautiously, Nora shifted her weight. One arm had almost gone to sleep and the movement sent needles prickling through it. Reed glared at her. 'Don't move,' he snapped. He rubbed his chin, then raised his head to look at Francesco, who stood rigid, trembling now with outraged dignity. 'Here,' Reed said gently, putting a hand on the baritone's shoulder and moving him aside. 'Let me show you what I want.' He took two long strides and stood before the cowering Nora. She looked up at him, terrified. He was so tall, so threatening looming over her. Once again he raised a hand and the orchestra started to play. He nodded at Nora curtly when her cue came. ' "You can spare yourself your suffering",' she said once again at the proper moment. Her eyes widened as Reed Thatcher bent slowly down over her. His whole expression was transformed. His dark eyes smouldered with sudden lust, the contours of his mouth softened, his lips were slightly parted. Nora stared up at him transfixed as the intensity of that dark gaze slowly warmed her blood. He began to sing in a warm, clear baritone.' "No, I love you and I want you, and you will be mine." ' As he did so, one hand reached out and clasped her bare shoulder. She flinched under the touch. Then his other hand was on her leg, moving slowly upwards to the exposed thigh. The music soared on to a passionate pitch.

She gasped as she felt that hard, lean body lower itself on top of her, the half-open mouth moving towards her own. She forgot that they were on a stage surrounded by the whole cast, that they were only acting, that by rights she shouldn't even be there. All she was aware of was that body resting on hers, the large strong hand kneading her shoulder, sliding dangerously, tantalisingly near the curve of her breast. As the finely-chiselled lips came closer, their eyes met briefly. Was the desire she saw in those black pools for her, for Nora Baird? Or was it Tonio, lusting for Nedda? Or, she wondered, her heart sinking, was it recognition? In one lithe springing movement, he tore himself away from her and was on his feet again. 'Now, you see what I mean?' she heard him ask Francesco. 'Your actions must convey lust! The feeling is primarily in the voice, of course. That's why people come to the opera, to hear you sing. But you must touch her and look at her with desire.' Nora listened to him. The matter-of-fact voice seemed to be miles away. She lay there for a moment gasping, shattered by the experience. She slowly began to come to her senses. She realised how ridiculous she must look and hoped the others hadn't noticed. She pulled the blouse back up on her shoulder and sat up, smoothing the skirt so that it fell once again below her knees. She longed to slip away unnoticed, to sink through the floor, to die on the spot. Anything, she thought, to escape without having to face those burning eyes again. 'All right,' she heard Reed's voice, 'let's call it a night. Rehearsal tomorrow morning, nine sharp.'

As she slipped off the back of the wagon and started to walk off the stage with the rest of the chorus, she couldn't resist one last backward glance at Reed. He had his back to her, speaking earnestly to Francesco, his head bent to accommodate the shorter man. She knew she didn't even exist any more in his mind. That's fine with me, she thought with relief. To him I'm just a piece of furniture. He's a professional. There was nothing personal, so there's no need to feel so embarrassed, so—so violated. In the sudden rush of relief, she smiled a little. As she did so, Reed turned his head slightly so that he was now facing her. Their eyes met. The thin lips twisted into a mocking smile. It only lasted a split second. Quickly, she lowered her eyes and with all the dignity she could muster, walked off the stage. Ginny caught her by the arm. 'Wow,' she breathed, her eyes shining with excitement, 'that was a close call.' Nora managed a weak smile, torn between relief that it was over and the turmoil of emotions the scene with Reed had aroused in her. 'Let's get out of here,' she muttered. The two girls made their way quickly to the wings. Standing in their way, near the complex electrician's lighting panel, was a blond young man in evening dress. As Nora and Ginny brushed past him, he reached out and touched .Nora lightly on the arm. 'Excuse me,' he said. Nora stopped and gave him an inquiring look. 'My name is Peter Winston,' he went on hurriedly. 'May I have a word with you?' His smile was warm and friendly. 'Me?' Nora asked nervously. 'What is it?' The name was vaguely familiar and she wondered if he was some official of the opera come to fire her.

He held her gently by the elbow and guided her away from the streaming traffic on its way to the dressing rooms. 'Mr Winston,' she said, 'I'm sorry, but I'm in a terrible hurry.' She had to get away before Reed came backstage. 'What was it you wanted? Is it important?' He smiled disarmingly. He was tall, about thirty, with even white teeth and soft brown eyes. The shock of smooth golden hair was quite straight, but styled expensively to perfection. Nora could tell that his clothes were custom-made, even to the monogrammed shirt. 'Well, I think it is,' he said easily. 'I was wondering if you'd care to have a drink with me, or a late supper.' Nora looked up at him in surprise. She hadn't expected that. 'I'm sorry, Mr Winston,' she said stiffly. 'Not only am I in a hurry, but I don't even know you.' 'I was afraid you'd say that,' he sighed. 'Look, I have some pretty good references, if that would help. You may know my mother. Agnes Graham Winston. She's an ardent patron of the Met. Does that make any difference? I'm really quite respectable.' Of course, Nora realised, Mrs Winston was a wealthy woman who gave very generously to the Met's sustaining fund. She didn't want to offend her son, but the one thought in her mind was to get out of there. She was certain now that Reed had recognised her as the mystery woman from the party last week. She had told him then she was not a singer, and now tonight she had shown up in the chorus. What must he think of her!

That look on his face, she realised now, when he had stood gazing down at her after the seduction scene, was pure contempt. Not only had she stood him up, but he must believe she had lied to him. That monstrous male ego of his would never overlook two such blows. She had to disappear immediately into the anonymity of the wardrobe department or lose her job without question. She knew her days in the chorus were over. She regretted that, but all she wanted to do now was keep her job. If she didn't get away now she would surely have to confront him. She started to mumble an excuse to the patiently- waiting Peter Winston, when she caught sight of a tall figure bearing purposefully down on them from the stage. She drew in her breath sharply. He was only about twenty feet away. In a panic, she grabbed Peter Winston's arm. 'All right, Mr Winston,' she said. 'I'll go with you. But we must hurry.' He gave her a puzzled look and opened his mouth to speak. Then, obviously deciding not to question her motives for fear she'd change her mind, he slipped her arm under his and they walked off together. She wanted to avoid the backstage area, so she led him down the steps from the stage to the auditorium. Without a backward glance, they walked quickly up the darkened aisle out into the foyer and towards the front entrance. It was chilly outside and Nora shivered a little in the thin costume. 'Don't you have a coat?' Peter asked her. She shook her head, her teeth beginning to chatter. Peter put an arm around her and led her out to the street. 'Come on, my car is right out in front.'

His dark blue Lincoln Continental was parked halfway down Fifth Avenue. He unlocked the door and helped her in, then went around to the other side. When he was behind the wheel he started the motor and soon a delicious warmth filled the car. Nora began to thaw. Now what? she asked herself. What kind of mess have I got myself into this time? She sighed. For a young woman who went out of her way to work hard and cultivate a quiet life with a low profile, she had certainly landed herself in an awkward situation. She darted a glance at Peter Winston from under heavy black eyelashes. He was leaning back in the seat, one arm resting on the steering wheel in front of him. In the light of the neon signs and oncoming traffic, she could see that he was smiling at her. Do you know you have violet eyes?' he asked her. She flushed deeply, remembering that Reed Thatcher had said almost the same thing not so long ago. 'Look,' she began, looking down at her folded hands in confusion, 'Mr Winston . . .' 'Peter, please,' he said. He tore his eyes away from her and straightened up, shifting gears and releasing the emergency brake. 'Where to?' he asked. He found an opening in the traffic and guided the car out into the street. Nora realised then that she still had her costume on. That would be another problem, she thought, getting it back on the rack in wardrobe without being seen. Never again, she vowed. The chorus would just have to do without her from now on.

'I'd appreciate it very much, Peter,' she said primly, hoping she wasn't going to have to beat him off, 'if you'd take me home.' She directed him to her apartment, and in a few minutes the sleek powerful car had covered the ten blocks or so. At the curb, he pulled over and switched off the engine. 'Thank you very much, Peter,' Nora said, her hand reaching for the door, ready to leave. He didn't speak. She glanced at his crestfallen face. Finally, he reached a hand out to her, then drew it back quickly as she shrank away from him. 'Look,' he said, 'I'm perfectly harmless, honestly. We—my mother and I—have passes to all the dress rehearsals. Ask anyone.' He grinned. 'Well, you can't do that now, but I wish you'd trust me. I only want to take you out for a bite to eat.' He raised both palms in the air. 'Honest. No strings. No passes. Pretend I'm your brother.' Nora smiled. 'I don't have a brother.' She began to relax. His frank open face seemed-trustworthy, he was obviously well-known at the opera house or he wouldn't have been backstage, and his grin was infectious. Besides, she owed him something for rescuing her from Reed Thatcher's wrath. 'Well,' he said, 'adopt me, then.' 'I don't think you can adopt a brother,' she said, laughing. She tossed the black silky hair away from her delicate oval face and smiled at him. His expression sobered as he gazed at her. A yearning look appeared in the brown eyes. 'I don't even know your name,' he said softly.

'It's Nora. Nora Baird.' 'All right, Nora Baird, let's go.' 'I'll have to change out of this costume and get my stage make-up removed first,' she said. She hesitated. 'You can come inside and wait for me if you like.' They got out of the car and opening the door with the spare key which she kept hidden for emergencies, Nora went inside her basement apartment. She flicked on the lights as Peter followed. He gazed around the bright, cheerful room with its stark white walls, yellow upholstery and gay spring-coloured pillows and rugs and whistled appreciatively through his teeth. 'Very nice,' he said, nodding. 'I would never have thought to find spring in a basement apartment in the heart of New York in October.' 'Sit down, Peter,' she said, motioning him to the yellow couch. 'I won't be long.' It was only as she was scrubbing her face under the shower that she began to wonder how Peter Winston had suddenly appeared in her life. He had only said he wanted to take her out, but they had never even met. As she dried herself, she began seriously to doubt the wisdom of having invited a perfect stranger into her apartment late at night, no matter how impeccable his credentials. Quickly, she slipped into a lacy bra, tights and half-slip and went to her closet. The quicker they got out of here and into a public place, the better off she'd be. She grabbed the first thing she saw, a heavy satin evening blouse with long full sleeves and a wide

collar, and a slim black shantung skirt. She stepped into black pumps, ran a comb through her hair and applied a light make-up. When she went back into the all-purpose living room, she saw him standing at her work table examining the sketches for La Traviata she had been working on. He looked up as she walked towards him, his eyes widening in appreciation. 'You're very beautiful, you know,' he said, a little catch in his voice. Oh, no, she said to herself. Watch out. He must have noticed the little flash of apprehension cross her face, because he tore his eyes away from her and turned his attention back to the sketches. 'These are very good,' he said. 'Are you a designer as well as a singer?' She hesitated. 'That's a long story,' she said finally. 'I'll tell you about it at supper.' He helped her into her old black cashmere coat, his hands lingering just a fraction of a second on her shoulders as he did so, and they stepped outside. He took her to a well-known French restaurant near the opera house, a favourite spot for performers and opera-goers. It was crowded, as always, but the head waiter beamed at them when they walked in. 'Ah, Mr Winston,' he said. 'Good evening.' 'Good evening, Claude,' Peter said. 'Could you possibly find us a table?'

'Of course, Mr Winston,' Claude replied smoothly. 'Right this way.' As Peter took her lightly by the elbow to guide her to the table, one of the best in the room, Nora began to feel better about going out with a perfect stranger. He was obviously well-known. Claude whisked the reserved sign off the table, helped Nora remove her coat, seated her, then discreetly vanished. There was a small orchestra off in a corner playing show tunes, and over the pleasant music Nora listened to the low hum of discreet conversation, the clink of glassware, an occasional burst of laughter. She began to relax and enjoy herself. Working as hard as she did, her evenings out were rare. She frowned a little, wishing now she had taken a little more care with her appearance. 'What's wrong?' Peter asked. 'Nothing, really,' she replied. 'This is such a grand place. I was just wishing I hadn't been in such a hurry to get ready.' 'You look perfect,' he said positively, and with obvious sincerity. As his glance swept over her, Nora reddened. She knew that the heavy satin of the blouse clung a little too seductively to her full firm breasts and that the vee of the neckline plunged lower than she liked. Usually when she wore this blouse she put on a full slip underneath and pinned on a brooch to raise the neckline. She had been in such a hurry tonight to get out of the apartment that she had forgotten to do either. Claude himself appeared to take their order. Peter ordered a Martini, Nora a glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream.

While they sipped their drinks they looked at the supper menu. 'How hungry are you?' Peter asked. 'Starved,' she admitted. She'd been so rushed trying to finish Consuelo's costume and dressing for the rehearsal that she hadn't eaten a bite since lunch. 'How about escargots to start out with?' he asked. She wrinkled her nose. 'Snails? Ugh. No thank you.' 'They're quite a delicacy, you know.' She shook her head firmly. 'Where I come from, the slugs can grow a foot long. The slimy, disgusting things chomp their way through the gardens all spring and summer.' 'And where do you come from?' he asked. 'Oregon,' she replied. 'A small town near Portland on the Columbia River.' 'How long have you been in New York?' 'Two years.' 'What about your family?' he smiled. 'I know you don't have a brother, anyway.' Nora returned his smile. Really, she thought, he was the nicest man. 'No, nor a sister, either. I'm one of those dreadful only children.' 'And your parents doted on you, I suppose,' he rejoined lightly, 'spoilt you rotten?'

She thought that over. 'No,' she said at last, 'I don't think they did. My father is a fisherman, and in years when the salmon weren't running well, there wasn't much money. I always knew they cared for me, but I came along late in life for them, and I was expected to be independent.' He gave her a searching look. 'I can see that,' he said. 'It must have been hard for you to leave your home and come to the wicked city all on your own.' She laughed at that. 'Oh, I'm not that big a hayseed. You easterners think that civilisation ends at the Hudson River.' 'Surely we're not as provincial as all that,' he protested. 'Oh, no?' she mocked. 'I'll bet you think we're still fighting the Indians in the West. Actually we're quite civilised. The pace is slower, and I do miss that. A small town is almost like a family. Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone cares.' 'You sound homesick. Do you miss your friends?' 'At times,' she admitted. 'New York is so impersonal. But it's also the most exciting place I've ever been, and I wouldn't give it up for the world. I've made friends here, at school and at the Met.' 'What about romance?' he asked lightly. 'Is there a young man with a broken heart back in Oregon, sacrificed on the altar of your career?' 'Hardly,' she said, laughing. 'I guess I thought I was in love a time or two, back in high school, but I was raised to believe that work was more important than having fun, and I guess the lesson stuck.' She caught a gleam of sympathy in his eye and hurried to explain.

'It's not as bad as it sounds. I like what I'm doing. Work is fun to me.' 'You just haven't met the right man,' he said. 'No,' she agreed, 'I haven't.' The waiter appeared. Nora ordered her favourite, cog au vin, and Peter, who had sensibly had his dinner earlier, did order the escargots. 'Now,' Peter said, 'please explain to me how you happen to be both a costume designer and a singer.' Nora sighed. Sick of deception, she decided to tell him the truth. 'Actually,' she said, 'I'm neither.' Then she took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of how she had happened to be in the chorus, her ambitions to become a designer, her night classes, her job in wardrobe. She omitted any reference to Reed Thatcher. At the end of her recital, Peter threw back his head and laughed heartily. 'I love it,' he said. 'It's beautiful. So demure, so reserved, and here you are leading this exciting double life.' She reddened. 'That's all over,' she said firmly. 'I almost got caught tonight by Reed Thatcher. If he were to find out, he'd fire me.' 'Oh, I don't think so,' Peter said. 'I know Reed quite well. He's a perfectionist, but not mean or vindictive.' 'But you don't know . . .' She started to tell him about the scene after the party, but stopped herself just in time. 'He may be nice to you,' she said weakly, 'but believe me he's a monster to work for.'

At that moment she looked up into the flinty grey eyes of Reed Thatcher. He had obviously just arrived at the restaurant and was walking towards a table. Consuelo Valdez, in a bare-shouldered, low-cut emerald green dress, was clinging to his arm. He had changed his clothes since the rehearsal and had on a dark tweed jacket and conservative Paisley tie. There were several people in their party, all laughing and chattering. Reed towered over them all, and as he held Nora's eyes in that hypnotic gaze, for just a second it seemed to her that they were the only two people in the room. She looked away in confusion. Would he make a scene in public? He was quite capable of it, she knew, if it suited his purposes. The next thing she knew he was standing at their table shaking hands with Peter Winston. 'How are you, Peter?' he asked. 'Haven't seen you for a while.' 'I was at the rehearsal tonight,' Peter said. He had stood up. 'I hope Consuelo is feeling better.' 'She is completely recovered,' Reed said in a flat tone. His thin mouth curved. 'She'll be at tomorrow's rehearsal.' Then, without a glance at Nora, he walked off to join his party. Nora breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him disappear in the crowd. When she turned back to Peter he was gazing at her intently. 'Did I detect an undercurrent of—ah—hostility between you and Reed?' he asked lightly. 'I was going to introduce you, but I assumed you knew each other already.'

'No,' she said. 'No hostility. Mr Thatcher doesn't stoop to speak to menials in public, however. He has nothing to gain.' Peter only raised his eyebrows at that remark and quickly changed the subject. They chatted comfortably about opera over dinner arguing amicably about the respective merits of Wagner and Verdi. Nora loved them both, but Peter, a more sophisticated addict, came down heavily on the side of Wagner. He suggested an after-dinner drink, but Nora was suddenly very tired. It had been an exhausting day, and she was thankful tomorrow was Saturday. Chances were, however, that she would get called on to come in and work on Consuelo's costume. During dinner she had seen Reed and Consuelo only once as they danced. The tiny soprano had both hands placed lingeringly on Reed's broad shoulders, and his hands had spanned the small waist possessively. Since then she hadn't caught sight of him at all, and she hoped they had just had a quick drink and left. In the foyer, as Peter was paying the bill, Claude approached him and told him he had a phone call. Peter frowned. 'Do you mind, Nora?' he asked. 'If they tracked me down here it must be important, but I'll make it quick.' 'No,' she replied, 'go ahead.' Claude led him into a small private office to take the call, and Nora wandered over to a large framed montage made up of photographs of famous opera stars of the past. She laid her black coat on the bench below the montage and studied the pictures. There was Caruso, and Ezio Pinza, Lauritz

Melchior, Kirsten Flagstad, Galli-Curci, all the great singers she had heard on record, but never seen. Suddenly she felt an iron grip on her arm just above the elbow. She whirled around to see Reed Thatcher looming over her. His eyes were narrowed, his face grim, and Nora's heart began to pound.

