Sea Promises

SEA PROMISES Bethany Campbell

Ghosts of the past bound them together Charlotte Benteen had never expected to see Vince Gambit again. She'd been only a child when he'd fled their hometown on the rockbound coast of Maine. But she remembered he'd caused enough heartache in her family to last a lifetime. Now he'd returned, a startlingly handsome entrepreneur, and taken possession of the place Charlie loved most -- Dragon Sea, the deserted old mansion that she'd long ago claimed as her own. Charlie knew she shouldn't even like this man. So why did she feel so undeniably safe in his arms?

CHAPTER ONE CHARLIE BENTEEN HAD COME HOME AGAIN, just as everyone had suspected she would. She had come, as usual, as soon as she found that Eddie needed her. People would talk. She knew it. She didn't care. People always talked in a small town. Ogunquit, Maine was no exception. People said that the Benteens, or at least what was left of them, stuck together far too much, that their "One for all and all for one" philosophy had gone beyond mere family loyalty, that it had become a kind of obsession, particularly in Charlie's case. But Charlie didn't care. If that was the worst thing they had to say about the Benteens, she was lucky. It was no sin to love your family. She stood by hers, no matter what. If the gossip-mongers disapproved, Charlie thought, let them. Besides, Charlie had heard plenty of worse things over the years, more than she could remember. There was the Gambit family, for instance, which had caused more scandals than anyone could keep track of. No family in town could do anything worse than the Gambits had. No family could go beyond the sins and errors of that thankfully long-gone clan. "Tidal trash," her father had called them. "Sea rats." The Benteens, if nothing else, had always been respectable. Their fortunes and numbers might have fallen, but the Benteen character had never faltered. No, Charlie had thought, some things never changed. But this time when she came home, she discovered something had changed. She was cooking supper for Eddie when he finally broke the news to her. Until now, he had been frustratingly close-mouthed about why

he needed her at home. When he finally began to talk, his words struck her with more force than she had thought possible. Her grey eyes widened. "That's why you need me? Somebody bought Dragon Sea? No!" The news hit her harder than she wanted her brother to know. She pretended to concentrate on chopping clams for the chowder. She struggled to keep the catch out of her voice. "Who bought it?" she asked, attempting to be casual. "Who could afford to? Nobody from around here. What are they going to do with it?" She felt an angry wave of possessiveness surge over her. "Charlie, I just don't know," Eddie said. He was staring at the baseball scores as he sat at the kitchen table. He avoided meeting her eyes, and he looked half-dead with fatigue. She knew he was afraid she'd make a fuss. "Eddie," she said with false calm, "that's why you wouldn't tell me anything on the phone, isn't it? And why you've hardly said a word since you walked in the door. Because Dragon Sea finally sold? Come on, Eddie, you must know who bought it. They're not going to turn it into something junky, are they? A hotel or a motel or a condo or a bowling alley? They're not going to ruin it, are they?" Eddie gave a tired shrug. "I can't tell you a thing, Charlie. Honest. Just don't let it bother you. Don't worry about it, okay?" Like his sister, he was small and compactly built, but hard labour and constant worry had robbed him of the vivacity, the fire that she still had. His hair was a darker auburn than hers, more brown than red, and his eyes a darker grey. He had a drooping moustache that gave him a look of being in perpetual mourning. He was only twenty-eight, but he had the air of a man much older.

"Okay," Charlie said with a forced cheerfulness. If Eddie saw she was upset, it would only be one more thing for him to worry about. She put the clams aside and began chopping an onion. Onions were great vegetables for times of emotional turmoil, she thought. They gave you a perfectly valid reason to cry. Since childhood she had claimed the big house on the cliffs of Maine as her own by spiritual right. After all, she'd reasoned, things ought to belong to those who loved them most. Long ago she'd made the down payment of a child's heart on the old stone mansion that overlooked the foaming Atlantic. Now she was twenty-two years old, and because she had dropped out so often, she was only halfway through college. Town gossip said she would never finish school, that she would give up everything to help Eddie and that the business would drive them both to an early grave. She squared her small, firm jaw. Family was more important than school. Yes, family was more important than anything. Charlie was petite, with eyes the colour of a misty autumn-evening sky and a wealth of thick russet-red hair with flecks of more vivid reds and golds. Unbound, it hung nearly to her waist. She was pretty in a sensible, fresh- scrubbed, blue-jeaned sort of way, but there was nothing sensible in the way she felt about Dragon Sea. She still loved the deserted house as passionately as she had when she was a child. She sliced a celery stalk so violently that Eddie looked up over the edge of the sports page in weary concern. She scraped the diced onion and celery off the cutting board and into the sizzling butter. Her mood was turbulent, and she knew she had to wrestle it under control.

If Eddie knew how many fantasies she still harboured about the old house, he'd wonder if she'd ever really grown up. With Dragon Sea sold, she'd lost another piece of her past. She couldn't afford to lose much more. She took her frustration out on an innocent potato destined for the chowder pot. She suddenly wished she were slicing the onion again. She set her jaw harder and blinked back the sting of tears. It was still late afternoon, but the pine trees had already cut off the sun's remaining light, and this premature twilight laid a cold hand on Charlie's already dampened spirit. Her family, five of them, used to gather around the old oak table in this cosy kitchen: Tom and Mom and Dad, Eddie and she. And just being there brought back all the ghosts. Charlie could almost hear the laughter of the past.... Now the only Benteens left were she and Eddie. She had made him the centre of her life, and she couldn't imagine caring for anyone else ever again. Caring cost too much, and what it cost was pain. She'd had enough of that. She gave Eddie an affectionate glance as she added milk to the clams. It hurt her to see him so worn, so burnt out. If there was anything in the world Charlie felt more possessive about than Dragon Sea, it was Eddie. She didn't mind giving up her summer job, even if it meant she wouldn't have money for college in the fall. Eddie needed her. She would have laid down her life for him. She knew it had pained him to have to ask for her help again, but she would rather be with him, here on Maine's stony coast, than working inland all summer. She swallowed hard, overcome with nostalgia. She had eventually learned to accept her parents' deaths, untimely as they had been. But

she had never been able to accept the loss of her brother, her Tom. He was gone young and gone forever, never having fulfilled his dreams. As a boy, Tom had dreamed of making the family business prosperous enough that he could set up a tidy retirement fund for their parents, put Charlie and Eddie through college and raise a mob of redheaded children. He'd even dreamed of living in Dragon Sea. Now he was dead, and his only memorial was a business that was more imperilled than ever. The chowder began bubbling and she wiped her hands on ' her faded blue jeans, shaking her head as if to clear it. She flipped a stray russet-gold wisp out of her eyes and began stirring the soup. She didn't like all the ghosts clustering in the kitchen—their presence was too painful. So she decided, irrationally, to put her energies into disliking whoever was taking Dragon Sea from her. She watched Eddie as he folded the newspaper and grumbled something about the Boston Red Sox. "Well, big guy," she challenged, "how about a little information? You must have some idea about who bought Dragon Sea." Eddie gave her a fathomless dark-eyed glance. "Come on—you must have a hunch—a hint—something. And what's it got to do with me coming home?" "I'm tellin' the truth, Charlie. Nobody knows—at least nobody's tellin'. But we got the painting contract, plus the wallpapering—the whole thing." She stared at him in disbelief, dropping the ladle. "The whole thing?" He nodded, watching her reaction. "This is the job that might get the business back on its feet, Charlie. With the motel contract out on the

highway and this, we won't owe the bank a thing. The business will belong to the family again." She threw out her arms, let out a whoop and hugged him hard. Her cry woke up Max, their ancient dachshund, and he looked up from his rug grumpily. He uttered a terse dachshund curse. "I can't believe it," Charlie said, smiling and ruffling Eddie's thinning hair. "The whole thing? Oh, Eddie, this is great! Daddy would be so proud. Tell me the details. What was your bid? Who's the contractor? What's going to happen to the house?" Eddie cocked an eyebrow. He gave her a satisfied smile, but his drooping moustache managed to make it look slightly sad. "I put in a bid that was dead centre, not the highest, not the lowest, just dead on centre. They knew I wasn't stickin' them, and they knew I wasn't cheapin' them. We'll see a chunk of cash from this. Bus O'Conner's contracting." Charlie's emotions darted off in two directions. Bus O' Conner, a big Texan, had moved to Maine two years ago. Charlie had grudgingly admitted that his work was all right, but she didn't like him. Bus was always flirting, and she wasn't interested. She still had too much emotional sorting to do, too many wounds to heal to become involved with anyone, least of all, Bus. Besides, growing up with Tom and Eddie had given her high standards. She had yet to meet a man who could hold a candle to her brothers. "Bus O'Conner, eh?" She tossed her long hair, and the light glinted on its flecks of fiery red. The look she gave Eddie told him she was troubled. "Bus is okay," he muttered. "And he likes you a lot, Charlie. You ought to give him a chance. The rate you're going, you're gonna end up an old maid with a paintbrush in your hand."

"So what's wrong with that?" she said stubbornly. "Bus is a Southern-fried flirt. If he ever tries to pinch me again, I'll give him a punch in his great Texan snoot. He never takes a hint." "You can handle him," Eddie said with confidence, almost smiling. "That's half your problem. You're used to pushing men around. We spoiled you." She smiled back, nodding. "That you did—and it was great! Besides, somebody had to keep you wild men under control." She began stirring the chowder again, and its scent made her nostalgic again. "Remember when we used to harvest clams and we'd all pitch in and make chowder together... how Tom and you and Daddy—" "Don't, Charlie," Eddie said gently, but there was a note of warning in his voice. "It's over. It's all gone. Let's not talk about it." "I know," she replied softly, and bit her lip. She stared out the kitchen window at the darkening pines. They had never been rich, but they had been happy—before their world had caved in slowly, but inexorably, like a house going to ruin. She remembered how proud her father had been the day he officially changed the name of the business to Benteen & Sons. Now Eddie was the only son left. Her father was dead. Tom was dead. All that remained were her memories. Her loving memories. A thousand images of Tom swarmed back. They made her feel hollow inside. She continued gazing into the shadows of the oncoming darkness. Oh, Tom, the ghosts are too thick for me tonight. And now somebody's taking Dragon Sea. You'd hate that more than anybody. It belonged to you. It belonged to me. It belonged to us.

She tried to drive the longing back, to be realistic. Tom's ambitions were unfulfilled, and Dragon Sea was actually owned by somebody else now. But even if she'd lost the old mansion—though it had belonged to her in imagination only—at least the business stood to gain. The business for which her father and Tom had given so much had to endure. It had to. She ran hot water in the dishpan and began scrubbing the bowls and knives and measuring spoons. "Okay," she said as cheerily as she could. "I don't have to ask what my job is. I help paper and trim, right?" "Nobody does it better," Eddie teased her, echoing Tom's words. Tom had declared her to be as fine a paperhanger as ever put smoothing brush to wall. "I was born to hang," she joked. "Wallpaper, that is." Eddie didn't laugh. His mood seemed to change. He studied her with sad eyes. "I'd rather you were earning money for school, Charlie. That was Tom's dream—Mom and Pop's, too—that you'd get a college education. I hate callin' you home all the time." He looked so sombre, twisting the corner of his rust- coloured moustache, that it wrenched her heart. Hastily she dried her hands, went to his chair and gave his earlobe a playful pull. "College is boring," she lied. "I don't think I was meant to go. Besides, I always miss the coast when I'm at school. When I go five miles inland, I get withdrawal symptoms." "I thought you wanted to teach—reform all the juvenile delinquents in the world," Eddie countered, blushing and shaking off her hand.

He had always been the least affectionate member of the family, and displays of emotion, even in jest, bewildered him a little. "I like working with kids," she said, shrugging. That was true, and Tom had said she'd been born to do it. Tom had loved children. She'd finish her degree some day—for her father and Tom. But first she had to help Eddie. At least Tom's dream that the business would prosper might come true. If it didn't— She didn't want to think about that. She went back to the stove and stirred the chowder. She squared her shoulders. "You never told me the bad news, anyway. How many rooms do we paper?" "All of them," Eddie said. "Plus painting the trim— outside and in." She gasped and tried to hide her dismay. "Fifteen? That's every one. That is a good contract, Eddie." Visions of paste cans and liniment bottles danced in her head. And all the labour would go to helping someone turn her beloved Dragon Sea into something else. A conglomerate was probably rubbing its collective hands in glee at the thought of opening one more hotel and filling it up with tourists. Or worse, somebody with too much money, who didn't love or need the old house, was going to fill it with friends who were equally rich and idle. Well, she reminded herself, it would be good for the family business, and that was what mattered. "When do we start?" she asked. "Right away," he replied. "Tomorrow." So soon, she thought. "Then we'd better turn in early. We've got a big day in front of us."

"Charlie," Eddie said hesitantly. "There's something I haven't told you yet." Her eyes met his questioningly. "What?" "Well, as I mentioned, I've got the motel job to do, too. There's a lot of work there, but I can do it single-handed if you can be straw boss at Dragon Sea for a while." Her smoky eyes widened. "You can't do the whole motel alone, Eddie—you'll kill yourself. You'll need to put on another man." His jaw took on the stubborn set she knew so well; it was an expression all Benteens had mastered. "I can handle it— if you think you can take charge at Dragon Sea. What do you say?" She didn't like the idea of Eddie working all alone, but if he needed her to run things at Dragon Sea, it was the least she could do. "Me?" she asked carefully. "I could if I had to, I guess. How big a crew?" "Three," Eddie said. His eyes were on her face, examining the emotions playing across it. "You start by scraping the outside trim. You can move inside the house when the other crews move out." "And who do I get to boss?" she asked, fearing the answer. Eddie always had to hire cheap labour, and three was a very small crew for so large a job. "The kids," he answered vaguely. "You know." "Kids?" Charlie said dubiously. "You want me to be in charge of those crazy boys again?" "Hey," Eddie teased. "You like juvenile delinquents, remember?" His mouth curved in a rare smile.

She had to smile back. The boys Eddie hired were always a handful, but she liked them, and they did work hard. "I don't mind Mitchy Bouvier," she said, shaking her head, "but don't tell me I have to ride herd on those silly Miller twins again." "Ah, well," Eddie said, looking sheepish, "they never ask for much money, and they do a good job. They're not really bad kids—just a little silly, that's all." Charlie nodded, remembering. Last summer, Jamie Miller had managed to paint himself into a corner, and his twin had almost outdone him by papering over a window on the same job. "Oh, boy," she said, laughing and rolling her eyes. "You and I are going to have ourselves quite a summer."

LATER, AS SHE DRIED the dishes, thoughts of Dragon Sea kept ebbing back into her mind. Again she felt an unwarranted wave of possessiveness engulf her. She told herself firmly that the house wasn't hers, never had been and never would be. She should be glad somebody was restoring it at last. And it would help the Benteen business, and Eddie. Besides, she had more pressing things to worry about than an empty house that belonged to somebody else. Still, the more she thought about it, the more she was filled with a sad, sharp yearning. Suddenly she knew she needed to see Dragon Sea one last time before it was changed forever. She wanted to see it as she had always known it, deserted and enchanted and brooding. Besides, she rationalised, a walk with Max along the cliffs would soothe her jumbled emotions. She would pay the house a last sentimental visit before the workers, herself included, moved in and began the renovations.

She dried the chowder pot, then peeped into the living room. Eddie was slumped before the television set, sleeping. She whistled softly for Max, and the old dog shambled from his rug, tail down, resentful at having his evening nap so rudely violated. She took Tom's old Norwegian fisherman's sweater from the back closet, shoved a small flashlight into her pocket and grabbed the keys to her battered orange Volkswagen Beetle. Max was too full of sleepiness and rheumatism to climb onto the seat, so Charlie had to lift him in. "You're getting to be a tub, old boy," she said. "You need this walk." She negotiated the Beetle out of the drive and headed toward Marginal Way. The narrow margin of public property ran along the cliffs, and its footpath overlooked one of the most spectacular views on the Atlantic coast. Thousands upon thousands of people came each summer to look upon that wild vista. She parked in a car park at Perkins Cove, a pretty inlet with a colourful collection of shops, art galleries and restaurants that looked out over the sea. Lobster boats and pleasure craft rocked in their moorings in the harbour. She snapped Max's leash onto his collar and lifted him out of the car. The night air was brisk, the season a bit too early yet for tourists. Charlie seemed to have Marginal Way all to herself. Leading a slow and grumbling Max, she set off on the footpath. A bright full moon hung over the Atlantic. From the cliffs, Charlie could see the ocean stretching vast and dark, laced with the burning reflections of the moon and early stars. The sea murmured like a giant mumbling of odd eternal dreams in its sleep. The salt air nipped her cheeks, tingled in her nostrils. The huge boulders that bulked out of the water below gleamed wetly in the

moonlight. The waves foaming against them crested with brief, pale fire. Somehow, looking down at the dark cavalcade of the waves diminished the intensity of all her painful memories; the ocean always made everything, even grief, seem small. Charlie's first loss had been a staggering one; both her parents. They had been driving back from taking Eddie to Scout camp, and a drunken tourist had lost control of his car. The tourist had walked away unscratched. But her mother, small, loving, red-haired and vital, had died, and so had her stern but affectionate father. Charlie had been only a child. She hadn't understood. She still didn't. She'd learned to live with the situation. She'd had to. Her brother Tom had become her guardian and mentor. He had returned home wounded from Vietnam a year before the car accident. Although he'd never talked about the war, Charlie had looked upon him as a hero. Her hero. She remembered, with vague uneasiness, when Tom had decided to enlist. Her father had been furious; her mother terribly unhappy. It was the only time she could remember that Tom had ever hurt anyone. If Tom hadn't been running with the wrong people, her father had always said, he wouldn't have pulled such a damn fool stunt. He would have stayed home in Ogunquit where he belonged, and he would have done his duty, which was to work painting and papering, as Benteen sons were destined to do. But Tom had run with the wrong people—or rather, Charlie corrected herself, the wrong person—and he'd ended up joining the Marines. He and Vince Gambit of all people. Then he'd nearly got himself killed in Vietnam saving Vince Gambit's life. If he'd been

going to save a life, she'd thought a thousand times, why hadn't it been one worth saving? Tom had come home with a handful of medals, a chestful of shrapnel and one lung damaged. Those wounds, combined with overwork in trying to save the family business, had eventually killed him. And nobody had ever heard of Vince Gambit again. Tom had practically laid down his life for him—and Vince Gambit had never sent so much as a "hello" or "thanks." "He doesn't have to," Tom used to say cryptically when Charlie, her passions high, would rail against such ingratitude. "I owed him." But just what Tom had owed such a wild young fool, Charlie had never known. Tom had come home from the war changed, not the wilful, highspirited boy who had left, but a man, and a surpassingly gentle one. He had devoted himself to the family, as if its survival were a sacred trust, and he'd been especially protective of Charlie. When their parents died, it was Tom who helped Charlie bear the shock. It was he who ran the business and he who tied the ribbons on her pigtails each morning, who made sure she had her favourite kind of jam sandwich in her lunch box, who plastered Band-Aids on her innumerable scratches and scrapes, who let her tag along everywhere with him. She loved both her brothers, but there were no two ways about it—she was Tom's girl. They formed a deep bond, one almost mystical in intensity. She could always count on her tall handsome brother to understand everything, to empathise with all her childish enthusiasms and sorrows. And Dragon Sea had been their special place. Now she paused, looking out at the moon-silvered sea, letting the cold wind tangle her hair. She heard the swishing of the waves

below her, the laboured wheezing of Max at her side. Behind her, the wild rose bushes rustled their young leaves in the dark, the lilac bushes stirred their plump buds, and the branches of the juniper trees made thin music. She smiled, remembering her forays to Dragon Sea with Tom. He would beguile her with stories as they went from empty room to empty room, their steps echoing through the hollowness of the great house. "And in this room," he would say, his hand sweeping out to indicate the deserted ballroom, "the handsome prince asked the beautiful redhaired princess to marry him. And they lived happily ever after, once the princess learned to stop snapping her bubble gum." Charlie would snap her bubble gum. "How come they lived so happy?" "Because they never had to go to school, and they spent their days flying kites and eating ice cream, and they stayed up all night watching monster movies on television, and when the sun came up, they'd eat pie for breakfast." Charlie would have to agree that it sounded like a wonderful life, and she would hardly be able to wait to meet her prince. Tom would gaze around the old house with something meditative in his face. He had a strange, sad, dreamy streak and the mansion was a natural place to dream of whatever the heart secretly hungered for. Dragon Sea—it was a dream palace, albeit a bit the worse for wear and neglect. Built in the nineteenth century by a prosperous ship manufacturer, it hadn't been inhabited since the family line died out twenty-some years before. Then one investor after another had taken it over. But each had eventually despaired—despaired at all the work and expense involved in renovations. Finally the bank had

taken it over, and the house had stood deserted as long as Charlie could remember. But even stripped and defaced, it was magical. Tom had made it more so. She watched the sea tossing the moonlight and juggling the starshine, and thought of Tom. She offered up her old silent prayer that wherever he was, he could feel the love she carried for him. I miss you, she thought. Oh, Tom, everyone misses you so. She shivered inside the old sweater and started on the path again, Max plodding at her side. She rounded a curve, and there above her was Dragon Sea, rising up in the moonlight. Its pale granite sparkled faintly, as if reflecting the stars. A long flight of wide stone steps almost engulfed by lilacs and wild roses led up to the back gate. Charlie began climbing quickly, with Max trying to follow. The climb was steep, and Max held back, straining against his leash and puffing unhappily. Suddenly he lay down with an emphatic flop and refused to budge. Charlie cajoled and coaxed him, but he just scowled up at her. Then he put his grizzled nose on his paws and closed his eyes, as if to shut out her schemes of secret night-time raids from his sorely tried consciousness. "Some dog you are," Charlie scoffed, staring down at him, her hand on her hip. "Some faithful companion." Max ignored her. She sighed in exasperation, tied his leash to a lilac branch and ran up the rest of the stairs alone to where Dragon Sea stood, tall and shining. She remembered at precisely what point in the tall, rusting gate there was a weed-choked gap large enough to slip through. She wriggled through the opening and ran through some tall grass and weeds toward the back of the house. She pulled a loose board from a

back window. It swung away with a creak, and Charlie hoisted herself in with practised ease. In the darkened kitchen, she pulled her flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on. She heard the scuttle of paws—Mouse? Squirrel? Raccoon?—but wasn't frightened. She, too, was one of the house's creatures. She had a den of memories here. She made her way carefully up the marble staircase. The secondstorey windows weren't boarded, and she always liked to sit on the sill of the gigantic window in the master bedroom and look down on the flashing waves of the ocean and inhale the salt night air. She opened the bedroom door and switched off her flashlight, able to rely on the moonlight. Again she heard a noise. She didn't worry. Nothing bad could ever happen to her in this house. She walked over toward the big window, her steps sounding hollow in the emptiness. Moonlight streamed in, falling to the dusty floor. She leaned her hands on the weathered sill, feeling the night air breathe coolly on her face. Her heart exulted in the best view in the world—the Atlantic Ocean from the highest point along Marginal Way. Instinctively her fingers avoided a tiny message carved into the sill, Tom's single act of vandalism on the old mansion. She didn't want to touch the words, didn't want to read them. She'd always wondered when he had put them there— years ago, she supposed. Unwillingly she let her fingers trace the old carving on the sill. "Some day this house will belong to the family of T.W.B.," it read. Tom had never had that family. He'd said that his health was too precarious for him to marry. Besides, he already had a family to take care of: Eddie and Charlie.