CHAPTER FOUR 'ALL right,' Reed muttered through clenched teeth, 'you've got some explaining to do.' 'You're hurting me,' Nora said when she had recovered her breath. 'Good,' he snapped. 'I'd like to wring your neck.' He began to pull her along as he strode purposefully into a small room just off the foyer. Still clutching her arm, he shut the door and turned the lock. It was deathly silent in the room. There were a desk and chair, a long low couch against one wall, and a small table with a dim lamp burning on it. He turned to her, eyes blazing, and grasped her other arm. He held her from him at a distance and gave her a shake. 'So, you're not a singer. Isn't that what you told me?' he snarled. 'You little liar. You're like all the rest. Seduce the music director and get a boost in your career.' His hold on her relaxed a little. His mouth curved in a mocking smile as he looked her slowly up and down, his eyes resting on her heaving breast. 'I'll have to admit your approach was unique, however.' 'I—I don't know what you're talking about,' she said shakily. His anger unnerved her, but she could feel a slow fury of her own slowly building up inside her. What right did he have to manhandle her like this? 'As I remember,' she spat at him, 'you made all the advances.' His eyes flashed. 'Sure. You saw to that. You put on a provocative dress, stand alone where I can't miss you, fall in my arms at the

first invitation, then vanish. What a scheme! Did you think when you showed up tonight at the rehearsal I'd be so glad to find you again that I'd fall at your feet?' 'I don't care what you think,' she said angrily. 'Just let me go. Peter will be wondering where I am.' He raised heavy dark eyebrows. "'That was very clever of you, trapping poor Winston like that. Did you think he'd have more influence than I? Will seducing him further your career more quickly than I could?' She felt his hot breath on her face as he hurled accusation after accusation at her. 'Was he waiting for you that night after the party?' he asked. 'Did he finish the job I started?' Nora was so furious by now that she was speechless. She could only stare at him for some moments. 'You arrogant swine!' she finally sputtered. 'I've never heard such conceit. I wouldn't want you to touch me for all the careers in the world. Now, let me go.' She struggled to escape his grasp, twisting frantically, trying to pull away from him. 'You tramp,' he muttered, and let her go so suddenly that she almost fell. Free at last, she instinctively raised a hand to slap that arrogant face, but he parried her blow with one strong arm. The next thing she knew, his mouth was clamped on hers, his arms around her, pulling her against his hard male thighs and chest. She struggled against his fierce kiss, but as his mouth forced hers open and his hands began to move slowly up and down the silky material of her blouse, she was suddenly horrified at the shaft of liquid fire that seemed to flow through her. Against her will, she

melted against that hard male body and opened her mouth to receive him. He drew her down on to the low couch, pressing her head against the back of it by the sheer force of his kiss. She was lost. She knew it, and she didn't care. She hated him, but couldn't withstand the power he possessed to reduce her to a quivering mass of desire. His mouth still moving against hers, he put a hand on her throat. As it slid downwards to the deep vee of her blouse, she arched her body closer with a little moan of longing. Then she could feel his hand unbuttoning the blouse and slipping inside to cup a full breast, straining now almost out of the lacy bra. She gasped as he unhooked the front fastening and slowly began to stroke her nipple already taut and hard. Then he tore his mouth from hers and lowered it to the exposed breast, his lips and tongue tantalising on the sensitive white flesh. With his hand still containing that soft round fullness, his mouth closed on the thrusting tip. In a searing stab of desire, she clutched wildly at the dark head at her breast, her hands smoothing and raking the crisp hair. He raised his head then and looked deeply into her eyes. 'Do you want me to make love to you?' he asked hoarsely. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. She'd never felt this way before. No man had ever aroused her to such a pitch of desire. Was now the time to experience the fullness of a man's love for the first time? 'Yes,' she breathed, unable to stop herself. They were sitting facing each other now, a little apart. Her blouse had fallen closed to cover her nakedness. His hands were on her

shoulders. He slid them down, now, and pushed aside the blouse, cupping both breasts in those sensitive hands. She looked at him. His dark hair was tousled from her frantic caresses, and the sheer beauty of his fine features took her breath away. The straight long nose, the fine mouth, the flat planes of his cheeks with the high bones, all combined into a perfection she had never seen before. She loved the feel of his hands gently moulding her breasts, the masculine smell of his skin and hair, the heavy dark lashes that framed his grey eyes. She reached out a hand and gently ran it down his face, her fingers tingling at the feel of the male roughness of his cheek, the softness of his earlobe. He took her hand into both of his, turning it up and lowering his head to kiss the palm. 'Shall I take you now? Here?' he murmured against her palm; he looked up at her through the sooty lashes. In the dim light she couldn't read his expression, but a sixth sense warned her something was wrong. Instinctively, she clutched the opening of her blouse shut and gave him a puzzled look. With a harsh laugh, he rose to his feet and stood looking down at her. He straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. Then he smiled. 'I think we're even now,' he said. He turned and walked towards the door, then turned again to give her one last look. Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. Nora was so stunned she could only stare. What a fool I've been, she thought in despair. What a stupid, gullible little fool. Oh, yes,

Mr Reed Thatcher, she said to herself, we're even, all right. It was never even a contest. She sighed wearily and slowly began to fasten her clothing. She realised now that her innocent little game had placed her way out of her league. She was disgusted with herself, burning with shame at the way she had fallen into Reed Thatcher's arms, but at the same time she knew she didn't deserve such despicable retaliation. He had totally misunderstood her motives, but he'd never believe that. Well, she thought, running fingers through her hair to tidy it, it might not be such a disaster, except to her pride. He still didn't connect her with Nora Baird from the wardrobe department. At least her job was still safe. Nora hated deception and was glad now she had decided to tell Peter Winston the truth. Peter! She suddenly remembered. He must have wondered what had happened to her. She raced out of the room. He was standing by the framed montage, her black coat over his arm. His eyes lit up when he saw her. He smiled and started to walk towards her. As he came closer the smile vanished and the brown eyes clouded over with concern. 'What's wrong, Nora?' he asked, taking her by the arm. She smoothed her hair back from her forehead and managed a weak smile. 'Nothing, really, Peter. I felt a little queasy, that's all. Must have been too much cog au vin.' 'Can I do something?' he asked, concerned. 'How about an aspirin? Alka seltzer? I give a great back rub.'

She grinned. 'No thanks. I am tired, though. It's been a long hard day.' 'Your double life,' he said with a smile. 'My double life is definitely over,' she said emphatically. 'From now on I'm staying off that stage.' He helped her on with her coat and they went out into the cool night air. They walked companionably together to the car. 'That was a terrific idea, however,' he said as he opened the door for her. 'I wish I'd thought of it.' He went around and got in on his side. She turned to him. 'Don't tell me you're a frustrated opera singer, too.' He nodded ruefully and started the car. 'Afraid so. Only, unlike you, I can't even carry a tune.' As he pulled out into the traffic, he began to sing Canio's aria from Pagliacci, the great 'Laugh, clown, laugh' that all tenors have to sing once in their careers. Nora broke out laughing as his voice wobbled on off-key, and before she knew it they had pulled up in front of her apartment. She turned to him. 'Thanks, Peter, for a lovely evening. And for listening to my confession.' He reached out and took her hand. 'I won't ask to come in. I know you're tired and don't really know me. But I'd like to see you again. I have to go out of town for a week on business, but maybe we can do something next weekend. I'll call you when I get back. Okay?'

Nora considered the question. She liked him very much, felt comfortable and secure with him. He could make her laugh, take her to places she had never been before. But she had to be honest with him. 'All right, Peter,' she said at last, 'but not under false pretences. I am very serious about my career. I think I have talent, and I'm willing to work hard. I decided when I came to New York that I would avoid any romantic entanglement, and I haven't changed my mind.' 'I understand,' he replied. 'I guessed as much and appreciate your honesty. I just like being with you. You're different from the other women I know, more real. You have a sense of purpose, a goal. I like that. Not to mention your talent. I was really impressed with those sketches. I could help you, you know, if you'd let me. My mother and I have some influence at the Met.' Nora froze. 'Peter, if you ever even so much as suggest such a thing to me, I'll never see you again.' She saw the hurt look on his face and relented. She squeezed his hand. 'If I can't make it on my own, I don't want success. Don't you understand?' He sighed. 'Of course I do, and it's just one more thing I like about you and find so attractive—that stubborn integrity.' She laughed. 'In spite of my double life?' He .cocked his head to one side. 'I think, because of it.' She said goodnight then slipped out of the car. He watched her until she was safely inside with the lights burning, then drove off. Suddenly, perversely, Nora wasn't sleepy. She had expected to fall into bed and go fast asleep immediately, but instead she found herself pacing around the large room, her mind racing.

She put on some coffee, got undressed and slipped into her nightgown and robe. She poured a cup of coffee and sat down at her work table to look over her sketches. After several feeble attempts, she found she couldn't concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to the scene with Reed Thatcher at the restaurant. She felt deeply ashamed that she had responded so ardently to his kiss, his caress. Yet, even now, remembering the sweet taste of his mouth on hers, the feel of his hands roaming possessively over her body, the dark hair, so crisp and clean under her touch, she knew that if he walked in at the door right now he would have the same effect on her. His hard arrogance both attracted and repelled her—and, yes, she thought, shivering a little, frightened her. He was a dangerous man, a man who would hurt her deeply if she didn't stay out of his way. She sighed, finished her coffee and switched off the work lamp. There was only one thing to do, she thought as she fell into bed, sleepy at last. She must see to it that he never found out who she was. Her whole peace of mind and self-respect—not to mention her job—depended on it.

Nora got up late Saturday morning. Her first thought on waking was of Reed Thatcher. She knew she had to put him out of her mind. She hated him for the way he had treated her last night and intended to stay as far away from him as possible in the future. After breakfast, she showered, dressed in blue denims and a plaid shirt, and gave the apartment a good cleaning. Then she put on her heavy red jacket, pulled her crocheted cap over her dark hair and went out shopping.

She loved New York, every filthy nook and cranny of it. It was a crisp autumn day, the air bright and clear for a change, and as she walked along on her way to the market she drank in the activity and bustle of the city like a child in a candy store. In spite of the horrendous crime rate, the exorbitant cost of living, the dirt and traffic, noise and smog, to Nora New York held a fascination and excitement that made her happy merely to be alive in such a wonderful place. The tall buildings, the marvellous shops, Central Park, the innumerable cultural opportunities, many of them free, made living in the city a joyous experience where each day brought something new to explore. She loved wandering around the food stores in the various neighbourhoods. Every conceivable kind of appetite was catered for, from foreign and exotic to the most current health food fads. She especially liked the delicatessens, which seemed to sprout on every street, smelling of garlic, fish and pungent spices. When she had made her purchases, she walked slowly home. It was growing dark early now, the air colder. Nora wondered if it would snow this winter. She loved the city in all its aspects—rain, snow, sunshine, hot or cold. After she had an early supper, Ginny and Ken stopped by on their way to the Saturday night performance of Pagliacci. They tried to talk her into coming with them to sing in the chorus, but Nora was adamant in her refusal. 'Now way,' she said firmly. They were sitting around the little glass-topped table, under the paper Tiffany lamp, drinking coffee. 'It's too risky. If Reed Thatcher caught me there again I think he'd murder me.'

'Well, I think it's a shame,' Ginny hotly defended her. 'You weren't doing any harm.' 'On the contrary,' Ken drawled, eyeing her narrowly, 'I would say you added a great deal.' His eyes travelled up and down her body. 'You're quite decorative, you know, when you let your hair down and get out of that disgusting smock you hide in at work.' Nora flushed and glanced at Ginny. Ken was a conceited young man who thought he was God's gift to women. His sandy hair, pale blue eyes and short muscular frame were attractive enough, she thought, but not nearly as potent as he obviously thought they were. It bothered Nora that Ginny had allowed Ken to move into her apartment with her, especially since Ken always acted as though he were doing her a great favour by it. Not only that, but he had a roving eye. Nora didn't think of herself as a prude. She knew that in this permissive era it was quite common for a man and woman to live together without marrying, and didn't condemn them for that. She, herself, wasn't interested in any emotional involvement at all, but if she were, she knew it could never be a casual affair. There would have to be some permanent commitment. She and Ginny had argued about this many times. 'But, Nora,' Ginny had insisted once, 'sex is fun!' 'I'm sure it is,' Nora had replied wryly, 'but I also happen to think it can be dangerous at the wrong time, the wrong place, and with the wrong person.' 'You mean getting pregnant?' Ginny had asked. 'Not with the pill.'

'I'm talking more about emotional damage, but the pill is risky, too,' Nora had insisted. 'Oh, honestly, Nora, you're such a coward! What do you get out of life without some risk? Or maybe you're just frigid.' This had bothered Nora for some time afterwards. Was she a coward, afraid of risk? She didn't think so. She had risked a great deal to come to New York alone to seek success, leaving her family's protection and love, even defying their disapproval. And didn't it take even more courage to live alone, independent and free, without the comforting presence of a man? As for being frigid, she thought now, her cheeks burning, surely her ardent response to Reed Thatcher's touch, much as she regretted it, disproved that theory. She watched the way Ginny couldn't keep her hands off Ken, the way he seemed merely to allow her to touch him, as if he were giving her a big treat. He slouched in his chair, a complacent grin on his face, while Ginny fluttered about him in servile attendance. Nora knew she could never tolerate such an arrangement. It just wasn't in her. Ken stood up now and Ginny rose quickly from her chair to link her arm in his. 'We'd better be going,' Ken said. '-Sorry you're not coming with us.' His attempt at a seductive leer made Nora want to laugh out loud. Poor Ginny, she thought. I hope she knows what she's let herself in for.

Ken had gone on ahead and at the door Nora held Ginny back for a moment. 'Listen,' she said, 'it's really important that Reed Thatcher never finds out who I am. He'd be so furious he'd fire me for sure.' 'Sure, don't worry. Ken and I will never tell.' She gave Nora a searching look. 'I think more is going on here, though, than meets the eye. Are you going to tell me about it?' 'There's nothing to tell,' Nora said firmly. 'How was your date last night with Peter Winston?' 'Fine. He's very nice.' 'Are you going to see him again?' Nora hesitated. 'Probably,' she said, 'but just as a friend.' Ginny sighed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ken, up on the pavement by now, was calling impatiently to her. 'Come on, Ginny, we'll be late.' In a flash, Ginny turned and raced up the steps. Nora watched them as they walked down the street together. Ginny hung on to Ken's arm, laughing up into his face, as though terrified he would get away.

The next day, Sunday, Nora worked on her designs for La Traviata all day. By afternoon she was quite pleased with what she had done so far. It was one of the most difficult operas to costume because of the many changes and elaborate gowns that were needed. It was a real challenge to any designer.

La Traviata, the poignant story of the lady of the camellias, who gives up the man she loves for the sake of his family's honour then dies tragically in the end, was one of Nora's favourites. Set in the brilliant society of France in the eighteen-hundreds, the costumes had to be historically accurate as well as beautiful. Because of the expense, the policy of the opera house was to try, as far as possible, to use the same costumes for each new production. This usually worked for the extras, chorus and minor characters, but the heroine, Violetta, always had new costumes. Even though Nora knew there wasn't a chance her designs would ever be used, she enjoyed letting her imagination run riot in the creation of the sumptuous gowns, country clothes, and lacy negligees. At around four o'clock, Nora decided she'd better take the costume she had worn home on Friday night back to the opera house. It would be deserted by now, and she could slip it back on the rack, pick up her own clothes, and get out without being seen. It was another sunny day, and Nora walked the ten blocks to the Met, the package containing the costume under her arm. There was always a crowd of tourists milling around outside the opera house at Lincoln Centre, even a few seated at the outdoor restaurant, braving the chill air. Nora sidestepped her way through a guided tour and circled around to the stage door at the back of the building. The door was locked, but Nora had a key. She unlocked the door and stepped inside into the quiet corridor, dimly lit by a single bulb near the entrance. She hurried down to the wardrobe room, unlocked that door and slipped inside. Here again, dim lights were burning. So far so good.

She had made it back to the room where the costumes were kept and had unwrapped her package when she heard the door into the corridor open and shut, then voices coming from the outer work room. Her heart sank. Who in the world could be here on a Sunday afternoon? As quietly as possible, she hung up the costume in its place on the rack, then crouched down between the rows so as not to be seen. She hoped that whoever was out there would go away soon so she could escape without being seen. She listened carefully, straining her ears to hear if she could recognise the voices. They were coming closer. Nora's heart began to pound. What if they came inside! She crouched down on all fours, hardly daring to breathe. The door opened abruptly. The bright overhead light went on, and Nora was sure she would either scream or faint. 'All right,' came a familiar deep voice, 'let's take a look.' Nora clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry It was Reed Thatcher! What was he doing in wardrobe on Sunday afternoon? ' She heard footsteps, then the rustle of silk and the screech of hangers sliding along the metal cross-bar of the first rack. The costumes for La Traviata had been placed there Friday, at the front of the rack where the costumes for the current opera were always kept. 'You see?' came the shrill voice of Consuelo Valdez. 'It is impossible.' A high-heeled shoe stamped angrily on the wooden floor. 'That Italian cow who sang Violetta last year is ten sizes bigger than I am. I will never wear that costume! Never, never!'

'Now, look, Consuelo,' Reed was saying, 'forget the size. That can be altered. Look at the style, the colour. It's perfect for the first act.' His tone was placating, but Nora detected a note of irritation. 'This is the only old costume I'll ask you to wear. The others will all be new.' 'No!' Consuelo said with determination. 'Absolutely not.' There was a short silence. Nora had a vision in her mind of the small fiery Spaniard, her arms folded in front of her, glaring up at the tall dark man with the steel-grey eyes. The irresistible force meets the immovable object, she thought to herself as she cowered there among the costumes. 'Very well, Consuelo,' Reed was saying at last, his voice icy calm. She could hear the costume being placed back on the rack. 'It's short notice, but I'm sure the "Italian cow" as you refer to Madame Felice, will be happy to sing Violetta again at the Met.' Another short silence while Consuelo thought that one over. Nora was so interested in the outcome of this battle of wills that she forgot her fear. Then she heard Consuelo's voice, low and seductive. 'Oh, now, Reed,' she purred. 'Do not threaten me.' Nora could imagine those clawlike hands with the scarlet tips reaching around Reed's neck. 'I never threaten, Consuelo,' he said in a low firm voice. 'You should know by now that I always mean what I say.' 'Ah, mi caro,' Consuelo murmured now, 'how well I know that. It's why I love you. You're the only man I know I can't bully. Kiss me.'

There was a long silence then, and Nora held her breath in an agony of suspense, her imagination running wild as she visualised that dark head bending down, the thin lips drawing closer. She could almost feel the strong demanding arms close around her again, the hard thighs pressing against her own. Finally she heard Consuelo heave a deep contented sigh. 'Ah, caro, I will do whatever you ask. You know I am yours.' She sounded like a sleepy cat who had just finished the cream. 'Come on,' came Reed's husky voice, 'let's get out of here.' The light switched off then, the door clicked shut, and Nora heard their footsteps as they walked through the work room and out the main door into the corridor. The key snapped in the lock, and she was alone again in the dim room. She slowly raised herself up, hanging on to a costume for support. Her knees were weak, the muscles of her legs aching, and her whole body was damp with perspiration. So they were having an affair, she thought, and was surprised at how bereft this made her feel. She gave herself a little shake. It was none of her business. She should be grateful his attentions were occupied elsewhere. After all, it had been her choice to disappear that first night after the party at the opera house. As she slowly made her way to the door, she couldn't help wondering what would have happened if she had come back to him that night he had waited for her at the bottom of the steps. She had to smile. She knew quite well what would have happened. They would have ended up in bed. Reed Thatcher was a man, not a

boy. There had been more on his mind that night than a few passionate kisses. A part of Nora had to admit that she deeply regretted not having gone with him. It would have been quite an experience, she thought, to have been made love to for the first time by a man like Reed Thatcher. She locked the wardrobe door behind her, and as she started down the dim corridor on her way outside, she thought again of the way he had humiliated her at the restaurant, arousing her to such a pitch of desire, then the taunting look in his eyes as he had drawn away from her. She would never forget the contempt in that flinty- gaze as long as she lived. No, she thought at last, as she let herself into her apartment, she wasn't sorry she had run away from him that night. The inescapable fact was that Reed Thatcher; was way out of her league. He would hurt her no matter what, and she should feel lucky to have escaped with only singed wings. She could have been destroyed entirely.

CHAPTER FIVE THE next few weeks were hectic as everyone in the wardrobe department worked feverishly to finish the costumes for La Traviata in time for the first dress rehearsal. There were only two weeks left, and by now Nora was convinced they would need at least a month. Even though there were only six new costumes to be made, all the old ones had to be altered to fit the different singers in this new production. Wardrobe was a madhouse, with people, coming in at all hours of the day and night for fittings. Time had to be scheduled around the availability of the singers. Nora had been given the demanding job of making the patterns for the new costumes. The designer only drew up the sketches, with some details of trimmings, colour, materials to be used, and the general overall effect. It was up to the pattern-makers, cutters and seamstresses to translate the drawing into an actual costume. In these past few weeks, Nora had carefully avoided going near any place in the vast opera house where she was likely to run into Reed Thatcher. However, she did catch one heart-stopping glimpse of him one Wednesday. She had been rushing back from a quick lunch, and as she passed by the general manager's office, the low voices of two men came through the open door. Glancing inside, she saw Reed Thatcher and Niles Thordarson standing at a desk looking down at some musical scores. They were deep in discussion, and neither of them looked up as Nora hurried past. Then she heard their sudden laughter. Taken by surprise, she gave the two men a closer look. Reed was dressed in

dark trousers and a white shirt. The shirt was open at the throat and the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. His arms were outstretched, as if to illustrate the point of a joke, his dark head thrown back, laughing. Nora's heart leapt. She had never seen him laugh. It made him look boyish, the crisp dark hair falling over his forehead, white teeth flashing. Had he seen her? she wondered as she scurried down the hall to the wardrobe room. At the door she turned and looked back. The hall was deserted. Thinking about that episode now, as she carefully cut out the paper pattern for one of Consuelo's costumes, she told herself she was being silly. He's probably forgotten I'm even alive, she thought, recalling the little love scene she had overheard between Reed and Consuelo a few weeks ago. Obviously, his interests lay with the fiery soprano. She could relax at last, she decided. He had had his revenge. She had stayed strictly out of the chorus, not daring to show herself on that stage again. She knew she was good at her job in wardrobe. Why would he fire her even if he did find out who she was? She had carefully sustained her plain, prim image at work, the shapeless smock, the severe hairstyle, the large glasses. Yes, she decided, she was safe. Somehow the thought didn't comfort her as she had once imagined it would. Funny, she mused, she hadn't minded her quiet solitary life before she met Reed. If it satisfied her once, why was it failing her now? She had seen Peter Winston several times in the past two weeks, but never again at the opera house. He always picked her up at her

apartment. They had gone ice skating at Rockefeller Center, ridden the Staten Island ferry, and driven up to Vermont to see the glory of the autumn trees. He was always attentive, always polite, and kept his distance. She wondered now how long he would be satisfied with the light goodnight kisses she had allowed him. She liked him very much. He filled a real need in her for male companionship, and she dreaded the inevitable day when she would have to tell him she wasn't interested in carrying their relationship into the realm of passion. After Reed Thatcher's demanding lovemaking, she felt that she could never respond to any man that way again. She jumped as Ginny poked her head round the door and called to her. 'How about some lunch?' Nora glanced at her watch. It was after twelve, and she suddenly realised she was famished. 'Sure,' she replied, slipping off her stool. 'Why not?' She hadn't seen Ginny for some time. They had both been busy; Nora on the costumes for the new opera and Ginny still performing in Pagliacci and now in rehearsal for Traviata. She glanced at her friend now as they walked briskly down Fifth Avenue towards Schrafft's. It was November and growing colder every day. Today the sky was heavily overcast and a cold wind scattered litter and debris over the pavement. Ginny looked troubled, Nora thought. The cheerful smile was gone, the dancing eyes clouded over.

They sat at the counter of the busy restaurant and slipped off their heavy jackets. 'Well,' Nora said as she reached for a menu, 'how are things with you?' 'Oh, so-so,' Ginny replied glumly. She studied her menu for a minute, then sighed. 'I'm not really very hungry.' 'Come on, Ginny, what's wrong?' The waitress appeared. Nora ordered a club sandwich and coffee, Ginny a bowl of soup. 'Is it Ken?' Nora asked softly when the waitress had gone. Ginny gave her a stricken look and nodded. Her lip quivered and a tear ran down her cheek. 'He's moved out,' she stammered. Nora touched her lightly on the arm. 'Oh, Ginny, I'm so sorry. When?' Their food appeared. Ginny started stirring her soup distractedly with one hand and crumbled crackers with the other. 'Last night,' she said, and sniffed loudly. Nora reached in her pocket and handed her a tissue. Ginny blew her nose loudly, then started mumbling so that Nora had to strain to hear her over the noisy luncheon crowd. 'He's moving in with Barbara. You know, the bleached blonde second violinist. He says they have more in common than we do. He really hates singers, you know. Sometimes I think everybody does.' Dolefully, she began to eat her soup. A good sign, Nora thought. Encouraged, she decided to speak her mind.

'Listen, Ginny, you're too good for him anyway.' Ginny looked at her, wide-eyed. 'But I love him,' she wailed. 'Oh, come on, be honest. You just liked having him around. How could you love an arrogant, selfish man like that? You'll find someone better than Ken. Wait and see. Someone who'll be kind and considerate and treat you with respect.' Ginny eyed her thoughtfully. 'You mean like Peter Winston?' Nora coloured and took a bite of her sandwich to cover her confusion. 'Well, yes,' she said, swallowing. 'I guess you could say that.' Ginny finished her soup and began to work on the crackers. There was a dreamy look in her eye. 'Well, actually,' she said, 'there is this tall bass in the chorus. He asked me out a few weeks ago, but I had to tell him I was already involved with someone else. I think with a little encouragement . . .' She broke off and eyed Nora's plate. 'Say, Nora, are you going to eat all your sandwich?' 'Be my guest,' Nora replied, pushing the plate towards her. They both decided to have a piece of pie. Ginny was looking better already. Nora only hoped she would move a little more slowly with the bass in the chorus and make sure he really cared about her before hopping into bed with him. Sometimes she envied Ginny's casual attitude towards sex. To her it was as natural as eating, a normal healthy pleasure for normal healthy people. Which it probably is, Nora thought, finishing her

coffee. She once again experienced a small pang of regret that she hadn't gone back to Reed Thatcher that first night. Ginny turned to her. 'Oh, by the way,' she said, 'I forgot to tell you. Reed Thatcher has been making discreet enquiries about you.' Nora's heart stopped. Slowly she set down her coffee cup. She looked at Ginny. 'What do you mean, "discreet enquiries"?' she asked. What in the world did Reed Thatcher want with her? Surely he wasn't going to carry on his vendetta against her the rest of her life. 'Well,' Ginny explained, 'I overheard him asking the chorus master about you one night at rehearsal.' She giggled. 'Poor Spencer, of course he didn't have a clue what Reed was talking about.' 'I can imagine,' Nora murmured wryly, 'since I was never officially in the chorus.' 'Then, last night,' Ginny went on, 'after the performance, he came up to me and asked about you. Guess he saw us together at the party or the night you met Peter Winston. I was so upset about Ken I forgot to tell you about it.' 'What did he say?' Nora asked evenly. Ginny wrinkled her nose and cocked her head to one side. 'Let's see. As near as I can remember, he said, "What's happened to your mysterious dark-haired friend. The one with laryngitis. Is she sick?'" Nora groaned. He hadn't forgotten. 'How did he seem?' she asked. 'Mad?'

Ginny thought a moment. 'No, not mad. Just concerned.' 'About my health?' Nora asked, incredulous. 'Oh, no. Somehow I got the impression he knew you didn't really have laryngitis. No, it was more like he just wanted to find you.' She gave Nora a sharp look. 'If I had to guess, I'd say he was interested in you.' Nora laughed and slipped off the stool. 'Oh, he's interested all right—in getting me fired.' They put on their jackets and began to walk back to the opera house. 'Oh, I don't think so, Nora,' Ginny said. 'After all, you're out of the chorus now. He may be a tyrant, but I don't think he's mean.' 'Yes, but you don't know . . .' Nora began, then stopped. Ginny eyed her suspiciously. 'Don't know what?' 'Oh, nothing,' Nora muttered. They were at the opera house now. Ginny gave her a long hard look. 'I don't know about you, Nora. I think there's more here than meets the eye. Is anything going on between you and Reed Thatcher?' Nora had to laugh. 'No,' she said. 'I can promise you feel about arrogant, selfish men. Of course, if ever will be.' 'Well, I hope not. He's gorgeous, but I know how you feel about arrogant selfish men. Of course, if anyone has a right to be, I guess it's him. What a man!'

On that note, they said goodbye and Nora went back to the wardrobe room. She hung up her jacket and started to work on the costume she had begun that morning. Blanche Morand came over to her table later that afternoon to watch her work. Nora had laid out the paper pattern on the rich pale green brocade fabric and was getting ready to pin it. 'You'll use the extra fine pins for that material, won't you?' Blanche reminded her. Nora was about to reassure her that she had already decided to do that when the door burst open and Reed Thatcher strode into the room. His expression was like thunder. He carried a sheaf of drawing-paper in one hand. Looking around the room wildly, he finally caught sight of Blanche over in the corner at Nora's table. He marched towards her in long, purposeful strides. Blanche, sensing trouble, stepped to meet him. Nora could only stare. Then, recollecting herself, she turned away so that he couldn't see her face. She had taken off her glasses to talk to Blanche and now she slipped them back on again. She was wearing the shapeless smock, and her hair was pinned severely back. Still, his very presence in the room unnerved her. She heard him now, speaking to Blanche in a low, tight voice. 'Who approved these new costumes for Traviata?' he asked. He raised the drawings in his hand and slapped them down on Nora's table, scattering the unpinned paper pattern pieces about. 'Why,' Blanche hedged, 'I'm not sure. I assumed you did.' She examined the top drawing carefully, then with a sigh of relief,

pointed to the corner of the paper. 'See?' she said. 'Right there in the corner. R. T. Just as you always initial them.' 'I saw the initials,' Reed said, his voice pitched dangerously low. 'However, I didn't even see these drawings until five minutes ago when I just happened to ask the head designer when we were going to get the sketches.' He held his chin in his hand, deep in thought, frowning heavily so that the dark eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. He moved around behind Blanche so that he now stood between the two women. Nora was rooted to the spot, wishing fervently she could sink through the floor. She hadn't been this close to him since the night at the restaurant, several weeks ago. He was standing so near to her that his arm brushed hers when he reached over to pick up the drawings. She could hear his heavy breathing, feel the tautness of his lithe body, his anger barely contained. 'No,' he said finally, straightening up, 'it just won't do. These designs are impossible. Violetta may have been a courtesan, but a very ladylike one. These costumes will make her look ridiculous, like a Times Square tart. He turned swiftly to Blanche. 'How far along are they?' Blanche looked at Nora. 'Miss Baird has been in charge of the pattern construction,' she said in a small voice. 'Nora?' 'As you can see,' Nora replied as calmly as possible, 'I was just going to start cutting the material.'

'Well, don't,' Reed snapped. 'I'm not using these designs. We'll have to get new ones.' 'But,' Blanche protested, 'there isn't time. The opera opens in two weeks. To wait, how long, for new designs, then make new patterns?' She spread out her hands in front of her. 'It's not possible.' 'Then we'll use the old costumes,' Reed said firmly. 'All the old costumes.' There was a steely glint in his grey eyes as he threw his head back defiantly. 'But Consuelo . . .' Blanche objected. Reed gave her one glance. 'I'll handle Consuelo,' he said through clenched teeth. He strode out of the room. Blanche and Nora stared at each other for a full minute. Then Blanche shrugged. 'We can only do what we can do,' she said philosophically. Then her voice hardened. 'I think I see the fine hand of Madame Consuelo Valdez behind this,' she said bitterly, gesturing towards the offending designs. 'But, why?' Nora asked, bewildered. 'Why does she go behind Mr Thatcher's back? Didn't she realise she'd never get away with it?' Blanche raised an eyebrow. 'Of course. But a woman like that must try.' She shrugged. 'It's a game with many prima donnas. They live in an unrealistic world of adulation and applause. The weakerminded ones begin to imagine they really are the goddesses their fans make them out to be.'

'But, I thought Consuelo and Reed . . .' Nora began, then faltered. She hated backstage gossip. Blanche shrugged again. 'Who knows? Certainly Consuelo has had her trap set for the elusive Reed Thatcher for some time, but such a man is not so easily snared.' 'If she wants him so badly, why does she go behind his back and fight him every step of the way?' Nora asked. 'To get his attention, of course,' Blanche replied promptly. 'If you've ever been around children, you will have seen how they will be naughty and risk punishment rather than be ignored.' 'And Consuelo is like a child in many ways,' Nora said, understanding at last. 'Ah, yes,' Blanche said, a gleam in her dark eyes, 'but she will discover that Reed Thatcher is a man.' The warm admiration in the older woman's voice surprised Nora. Reed treated Blanche as he did everyone else in the company,' as a machine existing solely for the smooth functioning of his productions. 'Well, Nora,' Blanche said with a sigh of regret, 'you might as well put away the pattern you've worked so hard on. I'm afraid you'll be working long hours the next two weeks altering the old costumes.' Nora glanced down at the gorgeous shimmering pale green fabric and sighed. One of her own designs would have been perfect for it. She wished she were more aggressive. If it had been anyone else but Reed Thatcher she just might have suggested he take a look at her own sketches. She would have been happy to work night and day on them for the chance to get her work recognised.

'Don't worry, Blanche,' she said, returning to the world of reality, 'we'll manage.' Nora worked steadily all through the afternoon. When the others left, around seven o'clock, she sent out for a sandwich and coffee and examined what she had done so far. Every seam of the old costumes had to be very carefully ripped, since they were all several sizes too large for Consuelo. This was a tedious job, requiring close attention to detail. It was made even more difficult because she first had to remove all the beading and decoration from the elaborate ball gown. While she ate, she took out her own sketches to look them over once again. She had been so busy the past few weeks, she hadn't had time even to look at them. She laid them out on the work table under the bright lamp and examined each one carefully. She was pleased with what she saw. They were really quite good. Exactly, she thought, what Reed had in mind. If only I'd had the nerve to show them to him, she thought. She would have, she knew, if she hadn't made such a mess of things. She cursed the day she had ever decided to sing in the chorus. When she had finished her sandwich, she began to feel sleepy. Every muscle ached. There was a piercing knot between her shoulder blades from leaning over all day, and her eyes burned from the close work. She drank some coffee, then walked around the room for a while, flexing her muscles and bending down to relax the tension, letting her arms hang loosely so that her hands touched her toes, and bobbing up and down gently, rhythmically, to ease the painful joints.

Suddenly the door opened. She straightened up and whirled around to see Reed Thatcher's grey eyes fixed on her. 'Doing callisthenics, Miss . . . Baird, isn't it?' he asked nastily. For a moment Nora panicked. Then, as his eyes bored into her and she saw the mocking, condescending look on his face, a little core of anger began to form in her. She was tired and sore from working all day, well past normal finishing time, on his stupid costumes. Who was he to come barging in here now implying that she was slacking on the job?' 'Just getting the kinks out, Mr Thatcher,' she remarked coldly. 'I've been at this lovely job since you were here earlier this afternoon.' Her eyes were unwavering under that steely gaze. He was standing just inside the door, his arms folded across his chest. Nora crossed in front of him on her way back to her work table, her head held high, walking slowly and deliberately. She felt his gaze on her as she sat down on her stool and picked up the costume she had been taking apart. There was dead silence in the room. She heard him walking towards her, saw the dark trousers as he stood before her now, the material smooth and taut against his powerful thighs. 'Sorry,' he muttered. She grunted and continued working, inwardly amazed that he had condescended even that far. She was picking out an elaborate beading in the centre of a bodice. Why didn't he just leave? she agonised. She didn't dare look at him again, but he was so close to her that she was intensely aware of his every movement.

He shifted his position slightly so that he was turned towards the table. She saw him reach out a hand and take up one of her drawings. 'Whose designs are these?' he demanded abruptly after a long silence. 'They're mine,' she muttered under her breath, still angry, and tugged so hard at the beading that the string broke and tiny white beads scattered like buckshot over the floor. 'Now look what you've made me do,' she snapped irrationally. She jumped off the stool and went down on her knees to try to retrieve the beads. 'Me?' he cried out, incredulous. 'It's not my fault if you work yourself into such a state of exhaustion that you go to pieces.' He crouched down beside her to help her look for beads. 'Well, you're the one who said the old costumes had to be altered.' She glared at him. 'Don't you know it takes twice as long to rip out and resew as it does to start from scratch?' He stood up and looked down at her thoughtfully. 'No,' he said at last, 'I didn't know that.' 'Well, now you do,' she muttered. 'Stand up,' he said in a commanding tone. Slowly, she rose to her feet. 'Now,' he said, pointing to the table, 'whose drawings are those?' 'They're mine,' she said, clearly, belligerently.

He raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed,' He braced his hands on the edge of the table and leaned over it, examining each drawing carefully. 'They're quite good.' Nora forgot her anger, forgot her apprehension. Her heart gave a great leap. He liked her drawings! She moved closer so that she was standing beside him. She watched excitedly as he picked up her design for the first act ballroom scene. 'I like this,' he said, his finger moving to the neckline. Nora had sketched in a very low-cut bodice with a higher overlay of sheer material beaded in a floral design. 'That's very clever,' he added, 'just the effect I wanted. Seductive, yet pure.' He glanced at her. He was smiling delightedly, the tension lines gone from his forehead, his eyes kind. She smiled back at him, and their eyes met. Gradually, she saw his smile fade. The grey eyes narrowed in a long searching look. She stood as though mesmerised as he slowly reached out a hand. She couldn't move. As his hand moved closer, she drew in her breath sharply. He grasped her glasses and lifted them up over her ears. Then, still staring, he reached out again and pulled at the pins in her hair until the heavy dark mass was released and came tumbling down to her shoulders. 'It is you,' he breathed. There was wonder in his voice. 'I thought for just a moment earlier today . . .' Then his gaze hardened and she felt strong hands clamp on her shoulders. 'Where the hell have you been?' he barked hoarsely. She lowered her eyes and bit her lip. Well, she thought, this is it. 'Right here,' she said finally in a small voice.

'Well, I'll be damned,' he said. 'How long have you worked here?' His voice seemed to be coming to her from a great distance. 'Two years,' she mumbled, still not daring to look at him. He still held her shoulders in that iron grip. 'And what about the chorus?' His voice was stern. 'It was just a lark. I can't sing.' She finally looked up at him. She flinched visibly at the thunderous look. 'I wasn't hurting anything,' she protested. 'No one heard me. I just—just love opera,' she faltered. 'Well, I'll be damned,' he said again softly. 'I thought I'd heard everything.' Suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed out loud. Nora gazed at the long column of his neck, the muscles working convulsively. He pulled her to him so that her mouth brushed against the base of his throat where the open collar of his white shirt revealed the little hollow there and the sharp outline of his collar-bone. She closed her eyes. Then, when the laughter subsided, he put a hand under her chin and tipped her face up so that she had to look at him. He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Then you weren't lying,' he said gently. 'You really weren't a singer.' He grinned. 'Only an impostor.' She shook her head. 'I was afraid to tell you the truth. I thought if you found out I'd sneaked into the chorus you'd fire me, especially after—after . . .' Her voice faltered. To cover her confusion, she asked, 'Am I fired?'

He straightened up in surprise. 'Hell, no,' he said. 'Chorus singers are a dime a dozen. A good designer is worth her weight in gold. Especially one who can make patterns and sew.' His hands dropped from her shoulders and he turned back to the work table. Quickly, she drew away from him with a little twinge of disappointment. She stood next to him as he once again examined each drawing minutely. 'These are damn good,' he said finally. 'I'm impressed.' He looked down at her. 'Were you serious when you said it was quicker and easier to make a new costume than to rip up and alter an old one?' 'Yes,' she replied. 'When there's such an enormous difference in size.' She went on to explain that the whole construction had to be altered in this case. 'If Consuelo Valdez were bigger, or Madame Felice had been smaller, we just could have taken in the seams. As it is, it's worse than starting from scratch.' 'I see,' he said. 'And we already have the fabric for the new costumes?' She nodded. 'Well, then, let's get to work.' Her eyes flew open. 'Tonight?' she gasped. 'It's almost ten o'clock.' 'Oh, is it that late?' he murmured absently. 'Okay, tomorrow, then. Why don't you clear this mess up, go home and get a good night's rest. Then you can start in tomorrow on the new costumes.' 'Tomorrow is Saturday,' she reminded him. His bland assumption that she would drop everything to do his bidding annoyed her. Once again, he made her feel like a piece of furniture. She wanted to be treated as a woman. 'Look,' he said, 'do you want to make the costumes from your own designs or not?'

'Of course I do, but . . .' 'But what? We've got two weeks to get them done. I don't care how or when you do it, but I want those costumes ready by the first dress rehearsal. Now, can you do it or not?' 'Yes,' she said. T can do it.' 'Good,' he said with satisfaction. 'I'll check with you later. Now I have an appointment.' He strode away from her. At the door, he turned, 'Nora, about that night at the restaurant . . .' 'Yes?' she said, her heart starting to pound. 'I want to apologise. I thought you were trying to use me. I see now I was wrong. I hope I didn't cause any trouble between you and Peter Winston. He's a great guy.' 'But . . .' She started to explain that she and Peter were just friends, but he was gone. She stood staring after him. The door closed behind him. Her mind was a turmoil of conflicting emotions. She eased slowly back down on her stool and looked at the drawings again. She was delighted, of course, that he wanted to use her designs. It could be the beginning of a real career for her, the goal she had worked so hard to attain. But he had completely ignored her as a woman. She had been so sure, when he had held her briefly in his arms earlier, that he would kiss her, but then he had pulled away, interested only in the costumes. Why? There were several possibilities, she thought as she began clearing the old costume off the table. For one thing, he obviously saw her

as Peter Winston's property. Then, too, he seemed to be pretty well wrapped up in Consuelo Valdez, in spite of the constant warfare for supremacy between them. She sighed as she swept the hundreds of little white beads into a box with her hand. Artists were like that, fighting like cats and dogs one minute, making passionate love the next. She found herself sighing again and gave herself a little shake. I've got to stop that, she told herself. I should be celebrating and here I am mooning around feeling sorry for myself because Reed Thatcher doesn't see me as a desirable woman. Of course, she thought, standing stock-still in the deserted room, that's the real reason for his indifference. And, she knew, that was what hurt. It was suddenly crystal clear. Before he knew who she was, he had thought of her as mysterious, elusive, desirable. Tonight, he had seen her as she really was, a mousy little seamstress in the wardrobe department, a fixture, a dull part of the background. She glanced down at the shapeless, ugly tan smock, the blue denims underneath, the worn tennis shoes. She ran a hand through her hair. She had put off washing it because she had been so tired every night when she got home. She could have cried. What a picture she must have made. The glasses were the last straw. She knew she had handled the whole situation badly right from' the beginning. It was beyond repair now. Since every move she made with regard to Reed Thatcher seemed to be a mistake, the best thing to do would be to try to forget about him, except as a boss. The shimmering green material laid out on her work table caught her eye. She reminded herself that he had liked her designs, that

for the first time she would be able to make a costume conceived entirely in her own mind. Her spirits rose and she began to fold up the old pattern pieces she wouldn't be using now. She stacked her sketches neatly in a pile. On top was the one she knew was just right for this beautiful fabric. She wondered if she could use any of the pattern she had so painstakingly constructed, but decided she would rather start from scratch. The skirts of the two designs were very similar, and perhaps she could make some use of that pattern, but the bodice would be her very own. Her eyes lit up. She smiled as her fingers began experimenting with the paper pattern pieces. She stayed in the work room for another hour, absorbed in the task, her tiredness forgotten in the exhilaration of creative work.