Oh, Tom, she thought, I never believed you could die. I believed people like you lived forever—they should. Why did you go to that stupid war in the first place? That's where all the trouble started. And all because of somebody like Vince Gambit! Come back to Eddie and me and to Dragon Sea. Dragon Sea. It stood for . all their youthful dreams. It stood for everything she had loved and lost. It stood for the past. She wouldn't say goodbye to everything just yet, she thought. She listened to the dull rumble of the waves against the rocky cliffs. Not yet. For a little while she would pretend that she could always come here, that things weren't so unalterably changed. A noise behind her made her whirl. Her uneasy sense of being at peace with the house shattered like a fragile crystal dropped on stone. She knew instinctively that the sound was made by neither bird nor mouse. Suddenly a strong hand clamped around her wrist. In shock, she looked up at the shadowy features of a man, his hair dark gold in the moonlight. Her heart seemed to fly right out of her chest. Her skin went cold. This isn't really happening, she thought in panic. "Charlie?" a low voice asked. She barely heard her name. She was trying to lunge away, but strong arms were around her now, holding her tightly. She was so frightened that she never thought of screaming. The man was large, strong and tall. "Why, Charlie," he said, his low, silky voice mocking her struggles, "it is you. There's only one mane of hair like that in Ogunquit. Maybe the world. You're all grown up. Who'd have thought you'd be the one to welcome me home? You, of all people."

She tried to pull away again but failed. "Don't fight me, Charlie. I won't hurt you." Something in that voice paralysed her, and she looked up at him, nearly ill with shock. Her mind went leaping into the past. She recognised him, but she could barely believe he stood there with the old, familiar bitter smile on his startlingly handsome face. "You!" she breathed, her fear giving way to outrage at finding him there, of finding herself in his arms. "You!" She had never expected to see this man again. Nor had she wanted to. She had resented him, reviled him, grown to hate him. She thought he had gone to the devil years ago, and the devil was welcome to him. Still he held her tight. "That's right, Charlie," he said with the same grimly pleased smile. "The shark's come home at last. Do you have a hello kiss for me after all these years?" The moonlight played like perverse magic across his features. Her heart thundered against her ribs like the waves pounding against the rocks. He quickly bent his dark-blond head. She felt his warm mouth briefly graze her cool lips, and something inside her seemed to leap away, dizzied, and become lost in the night. It was the slightest of kisses, hardly even a touch. It was almost brotherly. But something in it was not brotherly at all.

CHAPTER TWO EMOTIONS JOLTED THROUGH HER like spears of lightning. She stared up in disbelieving fascination at the sea-blue eyes that were fastened on her own. "Vince Gambit," she whispered hoarsely, as if her throat hurt. "I hoped you were dead." "For shame. How uncharitable," he answered, still pinioning her against him. "But I'm no ghost, so stop shaking. Whether you like it or not, I'm still flesh and blood." There was no doubt about that, Charlie thought in confusion. The flesh was hard and all too palpable, and the blood was hot and coursing. She could feel his warmth even through the heavy sweater. "Let go of me," she ordered, her voice jittery. Shock still welled through her in waves. He was tall, six foot two, at least. His thick hair was light brown streaked with gold, and a lock of it fell over his brow. He was more heavily muscled than when he had left Ogunquit, but he was Vince Gambit, all right. There was no mistaking those high flat cheekbones, the deep blue of his eyes or those strangely higharched brows. She tried to struggle away from his grasp, and his eyebrows arched even higher in cold amusement. "Don't. I'm not going to let you go—yet. You'll either bolt like a rabbit or take a swing at me. I can see it in your eyes. They're lovely eyes, too, Charlie. You grew up to be a beauty. Tom always said you would."

"I said let go," she insisted, wriggling again, but he only held her faster. "What are you doing back? What are you doing here? Are the police finally after you?" He laughed. "My God, it's true. Women and elephants never forget. Still holding grudges after all these years? Just because I talked Tom into going off to war instead of hanging around Ogunquit and cleaning paintbrushes? Come on, Charlie. We were eighteen. We thought we were tough. We heard the call of glory and fortune." She stared up at him contemptuously. "Tom made Daddy furious and nearly broke Mama's heart. I cried every day for the first six months he was gone. He came home with his chest shot up, and it killed him. For what? For nothing. Some fortune. Some glory." "You're right," he said with a sarcastic smile. "But, as I said, we were eighteen. Our hearts were like kites. The high wind took them. It was an ill wind. But how much wiser it made me—and Tom, too, I have no doubt. Now suppose you tell me what you're doing in my house." His house? Surely she hadn't heard him right. She felt as if someone had struck her on the head. And being so close to him—because he was as tall and handsome and dangerous as he had always been— made her feel stunned, almost giddy. She glared at him forcefully, once more trying to push him away. "You don't believe me." His voice still had the low, cold, sarcastic lilt she now remembered. "But I own this place now. I'll prove it." He released her momentarily, and she felt strangely chilled. He quickly crossed the room and swept up a folder of papers that lay between a duffel bag and a sleeping bag spread on the dusty floor, and returned.

"See?" he said, flicking the folder open. "Real estate agreements. Bank agreements. All there." She nodded mutely, so stunned she couldn't move. The moonlight played on the sheaf of documents, and she recognised them as closing papers. He snapped the folder shut and dropped it carelessly onto the sleeping bag, his arms immediately encircling her again. Her breathing went ragged, whether from anger or embarrassment or both, she could not tell. Vince Gambit has bought Dragon Sea, her mind kept repeating, almost drunkenly. Vince Gambit, who as good as killed Tom, is back. He's bought my house—Tom's house— our house. "What did you do, rob a bank?" she asked bitterly. Vince Gambit had been the wildest young buck in southern Maine, and her father had hated him, hated his influence on Tom. The particulars of Vince Gambit's other sins were hazy, lost in the overwhelming hot darkness her years of loathing had created. Tom had never been in trouble until he started running with Vince— never. It had been the one jangling, inharmonious time in their family life: Tom drinking, Tom gambling, Tom doing heaven only knew what. All that mattered was that one day Tom got drunk and blithely signed up for the Marines. That was the beginning of the end. Vince only looked down at her with mild amusement. His lashes cast shadows on his high cheekbones. "I haven't robbed any banks. I'm just a small-town boy who made good. Practically a folk hero. Whereas you, if it hasn't occurred to you already, are a trespasser. For shame. And you were such a nice little girl. So what should I do with you? Turn you over to the police for breaking and entering? Or just turn you over my knee?"

Humiliation fuelled the anger surging within her. "Neither," she shot back. "Just let go of me. I'll get out of here with pleasure. I don't like being.. .grabbed at." She felt his arm muscles relax slightly, but his hold on her remained firm. "Scared? Good. You deserve it. Maybe it'll teach you a lesson." "I'll teach you a lesson," she replied hotly. "I've got a dog outside. Unhand me, or one whistle from me, and he'll charge in here and tear your leg off. Maybe he'll tear both your legs off." He laughed again, which made her angrier. "Dog? That Rip van Winkle down on the steps? I doubt if he could tear my sock off. And why should I let you go? I caught you fair and square. And I like holding women—although you're a bit young for me." "Maybe I'm too young to appreciate it," she shot back. "Because you seem to be enjoying it a lot more than I am. I said I'd go—gladly— so take your hands off me. I'd never have come in here if I knew you were hanging around." "And maybe I should just keep you here and let it sink into your pretty skull that you shouldn't go creeping around deserted houses at night. That you're asking for trouble. And that you're lucky it was I who caught you and not somebody who might have hurt you." She looked away from him, fastening her gaze stubbornly on the moonlight that streamed through the big empty window, silvering the floor. It was bad enough that Vincent Gambit was back and had caught her here. To be lectured by him was insufferable. "Don't look so sullen," he chided her. "You're in the wrong, and you know it. Still in love with this heap of granite, are you?"

She jerked her gaze back to his. "None of your business," she hissed. She certainly wasn't going to talk to him about her feelings. She wished he'd let her go. She was perturbed by the discomfiting sensations he was arousing. She could hardly breathe. "Oh, it's my business, all right," he replied coolly, studying her face in the dim light. His arms tightened around her slightly, making her gasp involuntarily. "This is my house, and I hear you're going to be working here. My contractor—you know him, O'Conner—told me. He also told me nobody does it better." His low voice grew gentler, almost husky. "And I heard about your parents. And Tom. I'm sorry, Charlie. I truly am." Although he sounded sincere, she looked away from him, overcome with anger, embarrassment and loss. His sympathy was worse than his scorn. She didn't want his concern, and she didn't need it. All she wanted was to get away from him and nurse her hurts in peace. "Tom is none of your business, either." There was a beat of silence between them, then another. She was all too conscious of his nearness. She didn't like having him physically close to her. She didn't like being held. It made her think of caring. She didn't care for anyone except Eddie now. Caring was too threatening, and Vince Gambit was too threatening. He always had been. Abruptly he released her but took tight hold of her right arm. "I think," he said, giving each word a sardonic twist, "I'm going to get you out of here. You're so charged with emotion that you're distracting. I'd been prepared to face a lot of things tonight, but temptation wasn't one of them. Come on. I'll walk you back. Where did you park? Perkins Cove?"

Her heart stuttered in uneven rhythms. The night seemed suddenly possessed of an almost unholy coldness. "Don't walk me anywhere," she said sharply. "I don't want you near me. I can take care of myself." His blue eyes settled on her smoky grey ones. "I've seen how you take care of yourself. I'll walk you back." She tried to jerk her arm away, but his hand was like a shackle. "Oh, be nice," he said impatiently, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. She tossed her hair and stayed stubbornly silent. His grasp alternately chilled and burned her. Her heart hammered in confusion. Unwillingly she let him lead her down the marble staircase through the darkness. She thought he must have eyes like a cat or know the house even better than she did. The marble floors of the lower storey rang, echoing their steps. "I hope you don't mind leaving by a door instead of a window," he gibed, unbolting the back entrance. So he had witnessed her undignified entrance, as well, she thought, her spirits sinking even lower. She felt like a sneak thief being escorted away by a sheriff. "Why didn't you stop me if you saw me coming?" she asked irritably. "You didn't have to lurk up there and pounce on me." "I saw you coming in," he returned drily. "I just hoped you weren't coming up. All I wanted was to mind my own business. And bid adieu to a couple of ghosts, which I did." The word jarred her. Ghosts, she thought. Her own ghosts had summoned her here tonight—to Dragon Sea, to this moment, to him.

ONCE OUTSIDE, he guided her in silence toward the gate and unlocked it. His hand was still clamped around her arm as they descended the stone steps. Once again she felt like a felon under police guard. She was disturbed by his silence, which seemed charged, intense. Even his height was intimidating. It made her feel uncharacteristically vulnerable. Below them lay Max, his head raised, his ears cocked in a parody of alertness. When they neared, he yawned placidly, his tail giving a thump of welcome against the granite stair. "This," Vince questioned pointedly, "is the dog that was going to tear my leg off? Possibly both my legs off?" He cast a sarcastic glance at her. "He only does it on command," she muttered, looking away. "Ha." He flicked Max's leash free from the lilac branch. The old dog struggled to his feet, his stumpy legs stiff from the damp sea air. "This dog is older than the coast of Maine," Vince grumbled. He scooped Max up under his free arm. "Come on, Grandpa. I'll give you a ride." Max wheezed benignly, clearly blissful at being transported. Charlie shot the grizzled old traitor a murderous glance. He could have at least growled. He didn't have to actually wag his tail. "Put my dog down," she ordered. "He needs his exercise." "What this old fella needs is bed rest. If we walked at his rate, I wouldn't get you home until morning. And how would that look? Or would you care?"

With one fluid movement, he released his grip on her arm, then slid his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to his side. Her already taut nerves jumped, as if he had coiled a live wire around her. "Don't," she said nervously, feeling obscurely menaced by him. "Why not?" he asked, not bothering to look at her. "The wind's picked up and it's chilly. That sweater can't be warm enough. It's so worn at the elbows. It could even be older than this dog." Seemingly offended, Max made a whiny growl, and Vince conceded to let him down. "I guess we'll walk at his pace." Charlie didn't struggle against his enfolding arm. She refused to give him the satisfaction. She wanted to show him his touch didn't affect her in the least. The moon was higher and brighter now along the Way, and trails of silvery cloud rambled in the deep, luminous vault of the sky. The dark waves broke the reflected light into shifting flakes of white fire. Breakers crashed on the giant boulders below, and somewhere in the twisted junipers, an early whippoorwill sang. The lilacs nodded their buds in the breeze, and Charlie searched for something to say that would put Vince Gambit at a disadvantage for once. "Why are you staying up there like that?" she challenged at last. "With your sleeping bag and your old clothes? Or is that what you plan to do with Dragon Sea? Just skulk around in it like a vampire or something?" His glance told her he wasn't impressed by her wit. "Well, if you have to know, I did a lot of skulking there when I was a kid, and I wanted to remember how it felt. And to tell my ghosts goodbye. Everything turned out just fine. They can rest now."

Ghosts, again, she thought, studying him furtively. He didn't look like a man who had ever been troubled by ghosts. The years had only enhanced his startlingly handsome face. But those eyes—they must have seen so much, perhaps too much. Charlie pushed her long hair back from her face as the wind tried to flutter it against her lips like silken ribbons. She fought to quell her growing curiosity about him. Vince had cost her family enough misery, and now he had taken over Dragon Sea. His presence brought back too many bad memories. "I really did hope you were dead," she said, with a certain malicious satisfaction. "Tom said the last time he saw you, you had about eighteen holes in you. But you lived. I thought maybe you went back to your wonderful war and got yourself killed. Nobody would have cared." "Only five bullet holes," he said. "And I don't care that nobody cared. And I would have been dead if it hadn't been for your heroic brother. The Benteens always were a great crew for self-sacrifice." His cold flippancy raised Charlie's hackles; she felt almost sick with disgust. "After he came home, he tried to write to you. His letters came back. And you never even wrote once to thank him," she said bitterly. "I was a bit under the weather," he said, his voice sarcastic. "Five bullets through you doesn't fill you with a burning urge to take up correspondence. And I never was much for letter writing." "Well, nobody here wants to see you again," she returned, "least of all me." He shrugged away her remark as if it were a pesky blackfly not worthy of swatting, and his indifference made her feel suddenly small, petty.

"I wondered where the brass bands were when I pulled into town," he mused without troubling to look at her. "I suppose Tom came home to a hero's welcome." Charlie lifted her chin. His sarcasm erased any doubts she'd had that he might have changed. No, he was the same as always— contemptible. "Of course he did. He was a hero. He had so many medals he practically clanked when he walked. He saved lives." "Ah, the courageous clan Benteen. A stalwart bloodline if there ever was one." "Don't you dare make fun," she warned, her voice edged with resentment. "You, of all people—" "Who's making fun? I'm glad he got... what was coming to him. I was one of the ones he saved, remember?" She stopped walking and stared up at him. "I remember all too well." And she did. She would never forget. Fate had pulled an evil trick this time, she thought bitterly. Tom had sacrificed himself to save this man—a man nobody cared about. Tom had died young, his dreams unrealised, but Vince Gambit had lived and prospered and had come home—sleek and arrogant and rich. Vince paused beside her. Taking his arm from her shoulder, he peered down at her, his expression dangerously hard. "Yes. He saved me. What's the matter? Does that tarnish his reputation or something? Does it mean he should have given back his medals? Does it mean I should spend the rest of my life on my knees in gratitude? I didn't ask him to save me. At that point, I would have been just as glad to die...."

She looked at the ground, suddenly ashamed. Tom, after all, had never asked for any gratitude. He hadn't wanted it. "It doesn't mean anything," she muttered. "It's over. He's dead and it's over." "Is it?" His tone was colder than the wind off the sea. "Few things are ever over, Charlie. Every event is like a stone dropped into the water. It sends out ripples and more ripples. Who knows where they end? Tom's dead, but it isn't over. Not by a long shot." She looked up, angered again by his freezing tone, his puzzling words. The moonlight gleamed through the gold streaks in his hair, casting shadows beneath his cheekbones. Although darkness hid his eyes, she could feel their intensity. "Don't worry," he said at last, his voice kinder. He appraised her face as closely as she did his. She blinked in surprise. Don't worry. What did he mean by that? There was something akin to gentleness in his shadowed face now, and something else...a look she didn't recognise. "Just don't worry," he repeated, as if to himself. A gleam of light shone on his eyes now, and they seemed musing, contemplative. Slowly he reached out and brushed a silken strand of hair from her face. In bewilderment, she realised that the touch of his hand, the look in his deep-set eyes, stirred her in a strange and powerful way. "Why did you come back?" she whispered. The present moment seemed to have become a phantasm—cool, moon-drenched and insubstantial.

"It was time," he answered, and stroked another strand of her hair away. It flew back, rippling softly against the corner of her lips. He watched it flutter. "It was time to come home. To see if that's what this is— home." His eyes still rested on her lips. "And Dragon Sea?" she asked, still feeling mesmerised. "It was a promise I made a long time ago." "To whom?" He didn't answer but just gazed down at her for a long moment. The look in his eyes was brooding, speculative. Then, suddenly, for some unknown reason, he laughed, snapping her out of her near reverie. It was strange how just an instant before, it had seemed to Charlie that the silvery night had tipped on its axis, peculiarly changing the world and everything in it. Now it righted itself With an unceremonious thump. "I don't care what you promised to anybody," she said shortly, and began walking again. Again he draped his arm across her shoulders. She wished he would take it away. It was more disturbing than she could have imagined. "Ah. You don't care a bit?" "Not in the least. Not in the slightest. Not at all." "My ego is shattered. Crushed." "I seriously doubt that."

"But my sense of curiosity is intact. Why were you at Dragon Sea? You surely can't still have a crush on a house, of all things." His amusement stung. "I was out for a walk. I went in on—on impulse, that's all," she lied. "Impulse," he commented drily. "Girls should always beware of impulse. Didn't your brothers tell you that? I always told my sister that—not that it did much good. Shouldn't your conduct be a little more decorous? As befits the good clan Benteen?" She tried to shrug away from his arm, but he only held more firmly. "Why don't you stop this 'clan Benteen' business?" she asked, trying to sound threatening. "Why should I? That's what you always were, weren't you? A clan? Close as sardines in a can, blood is thicker than water—all that sort of thing." She gave him a look that should have blistered him, but did not. "I told you not be sarcastic about my family. Stop it." "I'm not being sarcastic. I'm stating facts. I said neither of your brothers would be happy to have you sneaking around an empty house at night. Who knows what kind of trouble you might get into. Tom would never have stood for that sort of foolishness. Not from you. Not from his little Charlie." "Don't lose any sleep over it," she said brusquely. "I've lost sleep over damned few women." His voice was harsh. "I just don't like seeing some... kid get into trouble." "A kid? I'm not a kid," she said, furious. "I told you not to lose any sleep," she repeated stonily.

"And I told you I wouldn't." His voice was even rougher. The arm around her shoulders tightened, and he gave her a small, stiff shake, almost unconsciously. She was relieved to see the path of Marginal Way ending and the Cove's quaint jumble of buildings come into view. They finally reached the parking lot where her orange Beetle stood out in its decrepitude from the few other cars. He cocked his head toward the battered Volkswagen. "I bet that's yours," he commented sarcastically. She nodded briskly, fuming within. He had laughed at her old dog, her old sweater, now at her old car. He seemed to find her funny and more than a little contemptible. Well, she assured herself, it was no sin to be poor, especially if he was an example of the rich. "Our revels now are ended," he said as they approached the car. "Be more careful after this," he ordered. In the lights of the car park, she could see that one arched brow was slashed by a thin white scar and that his mouth was more disturbing than she had remembered. Despite its mocking set, it was strong, sensitive and sensual. "Be careful where you go alone," he purred like a large, lean, contented cat. "And be careful who you let kiss you. A girl like you, Charlie, should be very careful about the man she kisses. Because he'll want more. And he just might take it." As if hypnotised, she stood looking up at him as he took her face between his hands. She watched his curved mouth descend toward hers, his sea-blue eyes intent upon her own. "He might take it even if he shouldn't," he warned, his voice low.

Oh, no, she thought. But I didn't let you kiss me, she wanted to say. Instead, her eyes closed as his mouth took hers, gently at first, then with a quickening exploratory sureness that made her blood feel like warm, wild honey in her veins. The wind tossed the wild roses, rustling their leaves like silk, and the breakers fell like slow thunder on the stones below. Why was she letting him do this? How many mistakes could she make in one night? She pulled away, profoundly shocked at herself. He gave her a slow smile, his fingers still light against her face. "I was just curious." She dropped back to reality with a thump. What she'd felt when his lips had taken hers made no sense. She looked up at him for a second, truly alarmed, then snatched up Max and fumbled for her keys. Her face flamed. Her breathing was jagged. She felt his presence behind her as she hurriedly opened the door, dumped Max on the passenger seat, then scrambled in beside him. She stabbed the keys into the ignition, her heart thudding as the motor finally rattled to life. She could still feel his presence as she tore out of the parking lot and raced down the curves of Shore Road so fast that Max dug his claws into the upholstery for a foothold and grumbled. Why, she wondered, of all the people who might return from the lands of the past, why did it have to be Vince Gambit? Why did he have to buy Dragon Sea? And why had she let him kiss her, as if he were lord of the manor and she a peasant wench? The night and the high blind stars gave her no answer. The moon hung helplessly in the sky. The only reply was the beat of her troubled heart.

CHAPTER THREE CHARLIE AWOKE at dawn. Her bad dreams had come back. But this time, near the end, they had been invaded by Vince Gambit. They had begun as usual, unfolding with their terrible inevitability. In desperation, she searched for her parents along a grey, abandoned beach. She couldn't find them, and she was crying, crying very hard. Then suddenly someone held her. It was her brother Tom, and she was safe and they were at Dragon Sea. The dusky rose walls of the ballroom were set off by the grey marble wainscoting. A chandelier glimmered goldly above them. Tom's sandy head was bent close to hers, and he was consoling her. She laid her hot face against his chest. Momentarily she felt safe. "Don't cry," he said softly. "I'll take care of you, Charlie. I'm part of Mom and Dad, and so are you, and so is Eddie. So, you see, they're not really gone." Then Tom's voice seemed to grow frighteningly distant, insubstantial. He was translucent, almost luminous, wavering like a ghost. He was all the security she had, and he was dissolving into the air. She was seized with panic. "Tom," she said, looking up at his shimmering face, "you won't go, will you?" "I have to, Charlie. I have to, that's all. You're strong. You'll manage."

"No!" she protested, trying to hold him more tightly. "This will be your house some day," she said, her eyes holding his brooding hazel-grey ones. "Remember how you always said so? That you'd be the richest man in Ogunquit some day?'' He smiled sadly. "Pipe dreams, Charlie. I'm only a working man. It'll never be mine." She gripped his arms, but he was growing dimmer, more ghostlike. "Tom," she cried, but all she could hear was the wind and the rolling waves of the sea. The beauty of the ballroom was fading away, sinking back into ruin before her eyes. Tom had vanished. Then it was Eddie's voice she heard, infinitely far away, infinitely tired. "I'll save Pop's business, Charlie. I'll save it for him and Tom. I'll work harder. I can always work harder. Things'll be fine...." She shook her head, trying to see through the mists that were filling up the empty house, trying to reach her hand out to Eddie. Then she became frightened that something was going to happen to him, too. Her voice rose, becoming nearly a scream. "Eddie...? I'm here. I'll help you, Eddie...." But no one was there; the house was decayed and full of cobwebs and the cloaking mist, and all she could hear was the leaden hiss of the sea. "Loss... loss... loss," it repeated, like distant, sibilant thunder. Then the mist cleared, as if devils had sucked it away, and another man stood before her. It was Vince Gambit, and he took her in his arms, but not as Tom had done.

He held her so tightly that she was breathless. "You!" she said, her heart dazzled with confusion. He was forcing her to waltz slowly to some half-heard music that sounded as if it came from a haunted world. The cavernous ruined ballroom surrounded them like a wasteland. They were dancing more and more slowly. His eyes were the colour of the far edge of the sea on a hot day, and his mouth curved into a hard, enigmatic smile. "Me," he replied. "And mine. It's all mine now." She wanted to say, "No! It's not fair. You got it all—" His smile grew colder and he held her tighter. "He owed me." His words were a ghostly echo of Tom's. "Owed you what?" she demanded, struggling to escape. They were no longer moving. He put his hands on her arms. His eyes looked into hers. "Don't worry," he said. The bronzed brow with the scar twitched slightly as he moved his hands onto her shoulders. "Just don't worry," he said, bringing his lips to hers, and she was powerless to resist them. Her heart beat painfully, and she felt as if she were betraying something deep within her. His mouth warmed her. She felt like a flower blooming in forbidden light. Then he, too, was gone. Everything was gone. She was alone on the cliffs in the fading light. Dragon Sea was gone. Where it had stood was only sky. The sea called to her, a thin, taunting chorus. "Loss, loss, loss..."

"No!" Charlie cried aloud, and woke, gripping a fistful of sheet. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "No," she repeated. She lay still a moment, waiting for her heartbeat to slow. It was only a dream—a bad dream. The old night terrors had stampeded back again, kicking up their dust of pain and longing. The dreams had been gone for almost a year now. Charlie had hoped that meant she was adjusting. But now they had returned. She was reliving the pain of her parents' death—was it really that many years ago?—and Tom's. Tom had gone into a frenzy, trying to make the business successful after their parents' accident—trying to build something secure for Charlie's and Eddie's future, but his wounded body couldn't hold out. She knew precisely why the bad dreams were back: Vince Gambit. She flushed, remembering last night. Her nerves still jangled as she showered and dressed. She laced up her old tennis shoes, knotting them tightly. She was ashamed of the way she had let him kiss her, even more ashamed she had let him enter her dreams. She wasn't going to think about him any longer.

CHARLIE WAS GLAD that Eddie was sleepy and silent that morning. Though she usually held little back from him, she didn't tell him about her encounter with Vince. She never would. The whole episode rankled. The drive to the cliffs cheered her a bit. Ogunquit sparkled in the early morning light. People said its name came from the Natic Indian language and meant "beautiful place by the sea." Charlie thought it the most beautiful vista on the whole Maine coast, and Maine was fabled for its dramatic scenery.

She parked the Benteen van at the foot of the service drive. Dragon Sea seemed to glisten silvery-grey in the clear morning air. She remembered Tom teaching her how to dance a hornpipe in the ballroom and smiled. She drank in the sight of the old stone mansion, knowing it would never be the same again after today. Thanks to Vince Gambit. Her reverie skittered away when she saw Bus O'Conner's big red Cadillac crunching to a halt behind her. The contractor got out, hitching his slacks up over his expansive belly. He was a hefty man, just a shade under six feet, with a jowly face and slicked-back black hair. He was in his early thirties, but his weight made him look older. "Well, look at you," Bus drawled. He was beside the window now. When he smiled, his small grey eyes disappeared into folds of fat. "Ain't you pretty as a little redbird so early in the morning? Where's that no-count brother of yours?" She gritted her teeth and smiled back. He was, after all, her superior on the job. "Howdy, Tex. Eddie's still working on the motel job. How about opening these gates?" "That's what I'm here for, sugar." He made a great show of rattling a large ring of keys. When he flung the gates back, she stepped on the gas and roared past him faster than necessary. By the time Bus had reached the service entrance, she was already unloading the van. "Whoa, little filly," Bus said, looming over her. The heavy scent of his cologne cloyed the morning air. "Let me help you. Better yet, let me take you over to the Cove for a cup of coffee. Your boys can unload when they get here."

"My boys will have more than enough to do when they get here." She heaved a box of tools out of the van. "No time to waste. And don't try to help. I've got my own system." "Ain't you a marvel," he said, shaking his head. "You're the kind of girl I'd take home to meet my mama. How about I take you to lunch, buttercup?" "I brought my lunch," she said, forcing another smile. She tried to ignore him, but she could feel him edging closer. For some reason, Bus could never keep his hands off her. With relief, she saw another truck coming up the drive— electricians. She waved at them enthusiastically, and Bus, who had been about to pat her bottom, took a step backward. Feeling safer, she turned to face him. "So what's the story on this job, Bus? Who's the decorator? Somebody's going to have to tell me what paint and paper to order for the interior." "Ain't no decorator," Bus replied, eyeing the rounded seat of her jeans. "Owner's gonna pick stuff himself. A good old boy named Gambit. He don't say much about himself. You Yankees are a closemouthed bunch. Although he was curious enough about your family. Said him and your brother was friends." She set her jaw in the classic Benteen expression of disgust. "You might call it that." She started unloading again, working faster than usual. Bus might be amiably lecherous, but he was not stupid. "Don't sound like you think much of him." "I don't think about him at all," she lied. She did think about him, in spite of all her resolves. She had thought about him all morning. Her

actual memories of young Vince Gambit were vague, fragmentary, but she recalled the tumultuous period when he and Tom had been friends. "Tom's bad period," her father had called it glumly. "He's made himself a heap of money," Bus mused, an undercurrent of envy in his voice. "I'm tired of people with money," Charlie returned sharply. "They come up here in the summer to live the good life, buy the best places and leave them empty all winter." "Well," Bus admitted, "whoever passed out the money in Maine sure didn't split it up even, that's a fact. But I never thought that bothered you. What would this place be without tourists and summer people?" Charlie shrugged, half-ashamed of herself. Native Mainers often lived a hard life, but they were proud of their toughness. It had never really bothered her before that the rich used Maine as a summer playground, but lately it nagged at her, disturbed her. Perhaps because somebody like Vince Gambit had come back to flaunt his wealth. "What's Gambit going to use this place for?" she asked, unsuccessfully concealing her rancour. "His summer playhouse?" "Might live in it full time, from what I hear," Bus answered. "Though why, I'll never know. I'd never sink good bucks into this old barn. Cost a fortune to heat it in the winter. Don't know why you like it so much." She sighed. "You wouldn't understand." She took her blue baseball cap out of the van and jammed it over her long russet hair.

"They say he likes the women," Bus offered, furtively eyeing her hips. "They say he's a very devil with them. But don't you worry. I sort of indicated to him that you was mine." She shot him a cursing glance, her smoky-grey eyes locking on his small ones. She didn't belong to anybody, and she certainly wasn't going to let Bus entertain such notions. "I'm not interested in being anybody's girl, Bus," she said as levelly as possible. "I'm just—not." His round face became serious. "Charlie, you got to stop broodin' on the past and come back among the livin'," he told her. "You live too much inside your own head. You don't care about nothin' but your brother and that damn business, and you're both gonna kill yourselves with work. You're a pretty thing and a sweet one. It's time to start forgettin' what's done and get on with your life." She looked at him, unexpectedly touched by his concern. Bus was not all bad, she thought, but even if what he said was true, she could never have any deep feelings for him. "What I'm sayin', Charlie," he mumbled, hitching up his slacks again, "is that, if you ever change your mind, you say the word. In the meantime, I aim to keep tryin', and you might as well know it." She gave him a smile that was half shy, half dismissive. "Thanks, Bus. But my mind won't change." He winked. "It'll change." He reached out, and before she could dodge, gave her bottom a familiar pat. She shook her head impatiently. Drat! she thought. Every time Bus had her nearly convinced he was not all bad, he always started to play pat-a-cake on different parts of her body. She was relieved to

see the first of her crew, dark- haired Mitchy Bouvier, coming up the drive in his old jeep, his white painter's cap gleaming in the sun. Bus left as soon as Mitchy arrived. The rest of her crew, the infamous Miller twins, finally showed up late, as usual. They were gangling blond boys, as alike as two oysters, and Charlie gave them the fire-and-brimstone speech she always had to deliver before each job. She had the feeling that they knew it by heart. They would begin by scraping the paint off the exterior trim and she and Mitchy would do the high work. By the time she and Mitchy scaled their ladders, the grounds of Dragon Sea seethed with workers. The old house seemed like a hive into which industrious bees were swarming. The air around her was clean and fresh. A curious herring gull glided past, his yellow eye fixed upon her. He seemed to say, "And what, please, is this nonsense? What's all this banging and scraping? What, please, is this to-do about?" She sighed and inwardly cursed Vince Gambit again. If he hadn't bought Dragon Sea, she'd be in Bangor now, working for the summer in the social services office, earning money for college, not scraping paint. She felt as if she were about to begin a peculiar and needless act of desecration. She tried not to feel bitter, reminding herself of how important this job was to the family business, but she couldn't help it. Everyone had loved and respected Tom, and he was gone. But Vince Gambit, whom nobody had loved, had come home. Not only that, he was coming home the conquering hero, riding high and handsome. Fate had smiled on the wrong son of Ogunquit. Get to work, she warned herself. Lose yourself in work the way Eddie does. She began scraping, and the old paint fell away, drifting

down in chips and flakes to join all the other lost and useless things of the past.

SHE WORKED FURIOUSLY until twelve o'clock, then called a break for lunch. The noonday sun beamed down with unusual intensity, and the first thing Mitchy Bouvier did when he got off the ladder was unbutton his shirt and lie down on his back in the grass with a groan. He closed his eyes and fanned himself with his cap. "It's gonna be a hot summer, Charlie," he groaned. "A real killer. I can feel it coming on." She nodded. The Miller twins were already racing toward the Cove for lunch, giggling and pushing at each other like schoolboys. Mitchy opened one eye and squinted up at her. "You shouldn't be working so hard. I can hardly keep up with you. What's got into you, Charlie?" She put her hands on her aching back and sighed. "It's a big job and we're shorthanded." "Just don't kill yourself, okay?" Mitchy sighed, closing both eyes again. "God, it's hot. I'm gonna go jump in the ocean. Want to come?" She smiled, fanning herself with her baseball cap. "No thanks. Go ahead." Charlie had other plans. She would go to the Cove and see old Gully, the lobster man. There was much she didn't remember about Vince Gambit, but Gully would know all— and tell.

She took her lunch bag from the van and began walking toward the Way. The disturbing memories of last night rode on her shoulders like the Old Man of the Sea. What exactly had Vince done, besides tempt Torn off to his eventual death? She cursed childhood's strange hop- scotching memories. Surely the old lobster man would fill in the gaps. At the back gate of Dragon Sea, she found Bus O'Conner ejecting a stocky little boy with black hair. "Get out and stay out," Bus snarled. "I got enough on my hands without damned kids snooping around. This ain't no playground. Get lost, you little creep, and don't come back!" Charlie's temper, always short at best, neared its flash point. She was intensely protective of children. The little boy, who looked about four or five, stood on the steps looking up at Bus as if trying to decide whether to run or to hold his ground. "I said beat it. Now," Bus growled. "Ease up, Bus," Charlie snapped. "There's no reason to talk to him that way. Who do you think you are?" Bus whirled toward her, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Huh," he grunted. "The kid's a nuisance. The little brat has no right—" She cut him off, glaring at him contemptuously. "Don't talk about him that way! Or you'll have me to answer to." She approached the Hispanic boy, who looked frightened and angry, and put her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. She knew from last night just how crushing it was to be kicked off the grounds of Dragon Sea.

"Come on, little guy. I'll walk you back to the Way. Somebody's probably looking for you." "Damn it, Charlie," Bus pleaded, "you know I can't have kids running around." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Children are people," she said, giving him a look that silenced him and made his face redder. Her hand still on the boy's shoulder, they descended the steps and began walking along the Way toward the Cove. He refused to look up at her, from embarrassment, she supposed. "Don't mind him," she said nodding back up toward the gate where Bus stood. "He's just being hateful. But he's right about one thing. A construction site is no place to play. It's dangerous. What's your name?" Finally looking up, he studied her face with his intense black eyes but remained silent. His shoulder felt tense beneath her fingers. "Not talking, eh?" she said lightly, studying his dark good looks. "That's okay. I get that way sometimes myself." The boy seemed to relax slightly and she kept up aimless chatter to put him at his ease. A young voice rang out behind them. "Roberto! Hey! Roberto!" She heard running footsteps and turned to see another little boy, about thirteen, pounding toward them. His hair was light sandy brown, his eyes dark hazel, his sunburned nose spattered with freckles. She detected a slight Spanish accent. He stopped beside them, looked up at Charlie and blinked hard, as if in surprise. Then he glanced down at the smaller boy in consternation and grabbed his hand. "I saw that! You were nearly in

mucho trouble, Roberto. I can't look away for an instant from you! Miz Hopwood, she's going to fix you. And you don't worry about that guy back there, because I fix him, you hear me? I already hit him on the head with a pinecone. Bonk!" He began to run again, dragging the younger child behind him. "Whoa!" Charlie called, trying not to laugh. "What's the hurry?" The older boy gave her the briefest of glances over his thin shoulder. "It's okay—he's my brother. He got away from me. I saw what you did, lady. Gracias. I pay you back later, okay?" She smiled and it struck her as a little odd that these boys were brothers since one was obviously Hispanic and the older one, with the fair complexion was not. She was about to call to them again when she saw a heavy-set woman with iron-grey hair puffing her way toward the boys. "Luis... Roberto..." she panted. "I can't rest a moment." "Hey! Hey!" said Luis. "I found him, okay? Is no. big deal. He was smelling the flowers, that's all. Okay?" "Smelling the flowers, indeed!" said the woman, fanning herself with a flat straw purse. "Do you think I was born yesterday?" She clamped a hand on the smaller boy's shoulder and marched the two of them away. Charlie allowed herself to smile at last. So the older boy had tossed a pinecone at Bus's head—bonk! Well, Bus deserved it. The boys had made her feel lighthearted for the first time that day. She thought again, longingly, of working with children—either teaching or some sort of social work. For the first time, she realised it might be a career she would never have a chance to pursue.

When she arrived at the Cove, Gully was right where she thought he'd be, sitting on a weathered bench outside the fish market, staring out at the breakers and nursing a plastic cup of beer. He wore a faded plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows and a battered captain's hat. His few good teeth were clamped on the stem of an unlit pipe, and his face was seamed and canyoned with wrinkles. Gully only ran a few lobster traps now, but he was still the unofficial keeper of the town's history and the guardian of its choicest gossip. Where he got his prodigious information, nobody knew. It was rumoured that the seagulls told him, and she half believed it. She sauntered up to him as casually as possible, given her aching muscles and guilty purpose. "Hey, Gully," she said. His pale eyes turned swiftly in their nest of wrinkles. "Charlotte," he said, not smiling. "I heard you was home again. For shame." He always used her full name, probably because he knew she hated it; contrariness was Gully's speciality in trade. "I came home to help Eddie," she explained, sitting down beside him and opening her lunch. "Seems to me," Gully replied, his mouth working around the pipe stem, "that Eddie ought to give up on that business. Seems to me that, if it weren't for you, he'd have to. You should get yourself back to school. That's how it seems to me." She stared up at the sky and watched a gull hovering, its breast and underwings pale in the blinding noon light. She knew better than to argue with the old man. He loved to bicker. "I just stopped by to see if you were still alive," she teased him. "You're still insulting people, so you must be."

"Ahh." Gully let out a long breath, took his pipe out of his mouth and held it in a hand knotted and crippled by arthritis. "Ahh," he repeated. He turned his face toward hers and squinted. "I knew you'd be along," he said at last, nodding wisely. "You want to know about Dragon Sea. It's been a long time since you come to see me, Charlotte, but I knew you'd be along when you found your old mansion was sold—and who t'was sold to." She winced at his insights; they always amazed her. "I'll be around all summer," she said, trying to placate him. "Maybe longer. Until the business is straightened out. I'll come down some night after work and buy you a beer." "If you're stayin' till that business is straightened out, you'll stay till you're an old woman," Gully commented, staring out at the waves again. "And it's nothin' to me if you come to see me or not." She ignored his gibe and bit into her sandwich. It had taken her many years to realise that Gully actually liked her and looked forward to her visits. "You're an old piece of lobster bait, you know that?" she asked pertly. "You couldn't say anything nice if you tried." "Ha," Gully grumbled. "You still get up every morning and sharpen your tongue on a cuttlefish, don't you? Oh, that house being sold got to you. I knew it would." She shook her head. Gully was even more cantankerous than usual. "Since you know so much," she challenged, "are you going to tell me the story on Dragon Sea or not?"