CHAPTER SIX IT was midnight before she got home. As she lay in bed, too excited to sleep, she wondered for the first time whether the raise in her status would mean a commensurate rise in her pay. It would be nice to have more money to spend. She could buy some clothes, have her hair styled, maybe get her apartment carpeted before winter. She didn't really care. What mattered to her was that she could now spend her working hours, as well as her free time, doing what she loved most to do. It was enough for now to be paid anything at all for that privilege. As she finally let go and drifted off to sleep, her thoughts wandered automatically to Reed Thatcher. She was still puzzled by his cool attitude towards her. It was as though he was deliberately putting a distance between them, such a marked contrast from their two previous encounters. She knew she would have to come to terms with that eventually, to unravel the puzzle of that unique man's charisma and his devastating effect on her. No man had ever made her pulses race as he did. She formed a mental image of him as he was that night after the party, his dark head bending to kiss her, his strong arms around her, his hands and lips seeking, demanding. Finally, she fell asleep, his name on her lips, his face engraved on her mind. She awoke the next morning with a peculiar light- hearted feeling that she couldn't identify. Then she remembered. She jumped out of bed. What a relief it was, she thought, as she showered and washed her hair, to be through with that deception,

to be able to face Reed Thatcher now without cowering in corners for fear he would recognise her. She dressed in denims and an old red sweatshirt, tied her hair back with a narrow red ribbon and went to the little kitchen alcove to make breakfast. As she drank her juice and nibbled toast, it was all she could do to keep away from her work table. She had brought her sketches home with her last night. There was no reason to go in to the Met. She could work on them at home. As she finished her second cup of coffee, before her mind raced ahead to the overwhelming task of her. She had been so carried away by the heady excitement of finally getting the break she had longed for that she hadn't stopped to consider the realities of the job she had taken on. She wandered over to the work table, coffee in hand, and stared down at the sketches she had laid out the night before. Two ball gowns, two country outfits, two negligees. Her heart sank. It was one thing to let her creative imagination run wild in the design of the costumes, or even to make patterns and construct someone else's designs. Now, however, she was faced with the awesome responsibility of copying her own designs, down to the last detail, and somehow making the sketch on paper into an actual costume. Slowly, she sat down on the stool. She couldn't do it. It was too much. There wasn't enough time. What had ever possessed her to tell Reed Thatcher she would have those six costumes ready for the first dress rehearsal in two weeks? She must have been out of her mind.

The telephone rang. She jumped so abruptly that drops of coffee flew out of her cup and spattered her sketches. She ran to get a paper towel, the phone still blaring shrilly in her ears. 'All right, all right!' she said aloud as she blotted up the coffee. She ran to the phone and yanked it off the hook. 'Yes. Hello,' she said, out of breath. 'Nora? Nora Baird?' It was Reed Thatcher. Her heart began to pound. 'Yes, speaking.' He had remembered her name!' 'This is Reed,' he said. 'Reed Thatcher.' 'How—how did you get my number?' she asked weakly. 'Personnel,' he snapped. 'Why aren't you here working?' 'I am working,' she replied. 'I brought the sketches home last night. I've got to work up the details before I can start the actual construction.' She couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice. 'Are you okay?' he asked after a short silence. There was a strong hint of doubt in his voice. Was he already sorry he had given her so much responsibility? When she had first heard his voice the thought had crossed her mind that she ought to tell him about her qualms, that she simply didn't see how she was going to get six costumes made in two weeks all by herself. 'Sure,' she said finally, faking it. 'I'm fine. Just wishing there were two of me for a few weeks.'

He gave a low chuckle. 'I was afraid of that. Listen, I talked to Blanche Morand this morning. She's going to assign one of her best people to be your assistant. Will that help?' She almost sobbed with relief. Pulling herself hastily together she finally managed a steady voice. 'That's wonderful.' She hesitated. 'Reed, are you sure?' 'Sure of what?' 'Well, of the designs. I mean, you only got a quick glance at them last night. I guess I've got a little stage fright. It seems such an enormous responsibility.' There was silence at the other end. Nora held her breath. Had he had second thoughts? From personal experience, she knew he was impulsive, and his reputation was one of making quick decisions. Perhaps Consuelo Valdez would prove to be an insurmountable obstacle. What if she didn't like the designs? Finally she heard his voice. 'Where do you live?' he asked. She told him. 'Good,' he said. 'That's nearby. I'll be right over.' The line went dead. Nora stood listening to the dial tone for several seconds. Slowly, she lowered the phone. Reed Thatcher, she thought, coming here. She glanced around the room at the accumulation of newspapers and other debris of the past few weeks when she had been too busy even to pick up after herself. In a flash, she began racing around the room snatching up a pair of slippers, several magazines, a sweater, a half-empty bag of crisps. She threw the white afghan over the bed and ran to rinse out the breakfast dishes.

Ten minutes later she surveyed the room. Not bad. Such a limited amount of space got cluttered easily, but it didn't take long to clear it up. She ran into the bathroom to comb her hair out and put on a dab of pale lipstick. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her violet eyes sparkled with excitement and the colour in her smooth cheeks was high from all her frantic activity. Her clean black hair shone as she brushed it out, falling to her shoulders in soft, silky waves. Then she noticed for the first time what she had on. She groaned. The shapeless red sweatshirt was as bad as the smock she wore at work. Frantically, she searched through her closet for something more feminine. The doorbell rang. She froze. It rang again. 'Oh, hell!' she exclaimed, and ran to the door. He stood there at her doorstep, a tall and imposing figure in black trousers and a heavy woollen loden jacket, his hands shoved in the pockets. The collar was turned up at the back to protect his neck from the chill November air. His longish dark hair fell across his forehead. His ears and nose were red with cold. My God, he's tall, was her first thought. She stood staring at him, hardly able to believe he was really standing there. 'Can I come in?' he said finally. 'It's cold out here.' Hastily, she moved to one side. He walked past her into the warm room. She shut the door behind him and leaned against it, watching him as his eyes swept over the room.

'Nice,' he said finally. He took off his jacket and threw it casually over a chair. He was wearing the same black sweater and white shirt he always did. Nora couldn't digest the fact that Reed Thatcher was actually standing there in her apartment. Somehow, in the feminine room, he seemed more forbidding, more vitally masculine—and more dangerous. As she watched him, he crossed over to the work table under the window. 'Would you like some coffee?' she asked. 'Yes, please,' he said absently. He was examining the drawings carefully. Nora poured him a mug of coffee and went to his side. He stood gracefully, his weight on one leg, the other slightly bent at the knee, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. Without speaking, he took the steaming mug of coffee from her. He reached out with his other hand and picked up each sketch in turn, studying them from under half-lowered eyelids, the heavy dark lashes fluttering on his high cheekbones. From time to time Nora stole covert glances at him. He was so close to her she could hear his steady breathing, see his throat muscles move as he swallowed coffee, smell the fresh outdoors in his hair and skin. He set the empty mug down carefully on a corner of the table, spread his arms wide to grip the edge and leaned over to study the sketches more closely.

Nora stood beside him in an agony of apprehension. She could read nothing in the inscrutable face. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he reveal what he was thinking. He hates them, she thought in despair. He's changed his mind. It's back to cutting out patterns for other people's designs. Well, at least there would be no more deception, and maybe some day . . . Suddenly she heard his voice. She looked up at him. 'They're good,' he said, giving her the ghost of a smile. 'Damn good, in fact.' He straightened up and looked around the room. 'Got any more coffee?' Without a word she took his mug from the corner of the table where he had set it down and went over to the kitchen alcove. As she started to pour she heard his voice directly behind her. She jumped, almost spilling the coffee. 'Think you can handle it?' he was asking. She turned around. His look was cool, appraising. 'I need those costumes in two weeks.' She handed him his coffee. 'You say you've arranged for help with the cutting and sewing?' He nodded. 'Okay, then.' She looked up into those clear, distant grey eyes. 'I can do it.' 'Good,' he said. He drained his coffee and set the mug down on the kitchen counter. Then he turned and walked over to the chair where he had thrown his jacket. He's leaving, she realised, as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, buttoned the heavy jacket to the neck and turned up the collar. 'I've got a hell of a schedule for the next few weeks,' he said as he crossed over to the door, 'but I'll try to check in with you some

time before the dress rehearsal.' He hesitated, then gave her one of his rare smiles. 'Don't let me down, now,' he said softly. Before she could reply, he was gone. She stood there with the coffee pot still in her hand, feeling vaguely let down. She set the pot down and once again regretted the red sweatshirt. In her mind, she couldn't help comparing herself with Consuelo Valdez, seeing both of them through Reed's eyes. Except for her youth, Nora knew there was no contest. The fiery soprano, sophisticated and well-versed in the art of capturing a man's attention, was a formidable opponent. Nora knew she would have to forget Reed Thatcher as a man. She told herself firmly that what had happened between them had been a fluke, an impulse. He had already forgotten it ever happened. Well, then, so would she, she promised herself. She set the coffee pot down firmly on the stove and marched over to the work table. The designs were laid out again exactly as she had placed them the night before. It was the design for the ball gown to be made out of the pale green brocade that she took up first. She would have to find some chiffon of the same colour and work out the beading design for the bodice. She slipped on to the stool and drew her sketchpad closer. She took up a pencil and soon her fingers were flying as the details of the design took shape.

For the next two weeks Nora worked harder than she ever had before in her life, and she loved every minute of it. There was

something so exhilarating about seeing her own designs take shape, become an actual reality, that she could work practically nonstop from early morning until late at night, when she would fall, exhausted, into bed. The helper she had been given, a young apprentice pattern-maker named Bunny, was inexperienced but ambitious and eager to learn. So long as Nora supervised each step in the long, delicate process of transferring the sketch into an actual paper pattern, Bunny came through for her. She caught on quickly, and although she made mistakes, she only made them once. Nora had been determined from the beginning to make the pale green ball gown herself, even down to the intricate beading on the sheer bodice. Most of her working day was taken up with this project, and the rest of it she helped Bunny with the other costumes. In a week, all the costumes except the ball gown were ready for the first fitting. The wardrobe department had dress forms for all the principal singers, and the preliminary fitting and tacking was done on these, but in order to ensure a perfect fit, the costumes had to be tried on in person before the final stitching. It was on a Monday afternoon, just five days before the first dress rehearsal, that Consuelo Valdez was due in wardrobe for a fitting. Nora had put the ball gown aside and had been working all morning on the five other costumes so that they would be ready for Consuelo. By noon, each creation was hanging on a rack in one of the fitting rooms. Nora and Bunny were giving them one last, thorough scrutiny before Consuelo's appointment at one-thirty.

Nora straightened the collar of a lovely brown morning dress with touches of cream and burnt orange. She removed a pin from the bodice of a pale blue negligee, recalling the last bitter experience with Consuelo when she had accused Nora of sticking her on purpose. Bunny, red-haired, snub-nosed and freckle-faced, knotted the last tacking thread on the white lace peignoir and heaved a sigh. 'They're gorgeous,' she said. 'The most beautiful costumes I've ever seen.' 'They aren't bad, are they?' Nora said in a low voice. They had succeeded beyond her wildest expectations. She turned to Bunny, a tiny girl, shorter by almost a head than Nora. 'Thanks, Bunny. I never could have done it without you.' Bunny turned shining greenish eyes on her and they grinned happily. 'Hey, Nora,' came a voice from the hall. Nora turned to see Ginny's head poking through the curtains. 'How about some lunch.' She saw the costumes then and stepped inside the small cubicle, her eyes widening. She examined each one in turn with a practised, appraising eye, then turned to Nora. 'Well, congratulations. I didn't know you had it in you.' 'Thanks a lot, friend,' Nora said wryly. 'Such confidence is most gratifying.' 'Oh, you know what I mean,' Ginny protested. 'You're so closedmouthed about your own talents. I mean, most artists are forever tooting their own horns, telling the world how wonderful they are.' 'Oh, but I'm not an artist,' Nora said quickly. 'Just a dressmaker.'

'Listen, my friend,' Ginny said sternly, 'if the definition of art is to create something beautiful that never existed before, then you qualify in my book.' She grabbed Nora's arm. 'I'm not going to argue about that, however. I'm starved. How about lunch?' 'Not today, I'm afraid,' Nora said. 'Consuelo will be here at onethirty and I have to make sure every pin is out and every tacking thread tight.' 'You've got to eat!' Ginny protested. 'I'll send out for a sandwich.' 'Well, walk to the door with me, anyway. I've got something to tell you.' As the two girls walked down the hall together, Nora could sense the excitement in Ginny, a far cry from the dejected girl of two weeks ago whose lover had walked out on her. Then, at the door to the street, the whole story came pouring out. Joe, the tall bass in the chorus, had moved in with Ginny. This was the real thing. She was really in love. He was so wonderful. He understood her as no man ever had before. 'Oh, Nora,' she said blissfully, 'you don't know what it's like to have a man around again.' Nora groaned inwardly. She had heard the same story before. Ginny would only be hurt again when this fabulous creature disappointed her just as all the others had. Yet, gazing at Ginny's rapt expression, the shining eyes, the contented smile, she couldn't throw cold water on her. Besides, she admitted ruefully to herself, maybe she was just jealous. She

remembered the one time Reed Thatcher had been in her apartment, how he had seemed to fill it with his masculine presence, and how empty it had seemed when he left. She laid a hand on Ginny's arm. 'I'm so happy for you, Ginny,' she said at last. 'I really hope it works out the way you want it to this time.' 'Oh, it will,' Ginny breathed ecstatically. 'This time I'm positive.' As if she could read the scarcely admitted envy in Nora's heart,she said softly. 'How's your love-life coming along?' Nora gave her a blank look. 'Peter Winston,' Ginny prompted. 'Oh, Peter,' Nora said. She had scarcely given him a thought in the past several days, she had been so busy. She laughed. 'I'm afraid he's given up on me. I've been working such long hours, I've hardly had time to talk to him.' 'I happen to know he's still very much interested in you,' Ginny said. 'Oh?' Nora raised her eyebrows. 'I didn't know you even knew him.' 'Remember, I was with you the night he introduced himself to you backstage. I've seen him around since then at different parties and night spots. He always asks about you.' Nora frowned. She liked Peter very much. She hoped that when this mad rush to get the costumes for Traviata ready on time was over she would see him again. But she had to admit that it would be no great tragedy if she didn't. She didn't tell Ginny this, however. She only congratulated her again on her new romance and said she had to get back. As she

walked slowly down the corridor back to the wardrobe room, she wondered if there was something wrong with her that she could pass up a wonderful man like Peter Winston who could offer her so much. What she really wanted was unattainable. Since that Saturday morning in her apartment, Nora hadn't even seen Reed Thatcher. Somehow, she knew, he had managed to placate Consuelo over the new designs, and she couldn't help wondering how. All she knew was that Blanche had informed her last Friday that Consuelo would be coming today for her first fitting.

The fitting session took all afternoon, as Nora knew it would. Even though Consuelo was on her best behaviour, it was still a trying experience. The singer was extremely exacting and critical, but Nora grudgingly had to admit, as she changed a bow here, a dart there, that she knew what she was doing. It dawned on her halfway through the long afternoon that the reason for Consuelo's comparatively co-operative attitude was that she really loved the costumes. So much so, that by the end of the session she was calling Nora by name, a genuine mark of respect from a prima donna to a wardrobe seamstress. But I'm not a wardrobe seamstress any more, Nora thought as she carefully placed the last pin in the last costume and started to help Consuelo off with it. I'm a real designer. She wondered if she would get used to that thought in time. 'Well, Nora,' Consuelo drawled as she began to dress in her street clothes, 'and when will my first act ball gown be ready?'

'I'll have it finished by Friday,' Nora promised. 'Can you give me a final fitting that day? In the morning, if possible.' Consuelo gave her a sharp look. 'But the dress rehearsal is Friday night,' she said. 'The gown must be ready then.' 'It will be,' Nora said, hoping Consuelo wouldn't demand to see it in its present incomplete stage of construction. 'Now that we're ready to stitch the other costumes, I can work on it full time.' Consuelo, fully dressed now, turned to Nora and gave her a piercing look from those sharp black eyes. 'Your designs are very good,' she said at last, 'but talent is not enough in this business.' She smiled thinly, her eyes cold. 'To succeed in the theatre one must either fight or'—here she gave Nora's shapeless smock a disdainful look—'bestow one's favours in the right places. Which shall it be for you, Nora? You don't look like a fighter.' Her voice took on an insolent tone and her eyes narrowed. 'I wonder what you did for Reed that he gave you this chance?' Nora reddened under the insinuating gaze. She wanted to make a stinging retort, tell this vain little woman what she really thought of her in no uncertain terms. Then it dawned on her. Consuelo was jealous! Consuelo Valdez, world-famous singer and femme fatale, jealous of a young seamstress. The woman's monumental ego was threatened. Nora almost laughed in her face. Instead, she began to take the costumes off the rack and said softly, 'Mr Thatcher only wanted my designs. Nothing else.'

Consuelo visibly relaxed. A pleased smile appeared on the scarlet lips. 'Let us hope it stays that way,' she said sweetly. The two women stared at each other. Nora wasn't afraid of her any more, now that she knew where her weaknesses lay. Her vanity and Reed Thatcher. Nora smiled. 'I'm sure it will.' Consuelo turned to go, but Nora had one last thing to say to her. 'And since I have no intention of becoming a seducer of men to get what I want, it looks as though I'll have to learn to be a fighter.' Consuelo's eyes widened. Nora gathered up the costumes and swept out of the room before her without a backward glance.

It was only six o'clock when Nora left for home that night, but it was already dark. After the long afternoon of fittings and the little scene with Consuelo, she couldn't face working another night: Bunny could finish up the other costumes easily by Friday, giving Nora four full days to do nothing but work on the green ball gown. She knew she badly needed a night off, and as long as she was certain of getting the costumes delivered on time, as promised, it could do no harm. She was looking forward to a good dinner, a leisurely bath and a chance to get to bed early with a book. She decided to walk home from the opera house. The streets were fairly well lit, there were a lot of people milling about, and it was only ten blocks. As she approached her apartment, she saw a familiar sleek dark car parked at the curb. Peter Winston stepped out of it and walked towards her.

'You're a very elusive lady these days,' he said. He stood smiling down at her. 'I finally decided the only way I'd ever see you or talk to you was to camp on your doorstep. I figured you'd have to come home eventually.' Nora was surprised at how glad she was to see him. She always found his presence comforting, but tonight she realised how lonely she had been, how isolated, in her frantic haste to get those costumes finished on time. 'Peter,' she said. 'What a nice surprise. I've been working so hard the past few weeks getting ready for Traviata that I've practically been living in the wardrobe room.' They started walking together towards her apartment. 'How's it coming?' Peter asked. 'Not bad,' she said, looking up at him with shining eyes. 'Not bad at all.' She put her key in the lock. 'In fact, even Consuelo Valdez likes the costumes. Since she doesn't like me, that's quite a compliment. They were inside now. Nora switched on the lamp by the yellow couch and shut the door. 'Consuelo doesn't like any beautiful woman,' Peter said, laughing. 'She prefers to surround herself with men or dowdy old hags like that dresser of hers.' 'Oh, Consuelo has nothing to fear from me,' Nora said as she took off her coat and laid it on the back of a chair. 'She and I are in complete agreement about that.'

'Well, I'd like to voice a dissenting opinion,' Peter said. He gave her a frankly appreciative look. 'In my books there's no contest. In every department you've got her beat.' Nora smiled and turned her head away. 'Well, it's nice to have one fan. A very nice one, too.' There was a small, awkward silence. Nora was afraid that if she looked at Peter now he would misunderstand, consider it an invitation. Consuelo's taunt about using men to get ahead still rankled. After a few moments she began to grow uncomfortable. Finally, Peter spoke, his tone light, casual. 'Sounds like you and she had a pretty heavy discussion. What brought that subject up anyway?' She shot him a grateful look. The awkward moment had passed. 'Oh,' she said with a little laugh, 'I think she was warning me off Reed Thatcher.' She frowned and made a slight gesture with her hands. 'She implied I had, in her words, "bestowed my favours" on him to get him to use my designs.' 'And you didn't, of course,' Peter said. Nora's eyes, widened. 'Why, Peter, you're serious!' She couldn't believe it. She laughed. 'Number one, Reed Thatcher is not the least bit interested in my "favours". Number two, I'm not in the habit of. . .' She broke off, beginning now to grow angry. In a second he was at her side, his hand on her arm. 'Forgive me,' he said quickly in a low voice. 'Of course I wasn't serious. I had no right to ask such a thing in the first place. It's just that. . .' He broke off. She looked up at him. 'Well,' he went on, his

eyes on hers, 'I care for you, Nora. You know that.' His eyes were pleading now. Nora thawed. The incipient anger evaporated. 'Peter,' she said slowly, 'I like you very much.' 'I know, I know.' He removed his hand from her arm. 'You're so involved now in your work. It's not the time or the place. I realise that.' He was silent for a moment. With an effort, he gave her a casual smile. 'What I really came here for was to ask you to have dinner with me tonight. You have to eat, you know.' Nora looked down at her blue denims and plaid shirt. She suddenly realised how tired she was. All her energy seemed to be draining out of her body. The thought of changing her clothes and getting ready to go out to dinner was beyond her. 'Oh, Peter, I was just going to fix a quick bite and get to bed early.' 'Sure,' he said quickly. 'I understand. I probably should have picked up something at a delicatessen and brought it over.' Her eyes lit up. 'What a wonderful idea,' she said. 'Why don't you do just that. But,' she added, laughing at the pleased surprise in his face, 'I fully intend to kick you out by nine o'clock.' True to her word, after they had finished the delicious meal of thick roast beef sandwiches, pickles, and an assortment of salads, Peter reluctantly left. Nora soaked in a hot tub until the water grew cold. Gradually, she began to relax, and by the time she slipped into bed, she felt better than she had in days.