"You already know the story," he said. He gave a croaklike chuckle. "Vince Gambit bought it, and you know it. You were with him last night, letting him smooch you. Right over there in the car park." Charlie choked on her sandwich and blushed furiously. She coughed and blushed harder. At last she caught her breath and leaned her elbows on her knees in humiliated disgust. "Now that's impressive," she muttered. "That's really good. Okay, I was in the car park with him. News travels fast in a town this small. So tell me about him." "Seems like you're askin' a bit late," Gully snorted, delighted to have the upper hand. "Seems to me a girl ought to know about a man before she lets him go kissin' on her, not afterwards. Seems to me you got things backwards." Embarrassed, Charlie took another bite of her sandwich, although she had lost her appetite. She knew the gulls hadn't told the old man about the kiss. He must have been sitting out watching the moon and have seen it for himself. "So now you want to know about him," Gully continued, his voice full of scorn. "Well, you should be askin'. I recognised him as soon as I laid eyes on him yesterday. He was standin' right over there and lookin' out at Bald Head Cliff. He had Gambit written all over him. Some said he was dead—but I never believed it. Them Gambits was always too tough to die easy. And Gambits were trouble. That's what they were—trouble." Gully stared out at the waves with a certain prophetic satisfaction. "What kind of trouble?" Charlie probed. "All kinds," Gully rasped. "The Gambits came here for a while and littered like rats, but the young rats all scuttled away. Now one's

come home. A fine young rat that's lined his nest with money. He was one of the last to go, and he had the littlest good in him. You remember that, young woman. You can plate a rotten fish with gold, but underneath, it's still rotten." Gully's attack was so sweeping that Charlie almost felt defensive. "You can't judge a person only by his family, Gully. I mean, he has done pretty well for himself." "I didn't say he wasn't smart," Gully sneered. "I said he was no good. Not him, not that peculiar sister of his—and not the old man that raised 'em. There was something wrong with that sister of his. Strange as a red tide, she was. And a pirate's all old man Gambit was. A rum runner and a card sharper. The less said of him, the better. And this Vincent gave every sign of bein' just like him, only worse. Same cocksure smile on his face, and the devil in his eye. The same crazy gamblin' streak. The same way with the women. He's a man to stay clear of, Charlotte." "I intend to," she countered. "He's nothing to me. He just caught me by surprise last night, that's all. It won't happen again." "Ha!" Gully said. "Won't it? No tellin' what that one might do. And I'll warrant he's turned heads more knowing than yours. Why, I remember the girls in this town...stark crazy for him, they were. Could have had any one he wanted—still could, I wager." The old man gave her a long, sly look. She read the message in his weatherworn face, and her stomach turned cold, as if she had just swallowed a lump of ice. "Not me," she said rebelliously. "Oh? A good thing, for what anybody ever saw in him is more than I can say," Gully continued, his eyes glittering. "Lived in a shack down on the flats in Wells with his sister and the old man. The

father was never worth a dime. And young Vince was just like him, a fightin' fool. The very mark of Cain on him." He paused, tapping his empty pipe on the bench to rid it of phantom ashes. "And now he comes back rich. There's little justice in the world." Charlie's head clouded as the memories came ebbing back. She remembered Vince's father. Anselm—that was his name. He'd been a drunk and a gambler and a lobster pirate—stealing boldly from other fishermen's traps. And the sister, Laura, that wild, haughty, silent girl—she had been no better than Vince. In her way, she had been worse. "And now he comes back rich," Gully repeated. "And you know how he got rich?" Charlie shook her head. "Funny money, that's what I hear," Gully said darkly. "Counterfeiting?" she asked, alarmed. "No, no, no," Gully said impatiently. "Funny money. Stocks, bonds—that sort of nonsense. Nothin' real. I expect that's partly why he's come back." She frowned, still perplexed. "What do you mean?" "He's come back to find something real. And to show folks. I know the human heart—dark places and all." "I don't understand," she said, shaking her head.

"It's the coast callin' him home. He had to come. To make terms. That's why. To make terms. To settle the score for them that couldn't do it for themselves, for the other Gambits." "Oh, Gully," Charlie said impatiently. She couldn't decide if he was most maddening when he was being malicious or when he was being mysterious. "Just steer clear of him, Charlotte. That's all you need to know." The note of warning in his creaky voice puzzled and frightened her. "I can take care of myself," she mumbled defensively. "Ha," he returned. "Can you, now? That's what you say. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have him on your mind. I seen you last night, girl. And I seen the way he looked after you when you run away. You'd best keep on runnin'. You listen to old Gully." She set her jaw just as stubbornly as his. "I can take care of myself," she repeated grimly. He gave a snort. "You ain't doin' such a good job. And you and that silly brother of yours can't see that it's gonna take more than the two of you to save that business, and since Tom died, you don't think straight at all. You got the past all tangled up with the present and the future. I guarantee you, if you don't sort out your thinkin', you're gonna be hurt. Bad. I guaran-damn-tee it." She looked up at him. In spite of the sun's bright heat, she nearly shivered. Gully's looked pierced her through. "Did you love him?" "What?" She was more confused than ever. "Your brother. Tom. Did you love him?"

Tears stung her eyes at the suddenness of his question. She tried to keep her chin from trembling. "Of course I loved him," she said. "Then leave here," Gully told her. "Go back to your job in Bangor and never look back." His eyes held hers a moment. Then he gazed out to sea. Bewildered, she realised what she had seen in those pale old eyes. It was affection, great affection—and great fear. Nothing could have surprised her more. She walked back to Dragon Sea moodily, hardly noticing the bright play of the sea dashing against the cliff. She was surprised when a small hand tugged at hers. She looked down to see the brown-haired boy, Luis. Apparently he had successfully escaped the grey-haired woman once more. "Hey, senorita. Hey, lady," he said, almost furtively, looking up at her. "Here. I got something for you." She stared down in surprise at him. "Here," he repeated, and handed her three rather wilted wild roses in a cola bottle half-filled with water. She grinned and took them. "Why, thanks," she said. "And here," he said, digging into his shirt pocket. "Roberto wants you to have this." He gave her a rather melted piece of toffee wrapped in a tissue. "Why—I'm overwhelmed," said Charlie, taking the toffee and smiling at him.

He studied her solemnly for a minute. Then he shrugged and turned, running back down the Way. She stared after him. For a moment he made her forget all about Gully and his strange warnings. She looked at the wild roses in the cola bottle and was deeply touched. She stared down at the pink blossoms and then out to sea. She felt suddenly, inexplicably homesick. She shook her head. That was impossible. How could she be homesick? She was home.

CHAPTER FOUR GULLY'S LECTURE NEEDLED constantly at Charlie during the following weeks. Well, she thought ruefully, it served her right. She had gone snooping and had got her just reward: Gully had embarrassed her, then tried to scare her out of her mind. Why had he told her that she should get back to Bangor if she loved Tom? The old man got such strange notions sometimes. Besides, she told herself, despite the price, she had got what she wanted—information. The stormy history of the Gambits came back to her in broken bits and pieces like the wreckage of an old boat cast upon the shore by the tide. She could remember that old man Gambit had been a tall, lean, rather grizzled lobsterman, handsome in spite of the damage alcohol had wrought. He'd been sun-bleached and gaunt, with eyes as blue as the far edge of the sea. He'd been a favourite subject of the artists who descended on Ogunquit in the summertime, and his price for posing had always been the same, a pint of rotgut whiskey. The rumour was that his beautiful young wife had tired of his ways and had run off with one of the artists. "Ahoy, Benteen," he used to call to her. "Where did you get the red pigtails? I know a mermaid who weeps all day because she hasn't got hair like that." Charlie would only smile at him, because her father had forbidden her to talk to such a disreputable character— everyone said he raided the traps of other lobstermen and had never made an honest dime in his life. But the old man had never seemed to mind her silence. He'd always had a friendly greeting for her. He'd been dead for years now; she couldn't remember just how many. It was lost in the mists of all her childhood memories.

Vince's sister, Laura, she remembered more clearly. She had been a tall, elusive beautiful girl who never deigned to speak to anyone. By day, she'd been like some solitary spirit who haunted the cliffs and beaches, alone in her thoughts, disdainful of ordinary human company. Yet by night, she had not been disdainful of companionship. Gossip said that she'd slept with every heedless boy who'd have her. Then, one day, she'd simply disappeared from town. Everyone said she'd gone off to have a child, though whose, nobody could guess. Vince's family was hardly one to be proud of—unlike her family. The Benteens had always been hardworking to a fault, upright and respectable. So why, she thought irritably, had all the rewards fallen on Vince Gambit? If he'd come back to Ogunquit to show off his wealth, it wouldn't work. She was sure nobody would be impressed. She was wrong. At first the town's reaction was the same as hers. People wondered why that rakehell no-good, of all people, had come back to Ogunquit, and with a fortune. Almost everybody echoed Gully's sentiment: there's little justice in the world. Almost immediately the rumours started: if a Gambit had money— especially if that Gambit were Vince—he hadn't come by it honestly. Some people said Vince had made an illegal fortune smuggling gems from South East Asia. Others were convinced he had won an oil company in a poker game. Yet Vince managed to short-circuit most of his critics within a few weeks by using the oldest weapons in the world—charm and money.

He showed up at Dragon Sea almost every day, and Charlie could almost feel when he was coming. Her nerves would begin to tingle supernaturally. She would develop a funny, apprehensive feeling in the pit of her stomach that almost made her dizzy. Whenever she stole a quick glance at him, she found that he was looking at her. Though she'd always look away quickly, she could constantly feel his presence. He moved among the workers with a quiet, dignified friendliness. He asked about their families, caught up with their pasts. He'd help out with odd jobs, lend a hand sometimes with a piece of heavy equipment. He conducted himself, in short, like the classic Mr. Nice Guy. He donated paintings—expensive ones by Maine artists—to the library, the art gallery, the playhouse. He contributed liberally to all the local charities. He donated funds to help pay for traffic lights at Ogunquit's hectic main intersection, which was tied in knots by the tourist traffic every summer. He also ingratiated himself with a number of the town's prominent people. And he did it all with a modest, offhand grace that some people found disarming and laudable. But Charlie took it all in with bitter resentment. She was horrified when even Eddie seemed to be won over. "Oh, come on, Charlie," he chided her tiredly during supper one night. "Everybody says he's changed. You used to always gripe that Tom got shot up saving a life that wasn't worth saving. Looks like you were wrong. That should make you happy. Vince Gambit didn't turn out so bad after all. I guess old Tom knew what he was doing." I hope so, because he died for it, she wanted to snap, but Eddie looked too weary to argue. She held her peace. What if Eddie was

right? The thought made her feel deeply and unhappily traitorous, both to Tom and to her own emotions. The knowledge that Vince had been welcomed back to the fold so swiftly, that he had been accepted by so many people in the town so easily, rankled. He was buying respectability, that was all, she thought bitterly. Gully was right. He had come back just to show off. She tried to force him from her thoughts but could not. She kept thinking about all his women, for he frequently showed up at Dragon Sea with a beautiful woman on his arm, and that only made things worse. He didn't seem to flaunt them. If anything, they flaunted him, hanging onto his arms, staring up at his strongly chiselled face, cooing and giggling, acting, in Charlie's opinion, just plain silly. He was only a man, she chided herself, always turning back to her work nonchalantly as he strolled with yet another local lovely on his arm through the swarming site. Yes, he was just an ordinary man. So why, she kept wondering, couldn't she get him out of her thoughts? He was ensconced there, as hard and immovable as Maine granite. Why did he continue to haunt her dreams, meeting her again and again in the ballroom of Dragon Sea, waltzing her more and more slowly to unheard music, staring down at her with unreadable sea-blue eyes?

IT WAS MONDAY NOON, and the day sweltered with the continuing uncharacteristic heatwave. The work on the house's exterior was going slowly, far too slowly. Charlie, exhausted already, had decided to dip into her limited funds and treat herself to an icecream cone at Barnacle Billy's in the Cove.

She strolled up the crowded Way. The path teemed with tourists seeking the relief of ocean breezes; summer dwellers had begun to arrive in droves during the past few weeks. She started to cut across the parking lot when she saw Luis, the boy who'd given her roses and toffee, looking boldly around. But he didn't see her. She watched as he casually sidled up to Bus O'Conner's red Cadillac and stopped, checking over his shoulder. The car park attendant was ogling a pretty girl in yellow shorts and did not notice the boy. With perfect aplomb he drew a sharp instrument from his pocket and tested it against Bus's front tyre. Oh, no, she thought, he was going to slash it. She sprang to his side, her hand imprisoning his wrist just before he could thrust the blade into the tyre. "No," she ordered firmly. The boy looked up, his hazel eyes wary but not frightened. "No," Charlie said again. "Give me that—now." Although he was slender, he had a tough set of muscles, and she had to use one of the special twists that Tom had taught her to make him surrender the knife. It was a jack- knife, and she folded it expertly and thrust it into her back pocket. "Aha!" he said, recognising her. "The redheaded lady. We meet again, eh? Did you like the toffee?" Charlie gave him a wry look. He shrugged innocently. "Hey, I'll go away. But I need the knife," he pleaded. "Is my father's, and he will be angry if you take it."

"Steady, partner. I've got custody of the knife," she said evenly. "Let's get out of here. You're lucky the lot attendant didn't notice you. You just missed getting into big trouble." He tossed his sandy hair out of his eyes and muttered something in Spanish but, knowing he was captured, allowed Charlie to steer him to the edge of Shore Road. When they stopped, she kept her hand on his arm and stepped before him, blocking his way. His long-lashed eyes were taking her measure carefully. "So what's the story?" she asked him, setting her free hand on her hip. "Why were you trying to knife that tyre?" 'He squared his shoulders. His voice was serious and dramatic. "I avenge my brother's honour," he stated. "He was insulted. You know—you were there. That cerdo, that pig, laid hands on him, said bad things to him. I vowed to fix him, and I would have before now, only we have just come back. My father is practically keeping us under lock and key." She regarded him carefully. Although he didn't look Hispanic, he was acting like a little matador. She would have to choose her words carefully. A mere mouthing of cliches about being nice would not work with this child. "It's been over two weeks," she said. "You certainly know how to hold a grudge, don't you?" He shrugged elaborately. "My father says it is in my blood." "Well, you ought to get it out," she advised him. "Holding grudges never did anybody any good." She ought to know, she thought with a guilty twinge.

"He who insults my brother insults me!" the boy said with stern passion. "He insults my father and the name of my father! He insults—" "Whoa!" Charlie commanded. "Slow down. You think slashing tyres is going to help your family honour? It's a pretty sneaky way of getting even. You don't look like the kind of person who'd be a sneak. I'm surprised at you." He tried to mask his shame with haughtiness and nearly succeeded. "Well," he said lamely, "it was—how do you say—the spur of the moment. Our housekeeper, she barely lets me out of her sight, the dragon. She's no fun at all." "Just where is your housekeeper, if she never lets you out of her sight? And where's your brother?" "Waiting for me by the footbridge. I am supposed to be getting ice cream. Your hair—it's very pretty. Is it really that red? Or do you put something on it?" She shook her head in amused exasperation. The boy was quite a little con artist, but she could tell by the look on his face that she had him under control. She thought again of her career—of how much she wanted to work with children, of how far she was from pursuing that dream now. "If you were getting ice cream, you must have been going to Barnacle Billy's," she said, her voice softening. "I'm going there myself. I'll walk you." "But—" "No buts. And, friend to friend, I'd advise you to stay away from that car. I'd hate to have to hunt up your father and tell him where I

got his jackknife." She patted the back pocket of her worn cut-off jeans in warning. He glanced up at her, then let her escort him to the line in front of the window counter at Barnacle Billy's. "I think you are one tough lady," he muttered as he thrust a sweaty handful of change over the counter. There was grudging admiration in his voice and in the quick, appraising glance he gave her. "Oh, I'm tough, all right," Charlie agreed, nodding. "I eat a bowl of nails every morning. And I mean what I say. I want you to stay out of trouble. You already avenged your brother, as I recall. You bonked a certain somebody on the head with a pinecone, remember?" He nodded with resignation. "You live around here?" he asked, scuffing one tennis shoe against the red flagstones. "All my life," she replied, and gave him the ghost of a smile, just to show that she did still like him. "Well," he said, scuffing his tennis shoe again and licking a dribble of chocolate ice cream that ran down one knuckle. "Maybe you could show Roberto and me around some time. Our housekeeper, she's got no sense of adventure, you know? And we really want to explore this place. My father—" A stern feminine voice interrupted him. "Luis! Where on the face of this pleasant planet have you been, please?" Charlie looked up from Luis's sad, proud eyes to see the large greyhaired lady who had been shepherding the children the other day. Little Roberto clung to the cuff of the woman's commodious lavender shorts and looked at Charlie, smiling shyly.

"Hey!" Luis defended himself. "The line—it was long. And this nice lady started to talk to me. You want me to be rude to her?" "Luis," the woman stated, crossing her arms over an ample bosom. "I told you to come directly back. You know your father's orders." "Okay, I'm sorry. I stopped to watch a baby seagull," he said easily. He looked up at Charlie and gave her a wink that was bold as could be. "Hmph!" snorted the buxom woman. "A baby seagull, indeed! Hmph!" She shook her head and marched the two boys back toward the bridge. Charlie watched them go, shaking her head in amusement. What a handful Luis was, she thought. How she'd like to have that little firebrand under her thumb for a few days. Then, without warning, she felt that rattling, tingling sensation again—the one that had become so familiar during the past weeks. Vince Gambit's here somewhere, she thought with bizarre certainty. The back of her neck went cold, despite the heat. She felt uneasy, as if she had been thrust upon a stage. Then she spotted him across Shore Road. He was dressed all in grey, like the sea sky on a cloudy day, and he stood watching her. His bronzed arms were crossed over his chest. She felt an unwanted jolt as her eyes met his, even at that distance. She turned and walked back toward the Way, clutching her ice-cream cone. She could still feel Vince's eyes on her, making the back of her neck prickle. She wished suddenly she weren't carrying ice cream. It made her feel like a child herself.

THE HEAT was even worse the next day, as if the sky had closed down upon the town like a huge sweaty fist. Charlie awoke sore all over and depressed. She had promised Eddie she could handle the job at Dragon Sea, but her crew was so small that she was already aggravatingly behind. She rose, showered, and braided her hair, then reluctantly slipped into cut-offs again. She didn't like wearing shorts to work, but the heat was too oppressive for anything else. When she arrived at the site, the sun shone so brightly that the glare off the pale stone of Dragon Sea was painful to the eyes. The sea stretched as flat and motionless as a steely-blue lake. She could see clear to the Cape Neddick lighthouse. Yet, in all the brightness and stillness, she felt an uneasy sense of expectancy, as if something was about to happen. Mitchy, the most responsible member of her crew, treated the heat like a personal insult and drove himself to work harder than usual. The Miller twins seemed dazed by it and worked even more haphazardly than was their wont. In a way, Charlie welcomed the heat. The drumming of the sun beat in her brain like summer thunder and almost knocked other considerations from her mind. She called a deserved midmorning break and, restless, wandered about the grounds. She didn't want to think about how far she was falling behind. She stopped to talk to the members of other crews, hoping for distraction. She didn't find it. Most of the men wanted to talk about Vince Gambit. "At least for once we're working for one of our own people and not somebody from away. Gambit turned out all right," one worker commented.

"You can't say it's gone to his head," said another. "He don't act rich." "I was never one to look down on the Gambits. They had a run of bad luck, that's all." A run of bad luck, Charlie thought; they certainly had and it went back to Adam. Didn't anybody remember this man was practically responsible for her brother's death? If Vince Gambit had never existed, Tom would be alive and well and she'd be finished college and starting her career. She had to stop thinking that way, she told herself, mopping her brow with her forearm. She would drive herself mad with resentment. Yet any virtuous thoughts she harboured and any admonitions she had set for herself came crashing down at noon. The sun was excruciatingly hot, its light almost blinding. All at once she wished it were even brighter, so she could not see at all. The heat seemed to rise in waves from the ground and shimmer as Charlie saw Vince and Jinxie Vandergrift walking arm in arm. Jinxie was a sophisticated blonde woman who ran a gift shop in Perkins Cove that was so exclusive that Charlie had been in only once—to wallpaper the toilet. Charlie was sitting in the shade of a thick lilac bush, eating her lunch with Mitchy Bouvier when she spotted them. "What are you looking at?" Mitchy teased, his gaze following her stricken one. Then he said, "Uh-oh. Wow!" Vince's tawny head was bent over Jinxie's. He whispered something in her ear. She laughed. She looked as cool as ice cream in her

pastel pink dress. He was dressed all in white, like a yachtsman. He looked like a sun god with his bronzed skin and light-streaked hair. His eyes fell on Charlie and stayed there, despite Jinxie's happy chatter. Charlie felt small and grubby and sweaty. Her head ached from heat and overwork. She had been working overtime alone every day. Eddie didn't know, because he worked late, too. If she fell any farther behind on the job, Eddie would insist on helping, and she couldn't let that happen. She just couldn't. Eddie was already dead on his feet. Charlie looked across the grounds. Vince was still watching her while Jinxie Vandergrift stared up at him raptly. He patted Jinxie's hand absently, but his eyes were on Charlie, and his simple ordinary look made her puzzlingly uneasy. She wished she had taken Gully's advice and had simply gone back to Bangor. She wished she were somewhere, anywhere else and working with children like fiery little Luis and not going through the torture of this impossible summer. With a start, she realised why the summer was so unbearable. Gully, curse him, had been right. In spite of everything, she found Vince Gambit attractive, and the knowledge made her feel sick all over. Suddenly it all seemed too much for her. She felt a lump swarming up her throat, and she jumped to her feet to escape, to run away, anywhere. "Hey, Charlie?" Mitchy asked, confused by her sudden action, but she had already turned and was headed toward the house in a daze.

She entered the kitchen. Looking wildly around, she saw the great old pantry and opened the door, then slammed it behind her. She put her head down on the dusty shelf and cried from pure physical and emotional exhaustion. But even as she wept, she was thinking of how Vince's sea- blue eyes had stared at her across the trampled lawn, mockingly. She had thought about those eyes since that windy night when he'd caught her at his house. They had haunted her from the instant that Vince had held her in his arms and said, "Why, Charlie. You've grown up." If this was what being grown up was like, she thought, she wanted no part of it. It was too hard. It was too complicated. Suddenly the door swung open, but she refused to look up. She didn't want anyone to see her face streaked with tears. "What are you doing in here? Trying to smother yourself?" It was Vince's voice, the last one she wanted to hear. She bit her lip and kept her face pressed against the rough wood. "Charlie? What's wrong?" Strong arms went around her and gently but inexorably forced her to face him. She turned her head away. "You're crying. Charlie, don't cry. A woman crying turns me into water. Don't." She tried to push him away, but he held her fast and turned her face to his. "Don't," he ordered. "Don't do that." She straightened her spine, bit her lower lip again. "Where's Jinxie?" she asked bitterly and with immediate regret.

He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. "Outside. There must be fifty men eyeing her cleavage. She's never been happier. What's wrong with you? I saw you go pale, then take off as if a ghost was after you. Charlie, I've been watching you. You're working too hard," he insisted. "No." She shook her head, then nodded, confused by his touch. She was crying because there was so much work to do, and she was exhausted. But another part of her mind, the part that leaped when she looked up into Vince's eyes, told her that those weren't the only reasons she was crying. "You've got to stop," he said gently, the eyebrow with the scar arching. A cheek muscle twitched as if in irritation. "You're working like a little sled dog who has to pull twice the weight she's built for. Why is Eddie letting you do this?" "L-leave Eddie out of it," she ordered, her chin trembling. "I'm helping him because I want to." "Oh, Charlie," he said, gripping her small chin between his thumb and forefinger to hold it steady. "You're a Benteen through and through, aren't you?" She shuddered slightly at the touch of his strong hand against her face, but it wasn't a shudder of fear or distaste. It was prompted by an altogether new feeling, and it frightened her. His face was so close, and she couldn't help noticing that his darklashed eyes were the colour of the summer sea. His tiny white scar raked through one bronzed brow like a tiny spear of lightning. His mouth displayed a look of concern. The burning sun had streaked his hair with more deep gold, darkened his face so that the blue eyes were more startling, more unreadable than ever.

Suddenly she felt as giddy and weak as the sort of girl who faints at the sight of a mouse. His right hand still held her small chin, and his left burned into her upper arm as if she were wearing a band of molten gold. "I'm going to help you," he said at last. She wanted to shake his hands away, but she could not even try. "No," she managed to say. Her throat felt constricted, dry. "I'm putting another man on your crew," he said softly. "At my own expense. Don't try to fight me. You're going to work yourself to death otherwise." "No," she said again. She would accept neither pity nor favours from him. She swallowed hard and shook her head. She could feel a few tendrils of her long hair, loosened from their braid, clinging damply to her moist cheek. Gently he brushed the hair away, smoothing it toward the back of her neck. "Yes," he said. "Remember me? I'm the boss around here. What I say goes. Just pretend I'm doing it for... somebody else." He put his hands on either side of her face and with his thumbs lightly traced the path her tears had taken down her cheeks, as if his touch could wipe their memory away. She parted her lips as if to say, "Don't," but something held the word back. "Shh," he said, although she had said nothing. Then he bent his head to hers and kissed her, the briefest and gentlest of kisses. But for all its brevity, it seemed as inevitable as the tide bending to the will of the moon.

He drew back, smoothed her hair away from her face again with a cool lean hand. She felt stunned, more confused than before. She realised with bewilderment that she wished he would kiss her again, that he would not stop kissing her. This is Vince Gambit, she reminded herself, trying to suppress her feelings. "I'll see you get help. Don't worry, Charlie," he said cryptically. "Just don't worry." He drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her tears away, then pressed the handkerchief into her hand. "Keep it," he said, half smiling. "Go find some water and wash your face. You're all streaked. All beautiful and dusty and tear-streaked. And get out of this pantry. You'll bake yourself. What would Tom think, seeing his favourite tomboy bawling in a pantry?" She sniffed into the handkerchief, feeling like a little fool. She had let him kiss her again, and once more she had liked it. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. "What would he think, seeing you kiss me?" she asked, a catch in her voice. She was so angry at herself for her traitorous feelings that she wanted to wound him, and instinctively she knew she had. His features became masklike. The muscle played in his tanned cheek again. His mouth—that extraordinarily disturbing mouth of his— took on a grim set. He was silent. She stared up at him, filled with such warring emotions that she could say nothing. "Would you like the rest of the day off?" he asked at last. His voice was low but curt. She stared at the dusty floor and shook her head. She felt as embarrassed as Luis must have when she'd caught him trying to slash the tyre.

"Charlie," he said, looking down at her, a frown line between his bronze brows, "we can't change the past. Do you understand that? If we're lucky, we can redeem it, but we can't ever change it. Do you understand that?" She nodded, though she didn't understand at all. She knew she couldn't change the past. Dozens of people had told her that. But she had not the slightest idea of what he meant by redeeming it. Everything was suddenly so confusing, so utterly confusing. But she nodded again. He watched her as she finally gained control of herself. He gave her a long pensive look, then turned and was gone. Charlie watched him go as dazed as if he had struck her. Why had he kissed her again? Had he simply felt sorry for her? Confused, she wiped the tear streaks from her face with his beautiful clean handkerchief. It smelled of sunlight and sea air and bay rum. Her lips burned strangely, as if she had managed to brush them against the gold of the sun. She could still taste him. He tasted like comfort, like summer, like life itself.

CHARLIE WORKED OVERTIME, hoping exhaustion would drive all else from her mind. When she finally got home, she was smarting all over. Then, sitting over a cold supper for which she had no appetite, she practically had a fight with Eddie. "You can't let Vince Gambit put another man on my crew," she insisted, mad enough to cry. "We can't accept charity. I won't accept charity."

Eddie was just as stubborn as she was, but as usual, he was much calmer about it. If he got any calmer, Charlie thought in frustration, he'd be comatose. "Charlie," he said with weary patience, "he's just being a nice guy. I told you, he stopped by the motel. He insisted on buying me a beer." "Or two," Charlie said in disgust. "Or three." "All right," Eddie admitted. "A beer or two. I swear I didn't know how hard you were working at Dragon Sea. Vince is right—" "Eddie, don't you remember what Tom used to tell you? How you could sit down with Attila the Hun and have a few beers and end up thinking he was a pretty nice guy?" He ignored her and became more stolid. "He said you'd be actin' this way. The guy has definitely got your number, Charlie. Just stop thinkin' of it as charity. He's doin' it for Tom. Now how can you say no to that?" She slammed down her fork and stared miserably at her plate. "Oh, fine. Tom dies, so Vince Gambit hires us another painter for the summer. Everything's even. Thanks a lot, Mr. Gambit. The poor, bereaved family would like to kiss the hem of your garment. Good grief, Eddie!" "It's not that way," he replied, impenetrable as a boulder. "He's a nice guy. He was even askin' about investing in the business." Charlie's heart went hot and cold. "He what?" she said quietly, trying to be calm. "Asked about investin' in the business," Eddie repeated, sounding almost pleased about it. "I mean, he just asked. He invests in businesses all the time."

"Eddie," she said, still keeping her voice quiet, but only because she didn't have the strength to make it loud. "He invests in big corporations, not little local painting companies. You didn't say yes, did you?" "No," he answered, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time. "Because if he ended up owning even part of our family business, I'd never forgive—" "He's not gonna own it," Eddie interrupted with absolute finality. "Calm down. I know you. I know what's about to happen. An explosion is about to happen. I can see your fuse burnin'. Put it out, will ya? I mean, the man only asked. And he's not such a bad guy. I'm surprised you don't like him better. After he went and adopted those two kids and all." "Kids? Vince Gambit has kids?" Charlie's body felt paralysed, though her mind reeled. "His sister's two kids. Charlie, are you okay?" "F-fine," she lied. The whole idea was so strange to her that she didn't know what to feel. "Laura had children?" "Yes. Apparently she died and left these two kids. He adopted them. A bad guy doesn't do that, Charlie." No, Charlie thought. A bad guy doesn't do that. But, so shocked by the news, she blurted out, "Who knows who the father of Laura Gambit's children is? An axe murderer, probably.'' Eddie's head snapped up and he looked at her angrily. "Charlie! I never thought I'd ever hear you say anything like that about a kid."

Charlie plunged like a falling angel from bright anger into a pit of shame. It had been a horrible thing to say. She couldn't believe she had said it. It was the kind of cruel and stupid statement she'd jumped all over Bus O'Conner for making. She bit her lower lip hard and felt tears well up in her eyes. "Tom would never have believed you could say a thing like that," he said, still eyeing her. She felt even more ashamed, and she felt the fight draining from her. The discussion, she knew, was over. Eddie pushed away from the table and stood, rubbing the back of his neck. Wordlessly he left the kitchen and went into the living room. Although he didn't act as tired as usual, she knew he was. He would be asleep in his chair within fifteen minutes. She sat staring at his empty plate and her nearly full one. Her thoughts began to tumble around wildly again like puppies fighting to get out of a dark sack. Vince Gambit had adopted his sister's children. Where did they live? Why on earth had he asked Eddie about investing in the business— the poor, struggling, unprofitable business? What right did Vince Gambit have to put another man on her crew? And why was he doing it? She got up from the table and stacked the dishes to rinse them, too upset to think clearly about anything. She would switch her mind off, as if it were an obedient machine. She knew that trick very well. She had perfected it during Tom's long illness. After she did the dishes, she would take Max for a long walk. But not along the Way. She never wanted to travel that path alone by starlight again as long as she lived.

CHAPTER FIVE THE NEXT DAY was sweltering. Mainers were used to the most brutal tortures the long winter could inflict, but against such unusual, excruciating heat they were helpless. Maine lay so far north and the ocean was so cold that even in the summer, resorts advertised that they were heated. Homes were seldom air-conditioned. Normally Ogunquit swarmed with tourists seeking cool ocean breezes, but lately the breezes were hot. Charlie donned her cut-offs again and one of Eddie's old shortsleeved cotton shirts, which she tied in a knot at the front, leaving her midriff bare. She didn't like, to work so scantily clad, but the heat gave her little choice. By noon, Dragon Sea would be occupied by an army of bare-chested, bare-legged men, too hammered down by the heat to pay any attention to her. When Charlie arrived at the site, there was another man waiting to be added to her crew. Vince Gambit had been true to his word. The newcomer was a stocky pink-faced man about fifty who called himself Swede and came from Portland. Swede had such a ferocious gleam in his little blue eyes that Charlie knew instinctively the boys would pay him deference. With his shaggy white-blond hair and his pale and scowling brows, he looked like a smooth-shaven Viking marauder. And he was the most closemouthed man she had ever met. But he tamed the boys instantly with one cold and savage glance that left the Miller twins' skinny knees knocking together. But, she'd noted with relieved surprise, he scampered up the ladder, despite his girth, as lightly as a squirrel. He'd scraped paint at a speed that impressed even her, his every movement as precise as a ballet dancer. By five o'clock that afternoon, she wondered how she had ever survived without him.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she went home at the same hour as the other workers. She was locking the back of the van when Bus O'Conner ambled up to her. Before she knew what was happening, he had patted her bottom familiarly. "Looks like somebody around here earned herself some special favours from Mr. High-and-Mighty Gambit," he said, his little eyes narrowing sarcastically. She stepped backward and brushed off the seat of her cutoffs, as if he had left a dirty handprint on them. This was the first time Bus had sought her out since the incident at the back gate when he had spoken so unkindly to Roberto. ' 'What do you mean?'' "I mean him putting another man on your crew. You must be awful nice to this Mr. Gambit, Charlie. A lot nicer than you are to me. Money talks, eh?" She didn't like his tone and she didn't like his sardonic smile. "It talks at our house," she said, eyeing him coldly. "But all it ever says is, 'Goodbye.'" "And he's got it sayin' 'Hello' again, is that it?" Bus insinuated. "Maybe I should have been more direct in my approach to you. I've given your brother work. I've done him favours. Maybe they just weren't big enough, Charlie." She was hot and tired and in no mood for Bus's sudden nastiness. "The biggest favour you could do me would be to end this conversation." "You just better watch your step, Charlie," Bus warned, his mouth twisted. "He's got himself a woman in New York. She calls my

office two or three times a day, askin' him to call her. And he always does. You're out of your league, girl." "He's nothing to me. No, he's less than nothing. Drop it, Bus." She got in the van and slammed the door emphatically. She started the motor and pulled out as fast as she could, leaving Bus in a whirl of dust. So, she thought angrily, people were going to interpret it that way, were they? Well, if Bus or anyone else wanted to think she and Vince Gambit had a private little affair going, let them. Vince might as well ruin her reputation, along with everything else. Gully had been right. She should have gone back to Bangor. At least Vince hadn't shown up at the site today. That was one small blessing. And where he spent his nights, she hadn't the vaguest notion. Perhaps with his mysterious children.

"JUST WHERE ARE his children?" Charlie asked many people casually over the next few days. Vince hadn't appeared at the site in over a week. Rumour had it that Wall Street called him back from time to time, presumably, Charlie thought, to buy a bigger vault for his money. Some people said that, wherever he was, he had taken Jinxie Vandergrift, who was also curiously absent from Ogunquit. Others said he had an heiress, in Manhattan he was thinking of marrying. The woman even had a name: Elena. Both rumours gave her a queasy feeling in her middle, and she didn't want to think why.

Nobody seemed to know anything about his children, although a few people said they were indeed the sons of Laura Gambit as Eddie had told her. "He keeps his mouth shut about them," said one person. "I hear they're in camp in Quebec," said another. Someone else claimed both children were in the keeping of the mysterious Elena. Vince had been heard saying he was waiting for the woman to make the family complete and permanent. That story rankled Charlie most of all. Somebody said the children were with Vince in the neighbouring town of York. The only thing Charlie knew for sure about the children was that nobody was sure about anything. The only person who might know was Gully. She went to see him and bought him a beer as she had promised. But she wasn't feeling brave enough to ask him about the children and avoided mentioning them altogether. But he gave her one of his cold watery blue stares and told her again that she should leave Ogunquit. "Oh, Gully, really," she said impatiently. "Why?" "Because of that Gambit man," Gully replied. "If my guess is right, he's out to ruin you and your brother, too. He's just been playing with you so far, like a cat with a mouse." "Don't be silly," she objected, but he made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. "I know what I know," he rasped.

"What do you know?" she demanded, for Gully loved to taunt people with partly revealed secrets. "I know what I know," he repeated grimly, refusing to elaborate, but, as usual, his words worried her. When Monday came, the temperature had been simmering in the nineties for four straight days. Swede, the new crew member, was fair-skinned and normally kept covered. But the heat was driving everyone a bit mad, and against Charlie's advice, Swede stripped off his white shirt, exposing his pale skin to the brutal sunshine. By five o'clock, he was as red as any boiled lobster on the coast. Charlie fretted over him as well as over Jamie Miller, whom the sun had given a nosebleed. Two of the other crews had already had men collapse from the heat. Work on the old house was slowing, dragging. It was as if the coast were in the jaws of a giant, fiery beast. After work Charlie went to Barnacle Billy's for a cold drink. The Cove was crowded with tourists trying to escape the oppressive heat. Cars from out of state jammed the parking lots. The little red, green and gold trolley buses with their Victorian design plied their way through the heavy traffic, transporting tourists from downtown to the Cove and back. Charlie stood in line, feeling grubby among the trendy tourists, many of whom were outfitted in brightly coloured clothes, fancy floral prints. Then she felt a finger poking her in the ribs and looked down to see Luis, with an expression combining mischief and sadness on his face. She smiled at him wordlessly, and he smiled back. Roberto clung to him shyly, peering around Luis with large, dark eyes. "Psst," Luis said conspiratorially. "Can we get in line with you?"

Charlie glanced apprehensively at the people behind her, then decided, why not? She was a native of this town and ought to have a special privilege from time to time. She let the boys slip in front of her. When a woman behind Charlie made a comment, Charlie blushed and tried to ignore it. Luis simply eyed the woman boldly, dwelling on her more-than-ample waistline. "Luis," she hissed in his ear, "stop staring. You're going to get yourself in trouble again." He shrugged. "So? You're here to get me out." "That's not the point," she whispered furiously. "Where have you been, anyway? You appear and disappear like a genie out of a bottle." "My father had to see this woman in New York," he replied, straightening Roberto's blue T-shirt. "He took us because he was going to be gone awhile. Sometimes he does that." Their father goes to New York? Charlie thought. Could it be possible that these were Vince's— No. She tossed the frightening thought aside rapidly, though small clouds of suspicion were brewing in the back of her mind. "Where do you stay when you're around here, anyway?" she enquired. "Why do you just pop up from time to time?" He dug into the pocket of his shorts, pulled out his money and began to count it carefully. "My father rents this house in York until ours is finished. He thought the rides and things over there would keep us—you know—amused. He doesn't want us fooling around the house he's fixing."

The small clouds of suspicion in Charlie's mind rushed together to form one large, dark, billowing one. "Luis," she said very carefully. "What's your last name?" He looked up from his counting. "Gambit. What's your name, anyhow?" Her hand on his shoulder tightened slightly. She looked down at him, at his freckles and long-lashed hazel eyes. She looked at Roberto's rounder face with its black eyes. Gambit, she thought with a strange rush of fear and exhilaration. These were Vince Gambit's boys. "Charlie," she said in as calm a voice as she could. "Charlie Benteen." "Rats!" he said in exasperation. "So nobody slipped me a Canadian quarter. Now I won't have enough." "It's all right," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "They'll take it." She realised her touch on his shoulder was almost possessive. It isn't fair, she thought to herself. Vince Gambit ended up with everything. Even these boys. Tom got nothing. She forced herself to let go of Luis's shoulder. She had been holding on to him as if he belonged to her. She tried not to think of what he had said about Vince going to New York to see a woman.

THE NEXT MORNING the temperature had soared to a hundred. Swede was home, nursing his severe sunburn, and would be gone for at least another two days.

Charlie was still behind schedule. She was also depressed. Her mood was aggravated by a very persistent rumour that, since Vince's return from New York, he had left orders with the local florist to send one white rose a day to a woman named Elena. And the heat was killing. She decided she had to move her crew inside for the day. The outside work was almost completed, and Dragon Sea's thick stone walls kept the air inside a little more tolerable. Besides, there were miles of woodwork to be scraped and walls to be prepared for papering, and they might as well get started. Only dark-eyed Mitchy Bouvier balked at working inside. He wanted to scrape and paint the cupola that supported the dragonshaped weathervane. "Just let me get that done," Mitchy pleaded, the sweat gleaming on his tanned body. "Then all the high work's done. Just let me get it off my mind before it gets any hotter. Then I'll come in. It'll only take an hour or so. Please, Charlie." She agreed against her better judgment. It was too hot to argue, and it would be a relief to her, as well, when all the high work was finished. As she began organising inside duties, Charlie noticed that Timmy Miller looked dazed, as if the heat had addled his brain, which was somewhat giddy to begin with. Jamie had another nosebleed and had to sit down with an ice-filled cloth pressed against his nose. Charlie wondered if she should send him home again, but by the hour's end, he was on his feet again. Some of the men on other crews were leaving without permission. Bus O'Conner, who should have been giving instructions, hadn't even shown up.