As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about the pleasant evening with Peter. It pleased her that with all his wealth and sophistication he was able to have as good a time, and be as much at ease, over a scratch dinner from the delicatessen in a basement apartment as eating out in the most exclusive of restaurants. She thought, too, of his blond good looks, the careful cut of his clothes, the friendly blue eyes, so full of obvious pleasure in her company. He was such a nice man, so kind and considerate. She wondered if, in time, she could learn to love him. But her last thought, as sleep claimed her, was of a dark brooding face leaning over her, of a thin sensuous mouth slowly lowering to press itself against her own.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE next four days were calmer than the previous week, but no less demanding. The pressure would be on until every costume was completed and approved by Reed Thatcher. While Bunny stitched up the other five costumes, Nora worked steadily on the green ball gown. By Thursday morning she had it all tacked securely in place. It fitted like a dream on Consuelo's dress form, but she would still need one last fitting on Friday to make sure. Blanche had arranged a late morning fitting with the temperamental star. Nora wondered how she had managed that. She knew from past attempts that Consuelo rarely rose before noon. Nora spent all day Thursday working on the intricate beading of the sheer bodice. She had found a chiffon that exactly matched the heavier silk brocade, and had carefully drawn the pattern on it where the tiny white beads were to go. It was tricky work. The chiffon had an alarming tendency to pucker at the slightest extra tug of the thread holding the beads in place, and Nora had to use the smallest needle, the finest possible silk thread. At one o'clock her back and shoulder muscles were so sore from bending over all morning, and her eyes so tired from the close work, that she decided to go outside for a short walk. She stopped to eat a quick hot dog and drink a cup of coffee at an outdoor stand. It was so cold that she didn't even take her gloves off while she ate. The walk and the food invigorated her, seemed to give her new energy, and by two o'clock she was back at her work table in the

wardrobe room ready to start in again on the costume. She was halfway through the beading now and was confident she would get it finished today, even if she had to stay late again. 'Nora,' Bunny called to her from across the room, 'would you come and take a look at these costumes?' Nora crossed over to examine the other costumes that Bunny had been working on. The major seam stitching was done, and it only remained to tack on the decorations. As she inspected them carefully, Nora experienced again that thrill of elation at seeing her designs actually made up into dresses. They were good. She knew it. Blanche Morand appeared at her side. 'This is a great day for you, Nora,' she said kindly. 'You must be very proud.' Nora turned to the older woman with a grateful smile. 'They're not bad, are they?' 'Not bad!' Bunny objected. 'They're the most beautiful costumes I've ever seen.' Nora laughed. 'My fan,' she said. 'It's nice to have at least one.' 'After the opening,' Blanche said, 'I'm certain you'll have more than that.' Nora gave a few detailed instructions to Bunny on the way she wanted the decorations placed, then went back to work on the ball gown.

She worked steadily through the afternoon, only stopping around four for a cup of coffee. The others all left soon after. There was nothing more to do. As soon as the green gown was finished, all the costumes for the dress rehearsal would be ready. Soon, the sky darkened in the early November twilight. Nora didn't both to switch more lights on. The work lamp on her table gave her all the light she needed for such concentrated work. Just as she took the last stitch in the last bead and knotted it securely in the pale chiffon, the door to the wardrobe room opened. Nora looked up, startled. It was Reed Thatcher. Nora caught her breath. She hadn't even seen him for almost two weeks. He stood there now, leaning back against the closed door, a dark figure half obscured by the shadows in the darkened room. From the street outside a bright neon light shone a narrow beam on to his face. He looks so tired, Nora thought. And no wonder, with the pace he kept. Conducting one opera, rehearsing another, and, she had heard, preparing a new opera for Chicago Lyric, where he had been invited to conduct next month. 'Well,' he said at last, 'how goes it?' He walked across to her. 'Did you come through for me or not?' For the first time it dawned on her how much he had risked, not only in allowing her to create her own designs, but in trusting her to finish them on time. Suddenly, her weariness vanished, and a wild elation coursed through her. 'They'll be ready,' she said evenly. Their eyes met. Slowly, a smile began to spread on his face.

'Good girl,' he said. 'Let's see what you've done.' She slid off the stool and held the ball gown up in front of her. Chin in hand, he gazed at it for a long time without speaking. Then, finally, he nodded. 'And the others?' he asked. 'Over there,' she said, gesturing towards the rack by Bunny's table where the other five costumes were neatly hung. 'All finished.' Reed sighed. 'I don't need to tell you what a relief that is.' He looked at her, smiling crookedly. 'I haven't had five minutes to check on them.' He took the green gown from her and inspected it closely. 'This is the important one. I'd like to see it on Consuelo.' 'She's coming in tomorrow morning for a fitting,' Nora said. He frowned. 'I'm tied up all morning. Can't make it.' Nora thought a minute. 'I'll put it on her dress form, if you like.' He shook his head. 'No. I want to see how it moves. Consuelo has to do a lot of stage business in the first act, and the costume should flow with her.' He glanced at her. 'You're about her size,' he said at last. 'Try it on.' 'Oh, I couldn't,' Nora said hastily. She reddened. 'I mean, I'm not the type.' 'What does type have to do with it?' he asked irritably. 'Just try it on. You're not going to perform on the stage.' Still Nora hesitated. She felt like a fool. She knew there was no reason why she couldn't try the costume on. She was taller than

Consuelo, but the dress hadn't been hemmed yet and would hit her about right. Finally, without a word, she took the costume from him and walked back into one of the dressing rooms. She switched on the light and hung up the ball gown. Then she slipped off her tan smock, plaid shirt and blue denims. She stood shivering in her bra and underpants and reached for the costume. Then it dawned on her that her bra straps would show through the thin chiffon. Should she leave it on for modesty's sake, or take it off and feel naked? Then she realised she was being silly. There was no modesty backstage when costumes sometimes had to be changed hurriedly in the wings between acts under the bored eyes of stage-hands and electricians. She unhooked the bra and took it off. As she slid the silky brocade over her head and zipped it up the back, she felt her skin prickle sensuously. She looked in the mirror and caught her breath. The bodice of the dress under the transparent chiffon overlay was really cut terribly low. Consuelo would love it, Nora thought wryly, but she herself wasn't used to such exposure. Besides, she was much fuller-breasted than Consuelo, and the under-bodice barely covered her nipples. The beading helped, as a kind of camouflage, but as Nora walked out into the workroom again, she felt almost worse than if she were stark naked, so provocative was the gown. At least the workroom was dimly lit, she thought gratefully. Reed was over at the rack studying the other costumes. She had slipped off her shoes and was barefoot on the cold floor, so that he didn't hear her until she was standing just a few feet away from him. When he did finally turn around to look at her, she saw his eyes widen appreciatively. He gave a low whistle through his teeth.

Nora shifted uncomfortably. Reed took a step towards her. Nora hardly dared breathe for fear of more exposure than there already was over that low-cut bodice. Reed began to slowly circle around her. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists at her sides. 'All right,' he said from behind her, 'walk across the room.' Stiffly, she obeyed. 'Now, turn around,' he said, 'but slowly, and walk back towards me. And relax, will you?' There was a note of irritation in his voice. 'I'm not going to attack you, for God's sake. You walk like a robot.' She froze in her tracks and flushed with embarrassment. Then she began to grow angry. She turned slowly around to face him. 'Listen,' she said, raising a hand and shaking a finger at him, 'I'm not a model, I'm a seamstress. She started to walk back to him, her breast heaving. 'I'm so tired I could drop. I've been working sixteen hours a day on these blasted costumes for the past two weeks, and now you expect me to relax and twirl around for you in a costume that doesn't fit me.' She knew she was dangerously close to tears, but was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She stormed past him, head held high, until she was at the dressing room door. Then she heard his voice. 'Very good,' he said in an amused drawl. 'Just what I hoped you'd do.' She whirled around, furious now. 'I'll have to agree with you about the fit, however,' he added, the grey eyes flicking her up and down. 'There is a little more of you than there is of Consuelo in certain strategic places.' 'Oh, you . . she spluttered. She turned and strode into the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.

Muttering to herself about the insolence and rudeness of Reed Thatcher, she unzipped the green dress roughly and pulled it over her head. The zipper caught on one of the pins in her dark hair, sending it tumbling and ripping one of the tacking threads. 'Damn,' she mumbled. She'd have to fix it. She hung the dress on a hanger and slipped on one of the thin cotton robes that were kept in the dressing rooms, tying it loosely around her waist. She looked around for a needle and thread. The last thing she wanted was to have to go back out in the work room to face that arrogant man. Then she heard a door open and shut from the work room. Maybe he'd gone. Cautiously, she opened the dressing room door and peered out. The work room was empty. She sighed with relief. Still barefoot, she padded over to her table. She got needle and thread and was on her way back to the dressing room when the door opened again. Nora turned around, horrified to see that Reed had come back. They stared at each other. Nora opened her mouth to speak, but something in those brooding eyes warned her to hold her tongue. She raised a hand to clutch at the loose opening of the robe she wore. As they continued to gaze at each other, tension began to build, and when Reed started to approach her, Nora felt as though no force on earth could have torn her eyes away from his. He was standing directly in front of her now. The rough wool of his black sweater brushed against her hand, still holding the openings of the robe together. She could hear him breathing, smell his pungent masculine scent. She looked up at him. The steely gaze softened. His black hair was dishevelled, falling loosely over his forehead and curling behind

his ears. She felt his breath on her face as he bent down, and she closed her eyes as suddenly all her dreams became a reality. He kissed her lightly on the mouth. His lips were soft, firm, cool, as they moved gently over hers. He lifted his head, cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up. 'Did anyone ever tell you that you have violet eyes?' he asked in a low voice. 'Yes,' she replied weakly, feeling as though she were drowning. Then his strong arms were around her, crushing her to him. She melted against the length of his hard masculine body, her mouth receiving his as he kissed her fiercely. His kiss deepened, became more demanding, probing, and she sagged limply against him. His hands were moving over her back, the thin material of the robe sliding over her bare skin. He tore his mouth away and put his lips on her ear. 'I want you,' he muttered hoarsely. 'I want you now.' She stiffened in alarm. What was she doing? Was she crazy? She struggled to free herself and finally managed to twist around in his arms. He released her and stood behind her, unmoving. 'Reed,' she faltered, 'this is wrong.' Then his hands were on her shoulders. 'Please,' she whispered. His hands moved down to cup her breasts from behind, and at the touch of his tender fingers, moving gently now, slowly tracing the full outline, she leaned her head back against his chest and closed her eyes, giving herself up to that glorious sensation.

She groaned softly as one hand slipped under the robe and began to explore the soft skin of her breast, moving in gentle teasing circles until finally she felt the light feathery touch of his fingers on her nipple. She leaned back farther until she could look up at him. His mouth came down on hers, his tongue tracing the outline of her quivering lips, and then he deepened the embrace. With one hand still on her bare breast, he untied the loose opening of the robe with the other, then placed it on her waist. As she felt his touch slide slowly down over her abdomen, then her thighs, she shuddered with longing. He turned her around to face him. The robe hung open and he feasted his eyes on the full round breasts, the small waist and slim hips. He lowered his head and kissed the hollow between her breasts then slid his lips to one hard tip and took the taut nipple in his mouth. Nora thrust her hands into the dark head at her breast, holding him tightly, pressing his face closer and closer. She threw her head back, transported by an ecstatic sensuality she had never experienced before. He lifted his head now and gazed down at her. He reached a hand out and traced the outline of her lips, her jawline, her forehead, then raised his other hand and held her head between both palms. 'You're driving me mad,' he muttered in a choked voice. 'This time you're not going to disappear, mystery woman. I'm going to take you right here.' In one swift movement he had pulled his sweater over his head and thrown it down on the stool. Deftly, he began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving hers. Nora stared, entranced, as the broad bare chest appeared. She reached out and put the palms of her

hands flat against it and heard him gasp as she slid them over the muscular shoulders and down his back. She pressed herself up against him and shock waves went through her at the feel of her bare breasts against his skin. Then she felt him fumbling at the buckle of his belt. No, she thought wildly, still clinging to him. What am I doing? Not one word of love or affection had passed between them. She had allowed herself to be swept away by sheer animal passion, and every instinct in her rebelled against the tawdriness of the setting, the cheapness of her abandoned response. It can't be me doing this, she said to herself. She looked up at him in alarm and drew back. 'No,' she whispered. He stared, his hands motionless. 'What do you mean?' he rasped. 'Don't tease me.' 'I'm not,' she faltered. 'I didn't mean to. I just didn't think it would go so far.' She shivered and tried to pull her robe closed, but he gripped her arms tightly. His fingers dug into her flesh painfully and she cried aloud. 'Listen,' he said, 'you know quite well what you've been doing. You want it as much as I do.' He gave her a little shake. 'Admit it. I'm not a boy you can arouse and then back off from.' His eyes blazed at her. She was frightened. But, gazing at him now, even in his anger, she knew he was right. She did want him, even though there was no question of love between them. 'All right,' she said at last. 'It's just that. . .' She broke off.

'What?' he snarled. Then his eyes narrowed. 'Oh, God,' he said. 'I almost forgot.' He stepped back. 'Are you sleeping with Peter Winston?' Her eyes flew open. 'No,' she said indignantly. 'Of course not. I'm not sleeping with anyone.' She turned her head away from that piercing gaze. 'This will be the first time for me,' she said in a small voice. There was a short silence. Then he said, 'Oh, hell,' and forced her to look at him again. 'Are you telling me the truth?' She nodded miserably. 'But. . .' she began. He sighed and slowly began to button his shirt. Then, flicking a rueful glance at her nakedness, he pulled her robe shut and tied the tie. 'Go get dressed,' he muttered. 'I'll take you home.' 'But. . .' He glared at her. 'Go! Before I change my mind.'

They drove to her apartment in complete silence. When he pulled up at the kerb, he left the motor the car running and turned to her. She could barely make out his brooding features in the dim glow from the street light. She only knew she still yearned for his touch, still wanted him. She was just about to reach out a hand and touch his face when he spoke. 'I'm sorry, Nora,' he said.

'Don't be sorry,' she said quickly. 'It was my fault. You didn't do anything wrong.' He laughed shortly. 'That isn't what I meant. I'm not the least bit sorry about what happened tonight.' He touched her cheek lightly. 'But I'm damned sorry you're so . . . inexperienced.' She was about to exclaim indignantly that it wasn't her fault she was still a virgin after tonight, but she was afraid he would think she was throwing herself at him. It suddenly dawned on her for the first time that this was Reed Thatcher sitting here next to her, that the man who had made such passionate love to her only a little while ago was not only incredibly handsome and appealing, not only a world-famous conductor and tyrant of the opera stage, but her boss as well. And, she thought bitterly, probably Consuelo Valdez's lover. A man like that wasn't going to be interested in her feeble explanations. 'I'm sorry, too, Reed,' she said in a low voice. She got out of the car and walked away from him. From inside her apartment she heard him drive away, and with a heavy heart undressed and got into bed. As she lay there, mulling over what had happened, she couldn't help regretting the fact that Reed looked on her now as an inexperienced young girl. She had rather enjoyed her role as mystery woman, even though she knew now she could never have gone through with it. She didn't even really know him, she realised. What kind of man was he, beyond the glamour and talent? Obviously, he had a code

of honour, or he wouldn't have pulled back like that when he had discovered she was a virgin. Certainly, she thought, she wouldn't have been able to stop him. She pulled the blankets more closely about her shoulders and shivered a little as she recalled the sheer overpowering attraction of the man.

The next night was the dress rehearsal. In an agony of apprehension, Nora stood in the wings watching. She glanced out into the auditorium, and saw Niles Thordarson sitting in the third row of the darkened house. She knew that he had the ultimate power of decision over her future. Yet, she also knew that he relied heavily on Reed Thatcher's judgment. After last night, would Reed turn against her? Peter's assessment of Reed came back to her: 'He's a perfectionist, but not mean or vindictive.' She hoped he was right. Earlier today she had watched Consuelo's dresser carry the costumes out of the wardrobe room to deliver to her mistress's dressing room. Nora had felt like a mother seeing her beloved children going off to school for the first time. She had wanted to run after her and ask her to be gentle with them, not to muss the carefully pressed gowns, to be careful not to catch the delicate material of them on the cleverly concealed zippers. She had restrained herself, knowing her fears were groundless. Not only was the swarthy Spanish dresser unable to understand more than a few words of English, but she had been handling costumes for more years than Nora had been alive.

The first act was the ballroom scene, and virtually the whole cast was on the stage. The setting was brilliant, with a sparkling chandelier hung from the ceiling and elegant furniture of the period scattered about the stage. There was a long table set with a snowy tablecloth and gleaming with silver candelabra and china. Nora found Ginny. She had just taken her place and looked beautiful in a low-cut gown of pale blue. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in the fashion of the era and hung in ringlets around her small face. Her tall bass, resplendent in evening dress, towered over her, his eyes fastened on her with adoration. Now, at the back of the stage, the thin curtains of the backdrop parted and the chorus drew aside to make a path for the entrance of the prima donna, Violetta, played by Consuelo. Nora knew what was coming, and she held her breath, suddenly terrified that the pale green gown she had slaved over would be a dismal failure. She wanted to run away and hide and wondered what had possessed her to think she could ever design a costume good enough for the Met. Then, there was a sudden hush of silence, and with a rustle of silk brocade, Consuelo swept out on to the stage. She glided slowly, provocatively, a small jewelled fan open at her chin, the black eyes peering seductively over it at the crowd gathered before her. Nora sighed with satisfaction, and it seemed as though the whole assemblage of singers on the great stage sighed with her. The gown was gorgeous! She had worried needlessly. It fitted to perfection. Then she saw Reed Thatcher, elegant in his conductor's white tie and tails, stride forward from the back of the orchestra pit and slowly, gracefully ascend the podium. For a few seconds he stood

poised, waiting for the singers to take their places on the stage! There was a sudden silence. Then he raised his baton and the orchestra began to play the melodious and haunting overture to La Traviata. Nora watched the whole rehearsal from the wings. Each costume she had designed seemed to work well on the stage, but she made mental notes of the things she would do differently next time. It was too late for any major changes, but she promised herself to make the minor ones that would improve the gowns. At the end of the rehearsal, still dazed with her success, Nora saw Niles Thordarson speaking to Reed. She knew they would have many things to discuss after this first dress rehearsal, and that the costumes would be the least of their concerns at this point. She was taken by surprise, then, when she saw the two men turn and approach her. She was sure that Reed had been aware of her presence in the wings since the rehearsal began. Once or twice, as Consuelo stepped out on to the stage in a new costume, his eyes had met Nora's nervous ones briefly. 'Niles,' Reed was saying to the older man as they reached her side, 'I'd like to have you meet your designer, Nora Baird. Nora, this is Niles Thordarson.' Nora drew in a sharp breath. She was naturally impressed at meeting the head of the opera company like this, but her stunned reaction was for the presence of the tall, self-assured man in the white tie and tails. His elegance and ease in the formal clothes took her breath away. He was a vision of perfect masculinity. Then someone called his name, and he walked off, baton tucked casually under one arm, leaving Nora and the General Manager alone.

'How do you do, Miss Baird,' he was saying to her. She turned her attention to him and murmured his name, acknowledging the introduction. 'I like your designs very much,' he went on. 'They're fresh and new. We've needed that around here for a long time.' 'Thank you,' Nora said. 'It was kind of Mr Thatcher to give me the chance.' Niles Thordarson laughed. 'Oh, Reed can spot talent a mile off.' His eyes narrowed. 'How would you like to design the costumes for our next opera? Reed tells me you work well under pressure.' Nora gasped. She could only stare at him. 'You mean all of them?' she finally blurted out. 'Well, you know we always try to use as many costumes as we can from the last production. We're doing La Boheme next. Think you can handle it?' 'Why, yes,' Nora stammered. She knew the opera well. 'Yes, of course I can. Thank you.' 'Good. Come to my office Monday and we'll see about getting some kind of studio to work in. Or, if you prefer, you can work in your own.' My own studio, Nora thought, and stifled a hysterical giggle. The work table in the corner of her room by the window could hardly be called a studio. Besides, she wanted to be close to the activity and atmosphere of the opera house. 'I'd like to work here,' she said, 'if you can find a place for me.'