One of the older men, an electrician, was having trouble breathing. He kept sitting down in the ballroom and panting like a dog. She was relieved when his foreman finally sent him home. The news reports coming over someone's portable radio were not encouraging. New England was in the grip of a seemingly endless heatwave, one that was setting records. Charlie was dressed in her shortest cut-offs and a skimpy green elasticised tube top. The sweat ran down her body as she and Jamie Miller struggled to patch the cracked plaster of the ballroom ceiling. Timmy worked sluggishly on the woodwork; he was starting to look ill to her, and she was beginning to think she should send both twins home and wondered if she should wait until noon to do it. Shortly after ten, one of the stonemasons working on the back patio came running for Charlie. "Trouble," he gasped, "an accident." Mitchy had passed out. He was finishing work on the cupola and must have suddenly crumpled from the heat. He had half slid, half rolled to the edge of the roof. Charlie's heart contracted within her. In spite of the strangling heat, her body went cold. She scuttled off her stepladder and raced outside, her knees shaking so much that she nearly stumbled. If anything happened to Mitchy, it would be her fault. She had flashing images of hospital deathbeds and remembered Tom's. Not Mitchy, she prayed, not Mitchy, too! She stood trembling among the knot of workers looking up at the roof. Mitchy's shirtless, sweaty body lay limply at one corner. He rested awkwardly, supported only by a section of gutter and the ornamental finial at the roof's edge. His arms and head dangled in empty space above the back patio's floor of stones. In panic, Charlie

realised that, if Mitchy regained consciousness, if he moved at all, he could pitch over the roofs edge to the stones below. Two men had moved a ladder so its tip was as close to Mitchy's inert form as possible. Without thinking, she sprang onto the ladder and started to climb, her hands shaking as she gripped the rungs, her knees unsteady. Suddenly two iron-hard arms snaked around her bare waist, pulling her struggling, backwards, off the ladder. She kicked in ineffectual protest and stared, dazed, into the angry blue eyes of Vince Gambit. "Let go!" she cried. "I've got to move him! If he comes to..." She kicked again, shoved her hands against his chest and hit him as hard as she could on the shoulder. He only held her tighter. "Calm down, you little hellcat! You're not strong enough. You'll both fall." She hit him on the shoulder again, and he set her down abruptly, rudely. He pushed her roughly against Jamie Miller. "Hold her," Vince ordered, his eyes shooting blue fire. "I said hold her, you idiot!" Jamie's hands gripped Charlie's arms, and she watched helplessly as Vince climbed lithely up the ladder into the hot blue sky. He wore faded cut-offs and a white shirt, but his figure looked black, a dark broad-shouldered shadow against the glare of the sun. He moved with catlike speed up the rungs, then stepped onto the roof. For a moment he balanced near its edge. Charlie's heart stopped beating and did not resume until she saw that his footing was secure.

Vince reached Mitchy and pulled him away from the edge with one mighty heave. He stretched the boy out, checking his pulse and breathing. Then he hoisted him to his shoulder in a fireman's lift and inched down the steep incline of the roof and back to the ladder. She held her breath as she watched him descend, the ladder bowing in under their combined weight. Suddenly Mitchy moaned and stirred, and once again her heart seemed to die. If he made any abrupt movement, both men might be thrown off. But Vince kept descending, one sure step at a time. When he reached the bottom he stretched Mitchy out in the shade and barked for somebody to bring water—and lots of it. "Salt, too!" he commanded. "Get this kid some salt!" Charlie's consciousness dimmed for a moment, as if she was going to faint, then came surging back. She felt Jamie Miller's hands holding her arms too tightly. "Let go of me, Jamie," she ordered, and he obeyed. She rushed to Mitchy, throwing herself on the grass beside him. She laid his head in her lap. "Oh, Mitchy," she breathed, running her fingers through his sweatsoaked black hair. "Oh, Mitchy, I'm sorry. I never should have let you go up there. I'm so sorry." She was overwhelmed with guilt. She shook her head, some of her plait spilling loose as Jamie handed her a wet towel. Vince was beside her, kneeling. He tore a salt packet open, pried Mitchy's mouth open, dumped the salt in and followed it with a cup of tepid water, most of which spilled out.

Somebody set a bucket of water between them, and somebody else fanned Mitchy's face with a large scrap of cardboard. The boymoaned, then moaned again. His breathing was shallow, laboured. "Come on, Mitchy," she pleaded. "Wake up. Be all right. Please!" Vince soaked another towel in water and wrung it out over Mitchy's chest. At last Mitchy's dark lashes fluttered, and he gazed up at her dazedly, licking his lips. "Charlie?" She almost wept with relief. "The heat got you, brown eyes," she said, dipping the towel in cold water and swabbing his brow. "You're okay. You passed out—a little sunstroke, that's all." The boy struggled to sit up, but Charlie pulled him back, cradling him in her arms, holding him tightly, as if he were infinitely precious. "You might let him breathe," Vince said sarcastically. He held the cup of water to Mitchy's lips again. Mitchy tried to gulp the water down rapidly, but Vince instructed the boy take medium-sized sips. Charlie hugged Mitchy more tightly to her. "You're going to be all right," she kept repeating, as much to reassure herself as him. He smiled up at her weakly. "Ummm. Hey," he rasped, his voice scratchy. "Hey, Charlie. I think I could get to like this, you know? You're soft. You feel good."

Vince shot her a sardonic look. "Let go of him. If he's well enough to flirt, he's well enough to sit up." But she couldn't let go: she was afraid to. She needed to keep proving to herself that he was really there. Vince grumbled something under his breath and stood up. "You two!" he ordered, glaring at the Miller twins. "Get this kid to a doctor—now!" "Ah, I don't need no doctor," Mitchy protested weakly, his head on Charlie's breast. "I'm just fine here." "I said get him to a doctor," Vince rumbled. The Miller twins sprang forward, wrested Mitchy from Charlie's embrace, lifted him between them and walked him toward their battered car. "And everybody else clear out of here," Vince said, his voice rough. "It's too hot to work. Take the day off. You'll get paid for it. Clear out now. I don't want any more accidents around here." Charlie didn't look up at him. Her head ached, and she felt faint. The heat dizzied her, and terror and guilt still raced through her mind, chasing each other. She heard people leaving, cars starting, the rumble of trucks pulling away. A hot and heavy silence descended on the site. Vince was standing beside her, looking down. She wished he would go away. She wanted to cry, but not in front of him. She crossed her arms over her knees and hid her face against them. Her hair, halfloosened from its plait, spilled hotly over her shoulders and down her back. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold back the tears.

Vince kneeled beside her, raising her face to his. Then he put his arm around her and guided her to her feet. She felt weak, unsteady, as if her knees would buckle and she would fall. But he held her tight. "Come on, Charlie," he said very gently. "It's all right now. It's going to be all right. Come with me. Come on, kid."

CHAPTER SIX CHARLIE MOVED NUMBLY, aware only of the strong arm supporting her. Vince led her slowly out of the gate, down the back steps, and to the Way. They approached a steep path that descended the cliff in a dark zigzag. "Can you make it down this?" She nodded mechanically. She felt so weak that all she wanted to do was sink against his broad chest and sleep, just sleep. He helped her down the stony path, stopping from time to time to inspect her pallid face. "I think we'd better cool off" was all he said. When they reached the foot of the cliff, they walked toward a deep crevice in the stone. It was like a narrow cave without a ceiling, its low walls open to the sky. The dark rocks were encrusted with the heavy grey lace of barnacles. Vince stood looking at her, his back to the steely sea. Without taking his eyes from hers, he stripped off his white shirt, which was soaked with Mitchy's perspiration. The sun gleamed on the hard golden skin of his shoulders, the solid breadth of his chest. She saw five round scars like raised white coins on the strong muscles of his stomach. Bullet scars, she thought dazedly. From Vietnam. From when he and Tom— She could take the thought no farther. He slid his watch from his wrist, drew his wallet and keys from the hip pocket of his cut-offs and kicked off his leather deck shoes. "Give me your shoes," he prompted, but Charlie only stood looking up at him, watching how the beating sun turned his hair dark gold,

how exactly the blue of his eyes matched the sea behind him. His broad and tanned shoulders seemed suddenly menacing. He sighed impatiently, then knelt and pulled her tattered sneakers off her slim feet. Charlie sat as he gathered all their things and set them high on a rocky outcrop. Then he turned and faced her, his eyes travelling up and down the length of her body. There was something savage yet restrained in his eyes as he reached his hand out to her. She took it and stood, her knees still shaky but her head somehow clearer. She felt suddenly naked in her skimpy cutoffs, her flimsy green top, her bare feet. Her hair blew in the slight breeze off the ocean, and he reached out, releasing it from its fastening. The feel of his hand moving along the back of her neck and fanning out her long hair was soothing but also frightened her. It was as if she had awakened from a nightmare to find herself alone with this golden man, and everything in the world had changed. Things had somehow become too primitive, too elemental. He stepped forward and put his hands on her small waist. She felt hypnotised by the power of his half-bared body, the intensity of his dark-lashed eyes. "What are you doing?" she breathed. Her bare feet felt rooted to the sharp stone. "I told you." His eyes held hers, as if trying to read something within them. "We need to cool off." He stepped through a wide gap in the crevice where the tide was swirling in, then lifted her down beside him. The sky overhead was so bright that it was blinding.

The feel of the icy water on her insteps and ankles stunned her like an electric shock. The Maine waters were never really warm, not even in summer, not even when the air was as heated and thick as now. "Lie with me," he said as he knelt, drawing her down beside him. She gasped at the delicious chill of the water. She did not know if it were the sea's cold or his touch that made her shudder as he lay, leaning on his elbow and wrapping his bare arm around her. She was forced to stretch out beside him, her legs touching his. "Tide's coming in," he muttered. "Let it come in on us." She laughed, not quite comprehending. She had done this, not in someone's arms, of course, but as a child. Most of the town's children had climbed into a space between the rocks on a hot summer day and let the cold tide shower them. She tried to push away from him, then drew back her hands at the feel of his lean form. She made another weak movement of protest, but his arms were as hard and implacable as the stone crevice that sheltered them. "This is what the kids do," she said nervously, letting her head sink back against his chest the way he wanted. "This is crazy. Somebody will see us." "Nobody can see us here," he corrected. "And you are a kid, Charlie. Relax— Hold on—here it comes." A cold tingling wave crashed over their legs, an icy bath that dashed spray on their bodies. Charlie flinched at the sparkling rush of cold. Instinctively she turned her face toward his body, wrapped her arms around his hard torso. She could feel the wet, bristling golden hair

of his chest against her cheek. She shuddered as the wave receded, lapping around their naked feet. Another, smaller wave followed, stirring the shallow water around them, laving their legs in intoxicating cold. She wriggled and gasped as the wave retreated. Vince smiled at her, his arm tightening around her. "Close your eyes," he commanded, pressing her face against his neck, tangling his hand in the damp waves of her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed against him as closely as she could, anticipating the next wave. "This is going to be a good one," he warned between gritted teeth. A green, foaming sheet of water, polar cold, rushed over them with a crash and a hiss. She felt her meagre clothing soak through, tasted salt on her lips, felt its sting on her lashes. Vince shook his head, flinging off salt water as the wave fled back to the sea. He held her more tightly and moved backward up the incline of the crevice, deeper between the sheltering rocks.. "I think a retreat is in order," he gasped, "unless you'd like to drown with me. And I'm not sure I've sufficiently redeemed my reputation around here to go around drowning girls in the surf." He settled against the dark wall of rock. Her arms were still around him as she looked up into his eyes, saw the cynical arch of his scarred brow. Her heart was pounding so furiously beneath her wet top that she was convinced he could feel it. She couldn't look away from him. She felt helpless, hypnotised.

"I'm not," she said softly. His arms tensed around her slightly; his blue eyes questioned her hazel-grey ones. "Not what?" he breathed. "I'm not so young," she said, her voice shaking slightly. Another wave crashed in, whirling foam up to their waists. "No," he answered, his eyes intent on hers. "No, you're not," he whispered, and slowly he lowered his face to hers and gently took her lips. As his mouth covered hers, her mind seemed to go dark. One of his lean hands was on the side of her throat, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her whole body throbbed with an unfamiliar heat, despite the iciness of the crashing waves. His mouth became more mobile, making warm and silky demands she could not help but answer. His tongue tasted the salt on her lips, then flickered between them, mating with her own. One hard arm was locked around her, drawing her body more ardently to his. His other hand left her throat, roamed slowly, savouring the curves of her shoulder, her back, her hips, her thighs. Instinctively her hands began to explore the wet, crisp hair of his chest, the hardness of his biceps, the coiled muscles of his back. Another wave rolled in, shocking their heated bodies with a splash. His long, muscular legs intertwined with her slender ones. His pelvis fitted itself more intimately against her own. He trailed kisses down her throat to the shadowed hollow between her breasts. She went still for a moment, feeling the warmth of his mouth against her spray-cooled flesh.

She heard the intake of his breath. "Oh, Charlie," she heard him mutter. Once more his lips took hers, but this time his kiss was as deep, turbulent and inevitable as the tides. His hands moved tantalisingly near her swelling breasts. Gently his thumbs stroked their throbbing peaks as they strained against the thin, wet cloth. His mouth searched hers with greater and greater urgency. Then both his arms were around her again, pulling her so near that her breasts were crushed beneath the power of his chest, as if he wanted their two bodies to merge into one. I'm falling in love with him, she thought, her mind blooming with bewildered amazement. Yes, that's what this is. I love him. In his arms, beneath the passion of his kiss, she felt as if she were turning into a flower made of snow, whose heart of flame would soon melt all her will away. She no longer had the power to fight him, nor did she want to. Then, abruptly, his arms released her. He sat up straight, drawing her higher into the shelter of the rocks so that the waves dashed only spray on them. He stared down at her, his breathing uneven, his eyes unreadable. "All right," he said, his voice harsh with restraint. "You're no kid, Charlie. Now what am I supposed to do with you? Eh, Charlie? Tell me." His eyes bored into hers with such passion that she had to turn her face away and stare at the dark wall of granite. She had never seen such hunger in a man's eyes.

Shocked and shamed by her body's undeniable response to him, she could only wonder what he read in her face. She bit her lower lip. She did not have the strength to move away from him. Her face burning, she realised that she wanted him to pull her close, to kiss her again. "Tell me—" his voice was terse "—what am I supposed to do with Tom Benteen's baby sister? And just what do you want? Do you even know?" His strong hands were on her shoulders now. He shook her very gently, as he might shake a child he was lecturing. There was nothing at all brutal in the motion, but his touch combined with the strange, relentless demand in his eyes frightened her. Gully had been right. This man had the power to hurt her deeply, mortally. "I—I want—" She shivered, as if trying to draw within herself to escape the reality of his overwhelming nearness. "I want.. .to go home." Her voice broke. "Let go. I just want to go home." She looked away from him, stared unseeingly at the dark stone. She was ashamed of herself and frightened of him. She blinked back tears. He shook her again, harder this time, although not roughly. "Don't cry, dammit. I won't have it. Isn't there enough salt water around us? I said der 't cry." "I'm not crying," she said angrily, and scrubbed a tear away with the flat of her hand. "Good lord," he said in exasperation, gritting his teeth. "Haven't you ever been kissed before?"

"Of course I have," she said bitterly. But never like that. Never by a man responsible for the death of my brother. Never by someone I was falling in love with. "Well," he said darkly, "if you respond to everybody like that, maybe you'd better cry, because it's going to get you in trouble." She still did not look at him. She was too conscious of his hands imprisoning her arms like hard golden cuffs. "I need some answers, Charlie. Are you Bus O'Conner's girl?" he asked very quietly. "Tell me the truth. He says you are. He's too old for you. But he says you're his." She shook her head, refusing to raise her eyes to his. "No! Bus is a liar." He nodded, as if her answer satisfied him, but his jaw was tight. "What about that kid, Mitchy, who you were holding on to so tightly up there? Are you his girl? He's too young for you." She shook her head again, avoiding his gaze. Something about him still frightened her. "Mitchy works for us. That's all." Why did she feel so weak, so helpless in his presence? Suddenly she felt angry at herself and hated him for making her feel so vulnerable. She looked up at him rebelliously, but his gaze fell to her lips. His fingers began moving slowly, hypnotically on her arms. "Then whose girl are you?" he asked at last. She was having trouble getting her breath. Damn! she thought, why did he, of all people, have this effect on her? "Nobody's," she flung out.

"Nobody's," he repeated almost sarcastically. His gaze flicked out to sea. "Nobody's," he said again, as if in disgust. His hands fell from her arms. He stood up with one easy motion, then reached down and drew her to her feet. He lifted her out of the crevice and set her on the spray-dashed flat stones at the cliff's base. He stepped up beside her, then stood looking at her, one fist on his lean hip. He pushed the other hand irritably through his goldstreaked hair. He looked like a shirtless golden pirate who had just seized an unwelcome prize. "Well, Nobody's Girl, this is a complication I didn't foresee. And I'm not sure I like it," he said at last, his eyes travelling up and down her body. "It isn't meant to happen." "I don't like it myself," she said defensively. "Don't you?" he asked sarcastically. "I thought we both did. We seemed to, be enjoying ourselves. As I said, it's a complication I could have done without." "Me, too," she replied. She was breathing hard, but so was he, she noticed. "We'll start over," he said very evenly. 'I'll treat you the way men are supposed to treat interesting young women. Politely. Even chivalrously. Lord knows things are messy enough without my taking you here like a sailor seduced by a siren's call. Especially not when I've been trying so hard to behave myself when it comes to women." Why? Because of Elena? she wanted to ask. You're not doing a very good job if it is.

"Just stay away from me," she said instead. "I don't want to be one of your summer romances. I was so upset about Mitch, and so dazed from the heat that I didn't know what I was doing. It didn't mean anything." He smiled coldly, his scarred brow rising slightly. "You knew what you were doing, all right. And whether it meant anything or not, we'll do this my way. I'll pick you up Sunday night at seven. For that charity dance on the yacht. It's time we sorted our feelings out. And there are going to be more feelings to sort than you know." What did he mean by that? she wondered in bewilderment. His tone implied a kind of complex dismissal and at the same time a sexual invitation. She didn't trust herself to be alone with him again. In fact, she realised she was afraid of the very idea. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, raising her chin in challenge. He smiled. It was a cool, mocking smile. "I said you were, and I'm the man in charge around here." "Not of me," she said rebelliously. "Of you, too." He nodded in satisfaction. "What's the matter? Can't you dance? Have you always been busy taking care of your family and its precious business?" "Of course I can dance," she snapped, piqued by his gibe at her family. "I don't want to go. Take one of your... society women. I'd rather stay home and wash paintbrushes." "You'll go." He stepped toward her. He put his strong hands lightly on her shoulders. "And you'll have a new dress. I want to see you in a dress. And I'll have What's-His- Name open the beauty parlour for you. I like that wild mop of red waves, but for one night in you, life,

you're going to be Cinderella. You deserve that much, I suppose. It's the least I can do. Even big brother Tom couldn't object to that." "Leave Tom out of it!" she said hotly. "I won't go anywhere with you." "You will," he replied easily, "because I'm telling you to. Otherwise, I'll cancel Eddie's contract. And then where will the Benteen business be? In spite of the Herculean labours of Charlie Benteen?" "That's sexual harassment," she accused. "I could take you to court." He shrugged and dropped his hands from her shoulders, as if the argument no longer interested him. "You could, but I have more money. I'd drag it out till doomsday, and Eddie needs money now, so you'll do as I say. And like it." She clenched her fists and stamped her foot against the wet stone. She was breathing hard, a rage burning inside her. "I'll pick you up at seven o'clock Sunday night." He reached up to the shelf of rock, took his gold watch and slipped it onto his tanned wrist. "After all, we do have to talk, Charlie. There are matters between us that have to be straightened out. After that... we'll see if you want to take up where we left off." "There's nothing between us," she said, clenching her fists impotently. "There's more than you dream. And there has been for a long time. But it's not something we should pursue in a crevice." He slipped his keys and wallet into his pocket and picked up his shirt. As he put his arms into the sleeves, her eyes were drawn to the five white welts branded on his body.

He noticed her intense stare and smiled almost bitterly. "There's more than you know—or may care to admit—including my famous war wounds." He ran lean fingers lightly over the scars that marred the brown skin of his torso. "These are what would have killed me if your brother hadn't had his fit of gallantry." She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. She was no longer sure she hated him for taking Tom away. Perhaps the hate was beginning to die. She didn't know; her emotions were too confused, too complex for her to make sense of them. "Did he ever tell you what happened precisely?" he asked, buttoning his shirt. "No." She had sat on a stone and acted as if she were fascinated by the act of lacing up her shoes. "Our patrol was pinned down," he said dispassionately. "If any of us were going to make it back alive, somebody had to make a run at the enemy. I decided to play hero and got shot like crazy. Then Tom decided to play hero and drag me back. He nearly made it. Then a big shell or something hit—I never knew what—and fragments caught him in the chest. The last thing I remember is lying in that helicopter beside him, wanting to cry because it hurt so bad. Tom couldn't get the breath to cry. He kept making a noise as if he was being strangled. So much for heroes. So much for war. So much for our place in history." He finished buttoning his shirt. She stood up, unable to look at him. "I lived. He died. And here we are," he said in the same almost toneless voice.