'We'll arrange something.' His manner was kindly, but businesslike. 'See me Monday.' He turned to go, walked a few steps, then looked back at her. 'We'll discuss your salary then, too.' 'Fine,' Nora murmured, still in a daze at the dizzying pace of events. She stood looking after him for a few minutes. The stage was almost empty now. Reed had vanished. A few singers stood around in small groups discussing the relative merits of the rehearsal in heated tones. Nora looked around for Ginny, but she, too, had disappeared. Probably gone off with her new love, Nora thought. Suddenly, she felt very lonely, even a little let down. She knew she was just tired. It was after eleven. She had worked a long hard day making sure every costume was perfect before letting it out of her sight. She would go home, take a leisurely bath and sleep late in the morning. She turned away and walked slowly back through the wings towards the spiral staircase. As she started down the metal steps, she could hear someone running up from below. She stopped and leaned against the railing to give whoever it was room to get by her. She was mildly curious to see who could be in such a hurry to get upstairs at this hour when everyone else only wanted to go home. In a moment, the blond head of Peter Winston appeared. He looked up at her, his eyes lighting in recognition. Quickly, he ran up the few steps that separated them. He put his hands on her shoulders and beamed down at her.

'Thank God I caught you before you left,' he said. He was panting. 'I just got off the plane from Dallas. How did it go?' She was so glad to see him that tears came to her eyes. She leaned against him, and his arms went around her. 'Quite well, I think,' she managed to choke out against his chest. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up to face him. 'Hey,' he said softly, as he brushed away a tear that had fallen on her cheek, 'what's wrong?' 'Oh, Peter,' she said, clinging to him. She was laughing now through her tears. 'Nothing's wrong. Everything's perfect.' He held her tight, his lips on her forehead. 'Silly,' he murmured, 'then why are you crying?' She looked up at him with a smile. 'I'm not crying. I'm too happy to cry.' 'Listen,' he said. 'I came here to kidnap you. My mother has been after me for weeks to bring you out to the house on Long Island to meet her. You've been so busy I haven't wanted to ask. But now that the big push is over, a weekend in the country is just what you need.' 'Oh, Peter, I couldn't,' she objected. T have nothing to wear.' 'Don't be silly. It's just family. My sister, Valerie, is here from San Francisco. She has more clothes than ten women could ever wear.' She looked away, still dubious. The Winston family was not only wealthy and socially prominent, but Peter's mother, in particular, was a powerful force in operatic circles. Nora didn't want to mix

her business and social lives, nor to ever let it appear that her success was due to the Winstons' influence. 'Peter,' she said slowly, 'you didn't say anything to Reed or Mr Thordarson about me, did you?' He held up a hand. 'Scout's honour. Not a word.' He grabbed her by the shoulders again and shook her gently. 'Listen, I know how you feel about that. I respect it. Do you think I'd jeopardise our relationship by butting in when I know you can get ahead perfectly well on your own? Besides,' he said with a grin, 'I always figured that if you failed, you might take more of an interest in me.' She believed him. He was capable, she thought, of helping her surreptitiously, but never of giving her an outright lie. 'What do you say?' he asked. 'Will you come? There's an indoor heated pool. Horses, if you like them. Two ill-behaved dogs. A spoiled cat. Say you'll come.' She looked up at him. 'No strings?' He held his hands up in the air. 'Promise. No strings.' 'All right, then. I'll come.' 'Good. Let's go. We can stop by your apartment so you can get whatever it is women need for the weekend, and hope it'll fit in the car.' They started down the stairs. She went ahead and Peter followed, one arm draped loosely around her shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs he pulled her to him and kissed her lightly on the lips.

'Peter,' she began, worried that he might think she had promised more than she meant to, 'I . . At that moment, she saw a tall figure coming towards them from the direction of the wardrobe room. She caught her breath. It was Reed. As he moved closer, she tried to read the enigmatic expression on his face. He had changed his clothes and was wearing dark trousers, a dark turtle-neck sweater and a tweed jacket. She drew back from Peter's embrace and faced the tall dark man. 'I was looking for you,' he said curtly. He turned to Peter. 'How are you, Winston?' 'What. . . what did you want?' Nora stammered, her heart leaping. 'I'd like to have you come in tomorrow,' he said. 'There are a few minor changes to make in the costumes.' Her heart sank. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I can't.' He raised his eyebrows. 'I'm going away for the weekend,' she explained. 'Can't it wait until Monday?' Reed flicked a glance at Peter, then back to Nora. 'I see,' he said. 'Yes, it can wait. Goodnight.' He started down the hall to the outside entrance in an easy gait, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Nora stared after him. She couldn't help wondering what would have happened if she had been in the wardrobe room alone when he had come to find her. She turned to Peter. He was gazing at her with an odd expression. He opened his mouth as if to ask a question, then smiled and took, her arm. 'Shall we go?' he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT THE Winston home was on the North Shore of Long Island, about twenty miles out from the city. They had stopped by Nora's apartment to pick up a few things, and it was well after midnight by the time Peter and Nora arrived. The whole area was very quiet and pitch-dark, with heavy black clouds blanketing the night sky. The Winston property was enclosed by a high iron fence. When they pulled up at the gate, Peter reached into the glove compartment of the car and pressed a switch. The heavy gates before them slowly opened and they drove through. Peter guided the car slowly up a gently curving driveway. Nora could just make out the dark shapes of trees and shrubs on either side, and, up ahead at last, a sprawling mass that was the house. Only a few lights burned at the windows, but Nora could smell wood smoke, and thought she could see a trailing wisp of grey rising to the black sky out of one of the several chimneys. Peter stopped the car in front of the house. It was bitterly cold, and Nora shivered in her thin black coat. They got out and walked up the wide stone steps that led up to the double doors, massively built of hardwood with shining brass handles and a doorknocker in the shape of a sea shell. On either side of the doors round electric lamps were hung, set in black wrought-iron fittings. Peter took out a key and unlocked the door. When he opened it they were greeted by a welcome rush of warm air. 'Come on,' Peter said, taking her hand and drawing her into the long, wide hall.

Nora stared. The foyer was almost the size of her whole apartment. Bright red, blue and gold-patterned oriental rugs lay on the shining terrazzo floor. There were bright sconces set at intervals along the dark-panelled walls, casting a rich glow on the luxurious carpets and heavily-framed paintings. Suddenly, Nora felt frightened. What was she doing here in this grand estate with a man she hardly knew? There was no tangible substance to her sudden anxiety. She knew she was in no danger. She merely felt momentarily disoriented. 'There's a light on in the library,' Peter said. He pulled her after him as he set off towards an open door at the back of the hall. 'My mother retires late.' Noticing the look of trepidation on her face, he gave her a warm, confident smile and squeezed her hand. Then he tucked her arm under his and brushed her hair back lightly from her forehead. 'Come on,' he said. 'She'll love you.' They went through the door and into a room Nora thought only existed in movies. There was a large fireplace panelled in dark wood, with a cheery fire blazing. The walls were lined with books and paintings, with heavy red velvet draperies at the windows. The carpet was a deep rich ruby colour, the furniture polished mahogany; obviously valuable antiques. A small woman with a fluffy cloud of white hair framing delicate features was seated in front of the fire, a book in her lap. She wore a rich velvet robe of emerald green and had soft black slippers on her tiny feet. Her eyes were closed.

Peter walked to her chair, his hand still on Nora's arm, propelling her along with him. He leaned over and put a hand on his mother's shoulder, shaking it gently. The eyes flew open, blinked a few times, then gradually focussed. She looked from one to the other in some bewilderment. Then she smiled. 'Why, Peter,' she said, 'you did bring her.' She held out a small hand covered with diamonds. 'My dear, I'm so glad you could come. I've heard so much about you.' She stood up. 'You know,' she chattered on, her hand clasping Nora's, 'I'm a great celebrity collector. I have no talents of my own, and I like to surround myself with creative people. I hope you don't mind.' Peter laughed. 'Mother's giving you the full treatment right away,' he said, looking fondly down at the small woman. He glanced at Nora. 'And don't believe her no-talent sob story. She has the finest collection of orchids in the country.' 'Oh, Peter,' Mrs Winston protested. 'Orchids grow themselves. Talent doesn't enter into it.' She turned to Nora. 'How did the rehearsal go, my dear? I'm sure your costumes were a great success.' 'Quite well, thank you,' Nora replied. 'I knew they would be,' Mrs Winston said. 'So fresh and interesting, yet quite true to the period. I love Traviata. An old war-horse, I know, but then dear Verdi couldn't write a bad piece of music.' Nora's head swam as she struggled to follow the conversation. Mrs Winston spoke of the great composer, dead for over eighty years,

as if he had been a personal friend. And how did she know so much about the costumes? Had Peter lied to her when he said he hadn't used his influence on her behalf? 'How . . . ?' she started to ask. 'The costumes?' Mrs Winston said. She smiled. 'Oh, yes, I've seen them. Dear Niles Thordarson and I are old friends.' 'Mother,' Peter broke in sternly, 'I have assured Nora that I—we— had nothing to do with getting her designs used. Now, you're not going to make a liar out of me, are you?' Mrs Winston raised her eyebrows. 'Oh, dear me, no. I didn't even know you and Miss Baird were acquainted then.' She turned to Nora,, a troubled look on her face. 'Like you, Miss Baird,. I do not believe in using influence to promote a career. I have too much respect for genuine talent to do that. Your success is due entirely to your own merits. I hope you believe me.' 'Of course I do,' Nora said, reassured. 'I don't mean to be priggish about it. It's just that you never know whether you have talent or not if your success is based on influence.' Mrs Winston nodded. 'Very well said. Now, I'm sure you'd like to go to your room. You must be very tired. I know I am, and I've done nothing constructive all day.' She turned to Peter. 'I sent George and Alice to bed. Will you take Nora up? I've put her in the green room, next to Valerie.' She took both Nora's hands in hers. 'I'll say goodnight now. I only stayed up to meet you, my dear. I hope your visit is a pleasant one.' They said goodnight, then, and Mrs Winston left them alone. Peter poked at the fire, scattering the dying embers, closing the heavy brass screen. He looked at Nora.

'Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?' 'No thanks, Peter. I'm really just awfully tired.' 'Of course,' he murmured. 'Come on. I'll show you to your room.' They went up a wide, gracefully curving staircase to the secondfloor landing. Nora followed Peter, who was carrying her bag, down a long carpeted hallway, past several doors. He stopped at the last one and opened it, stepping inside and flicking on the light. Nora followed him as he set her Bag down. 'Bathroom's in there,' he said, pointing. 'Lots of cupboard space.' He looked at her. 'I'll say goodnight, then. I know you're tired.' He put his arms around her and drew her to him. She stiffened momentarily, then realised she was being silly. She lifted her face to receive his kiss, soft, and gently protective. 'Goodnight, darling,' he whispered. Then he was gone.

In spite of her exhaustion, Nora had trouble sleeping. She was still in the clouds over her success that evening, the offer to do the next opera, her own studio. Her mind raced as she planned what she would do with more money to spend. She had been so poor for so long that it had become a way of life with her to banish all thoughts from her mind of spending money. Fix up the apartment first, she thought. Then maybe get some new clothes, have her hair styled. She had always wanted to travel. Perhaps a trip to Europe, an opera tour—La Scala, Glyndebourne,

the Vienna Statsopera, Bayreuth. She would like to see what the European costume designers were doing, study the old masters. She tossed and turned in the comfortable double bed, unable to settle down. She thought of Reed and how elegant he had looked in his white tie and tails. She knew she had to forget him, that he wasn't for her, but she couldn't get him out of her mind. If only . . . Well, if only what? She had had her chance once and blown it. Now he saw her as just a green kid. Even so, she couldn't help going over again in her mind their few brief encounters. Closing her eyes, letting her imagination wander, she could almost feel his strong, masculine presence in the room with her. Finally she got up and walked to the window. She pulled the heavy green draperies aside and looked out. There was a bright moon, and as she surveyed the unfamiliar landscape of large trees and dense shrubbery as far as the eye could see, she began to realise why she was having so much trouble sleeping. It was too quiet. She had become so accustomed to the noises of the city in her basement apartment that she found the silence of the country unsettling. There was no sound of traffic going by or the occasional screaming siren she was used to. No blinking neon lights. No pounding on the ceiling from the tenants upstairs or loud stereo from next door. She sighed and got back in bed. The city had her hooked for good, she thought. Finally, she dozed off in a fitful sleep, awake again at dawn as a pale winter sun came through her bedroom window. The weekend passed quickly, and the kindness and hospitality of the Winstons made Nora feel very much at home. Still, at odd moments she would find herself longing to get back to New York,

to her own apartment, but especially to the opera house and her new studio and her work. Peter was very attentive the whole two days. They took long walks together, played Scrabble in front of one of the roaring fires that were constantly going in the library and living room. The meals were delicious, served silently and skilfully by a maid in a black uniform with a frilly white apron, a sight Nora had only seen before in movies and plays. Mrs Winston was a gracious, yet unobtrusive hostess. There seemed to be a silent conspiracy to leave Peter and Nora alone as much as possible. This troubled Nora. She liked Peter very much. He was everything—and more—she could ever want in a man. But she was not in love with him. His nearness was comforting, pleasant, but never made her pulses race or her blood tingle as the merest glimpse of Reed Thatcher could do. Valerie, Peter's younger sister, turned out to be somewhat reserved and distant. This suited Nora. She had been afraid she might have been expected to exchange girlish confidences with her, and was relieved when she saw that Valerie, while friendly, had no intention of promoting an instant intimacy. When Peter asked his sister to lend Nora some suitable clothes, she had graciously agreed, and right after breakfast Saturday morning had invited Nora to her room to choose what she needed. 'I'm afraid I'll need everything,' Nora apologised as the two girls walked up the graceful staircase together. 'What I have on is all I brought. Peter said . . .' 'We're about the same size,' Valerie had commented, with only one brief, polite glance at Nora's blue denims and plaid shirt. She opened her cupboard door. 'Choose what you like. You'll want

some warmer trousers and a sweater. We'll dress for dinner tonight, so you'll need something formal.' Nora gasped as she surveyed the contents of the cupboard, as big as a small bedroom, with beautiful clothes of every description hanging neatly in an orderly pattern. She had never seen so many clothes outside a department store. 'I—I don't know where to begin,' she stammered. She turned to Valerie and made a helpless gesture with her hands. 'Won't you choose for me? You know better than I what will be suitable.' She could see Valerie thaw visibly, even smile briefly as she eyed Nora. 'You're not what I expected,' she said finally. 'I had visions of you pawing through my clothes and . . .' She stopped abruptly, colouring deeply. 'I beg your pardon. What an unforgivable thing to say.' 'Please, don't apologise,' Nora said stiffly. She was deeply hurt. 'I'm the one who should ask your pardon. Peter had no right to impose on you like this.' She turned to go. Valerie caught her arm. 'Please,' she said. 'Please don't go. As you can see, I can't possibly wear all these clothes. I want you to use them.' Nora hesitated. She sounded as though she meant it. She sighed. 'All right. I'd appreciate your help, though. I'm not very interested in clothes.' Valerie's eyes widened. 'A designer!' she exclaimed. 'Not interested in clothes?' Nora gave an embarrassed laugh. 'I guess that does sound pretty silly. I haven't had any money to spend on clothes, and have been

too busy to think much about them. Besides, I don't go out much, and in wardrobe it doesn't matter what we wear because the smocks cover it anyway.' 'But I understood you were out of the wardrobe department now,' Valerie commented over her shoulder as she went through the racks of clothes. 'That's right,' Nora replied. 'I keep forgetting. I'll have to get some new clothes, I guess.' They finally chose a pair of wool trousers, in a muted plaid of heather-green, tan and cream, with a matching green cashmere pullover to wear during the day. For evening they decided on a long red velveteen dress with a low scoop-neck and full skirt. 'You know,' Valerie said as they transferred the clothes into Nora's room next door, 'when Peter told us he was hoping to get you out here for the weekend, I was very apprehensive.' Nora gave her a sharp look. Valerie went on hurriedly. 'I wouldn't have told you that except that I wanted you to know I don't feel that way any more now that I've met you.' 'Well, I'm glad of that,' Nora said wryly. Valerie's frankness was beginning to wear a little thin. Nora didn't like the position she seemed to be in of finding herself on trial, like a piece of livestock. 'I know I'm saying this badly,' Valerie went on, making a little face. She looked directly at Nora. 'I love my brother very much. He's a wonderful man.' 'I agree entirely,' Nora said. She shut the cupboard door and turned to Valerie. 'Tell me, what do you think our relationship is?'

Valerie only stared for a moment. Then, 'Well, I'm not sure. I guess I thought, well, that . . .' She trailed off helplessly. 'Peter and I are friends, Valerie,' Nora said firmly. 'Only friends. From my point of view, that's what we'll always be.' 'I see,' Valerie said quietly. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. 'Does Peter know that?' she asked. 'Yes. He's always known it.' Valerie sighed and stood up. 'Poor Peter. To finally get bitten and then find he's only to be a friend.'

Nora thought about that conversation on Sunday afternoon as Peter drove her home. There had been a light snowfall that morning. She and Peter had taken the dogs for a walk. Valerie had loaned her boots, a parka and gloves. They had stayed out an hour, forming meagre snowballs and throwing them lightly at each other, laughing and totally at ease in each other's company. Occasionally, during her stay at the Winstons, Nora would glance at Peter and surprise a look on his face of a disturbing intensity of feeling, but he never forced himself on her. He enjoyed being with her, but apart from a chaste goodnight kiss outside her bedroom door, or an arm flung casually around her shoulder when they were out walking, their relationship wasn't physical at all. She wondered now if she was being fair to him by seeing him at all. Perhaps she should call it off before he got really serious.

'Penny for them,' Peter said easily, his eyes leaving the road for an instant to flick briefly at her. She laughed. 'They're hardly worth that, even in this inflated age.' 'You looked very serious there for a moment,' he commented. She was silent, not knowing what to say. 'Didn't you enjoy yourself?' he went on in a heavier tone. 'I know Val can be sticky at times, but Mother usually makes up for it with her vague charm.' He glanced at her again. 'No,' she said quickly. 'It's not Valerie. She was a little—sticky—at first, but became quite friendly when . . .' She trailed off, not sure she should continue. 'When what?' he asked. 'Come on, Nora, you can't leave it at that.' She decided to plunge in. 'Well, then, when I told her that you and I were only friends.' She saw his brown eyes light up in a rare flash of anger. 'Val had no right. . .' He began through clenched teeth. 'She had every right!' Nora exclaimed loudly. 'She loves you very much. She wasn't warning me off you. She's only concerned about your welfare.' There was a short silence. 'Anyway,' she went on, 'I began to think about it, and wondering if we should keep seeing each other.' 'Why on earth not?' he asked. 'What's Val got to do with . . .' 'You don't understand, Peter. Val's right. She doesn't want you to get hurt. Neither do I. You're so kind and decent and caring. I—I'm very fond of you, Peter.'

'But,' he said grimly, 'you don't love me. Okay. I know that. I've always known it. I'm a grown man. I've been in love before. Probably will be again. If you enjoy my company, let's just leave it at that.' They had reached her apartment by now. It was early evening, the December sun setting by five o'clock. Peter carried her bag in and said goodnight. 'I'll call you when I get back from Seattle,' he said. 'And no more foolishness about my welfare. I'm not as fragile as I look. Promise?' She nodded. He put his hands on her shoulders, brushed her lips lightly with his, and was gone.

The next morning, Nora was awake before dawn. She was so excited about her new job that she could barely force down juice, coffee and toast. Her biggest problem was what to wear. She had a little money saved and intended to go shopping, as soon as she had time, for more suitable clothes than what she owned. In the mean time, searching frantically through her meagre wardrobe, she came up with only one outfit that was passable, a brown-andwhite houndstooth-checked suit that she prayed would still fit her. She hadn't worn it for two years, and when she tried it on, the jacket fitted perfectly, but she could see that the skirt was at least two inches too long for today's fashion. She glanced at the clock. It was only seven-thirty. No one would be at the opera house until nine.

She took out the hem, cut off two inches all around, and sewed it back up in place. She tried it on again. It looked much better. After she pressed out the hemline, it was like new. Her one pair of brown heels were out of style, but she had no choice. As she slipped them on, she promised herself some new shoes with her first salary payment. She splurged and took a cab to work. It was below freezing, and she didn't own a warm coat. She had her thin black one and her heavy red jacket, but neither one would do. She sighed. Another major purchase. It was going to be an expensive success. She went straight to Niles Thordarson's office when she arrived at the Met. He hadn't come in yet, but had left orders with Helen, his assistant, to find her a room she could use for a studio. It was only a small cubby-hole, but to Nora it was like heaven. There was even a window over the large work table, and a draughtsman's lamp just like the one she had at home. 'It's awfully small,' Helen apologised, 'but it was all I could come up with on such short notice.' 'It's perfect,' Nora said. Her eyes shone with delight. She turned to Helen. 'Thanks so much. You've even managed to find me a work table and lamp.' Helen breathed a sigh of relief. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, long inured to artistic temperament. It was a pleasure to deal with someone who seemed to be satisfied with what you gave them. Nora thanked her again as she left the room. After she was gone, Nora stood alone in the small studio, surveying her new domain. She had to touch every object there, to somehow make it her own.

Finally, after some time of this seemingly pointless activity, she reminded herself that she was there to work. She hung her checked jacket on the back of her stool, sat down, switched on the lamp and opened her portfolio. She took out drawing-paper, large creamy sheets, a few sharp pencils, and tried to concentrate on her work. After a few minutes of this, she began to panic. There wasn't an idea in her head. What had seemed so easy and natural to her before, when she had to make time for her design work out of a busy schedule, now seemed impossible. She was a fraud, she thought. She had no talent. It had all been a terrible mistake. She longed for the security of the wardrobe department, where everything she did was under someone else's supervision. Now, left to herself, she could do nothing. She held her head in her hands, in an agony of self-doubt. What had ever made her think she was a good designer? Was it too late to back out? She moaned aloud at the thought of how Reed Thatcher had gone out on a limb for her. What would he say if she failed now? Yet the designs for Traviata had been good. She knew that. Reed thought so. Niles Thordarson thought so. Even Consuelo Valdez had liked them. She just couldn't believe it. A fluke, she thought bitterly. Just a lucky chance. She was just about to go to Niles Thordarson's office to tell him she couldn't do it, when there was a light knock on the door, and Niles Thordarson himself walked in. 'Well,' he said, beaming, 'here you are. Getting nicely settled? Like your studio? I know it's not very big, but extra space around the Met is hard to come by.'

'Oh, no,' she stammered, 'it's fine. Perfect. I appreciate it very much.' 'Good, good,' he said. 'Now, we open La Boheme in two months. That gives you plenty of time, I think. We'll be using almost all the old costumes. Wardrobe will have to do some altering for Lily Vance, our new Mimi, but that's not your problem.' As he spoke, Nora found herself relaxing, her panic subsiding. She listened carefully. Somehow, seeing her job in the light of one step at a time, narrowing the scope, defining its limits, made it more manageable. 'The men's costumes are all right as they are.' He chuckled. 'Men singers—except for a few tenors— aren't nearly so difficult about their costumes as women. Generally they'll just wear what they're told to, so long as it fits and they can sing. What I want you to work on first of all is a new dress for Musetta in the second act. By then we'll have a better idea where we stand on the other costumes. Any questions?' he had moved to the door. 'Well,' she said, 'I think I understand what you want. There is one thing. When I finish the preliminary sketches, will Reed Thatcher approve them as usual?' He shook his head. 'No, you'll be directly responsible to me. Reed is leaving for Chicago right after the opening of Traviata next Saturday night. Lyric Opera has been after him for a long time. From there he goes on to San Francisco, then I think Paris and Rome.' 'I see,' she said in a small voice. She wouldn't even have Reed's support. 'Who will conduct when he leaves?'

'I'm not sure yet, but you don't have to worry. Reed is the only conductor I know who insists on directing the entire operation, from costumes to sets. As I said, you'll be responsible to me.' After he left, Nora just sat at her work table staring down at a blank sheet of drawing-paper. All the confidence she had felt under Niles Thordarson's clear instructions had vanished when he told her Reed would be gone. She knew the sinking, almost bereaved feeling was more than just disappointment that she wouldn't have Reed's moral support during the coming ordeal. That was important—his casual confidence in her gave her strength. More than that, however, was that if he left now, she would know there was no hope for a personal relationship with him. Silly, she told herself severely. There wasn't any hope anyway. Yet, she realised now that a part of her had hoped, had believed that so long as she could .see him, work with him, there was a chance of something more between them. Now she didn't even have that frail reed to cling to.

Ginny stopped by in the early afternoon on her way to rehearsal, full of congratulations and good wishes. Nora, still staring at that blank piece of paper, wanted desperately to keep her there, but Ginny had to run. At four o'clock Nora had had all she could take of sitting on her stool getting nothing whatsoever accomplished, and she decided to give up and go home. Maybe she should work at home, she thought. Here she just seemed to freeze. She had arrived at the point where any activity at all, even walking home in the early winter twilight, would be better than just sitting at her table.

She slid off the stool and had started to pack her things into her portfolio when the door opened and Reed Thatcher strode inside. As always, his mere physical presence was enough to take Nora's breath away. He shut the door behind him and stood there leaning back against it, his arms folded in front of him, an inscrutable look on his face. They stared at each other for several seconds. 'Did you have a pleasant weekend with Peter Winston?' he finally asked. His tone was sarcastic and cruel. Nora was taken completely by surprise. How did he know she had spent the weekend at the Winstons'? He made it sound as though she and Peter had gone off on a romantic holiday. 'No,' she said in confusion. 'I mean, yes.' 'Well? What do you mean?' he asked, an ugly sneer on his face. 'I mean, yes, I had a pleasant weekend, but, no, it isn't what you think.' He raised dark eyebrows. 'How do you know what I think?' he asked. 'You were with Winston, weren't you?' She began to grow angry. What right did he have to cross-examine her? He'd made it quite clear that he didn't want her, yet he seemed to begrudge her an innocent weekend with a man who did. 'That's none of your business,' she snapped. 'What do you care, anyway? You're going off to Chicago and leaving me here to face this new opera all by myself, and I can't do it.'

To her horror, her lower lip began to quiver uncontrollably, and the tears rushed to her eyes. She bit her lip and turned her head away. In a moment he was at her side. His arm went around her heaving shoulders and she felt herself pulled against his chest. The rough material of his sweater scratched her cheek lightly, and she drank in the clean masculine scent of him. She lay her head on his shoulder and sobbed quietly. 'Damn you,' he muttered in her ear, 'stop crying.' He was actually patting her on the back! The shock of such unexpected gentleness from the man she had thought of for so long as an arrogant, ruthless martinet sobered her, made her forget her panic. Against that hard chest she began to smile, then to giggle under her breath, and finally, unable to control herself, she broke into laughter. Reed pushed her from him and looked down at her, unsure whether she was laughing or still crying. When he saw the dancing eyes, still teary, and heard her irrepressible chuckles, he opened his mouth and narrowed his eyes. 'Why, you little . . .' he spluttered. 'You're laughing at me. What's so funny?' By now she was half hysterical. 'Oh, I don't know,' she cried. 'You, me, the opera, the whole world.' With an effort, she calmed herself and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Reed's hands were still on her shoulders. His expression hovered between indignation and mirth. Finally, he grinned and dropped his hands to his sides.

'You're getting to be as temperamental as Consuelo,' he muttered. 'Success has gone to your head, I can see. Now, what was that all about?' 'I panicked,' she admitted. 'When Mr Thordarson told me you were leaving, I suddenly felt as though I couldn't face all this alone. How do I know I can do it? What makes me think I have talent? Oh, a little, but the Met? It just hit me all of a sudden that I was in way over my head.' She smiled sadly at him. 'I'm afraid you were my security blanket.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Well, I'll be damned,' he said softly. 'I've been called a lot of things, but never that.' He shook his head slowly. 'That won't do, Nora. You know that, don't you?' She turned away impatiently. 'Of course I know that,' she said angrily. She glared at him. 'I'm not a complete idiot, you know. Inexperienced, maybe,' she said with a touch of sarcasm, 'but not stupid.' As if her words reminded him of something unpleasant he wanted to forget, he turned and walked a few steps away from her towards the window. He stood looking out for some time. Then, without turning around, he said in a strained voice, 'Is that still true?' He turned, then, and gave her a searching look. Nora hesitated. She felt trapped. If she told him the truth, that she looked on Peter Winston only as a friend, Reed would reject her again because of her innocence. If she lied, he would consider her Peter's property and keep hands off. She bit her lip and tried to think what to say to him. 'I don't think you have any right to ask me that question,' she said at last.

He continued to gaze at her, his face a mask, for several seconds. Then he shrugged. 'You're right,' he said curtly. 'I have no rights at all where you're concerned.' And don't want any, she thought bitterly. He strode towards the door. Her heart ached for him. She longed to run to him, throw herself in his arms, at his feet, and beg him to take her. He paused at the door, one hand on the knob. To Nora, he looked like a god, so tall, so graceful, so alive. His masculine presence filled the room. 'Just one more thing,' he said in a heavy, expressionless tone. 'Don't ever doubt your talent. You've got it. What you need is courage, and no one can give you that. Belief in yourself is something you've got to earn. Alone. No props, no security blanket. All alone.' With that he was gone. She stood looking after him for a long time. The little room seemed cold and empty. Nora felt bereft. A light had gone out of her life. Slowly, she walked to the work table and sat down on the stool. Alone, he had said. A chill coursed through her, and she shivered. She reached out a hand, picked up a drawing pencil and began to sketch.

CHAPTER NINE THE days and weeks flew by. Nora was so absorbed in her work that she barely noticed when winter finally came. She spent Christmas with the Winstons on their Long Island estate, an oldfashioned Christmas, with roaring fires, an enormous tree in the library, lavish decorations and a continuous round of parties. She and Valerie Winston had become good friends by now. Even though Val lived in San Francisco, she thought nothing of hopping on a plane to spend a few days with her family. Shortly after Nora started her new designing job at the Met in November, Valerie had firmly taken her in hand one day and propelled her through Bonwits, Saks and Bendels, on a shopping expedition. Nora could afford it now. Her mind had boggled at her new salary, far more than she had ever dreamed anyone would pay her for doing what she loved doing anyway. 'You've got to dress for the part, you know,' Val had said in a positive tone that brooked no opposition. Nora had meekly followed her advice, but with her designer's eye finally turned on herself for a change, the final decisions had been hers alone. She had her hair styled and learned to take those few extra minutes to apply discreet make-up before appearing in public. Gone were the faded denims, worn sneakers and plaid shirts, replaced by slim tailored suits, soft wool dresses and high-heeled shoes. Her thick hair hung loosely, cut to perfection, just to her shoulders.

'It's not just the clothes and the hair,' Ginny had said to her one day in early January as they were having lunch together. 'It's your whole bearing. You've really changed with success, Nora.' Nora gave her friend a searching look. 'You mean success has gone to my head?' she asked cautiously. Ginny laughed. 'Heavens, no. That will never happen to you. No, I mean you seem more sure of yourself.' She chewed thoughtfully on her sandwich, then spoke again in a casual tone. 'How are you and Peter getting along?' 'Quite well, when we see each other,' Nora replied. 'He's out of town a lot on business, and I'm always busy, so it isn't exactly a constant companionship.' 'Mmm,' Ginny murmured. She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. 'Are you going to marry him?' she asked. Nora laughed. 'Heavens, no. We're just good friends. Peter is a dear, but our relationship isn't serious.' Ginny had been in Chicago for two months singing at Lyric Opera. Nora was dying to ask about Reed Thatcher, but she didn't want her friend to know she was interested in him. She hadn't heard a word from him since he walked out of her studio that day in December. 'So,' she said lightly as she sipped her coffee, 'how was Chicago? Tell me about it. I hear it was a great success.' 'With Reed Thatcher running everything from the orchestra to the lighting, how could it miss?' Ginny replied drily.

Nora laughed. 'I take it he hasn't mellowed. Still the arrogant martinet?' 'More so, if anything,' Ginny replied. She wrinkled her nose. 'He's changed, though.' Nora's heart gave a sickening lurch. 'How do you mean changed?' she asked carefully. Ginny shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know. Something seems to be missing. The humour has gone, and some of the fire. He's still as fussy as ever, and picky over every detail, but he seems distracted, somehow.' Nora couldn't help it. She had to ask. 'How could he help but be distracted with Consuelo Valdez around?' 'Oh, that,' Ginny said. 'You know, I don't think there was anything going on there at all. Or, if there was, it isn't any more. Consuelo tried a few times, but Reed has stayed pretty much to himself these past few months. Maybe he has a secret love.' 'Maybe,' Nora said lightly. 'Knowing him, I doubt if he'll ever lack for female companionship.' Ginny gave her a sharp look. 'You know, I always thought he was interested in you. That night at the party, the way he looked at you while you were dancing. Then, when you disappeared, he kept asking about you. And it was Reed, after all, who gave you your big chance at the Met.' Nora shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn't want to be reminded of those past encounters. She had fought hard to put Reed Thatcher out of her mind, had built a pleasant, fulfilling life

for herself in his absence. She didn't want those painful memories to upset her hard-won equilibrium. Yet, she knew something was missing. Why else did her heart leap at the mere mention of his name? And why else couldn't she respond to Peter? Peter, she thought now, as she walked back to the Met after lunch. He had wanted to give her an engagement ring for Christmas, but she had politely, firmly refused. She went into her studio and hung up her new heavy red coat. She sat down at her work table and idly started tapping a pencil, remembering the painful scene. 'I can't accept it, Peter,' she had said, appalled to see that he had already purchased the expensive diamond solitaire. 'You know I can't marry you. We've been all through this before.' Peter had sighed and made an impatient gesture, then slowly put the flashing ring in its box and into his pocket. Then he'd given her a searching look. 'Why, Nora?' he had asked. 'Am I so repulsive to you?' 'Of course not,' she had responded immediately. 'I'm very fond of you. You know that. I-I just don't want to marry anyone.' 'Anyone?' he had asked, forcing her to look in his eyes. 'Are you sure there isn't someone else?' She looked away, her eyes cast down. 'There's no one else, Peter,' she had said in a low voice. It wasn't really a lie, even though she had to admit to herself that she was still under Reed Thatcher's

spell, that the mere mention of his name, even seeing it in a newspaper or magazine, set her heart pounding, her pulses racing. What she wanted was unattainable, and she would just have to live with that fact. She knew Reed desired her. There was no mistake about that. If the opportunity arose she might even—God help her— have an affair with him. But she knew that was the most she could hope for from him, and all indications were he wasn't even interested in that. Thank goodness, she thought now as she turned back to her sketch-book, she had her work. Her designs for La Boheme had been a great success. Her next assignment was a tremendous challenge to her skill and creative imagination. Niles had asked her to do the costumes for Tannhauser, and she was steeping herself in Wagner's music as well as medieval costumes in preparation for it. Soon she was absorbed in her work again, and for a time had a respite from the memories that continued to haunt her.

Spring arrived early in New York that year. By the end of March, the air was balmy with soft breezes off Long Island Sound. The daffodils in Central Park started blooming and girls began appearing on the streets in colourful spring dresses. Nora was spending the weekend at the Winstons' to help Mrs Winston prepare for her annual spring gala, an enormous affair to raise money for the Metropolitan Opera, that filled the large house and surrounding gardens. 'Thank the good Lord,' the little white-haired woman murmured, 'for such wonderful weather. All those people coming!' she exclaimed.

Nora and Val were helping her with the flowers in the large dining room. The long table was set for twenty people. There would be a buffet supper laid out at midnight for the party guests, but now each place was set with the finest white porcelain, gold- edged, delicate, almost translucent, and with crystal goblets and gleaming silverware on a snowy damask cloth. Through the french doors that opened on to the enormous flagstone terrace, Nora could see Peter and the butler out in the garden surrounding the terrace, hanging Japanese lanterns. It was a charming garden with several narrow brick paths through the shrubbery to a sloping lawn which led down to the swimming pool and another large terrace set in red quarry tile. 'I can't believe it's only March,' Val cried, wiping her forehead. 'It's almost too warm.' 'Oh, my dear,' said Mrs Winston to her daughter, 'surely you're exaggerating.' She herself looked as cool as a cucumber in one of her flowing pastel dresses. 'It's the activity and exertion. You're not accustomed to work, you know.' Val stared at her mother. 'Well, thanks a lot, Mama,' she said. Nora had to smile. Val was a dear, but she did live a life of idle self-indulgence, almost totally devoted to an active, international social life. 'Well, darling, you know what I mean,' her mother rambled on, unperturbed. She was arranging lilacs in a tall pale lavender vase. 'Now, Nora really does work hard, and you don't hear her complaining about the heat.' At that moment, Peter poked his head in through the french doors, looking hot and dishevelled in blue jeans and a T-shirt.

'How about a swim?' he called. 'It's hot out here.' 'What a marvellous idea,' Val exclaimed. 'How about it, Nora?' Nora glanced at Mrs Winston, who smiled vaguely and waved them off. 'Go on,' she said. 'Everything is done. I'm just puttering. It's only three o'clock. The dinner guests won't start arriving until seven.' She stepped back to survey the lilacs critically. 'Although why you want to go swimming in March, I can't imagine.' 'Because it is warm out and we've been slaving for you all day, Mother,' Peter said. As he spoke, he walked over to her, smiling down at her fondly. He bent to kiss her cheek, and Nora saw how his mother flushed with pleasure at this sign of affection from her son. Fifteen minutes later, Val and Peter and Nora met down by the pool. They took one quick dip. 'It's not quite as warm as it seemed,' Val said, climbing dripping and shivering out of the water. Nora, who hadn't dived in as Val had, sat on a chaise longue drying off her arms and shoulders. 'You shouldn't have got quite so wet, Val,' she said, eyeing the streaming hair plastered to Val's head. 'It's really quite pleasantly warm once you're dry.' Val stood before her, her teeth chattering, hugging her arms to her. 'Well, I'm not going to stay to find out. All I need for the party tonight is a head cold.'

'My stalwart sister,' Peter teased. Val turned on him, pointing an accusing finger. 'It's all your fault,' she said. 'My fault!' Peter exclaimed. 'You suggested it.' 'You thought it was a marvellous idea.' 'Hey,' Nora laughed, 'come on, you two. No hostilities before the big party. Val, why don't you go take a warm bath. You'll feel better.' 'And maybe behave better, too,' Peter drawled. Val shot him a venomous look and stalked off. Peter, a towel around his shoulders, sat down on the chaise beside Nora. He smiled. 'Well, that got rid of her, anyway,' he said, bending to kiss her lightly on the mouth. He eyed her form in its conservative, but revealing, red bikini. Nora shifted uncomfortably. 'Peter . . .' she began slowly. He raised his hands in the air and assumed a look of injured innocence. 'I know, I know. Hands off. Look but don't touch.' He sighed and gazed at her longingly. 'I don't know why I put up with you. You've kept me at arm's length for months now.'

Nora sighed. 'I don't know, either, Peter. I've never tried to mislead you into thinking . . . Well, you know.' At that moment, the house phone on the glass- topped table rang. Peter leaned over to answer it. 'Yes.' He listened for a while, frowning. Then, 'I see. All right, but I've got a party here tonight and have to get back by six at the latest.' He listened again. 'I understand. All right.' He hung up and glanced ruefully at Nora. 'Can you believe it? Some top men have come in from Portland for merger negotiations and won't sign the agreement unless I come in to sign for our side. I'm afraid I'll have to go into the city.' 'Will you make it back in time for dinner?' she asked. 'Your mother said there were people coming early.' 'I'd better,' he said, laughing as he got to his feet. 'I'd rather lose this deal than have my mother mad at me. I'd better get moving. Are you coming back to the house?' 'I don't think so. The sun feels so good, and I am a little tired. I'll stay out here for a while.' 'I'll see you later, then,' he said, and was gone. Nora closed her eyes and stretched out full length on the chaise. The gentle spring sun beat down on her pleasantly. If I were a cat, she thought, I'd be purring. Except for the mocking-birds twittering in the trees nearby and the faint distant hum of a power mower, there was total silence, and soon she felt herself drift into unconsciousness.

She awoke gradually some time later with the eerie sensation that she was being watched. She wondered vaguely if Peter had come back. She also felt a chill, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. Slowly she opened her eyes to see a dark form standing beside her chaise, blocking out the sun. She looked up into the grey eyes of Reed Thatcher. She drew in her breath sharply and put a hand to her throat. Her heart started pounding, and she felt light-headed and faint. He was standing there, his legs in their dark trousers slightly apart, fists on his hips, his dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. She lay unmoving, staring into his eyes. 'What . . .' she began. 'What are you doing here?' His eyes swept over her body in the brief bathing suit, and she felt the blood rushing to her face. He ignored her question. 'You look right at home here,' he said with a touch of sarcasm. 'Any reason why I shouldn't?' she retorted sharply. His mocking tone had brought her to her senses again. She sat up and gazed coolly at him. He raised his heavy dark eyebrows. 'I see you've grown claws since I've been gone,' he murmured. 'Although you always did have a temper.' He sat down beside her. 'Has success gone to your head?' Suddenly she realised he was baiting her, and wondered why. He obviously wanted to disturb her, get under her skin. She smiled coolly at him, determined to disappoint him.