She managed a brief glance and saw that he was looking at her—a quiet brooding look. She gazed out to sea, where the sunlight flashed on the dancing water. "I'm back. And I've brought Laura's children. I've brought them home. At least I hope I've brought them home." So it was true, she thought. Eddie was right. He really had adopted Laura's children. "What—what happened to her? To Laura?" she asked. "She died," he said, his voice revealing no emotion whatsoever. "In Mexico. Of cancer. Last spring." "I'm sorry," she said mechanically, unclenching her fists, then clenching them again. "No, you're not." His expression was cold, his voice daunting. "Nobody is. Not yet. But maybe they will be." We'll all be sorry before he's through, Charlie thought in chilled apprehension. He has the look of a man who's thought all this out. He has the look of a man who could make the world sorry if he wanted to. He shrugged wide shoulders and took her hand. "Come on," he said, his smile deceptively easy again. "I'll walk you back to Dragon Sea." "No! I'll go alone," she insisted, pulling her hand away. He was a dangerous man, a man to stay away from. He glanced at her heaving chest, her fiery eyes, then smiled. "Suit yourself," he drawled. "I'll see you Sunday at seven." He bent and kissed her briefly on the lips.

Stunned, she let him. "You're a little bundle of fire and sweetness, just as always," he said. Amusement seemed to war with sadness in his eyes. "Tom would be proud. But then he always was." She watched him stride away. Numbly she drew the back of her hand across her lips. The tide was almost fully in now, nearly filling the crevice, and the water still swirled and hissed between the rocks. She couldn't think clearly. She was frightened. She missed Tom terribly. There was no one to tell her why she felt the way she did, and there was no one to tell her the right thing to do.

CHARLIE STAYED SANE the rest of the week by working as hard as she could. Vince ignored her completely. One day he showed up at the site with Jinxie Vandergrift clinging to him in all her platinumblonde glory. Eddie, on the other hand, seemed to have Vince's full attention. He often met Eddie after work for a beer or two, and Charlie didn't like it. Eddie was being very close- mouthed. She remembered what Eddie had said about Vince's desire to invest in the business. She remembered Vince's remark that nobody was sorry about Laura Gambit's death—yet. Why was he insinuating himself so deeply into their lives? What was he trying to do? And why, in spite of herself, did she feel such a deep and irrational attraction to him? She avoided Perkins Cove, not wanting to chance meeting Luis and Roberto. She liked them too much, and they made her complex emotions even more difficult to bear.

Rumours about Vince and the mysterious Elena still circulated. Also, it was said, Vince would drop everything if word came to him there was a phone call from someone named Elena in New York. It was also said that he was still sending roses to the mysterious Elena and that each time, the card said the same thing: "Let's make it legal, beautiful." What was he up to, Charlie wondered, and with just how many women was he dallying? By the time Sunday arrived, Charlie felt like Mary, Queen of Scots, getting ready to meet the headsman with his axe. Before going to have her hair done, she had told Eddie that she would be going out—nothing else. He'd smiled meaningfully but asked no questions. She'd been glad that he would be gone to drink beer in Wells with old high school buddies when Vince showed up. The dress had arrived the day before in a box with a French name on it. It had been delivered along with several other parcels. All the names on the boxes were of shops in Boston. How Vince had arranged it, she'd no idea. The dress was beautiful: a clingy smoke-coloured gown with thin rhinestone straps. When the light played over it, different colours came out of the depths of the silky material: a deep hazy green, a muted rose, a misty twilight blue. But she hadn't tried it on. She'd hung it in the closet and closed the door. Now, sitting in a chair at Mr. Felix's Hair Boutique, a blue shawl covering her faded shirt and shorts, Charlie looked down grimly at her tattered tennis shoes and sighed. Mr. Felix thrust another pin—it seemed like the thousandth—into her hair. "For years I have been dying to get my fingers on this gorgeous red mane," Felix said. "Such lush stuff. But what do you trim it with? A

lawn mower? You really have to have great hair if it survives the things you've done to it, ducky.'' "Oh, come on, Felix," Charlie protested. "I'm not the beauty salon type. You know that." "Well, you should be," Felix fussed. "You're a pretty girl, but the way you dress and the way you work—well, I just don't know, that's what." "Felix, can't you hurry?" Charlie pleaded. "I've been sitting here for years. It feels like you're building a bird's nest up there." "Goodness me," Felix said through pursed lips. "It's been only forty minutes. And you don't even sound excited. I thought you'd be thrilled. After all, you've landed the big fish." "What do you mean?" she asked, squinting up at him. "What big fish?" Felix put his hand on his hip and shook his styling comb at her. "Mr. Vincent Gambit, that's who. A lot of women are going to be very, very envious. You're the first he's taken to anything besides a luncheon. You're the first he's spent an entire evening with." Charlie frowned. She didn't want to be reminded of the evening. "Oh, wipe that scowl off your face," Felix scolded. "He's all anybody's talking about lately. He's set the town on its ear, and no one can believe how well he's done or how generous he is. And," Felix chattered on, "the man has charm, Charlie. You've got to admit it. When he called and asked me to open the shop on a Sunday, I told him no in no uncertain terms. I most certainly would not, not for the President, not for the Pope, not even for Princess Diana. And then I heard flattery such as I haven't heard in years. And when I

found out it was you, well, I just had to. I really have been dying to get my hands on this luscious stuff. And you deserve it, dear." "What do you mean, I deserve it?" She wished she could see what Mr. Felix was doing up there. It felt as if he were building a replica of the Eiffel Tower. "I mean you deserve a little pleasure out of life. A few feminine frills. You've given up everything for your family and that business." "Everybody talks like I'm a slave or something," Charlie said defensively. "I work because I want to." Felix set down his comb and stared at her, his thin arms folded. He made a clucking sound of disapproval. "That business is going to kill you and Eddie both. He should sell it, get out, quit." "He should not," Charlie denied. "Should," Felix repeated. "He's running himself into the ground and you along with him." She sank deeper into gloom. Felix kept tucking curls in and pulling them back out until she was ready to scream. At last he stood back, one hand on his hip "There you are. My masterpiece. You won't recognise yourself." "Let me see," Charlie beseeched him, trying to swing the chair to face the mirror, but Felix refused to allow her. "I'm not through yet," he said. "I've got your make-up to do." "Make-up!" Charlie exclaimed shrilly. "You are not! I never wear make-up!"

"Tonight is different, ducky," Felix said firmly. "And I am a licensed cosmetologist. With very clear orders." "Oh, rats." Charlie resigned herself and Felix worked her over with what seemed like a thousand little sponges and brushes. "Sit still," Felix snapped when she squirmed. "We're just enhancing you." "You're enhancing me to death!" Charlie wailed. "You've already put on five pounds of enhancement!" "Tish, tosh and tush," sniffed Felix. At last he stepped back and turned the chair around with a flourish. " Voila!" he said, putting both hands on his hips triumphantly. Charlie stared at the stranger in the mirror. Her mouth opened involuntarily. The woman staring back at her had gorgeous blackfringed smoky eyes, and russet hair heaped in curls atop her head, with tendrils spilling provocatively over her forehead, ears and nape. Felix had pinned tiny white orchids into the curls. She looked like a cover girl. "Holy smoke!" was all she could say. She couldn't take her eyes off her reflection. She had never known she could look like this. "Oh, Felix," she breathed, half in admiration, half in disbelief. "Oh, Felix, indeed!" he twitted her. "You walked in here a tomboy, but you're walking out a woman. And a beautiful one at that." "But what will people think?" she asked, her eyes round.

"Humph!" he snorted. "Who gives a care? See what a little artifice will do for a girl, Charlie? I have the feeling you're never going to be quite the same again. This, dear, is the real you." She shook her head negatively but still watched her image in the mirror. He ignored her disagreement and, leaning closer, whispered conspiratorially, "And I'll tell you something else. I don't think even Mr. Vincent Gambit is expecting this vision. If he's half as smart as people say, then he'd just better grab you and cherish you, that's all I can Say." Charlie felt her heart lurch. She blushed. "No, Felix," she said. "I hear he's got a woman that he's serious about." "The one he sends the flowers to?" he sniffed. "Is he taking her out tonight? No. You're the one that's getting the star treatment. A man doesn't go to all this trouble for no reason." But what is the reason? Charlie's mind begged for the thousandth time. Tom had always said he "owed" Vince Gambit but never what he owed him. Was Vince trying now to extract a debt from her and Eddie? If so, what did he want from them? "And," Felix added, whipping the blue cloth away and shaking it out, "I don't believe for a moment that silly story that there was bad blood between him and your brother Tom. Does a man treat his enemy's sister like this? No, no and no again. He doesn't fool me for a minute. He likes you, he does." "Bad blood?" Charlie asked, baffled. "Enemy? What story?" "No story," Felix said soothingly, smoothing a curl. "Stupid gossip. If people don't know the true story, they make one up. And never let it be said that Mr. Felix's pretty head was ever turned by idle gossip. Not another word of that foolishness-passes through my lips."

Charlie stared at him in alarm. "But—" "Not another word," he repeated firmly. "Run off to your dance, ducky. And do a little samba for moi. Ah, me, always a bridesmaid, never the bride—the story of my life." "Felix, what gossip?" Charlie demanded. "Who's saying what?" "Not to worry your adorable head," he answered, shooing her from the chair. "It's a night to think only pretty thoughts. Now off you go. Ta, ciao and many happy returns!" He blew her a kiss as he ushered her out of the door. It clicked as he locked it behind her. Disturbed, she walked to her Volkswagen. Just what sort of rumour had Felix heard? she wondered apprehensively. For the thousandth time she remembered Gully's warnings that Vince wanted to hurt the Benteen family, to hurt it deeply. Why was he being so friendly with Eddie? Why was he pampering her, taking her to the dance, unless he was trying to manoeuvre himself into a strategic position where he could in some way hurt them?

CHAPTER SEVEN BY THE TIME THE CLOCK chimed a quarter to seven, a peculiar calm had settled over Charlie, icy and bone-deep. She stood surveying her reflection in the mirror. She had, she thought, spent an inordinate amount of time today staring into mirrors. But it was all right, she told herself, because the woman in the mirror was not really her. No, the real Charlie Benteen didn't wear her hair swept up and pinned with baby orchids, nor did she stare at the world through lashes velvety with mascara. The real Charlie never wore a gown cut so low that her breasts swelled up impudently from the bodice, as if its fitted silk could barely contain them. Nor did she wear silk stockings held up by a lacy black garter belt. She had to admit, though, that his taste was impeccable. The highheeled satin sandals exactly matched the muted October-twilight tones of the dress. The gown moulded tightly to her bosom and small waist, then spilled out in soft flares that swirled about her knees when she walked. How he had known her exact size bewildered and frustrated her. He must do this sort of thing often, she thought, trying to hike up the sparkling straps of the dress so that it showed less cleavage. When the front doorbell rang at precisely seven o'clock, Charlie's fragile calm fled, and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. More colour was rising to her cheeks than Mr. Felix had patted on with his sponges. Setting her jaw, she decided to make Vince Gambit wait and stalled for a few minutes before she answered the door. When she finally made her way to the door the staccato of her high heels sounded unfamiliar. She took a deep breath, paused, then slowly opened it.

She would refuse to ask him inside. "You're very punctual," she said stonily, trying to ignore the kangaroo leap her heart took. His height always overwhelmed her, and tonight he looked more handsome than ever. He wore his black evening clothes as easily as some men wore sailing gear. Normally she would have sniggered at a man wearing a ruffled shirt, but on him it looked slightly rakish and more than a little piratical. The late afternoon sun still lingered, and it gleamed on the mixed gold and brown of his hair. His face showed little expression. The line of his mouth was thin, speculative. His eyes rested first on her face, then travelled down her body, then came back to settle, almost studiously, on her face again. Charlie blinked. "Go ahead and look," she challenged. "You might as well enjoy it. You bought it." Both brows went up, and his gaze fell to her silky breasts with interest. "Did I now? I can hardly wait to see if the money's well spent." She bit her lip in irritation. He had already put her off balance. "I meant the dress," she snapped. "Or what there is of it." She put her hand over her cleavage to protect herself. She could feel the tattered rhythm of her heart. "Stop looking at me like that," she ordered tersely. "I feel like somebody going to a costume party. I feel like— like a fool." He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her face up, examining Mr. Felix's handiwork. "You don't look like a fool, so don't talk like one. You're lovely. It's about time you let it show. I was sick of seeing you in denim, Charlie."

She turned her face away to escape the electrifying sensations his fingers created against her cheek. "Then maybe you should have stopped looking." "Maybe I should have. But you reminded me of Cinderella. And since fairy godmothers are in short supply, I took over the duties myself." She stiffened, gathering her wits. She twisted one corner of her mouth into a chill smile. "I told you before. I don't want any favours from you." He smiled, as if what she wanted was of no consequence. "Tough. You'll get them and you'll take them. And I may have a few to ask in return. Come along, Cinderella. Before the Porsche turns back into a pumpkin." She was extremely conscious of his hand resting lightly on the small of her back as he walked her to the car. A few days ago, for a moment at the foot of the cliffs, she had thought she was in love with him. She had spent the rest of the week fearing and resenting him. Now his touch was having a strange effect on her, and she was more confused than ever. "Would it be asking too much for a smile?" he asked sarcastically once they were in the car. She kept her expression distant. "Somebody should have told you money doesn't buy everything." He seemed unfazed. "Very original, Charlie—'Money won't buy everything.' That's what the poor like to tell themselves. But it's amazing what money will buy. Even respectability." "You'll be setting a first then, won't you?" she asked boldly. "You didn't used to be very respectable at all."

He put the car into gear. He smiled. "And Benteens have been altogether too respectable. But now I'm joining your ranks. With a vengeance." His remark made her feel petty, and she took refuge in silence. "You don't believe me, do you?" he asked, giving her one of his jolting glances. "I'm a citizen in good standing and working diligently to become one in excellent standing. A very paragon." "Some paragon," Charlie said grimly. "Nobody hears from you for years. Then you're back, buying—or forcing—your way into everything. Including my family. Eddie told me you asked him about investing in the business. Who do you think you are?" He raised one brow and smiled sardonically. "Maybe I'm somebody who wants to help. Or would you rather see both your brothers in their graves?" The remark hurt. She gave him a quick piercing look that he ignored, then turned away from him, putting her elbow on the window's edge and resting her chin on her fist. She stared moodily out at the pines flashing by. Her emotions were in a quandary yet again. Her desire to remain silent was overrun by her need not to let Vince have the last word. "I don't believe you for a minute," she snapped. "You don't want to help anybody except yourself. I just can't figure out what it is you want to help yourself to." "Fine, Charlie. Don't believe me." His tone was mocking. "As for what I want, I already told you. Respectability. As you so nicely reminded me, it's a commodity that's been seriously lacking in the Gambit family history. I intend to fix that."

Charlie continued to gaze unseeing at the dark forests that walled the highway. Suddenly nothing made sense anymore, and she was overcome by a rush of guilt. "I'm sorry I sounded snappy," she admitted grudgingly. ."I just don't see why you care what anybody in town thinks about you. Especially my family. We're hardly important." He cast her a brief unreadable glance. The sun-roof of the Porsche was now open. The breeze ruffled the leonine thickness of his hair. "I don't give a damn what the town thinks of me. But of the kids, Luis and Roberto—yes, I care." "Oh," she said. "It isn't easy for a kid, being an outcast. Of course, you wouldn't know about that," he said, his lean hands guiding the steering wheel into a turn. "The Benteens were always such pillars of the community. And like all pillars— rigid." Ironically, Charlie felt her body stiffen. "And as for the Benteens," he continued smoothly, "who has more against me than them? I know your father blamed me for Tom's going off. And I know you blame me for Tom's death. But if you and Eddie welcome me back, who's going to hold the past against me?" She surveyed his profile, shadowy in the sinking sunlight. Was that all he wanted, really? For her and Eddie to put the past to rest? Forgive him? She was very doubtful; it seemed too simple. He shot her a quick glance that told her he knew what she was thinking. "I said you didn't know what it was like to be the kid who's shut out of everything because of what the adults in the family have done. Not that it bothered me. But I was born tough—or got tough very fast. Laura was another story."

He stretched one arm along the back of the seats, flexing his shoulders like a big cat. His fingertips brushed Charlie's bare shoulder and sent an unwanted tingle through her. He smiled tightly, as if to himself. "My old man was a loser, Charlie. He drank too much, he gambled too much, and he flirted with the wrong women and the wrong side of the law too much. My mother got tired of it. She was much younger than he was and a beautiful woman. Somebody else came along. She left. She never looked back. And she still doesn't want to. She lives in Zurich now, with her lifted face and her fourth husband. I tracked her down at last. I wrote to her more than once, the last time about finding Laura and the boys. She's never answered." Again she studied his profile in the fading, gilded light. There was no trace of self-pity or bitterness in him. He spoke as factually as a reporter. "I didn't miss her because I really never knew her. But people like to throw that kind of thing up to you when you're a kid. 'Your mother ran off. Your father's a drunk.' I'd hit them once and they'd shut up, but it wasn't so easy for my sister. She was born without any defences at all." "I—I don't remember her very well," Charlie said rather ineffectually. She had spent so many years disliking the Gambits that it had never occurred to her how difficult life might be for them. "What you do know of her probably isn't true," he replied, his eyes on the road. "People said lots of things about her. They said things about us all. But Laura wasn't really promiscuous. Far from it." He turned and looked at her for a moment, his eyes serious, his brows drawn together in a frown. "I'm telling you this because I

want you to understand about the boys. About Luis and Roberto, whom I gather you've met on more than one occasion." She swallowed hard and nodded. With Luis and Roberto, he had two small but powerful weapons to breach her defences. "I know what everyone said about Laura," he continued, his voice low but dispassionate. "And it's true both boys are illegitimate. It's even true they had different fathers. But she never made love to a man before she met Luis's father. And as far as I know, the only other man in her life was Roberto's father, and that was years later. He was a teacher—and a liar who told her he'd marry her, but he was already married." He paused. "None of it is the children's fault. And they shouldn't have to pay for it." "I'm sorry," Charlie said at last. "I really don't think anybody in town would hold her past against the boys. It's just that, well, there were all the stories." He made a sound of disgust and hit the steering wheel lightly with the flat of his hand. "Stories about her—Charlie, there were enough stories about us all to fill the Arabian Nights. Some of what they said about my father was true, and most of what they said about me was true. But about Laura, none of it was. She was a victim—pure and simple and pathetic." Charlie frowned slightly. "Then how did all the talk start?" His glance bordered on the contemptuous. "People said she was a loner, held herself apart. She did. Because she was frightened. She didn't talk because she was ashamed to. She had a speech impediment. She kept her mouth closed as much as she could so people wouldn't laugh. And any pimply-faced, adenoidal, insecure would-be stud in high school who couldn't get a girl to so much as look at him could always say he'd had Laura Gambit up on the

cliffs. It was all myth. Pubescent myth. At her expense. You know, sometimes I practically hated her because she was so defenceless." Charlie watched the old, repressed emotions play across his face. She felt an unpleasant tug of guilt. She, too, had believed and nurtured the myth of Laura Gambit. "So, you see," he said, his voice lightening, although his mood hadn't seemed to, "Tom wasn't the only one who shouldn't have run off to war. I should never have left Laura. But I thought if I wasn't there to fight for her, she'd learn to fight for herself. I was wrong." "What happened to her?" Charlie asked, looking at his hands on the wheel. They were such fine, strong hands. His scarred brow rose slightly. "She wrote to me in Vietnam—her letter caught up to me soon after we'd been shipped off and right before we got ambushed. She was pregnant and frightened out of her mind. Our father was sick. I was away. Her universe was coming apart. Then I got shot. By the time they'd patched me back together enough that I could try to write to her, my father was dead and she had disappeared. I didn't find her until it was too late. She was dying." "You looked for her?" "I never stopped looking for her. But she'd covered her tracks well. She was scared and ashamed. She'd gone to a small city in Mexico. To an orphanage run by nuns. She was frightened she wouldn't be able to raise Luis by herself. And she couldn't give him up. The nuns raised him, and they let Laura stay nearby. They let her see him. She worked at a hotel doing the most menial labour. But she was close to him." "Does he know," Charlie asked with some concern, "about his mother—about her past?"

"He knows most of the story." Vince's brow rose again, but this time in grudging admiration. "Laura spent a lot of time with him. Besides, Luis is smart. And tough. Too smart and tough for his own good. I don't worry as much about Luis as I do Roberto." "Why?" she asked. "Because Roberto's too much like Laura," he replied grimly. "Not in looks, but everything else. Too sensitive. Too shy. And I'll bet you've never heard him talk. He won't. He has the speech impediment, too." "And you adopted them?'' "What was I supposed to do? Walk off and leave them in Mexico?" "Of course not," she objected hastily. "I just meant—" "You meant what's somebody like me doing with two kids. The answer to that, my dear, is the best I can. I was not exactly cut out to be a family man. Both the boys and I have had to do some prime adjusting." She frowned again. "Why here? Why did you bring them back to Ogunquit—stir up all the rumours about Laura?" He gave a short rasp of laughter and favoured her with a wry, sideways glance. "Laura asked me to come back. In fact, she made me promise. She filled the kids' heads with such nonsense about this place—that this was paradise itself. Not hard to believe when you're sitting in one of the most arid parts of Mexico. All she remembered was the good things. Me, I hated it. I never wanted to see Ogunquit again." She blinked, almost shocked. How could anyone hate Ogunquit? She could not imagine a place more beautiful.