'Of course,' she said lightly. 'You'll find I've changed in several ways.' There was a silence then, as he regarded her appraisingly. Then he, too, smiled. 'It's good to see you, Nora,' he said. 'I've missed you.' She caught her breath at this sudden change of tone, instantly disarmed, and once again her pulse began to race. She drew away from him a little and spoke again to cover her confusion. 'You didn't answer my question,' she said. Her hands groped behind her for her short terrycloth robe. 'Why am I here?' he asked. 'Why, because I was invited, of course. For the party and for dinner.' 'I see,' she mumbled. Her hands finally found the robe, and she started to slide her arms into it when he reached out a hand and took it from her. 'Here,' he said, 'let me help you.' He reached both arms behind her, coming closer as he did so. She stared at his face, so close to her own that she could see the little pulse beating near his jaw, smell the masculine aftershave and the wool of his tweed jacket. She longed to move her mouth that fraction of an inch it would take to meet that strong jaw. He was motionless now. She felt the robe drop behind her as it slipped out of his fingers, and the next thing she knew his arms were around her, his mouth warm on hers, his body pushing against her so that she was forced back against the elevated headrest of the chaise.

Mindlessly, submitting joyously to her own longing, she flung her arms around his neck and raked her fingers through the dark, crisp hair. Her mouth softened to his, as he gently forced her lips open. Finally, he tore his mouth away from hers and trailed his lips in a fiery path to her ear, all the while straining her to him in those powerful arms. 'Oh, God, Nora, how I've missed you,' he murmured in her ear. She put her hands under his jacket now, and ran them down his hard muscular chest, around his waist and up his back. He groaned softly and lifted his head to look down into her eyes. 'I want you, Nora,' he said in a low harsh voice. 'I've wanted you ever since the first night I saw you.' He put a hand on her cheek. 'The girl with the violet eyes.' The sun was going down now, and it was growing dimmer. She shivered a little. 'Are you cold?' he asked, concerned. 'No.' 'What, then? Why are you shivering?' 'Why do you think? Oh, Reed, I've missed you so.' His eyes bore into her then, as though her words had added fuel to the fire of desire raging inside him. He moved his hand, sliding it down from her cheek to her throat. He held the slim column for a moment, then began to caress her shoulders and the sensitive area below her neck. She closed her eyes as his hand closed over her breast, gently kneading and moulding it until she felt as though her whole body was on fire.

He undid the front opening of her bikini top and pushed the flimsy material aside. Both hands were on her firm full breasts, and she groaned with desire, arching her body towards him. He bent down to claim her lips again in a searing, probing kiss. Then, his breath coming in short gasps, his hands slid possessively down her body from her shoulders to her thighs and back up again. He pulled her closer. 'You want me, too, don't you?' he muttered hoarsely in her ear, his breath harsh and rasping. 'Oh, yes, Reed. Oh, yes, I always have.' It was quite dark by now, and suddenly the outdoor lights went on, shining directly down on them. Nora was shocked out of her rising passion, remembering suddenly where she was. Reed, sensing her stiffening, drew away from her. 'Oh, hell,' he muttered, glaring up at the lights. 'Wouldn't you know it?' He gave her a rueful look and stood up, reaching down a hand for her. Nora straightened her clothes and put on her robe. She gazed up at him now with adoration in her eyes. She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. He put an arm around her and drew her into the shadows. 'Listen,' he said in a low voice, looking down at her. 'I want you to come with me. To San Francisco, - then on to Paris and Rome. Will you do that?' Her heart sang. To be with him every day, every night. It was more happiness than she could bear to think of, than she ever dreamed possible.

'Oh, yes, Reed, yes.' Then she glanced shyly up at him. 'I'm still. . . inexperienced, though.' His eyes widened. 'Well, I'll be damned.' He hesitated a moment, then grinned. 'I think you're teachable, however. You have all the right instincts.' He drew her to him again, pressing her to him. His mouth clamped possessively on hers, and his hands moved down her body to her hips, pulling her against him, moulding her body to his. She gasped as she felt his hard masculine form against her, the proof of his desire for her. As he held her, however, his hands gentle as they moved over her back, a little seed of doubt and fear began to grow in her. She knew now that she was committed to him, that she loved him, had always loved him. But how did he feel about her? What kind of future would they have together? She had to know. She drew away from him a little. His hands came down immediately and moved under the robe to cover her breasts. She pushed them gently away. She couldn't think straight when he touched her like that. She looked up at him. 'Reed, what about Consuelo?' she asked. He frowned. 'What about her?' 'Well,' she stammered, 'I thought you and she. . .' 'Well, you thought wrong,' he said. 'I know better than to get caught in that man-eater's trap.' 'But, I heard you, saw you,' she began.

He sighed. 'I don't know what you heard or saw, but it wasn't what you thought. Prima donnas need humouring, need their egos bolstered with a word, a kiss, a pat. But it stops there. To tell you the truth, since that first night we met, no other woman has appealed to me enough to give her a second glance.' Satisfied, she placed her head on his shoulder and gave herself up to his caresses. Still, the thought of leaving everything behind and committing herself to this man without some assurance of his feelings disturbed her. She leaned back and looked up at him. 'Reed, look at me,' she said. 'Gladly,' he replied, smiling. She bit her lip. 'Reed, I've got to know. How do you feel about me?' He looked astonished. 'How do I feel about you? How can you ask? I'm mesmerised, entranced. I think you're beautiful, desirable, delectable. I can't get enough of you.' His hands were roaming over her body again. Firmly, she stopped them. She summoned up all her courage. She had to plunge ahead. 'Do you love me?' she asked. She heard him draw in his breath sharply. His hands were suddenly still. There was dead silence for a moment. Finally, he spoke. 'What's love?' he asked lightly. 'Hell, how do I know? I want you with me. I want to make love to you. Isn't that enough?'

'And what about after San Francisco? After Paris and Rome? Then what?' He shrugged and put his hands in his trouser pockets. She watched him, sensed his withdrawal, and knew she had lost him. 'Who knows?' he was saying. 'Why not just enjoy what we have now and let the future take care of itself?' She shook her head slowly. 'I don't think I can do that, Reed. I don't think I can live that way.' 'What is it?' he asked, and she could sense his growing anger. 'Is it your precious virginity?' 'No,' she answered quietly, 'it isn't that. You know I was ready to give you that a long time ago. I still am, for that matter.' She drew in a deep breath. 'But I can't go away with you.' 'Why the hell not?' he almost shouted. 'You'll sleep with me, but you won't come with me. That's irrational.' His hands were digging into her shoulders now, shaking her. 'Just tell me why.' Because I love you, she wanted to say, but she knew he wouldn't understand. She searched in her mind for a reason that would convince him. 'Because I'm going to marry Peter Winston,' she blurted. His hands left her shoulders, and she could hear his heavy breathing as he fought for control. When she finally dared to look at him, his face was pinched and drawn.

'I could kill you for that,' he muttered. He turned and strode away from her. Nora put a hand to her cheek. It was as though he had struck her. She watched him, tall and graceful, as he marched up the path to the house. She shivered and pulled her robe tightly around her. There was a chill in the night air. She ran a hand distractedly through her hair. 'What have I done?' she whispered. She walked slowly up the path, trying to sort out the turmoil of confused thoughts and conflicting emotions that assailed her. Uppermost in her mind was the conviction that at all costs she must get Reed Thatcher out of her mind and heart. What kind of life could she have with him? A few months, a year of heaven in his arms, and then what? She knew she had done the right thing. She went right to her room and got into a hot tub, soaking and thinking. She had been wrong to involve Peter, but it was the only thing she could think of at the time that she knew would convince Reed she was serious. By the time she had dried herself and put on her underwear and a long woollen robe, she had half convinced herself that marrying Peter wasn't such a bad idea. There wasn't the spark of passion she felt for Reed, but Peter was definitely not repulsive to her. He loved her and wanted to marry her. The more she thought about it, the more attractive the idea seemed. Not least of its advantages would be the immunity it would grant her from Reed Thatcher. Not only would he never consider becoming involved with his friend's wife—he had proved that by keeping hands off her when he thought she was Peter's property—

but she knew she would never betray Peter's confidence once she had actually married him. A rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. She looked down at her robe and tied it more securely. 'Who is it?' she called. 'Only me,' came Peter's cheerful voice. 'Are you decent?' 'Reasonably so. Come in.' He had already dressed for dinner, in dark trousers and a creamcoloured dinner jacket. He was really quite attractive, Nora thought, as he entered the room and walked towards her. I could learn to care for him. He'd make a wonderful father, besides. She put a hand to her hair. 'I must look like death,' she said with a smile. 'No make-up, my hair in a mess.' His eyes widened appreciatively as he gazed down at her seated at the dressing table. He reached out and gathered up a handful of her long black hair. 'You always look beautiful to me,' he said with a smile. She stood up and faced him. 'Do I, Peter?' she asked softly. The smile vanished from his face, and as she gazed into his soft brown eyes, a light appeared in them. He reached out tentatively and put a hand on her cheek. 'You already know the answer to that,' he said shortly.

She could hardly bear to look into those pleading eyes. She turned away from him and took a deep breath. 'Do you still want to marry me, Peter?' she asked lightly. There was a short silence. Then, 'Yes,' came his answer. 'All right, then, I'll marry you.' His hands gripped her shoulders, then, turning her around to face him. 'Do you mean it?' he demanded. She smiled and nodded. He drew her closely into his arms and put his cheek against hers, his lips on her ear. 'I'm not going to ask you what changed your mind,' he murmured, 'but whatever it was, I'm grateful.' He kissed her then, with more passion than ever before, his lips slightly parted. Nora did her best to respond to him, even to putting her arms around him, something she had never done before. He groaned softly and tore his mouth from hers. 'When, Nora? When will you marry me?' She laughed. 'Whenever you like.' 'I'll announce it tonight after dinner,' he said in a pleased tone. 'Mother and Val will be delighted.'

Her heart sank. Reed would be there. How could she face him? She steeled herself. It had to be done. She knew she was doing the right thing.

There were twenty people at dinner that night, close friends of the family with whom Nora was quite familiar. Mrs Winston sat at one end of the long table, Peter at the other, with Nora on his left. Reed Thatcher, magnificent in white dinner jacket, was at Mrs Winston's left, as far from Nora as possible. Nora had dressed with care. She had on a deep violet silk dress that just matched her eyes. The neckline was quite wide, with tiny sleeves covering the cap of her shoulders, and cut low enough so that the upper swell of her full breasts and the shadowy valley between were just visible. The bodice moulded her breasts and rib cage, tapering to a tiny waistline from which cascaded chiffon accordion pleats of the same colour. Her hair gleamed and she had made up with care. She knew from the appreciative glances of the men and the envious looks of the women that she looked her best. During dinner, Peter leaned towards her, his brown eyes glowing with pride and desire. 'You're the most beautiful woman in the room,' he murmured in a low voice. 'And you're mine. I'm going to make the announcement right after dinner.' She gave him a weak smile. 'Have you told your mother and Val?' she asked. 'Yes. They're almost as pleased as I am.'

True to his word, when dinner was over, Peter rose to his feet. All eyes turned to him. There was silence. He looked down at Nora and took one of her hands in his. 'I'll make it short and sweet,' he said. 'Nora has agreed—finally— to marry me.' There was a moment of silence, then a light smattering of applause, then an onslaught of questions, advice, congratulations and chatter. Nora glanced down the long table and caught Mrs Winston's eye. The older woman smiled knowingly. As Nora returned the smile and looked away, she was conscious of Reed Thatcher's steely gaze boring into her. She met his grey eyes and lifted her chin defiantly. In a graceful gesture, his expression unreadable, he slowly lifted his wine glass in a mock salute. Hastily she looked away. A toast was drunk to the happy couple, and soon the first party guests began to arrive. Nora moved through the rest of the evening in a daze. She didn't dare let herself even think what she had done. She only knew she was determined to go through with it. She had burned her bridges, and that was that. She caught glimpses of Reed throughout the evening. His tall, commanding presence was hard to miss. He was a celebrity, too, and a little cluster of worshipping fans seemed to follow him wherever he went. Nora never saw him even glance her way, and she began to wonder if she had dreamed the episode in the garden earlier.

She was talking to Val and Niles Thordarson when she heard his voice behind her. 'Would you care to dance?' he asked politely in a neutral tone. She was about to refuse, but decided it didn't matter at this point, and it would look very odd to the others. She turned to him, and the next thing she knew she was in his arms being swept out on to the flagstone terrace where the small orchestra was playing a slow tune. He held her lightly, his body making no demands on her. Even so, she was intensely aware of him. His white dinner jacket was smooth under her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He hummed along with the orchestra. When the music stopped, they were at the edge of the terrace, near one of the garden paths. He released her and she turned to go. Then she heard his voice low behind her, felt his hand on her bare arm. 'You really did it,' he said. She turned, steeling herself for an outraged onslaught, accusations and condemnations. Instead, he was smiling one of his rare smiles, the grey eyes glinting. And, she was astonished to see, there was a look on his face of approval, even admiration. 'Yes,' she said calmly. 'I did it.' 'Why?' he asked. He seemed genuinely interested, his tone one of curiosity. 'Why?' she repeated. 'Why, for the same reason most people get engaged.'

'I know why most people get engaged,' he said, a hard edge in his voice now. 'I want to know why you got engaged.' She hesitated just a moment too long. A slow smile of satisfaction spread on his face. He grabbed her hand. 'Come on,' he said gruffly, pulling her after him down the path. She stumbled after him, too surprised to protest or resist. He led her down to the deserted swimming pool and in the shadows turned to her, his eyes boring into her. 'I want to hear you say you're in love with Peter Winston,' he demanded, his hands gripping her shoulders. She threw her head back defiantly to look up at him and opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. For a moment she thought she could lie to him, but the words choked in her throat. 'I—I . . .' she stammered. The next thing she knew his mouth was on hers, hot, insistent, probing, forcing her head back even farther. She moaned, tried to resist, but the pressure was inexorable. His lips still on hers, he ground out the words, 'I love you, you little fool.' Nora's heart lurched and a sensation of liquid fire coursed through her veins. She managed to free her mouth. 'What?' she asked, incredulous. 'What did you say?' He looked down at her now, directly into her eyes. 'I love you,' he said clearly. 'I suspected it all along, but it was only tonight, when

it dawned on me you really meant to marry Winston, that I had to admit it to myself.' 'Oh, Reed,' she cried, flinging her arms around him. His hands moved from her shoulders to her throat, then down to trace the edge of her low bodice, his fingers trailing lightly across her breast. 'We'll get married right away,' he murmured in her ear as he slipped a hand inside her dress and forced the tiny sleeve off her shoulder. 'You can come to San Francisco with me. Then Paris and Rome.' By now he had pulled both sleeves off her shoulders, baring her breasts, cupping and stroking them with his hands, kissing them, tantalising the nipples with his tongue. Nora was on fire with longing and desire, but she forced herself back to reality. 'Reed,' she cried, 'stop. I can't. Please, while I still can. Stop.' He raised his head. 'What do you mean? What are you talking about? I love you. I want to marry you. Are you trying to tell me you don't want it, too? I'll never believe it.' 'Of course I love you,' she wailed. 'Of course I want to marry you. But I promised to marry Peter.' He stood stock-still for a moment, thinking. Then, with a last touch, a last lingering look, he slowly pulled up her dress, covering her breasts, and placed the tiny sleeves back on her shoulders.

'All right,' he said slowly. 'If you feel you must go through with it, then I guess you'd better.' Although his tone was calm and restrained, Nora could sense the tension in him, knew the effort the words cost him. It was then, at that precise moment, that she knew beyond a doubt that he did truly love her, and she made up her mind. She slumped against him, slipped her hands under his jacket and dug her fingers into his back. 'I can't,' she murmured. 'It's you I love, you I want. It always has been.' He put his arms around her and gently laid his lips on hers in a tender kiss. She hated to hurt Peter, but she knew she would die before she'd give Reed up now. She would have to tell him, and the sooner the better. 'I have to tell Peter,' she said. 'Will you come with me?' His only reply was to put his hands on her shoulders, hold her at arm's length and raise his eyebrows at her. She knew what he was trying to tell her. It was something she had to do alone: . Without another word she turned and walked slowly up the path away from him to look for Peter. Her heart began to pound and her knees felt like jelly at the thought of what she had to do. She would give anything to keep from hurting Peter, but not to the extent of giving up Reed. She found him near the bar that had been set up on the terrace. He was standing in a group of people, listening intently to a story one of them was telling the others. She stopped short at the look in his I eyes when he caught sight of her—his whole face lit up.

She heard him excuse himself and then he was walking towards her. 'Darling,' he said, taking her by the arm, 'where have you been?' 'Peter,' she said, 'I have to talk to you. Now. Alone.' A look of alarm appeared on his face and the light in the brown eyes dimmed. 'Nora, darling, what's wrong?' he asked. 'Please, Peter,' she pleaded, 'let's go.' He stared intently at her for a long moment. Then his shoulders seemed to slump. 'We'll go into the library,' he said finally. There was a note of resignation in his voice. He guided her through the crowd on the terrace, into the dining room and then down the hall to the library. When they were inside, he shut the door behind him. There was a lamp burning on one of the graceful tables by the long couch, and the grand- —father clock ticked steadily in the corner. Marshalling all her forces, Nora turned around to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he put up a hand to stop her. 'You've changed your mind,' he said in a low voice. 'Peter . . .' she began, then faltered. She clenched her fists at her sides and started again. 'Reed and I . . .' She broke off, unable to go on. 'No,' he said, 'don't explain. I knew it was too good to be true. I saw the way he looked at you tonight when he asked you to dance, but I didn't want to believe it. It's always been Reed, hasn't it, Nora?'

She nodded dumbly and turned from him, unable to face the hurt in his eyes. She bowed her head, ashamed. It was only the thought of Reed waiting for her and their future life together that got her through the next few minutes. For a long time Peter didn't speak at all. Nora still couldn't look at him. She could only stand there in mute misery. She didn't know what to say. The room was well-insulated from the rest of the house, and the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock and Peter's laboured breathing. It was as though he were struggling for control. She knew she had to help him and prayed for wisdom and strength to find the right words. She made herself look at him at last. She winced at the stricken expression on his face and could see that he was torn between hurt and anger. He was standing rigid, his fists clenched, his mouth set in a hard line. She barely recognised him. 'Peter,' she said softly. 'I know I was wrong to tell you I'd marry you. I think I knew it even at the time. But aside from that one mistake in judgment, you'll have to admit I never deceived you, never pretended, never lied to you.' She could sense the struggle going on within him as he fought for control. Her eyes stung as tears threatened. She was genuinely fond of Peter. He had been a trusted and valuable friend. To see him this way, with hatred in his eyes—hatred for her—was more than she could bear. She turned her head away, not wanting him to see her tears and think she was using them to get his sympathy. I've got to see this through to the end, she told herself, whatever it costs.

Finally, after another long silence, she heard him give a deep sigh. Then she heard his voice. 'Hey,' he said softly. 'It's okay. I've got my pride, too, you know. Do you really think it would ever work for us, knowing it was Reed you wanted? I love you, Nora, but not enough to marry you knowing you're in love with Reed Thatcher.' She looked up at him. He was trying so hard, she thought, and he even managed to give her a weak smile. 'So,' he went on, 'I'm officially breaking our engagement. May I please have my ring back?' Finally, she knew it would be all right. The tears still glistening in her eyes, she smiled and removed the sparkling ring from her finger. She crossed over the few feet that separated them and without a word reached out and handed him the ring. Before he took it, he gave her a searching look. 'You're sure, Nora? Very sure?' She nodded her head. 'Peter,' she said, 'I'm so sorry. I think the world of you. You're one of the nicest people I've ever known. Your friendship has meant more to me than I can say. But I've loved Reed Thatcher from the first time he touched me.' She saw him wince at that, and she put out her hand and laid it lightly on his arm. 'I care very much for you, Peter. You know that. I'd do anything to keep from hurting you.' 'Anything but give up Reed Thatcher,' he said quietly. Wordlessly she nodded. Then, 'You wouldn't want me to do that.' He sighed. 'No, I guess not.' His expression hardened. 'He'd damn well better be good to you,' he muttered. Then, lightly, 'What are your plans?'

'We'll be married right away. After that we go on to San Francisco, then Paris and Rome.' She was glad now that she'd be gone soon. It would give him time to get over his hurt, perhaps even forgive her, eventually. They had never had an intimate relationship. Except for tonight when she'd told him she'd marry him, she had never responded to him physically in the slightest. At least her conscience was clear in that respect. 'It's all right, Nora,' he said, as if he could read her thoughts. 'You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You played it straight with me all the way. Just be happy.' He turned then and left the room. She stood there motionless for several minutes, her heart heavy. Then, suddenly, Reed appeared in the doorway and her spirits rose just at the sight of him standing there, a crooked smile on his lean dark face, a question in his eyes. 'Everything okay?' he asked. She hesitated. Then, 'Yes,' she said, 'everything's fine,' and walked across the room into his arms.