He smiled lazily. "Then I finally realised maybe I hated it so much because deep down I missed it—the sea, the cliffs, the mountains, the woods. It was a hard place to grow up, but a good one. Whatever we were, this place had helped to shape us. I decided Luis and Roberto should never have to be afraid or ashamed of the past. I'd meet it head-on for them. If this is the place Laura made them always believe was home, then I'd bring them home." Charlie sat beside him in troubled silence. "What's it like for you?" she asked at last. "Coming home again?" "What I think or feel doesn't matter," he finally muttered. "What matters is I brought them home." For the first time Charlie understood what he and Tom had had in common. It was strength, unyielding and protective male strength. "I wanted to make sure all the kids were taken care of," he said. "That included you. I'd put off my debt to Tom long enough. He was crazy about you, you know. I envied that in him. My relationship with Laura—well, it's something I'm trying to put right at last." She glanced at him nervously. Why did he still speak of her as if she were a child? He told her that day at the cliffs that she wasn't a kid. He hadn't kissed her as if she were a child. And he hadn't kissed her as if it were out of respect for Tom. She sat in troubled silence for the rest of the trip while he told her, with wry humour, some of the problems of instant fatherhood.

THE SIGHT OF THE YACHT in Portsmouth Harbor dazzled her so much that other concerns fled, replaced by sheer wonder.

The yacht was named Whalesong, and the eccentric owner had built her to resemble no other oceangoing vessel on earth. Whalesong navigated the Atlantic coastline, but she was modelled after a Mississippi riverboat. Her owner took her down the coast each summer, hosting balls to raise money for the Save the Whales movement. "Oh," Charlie gasped in delight. "She doesn't even look real." Whalesong boasted three decks and, sitting on top, was the pilothouse with its friezes and cresting. Her scarlet-and-gold paddle wheel was merely for show. The decorative smokestacks, cast to resemble crowns of gilded plumes, rose high into the evening sky. "She's modelled on the riverboat, Robert E. Lee," Vince explained, guiding Charlie aboard. "But she's more on the scale of the old British steamers that plied the coast. She's also one of the more spectacular white elephants around." "She's the most beautiful white elephant I've ever seen," Charlie said, awed by the Victorian splendour. The wood panelling was filigreed with every sort of gingerbread and scrollwork. A still-looking attendant in top hat and tails took the tickets from Vince and pointed toward the salon entrance. Vince guided her through the milling crowd, his hand light on the small of her back. Music grew more distinct as they approached the salon. Charlie couldn't help gazing about in awe. Whalesong was as frosted with trim as a royal wedding cake, and Charlie already loved every improbable inch of it. The sight of the room made her gasp. The walls were wainscoted in satiny mahogany, the upper parts papered with a white silky fabric. All the fittings were gilt and marble. The draperies were of creamcoloured velvet and gold satin. Chandeliers showered radiance down from their cascading prisms.

At one end of the room was an ornate bar carved with sea horses, mermaids and a trident-wielding Neptune. At the other end, a small band played jazzed-up versions of pop tunes. She tried to take it all in. Vince's arm tightened around her waist. He looked at her, trying to suppress a smile. "Like it?" "It's wonderful," she breathed, looking up, with her lips parted. The ceiling was frescoed with cherubs and mermaids and a Venus rising from the sea. "Close your mouth, Charlie," he said. "I haven't seen a face like yours since I took Roberto tc the zoo for the first time and he fell in love with the giraffe." "I can't help it," she said, ignoring his gibe and smiling at the scene. "Do you want something to drink? Eat? There's another bar and hors d'oeuvres on the hurricane deck. I thought we'd have a late supper afterwards." He shook his head, one corner of his mouth crooking up. "Really, Charlie, I've never seen such a look of wonder on an adult's face before. But come to think of it, it's a lovely look. Keep it." She managed to turn her eyes to him. He was smiling, but his eyes seemed deeply serious and speculative. . "Food? Oh, no. I just want to look. I've heard about Whalesong for years, but I never imagined..." "Then I think you deserve a glass of champagne in order to celebrate. Come along. For a few more minutes you can admire the boat. Then you can admire me, and I'll admire you. It will be... very admirable."

She laughed and let him escort her toward the salon bar. As he ordered, she stood enraptured, watching the dancers whirl slowly around the floor. He handed her a flute of champagne, and he sipped at a Scotch. "Sorry you came?" His eyes studied her intently over the top of the glass. "No." She couldn't help smiling at him. He looked both strong and elegant, the way she imagined a great warrior knight might look at court. "Not even sorry you came with me?"' His voice was mocking, but his eyes sincere. She sipped her champagne, unsure what to say. "You're the most glorious creature on the coast, Charlie Benteen. I wanted to see you like this. When I found you, you were like an uncut diamond. I wanted to see you sparkle as you should, and in your appropriate setting. It's quite a sight." She dipped her head to avoid his sea-blue stare. "But let's not talk," he said, taking her champagne glass from her. "Let's dance." He set their drinks on a small marble-topped table. Then his eyes found hers again. He took her in his arms, and without protest, she let him mould her closely to him, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by his height and the chiselled planes of his intense face. She tried to remind herself that Vince Gambit was a man she needed to be wary of, but her body followed his movements all too naturally. She told herself there was a woman named Elena in New York, and there was Jinxie, and a host of others, no doubt.

"Tell me about you and Tom," she said, trying to dispel his tranquillising power and find reality again. "How did you get to be friends? And why did you decide to go off to war?" "Questions," he said shortly, holding her closer. "Questions, I suppose, that have to be answered. How did we get to be friends? That's easy. Laura." "Laura?" she asked, her surprise a contrast, to the dreaminess she'd been feeling all evening. "Laura," he repeated. "She was on the cliffs one night, haunting them the way she did. I went out looking for her. I found her up by Dragon Sea, but not before four drunk punks from inland did. I heard her scream. I went wading into them. I was doing fine until one grabbed me from behind and another one pulled a knife. Which is how I got this—" He did not release her hand but lifted it briefly to the scar on his brow. "I think they would have sliced and diced me gleefully, but all of a sudden Tom was there, and he had a strong right hook like nobody else. Between us, we punched their lights out and took Laura home. She was hysterical, and my old man passed out, but we finally got her calmed down. Then I offered Tom a shot out of the old man's jug. We got slightly tipsy and each decided the other was a fine fellow. We were all of sixteen." "Tom would never stand by and see anybody hurt," she said. She couldn't keep the pride out of her voice. "So I thought. At any rate, we became some sort of odd couple. Complementary opposites. I kept him from being suffocatingly proper. He kept me from ending up in jail at an early age. We had nothing in common and everything in common." "I know what you didn't have in common," Charlie said, staring at the ruffles of his shirt. "But what did you have?" The music went

into a dizzying series of arpeggios, and he whirled her until she felt a bit light-headed. When the music slowed down again, he spoke, his breath warm against her throat. "We were both ambitious. We were dreamers who had no right to dream. We wanted to be more than we were— we even both wanted Dragon Sea." "Dragon Sea?" She blinked up at him in surprise. He smiled almost bitterly. "It's not such a coincidence. Every kid in Ogunquit dreamed about being the lord or lady of Dragon Sea. Even you. Even Laura. I used to promise her I'd own it some day and she'd stay in it with me." "Tom used to tell me the same thing," she said softly. "As to why we went to war," he continued, as if choosing his words carefully. "It was a way to see the world—we thought—and to escape our families and maybe ourselves." "Escape your families?" she said, drawing back slightly. "Tom never wanted to escape us. Tom loved us!" He drew her more securely into his arms. "Be realistic, Charlie." His voice was almost a whisper, but there was command in it. "Tom wasn't a god Most young men clash with their parents sooner or later. Your father never settled for anything less than perfection from Tom. I never knew a man so hard on his son. There was conflict between them. A lot. Every time Tom cut up—and he and I cut up plenty— he'd get a fire-and-brimstone speech from your father about how he was going to burn for his sins. Tom got sick of it."

Charlie was silent, pensive. She had not allowed herself to think about that part of the past for years, but Vince was right. Her father had been extremely strict. Especially with Tom. She felt Vince's hand, warm against her back, and his other hand holding hers to his chest. He was making her feel things she did not wish to feel, remember things she did not wish to remember. "But he stopped feeling that way," she objected at last. "He came home to us. He and Daddy hardly ever fought— after you were out of the picture. He never thought about going away again." "I think Tom came to believe your father had been right," Vince said, his voice low. "Tom felt he'd been less than perfect, so he had to pay for it. He had to atone. I knew him well, and that's how he thought. I think he believed he deserved punishment. Otherwise, why would he have killed himself?" His words shocked her, and she drew back sharply, her eyes widening in perturbation. "He didn't kill himself," she said tersely. His face was hard. "What do you call it when a man who's been severely wounded drives himself to work harder than any healthy man? He had no business taking over Benteen and Sons. He had to know it'd kill him." She was startled and angered by the harshness of his words. "He had Eddie and me to take care of. Maybe he was just too responsible for his own good. He just didn't choose to walk off and leave us—the way you left Laura." One brow rose slowly. His hand tightened on hers almost painfully. "Responsibility is one thing. Martyrdom is quite another. Guilt does strange things to a person. I saw what it did to Laura. It did the same damn thing to Tom."

Charlie bristled. "Guilt has nothing to do with it. I don't think you understand anything about responsibility—or love." "Oh?" The pressure on her hand increased. "I know quite a bit about responsibility. I know, for instance, that you don't raise kids without it. You don't make or keep much money without it. As for love—it can get you in a lot of trouble. Laura's also proof of that. Taking a plunge on Wall Street is child's play compared to falling in love. Love is not a preferred stock." She stopped dancing, but he still held her firmly. She could feel the stiff ruffles of his shirt against her breasts. "Wall Street? Preferred stock?" she said scornfully. "That sounds just like you. Does everything come down to money for you? You'd be a lot better off if you'd love those two little boys instead of just trying to buy your way into the town's good graces. You ought to be ashamed." "Don't act so morally superior," he said, his jaw muscles tight. "You sound like your father—which is to say, like a snob." If she had been anywhere except on the dance floor of Whalesong, she would have pushed him away and left him standing there. Perhaps she would have even slapped his arrogant face. But she only stood, glaring up at him. "Stop glowering and finish the dance," he ordered, beginning to move with the music again. "People are staring. And don't deny it, Charlie. You're a snob. A reverse snob. You think you're better than anybody who's happened to get rich. You're a snob about your family's would-be Puritan morality and your perfect brothers. You're even a snob about taking help when you need it—too damned high and mighty and proud to accept anything gracefully."

She tossed her head, narrowed her eyes. "Is that why you made me come here tonight? So I'd be grateful to you? Well it isn't going to work. So why don't you take me home?" He clenched his jaw and swore under his breath, briefly but emphatically. "So you can go back to your proud, hard- scrabble world, to your jeans and paintbrushes? No, by God. I came back to put things right. And I intend to." "Don't try to put me right—or Eddie either. We're perfectly fine without you. And we're none of your business." He smiled coolly. "But you are my business, Charlie. After all, what about Tom?" he asked. "What about him?" she shot back. "He'd want to see you taken care of." His smile was still haughty. "Shouldn't I respect that? After all, he did save my life. To everyone's sorrow." There was something mocking in his tone, though his eyes were serious, daunting. Charlie couldn't imagine him feeling indebted to Tom or anyone else. "It took you long enough to appreciate what he did," she said bitterly. The blue eyes didn't waver from hers. The Tine of his mouth went straight. "It took a long time for me to forgive him," he said. She stared at him in perplexed amazement. "Forgive him? For saving your life?"

He shook his head. "No, not that" was all he said. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said impatiently. "If you wanted to put anything right, you should have done it while he was alive. It's a little late to repay him now. Your timing is off—by quite a bit." "Perhaps it is." "It definitely is. You should have helped him when he was alive. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't even be here, trying to run everybody's life." Bitterness edged her voice. She wanted to hurt him as badly as he had hurt her. "If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have to be here. Damn him anyway, Charlie. For somebody perfect, he certainly created one huge mess." "What do you mean? What did Tom ever do to you? Besides save your miserable neck? He laid down his life for you. Don't you dare talk about him like that!" The music had ceased, but he stood, one hand holding hers to his chest, the other burning through the silk of her dress. He released her abruptly. "Let's go up on the hurricane deck." He sighed harshly. "I want a fresh drink. And some fresh air. I don't think a man should try to talk to you without a healthy dose of Scotch in his system. And a good oxygen supply." As her heart reverberated like a ghostly drum, he wordlessly escorted her up to the hurricane deck, where a bar was set up under the stars. An ice sculpture of a mermaid presided over a table of appetisers. The mermaid sparkled coolly in the moonlight, and Charlie envied her. Having a heart of ice would be infinitely desirable at this moment. Angry words had formed an impassable

barrier between herself and Vince, and that hurt her more than it should. He ordered himself another Scotch and more champagne for her. "Let's go some place where it's less crowded," he muttered, and led her aft to a nearly deserted spot. He leaned on the rail, staring out over the dark harbour. He sipped moodily at his drink. The lights of Portsmouth shone like a handful of stars flung on the dark shore while below the real stars were reflected on the sea like tossed chips of cold fire on its restless surface. "You are beautiful, you know," he said, not looking at her. "Tonight you look the way you were meant to look. I can't help but wonder what Tom would think if he could see you now—so lovely. Even to see you with me. I think he'd be pleased, Charlie. I really do." She could think of no reply. She felt the sea breeze stirring the orchids in her hair. She watched the clean lines of his profile, which was silvered by the moonlight. "And I—" he said between clenched teeth "—I don't want to fight with you. It's important that we don't fight. I know how you feel toward me. I know the bitterness. I know what it's like to blame somebody for the death of a loved one." He sighed and took another drink. "And I finally learned how to forgive." He looked up at the stars as if they held answers for him. "Do you suppose you can learn to forgive, Charlie? You're young, you know, and the young are versatile."

She leaned back against a carved pilaster and tried not look at his handsome profile silhouetted by the moonshine. If he thought she hated him, he understood nothing of her emotions. But how could he understand, when she didn't even understand her feelings? "I don't know what you mean," she said. Nervously she sipped her champagne. Her hand trembled slightly. He drained his Scotch, set the glass carefully on the railing. He turned to face her. He took her glass from her and put it on a small table nearby. "You know perfectly well what I mean," he said softly. "Are you going to keep blaming me for Tom? I said I'd learned to forgive. I asked you if you could." "I—I... I don't know. And I don't know what you had to forgive," she finished lamely. He stepped toward her, putting his hands on her shoulders close to her throat. She found herself staring up in fascination at the half sad, half mocking curve of his lips. "What I had to forgive was very simple," he said, his strong thumbs stroking the satiny skin of her throat. "Maybe it's only now that I understand how simple it was. And how natural. How perfectly natural." His lips brushed hers, then brushed them again. "It's the most natural thing in the world," he whispered, "to take a beautiful woman into your arms, to want to make love to her, even though you know you shouldn't." His mouth met hers with a firm, fierce inevitability. Her senses leaped, her mind darkened, but she still saw ghosts of all the stars, and they were dancing.

Instinctively she put her hands on his shoulders, then clasped them behind his neck and raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him more fully. She felt him draw in his breath, then pull her more closely to him. His hands moved down, almost spanning her waist, then, as the kiss intensified, moved up until they framed the silken rise of her breasts. She made a small sound of yearning against his mouth, and as her lips parted, his tongue moved along her upper lip, then caressed her tongue like a moist flame fuelling itself on more flame. His mouth moved down, kissing the curve between her shoulder and her throat, then moved back to take her lips again. She pressed against him as an unfolding leaf strains toward the sun after an endless and barren winter. Eagerly her tongue met his again, wanting to taste him, savour him, treasure him, drink him in. He broke off the kiss suddenly. "Charlie," he said gruffly, his face against her hair, "you're too easy to kiss— and too hard to talk to. And long ago—longer than you could imagine—I vowed I'd never hurt you. Now I'm not so sure that's possible." Her arms were still around his neck, and she seemed powerless to take them away. "I don't understand," she breathed. "No," he replied. "And maybe you can't, and maybe you don't want to. It probably wouldn't help if I told you I'd take you to bed in a minute—one of the things in this whole tangle I didn't foresee." Her heart felt as if it was caught in a small storm. Her arms fell away from his shoulders and she tried to step back. He held her for a moment, then released her. "I have commitments," he said softly. "I've made promises."

Elena, she thought bitterly. She had conveniently forgotten about Elena. "What makes you think I'd want to go to bed with you?" she asked, her voice dangerously low. "Or that you could ever hurt me? Or that I care about your 'commitments'?" He stiffened slightly, gripped her gently by the arms. "I said I didn't want to fight with you. I brought you here because you and I are connected, Charlie. Whether you like it or not, we're connected by Tom." "We're not connected by anything. Tom never asked anything for saving you. I don't know what you think he did to you, and I don't care. He never purposely hurt anybody in his life. He wasn't capable of it, and you know it. I don't think you and I have any more to say."' He shook his head. "I have important things to say, all right. But I'm beginning to realise I can't say them to you." His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her arms. "You think any of this is easy for me, either? It's not. But I have to do it." He sighed, as if weary of her. His hands dropped away from her arms. "Do what?" she questioned unhappily. "Appease the ghosts. Lay them to rest at last. I have to. It's why I came back." His features were shadowy in the darkness. "But I think you're in love with the ghosts. Maybe it's all you can love." His words startled and hurt her. "You're the one who doesn't believe in love," she replied.

"I didn't say I didn't believe in it. I said it could cause a lot of trouble. And here you are, Charlie, as if to prove it. I wanted to make you understand. But a man doesn't always get what he wants." She stared up at him in frustration. What is it you want? Why do you look at me the way you do? And what do you mean, I can't love? I love you. But she could not say any of that. Surprisingly, she was spared from saying anything at all by the scurrying approach of a white-coated attendant. "Mr. Gambit?" he asked, his voice a bit too calm and polite. Vince nodded. "I'm sorry, sir," he said in the same artificial tone. "We've had a ship's call to locate you. You're needed at home. It's an emergency, sir. You're needed right away. Sorry, sir."

CHAPTER EIGHT CHARLIE WAS ALARMED. The man's polite tone reminded her of an undertaker's. He said that Vince's housekeeper was quite ill, and so were the two boys. They'd all got food poisoning, and the younger boy wouldn't stop crying. Charlie felt frightened and vulnerable. After Tom's long illness, any sickness filled her with dread. Vince's face became grim, and he left the yacht, with Charlie in tow. When they were in the car and heading toward York, Charlie wanted to ask him what he had meant on the hurricane deck when he had said she was in love with the ghosts. But watching his hands tensed on the wheel and with the speedometer registering an illegal speed, she knew that this wasn't the time. Nor did she trust herself to speak. She always said the wrong thing. She stayed tensely silent. The large cottage he had rented in York faced the sea. They pulled into the driveway, and before it had come to a full halt, he seemed to be out of the car and sprinting for the front door. Charlie raced to follow him, noticing a woman watching them from the porch of the house next door. Oh, no, she thought, recognising Emma Bartleby. The elderly woman was from Ogunquit and did a lot of baby-sitting for the summer people. She stood right below Gully on the honour roll of gossip. Tomorrow the whole town would know she'd been here. Luis met them at the door. He looked pale beneath his freckles and nervous. Charlie could hear Roberto yowling in the background. "What's going on?" Vince asked impatiently. "Are you all right?"

"Si. I mean, maybe. But about nine, we started getting sick. Miz Hopwood's worst. She's in bed. She said she was going there to die." "Irma Hopwood?" Vince said in disbelief. "The woman has the constitution of an ox. It must be the black plague if it's laid Irma low." He ran his hand across Luis's damp brow, then led him gently to the couch. "Luis, are you sure you're all right? Where does it hurt? What happened?" Luis let Vince settle him on the couch. His sandy head rested for a moment against Vince's ruffled shirtfront. "I feel better, but I threw everything up. It's something we ate." Roberto howled again from a back bedroom, and Charlie looked worriedly down the hall. "I can't do nothing with Roberto," Luis said, biting his lip. "He don't want me to pick him up. He gets, like, kind of strange when he's sick. I got scared. That's why I called the boat." Charlie left Vince comforting Luis and marched down the hall. She might not understand the events of the night, but she understood about sick children. She found Roberto sitting on a bottom bunk. He wore blue-and-white striped pyjamas. Tears ran down his round face, and his black hair was tousled. "Oh, Roberto!" she said in despair. She picked him up and hugged him to her. He wound his arm around her neck and buried his face against her shoulder. He was both sweaty and cold. He was still crying, but not as hard, when she carried him to the living room. Vince was on the couch, unsuccessfully trying to get Luis to drink a glass of water. He glanced at Roberto as if he didn't even see Charlie. "I'm putting both you kids to bed," he said gruffly. "Then I'm calling the doctor."

"I already called the doctor," Luis said. "He said the same thing as Miz Hopwood. Food poisoning. He said nobody should have anything but liquids. But I don't want that water.'' "Lie down then," Vince ordered. "I'll make up the couch for you. No use for you to try to sleep near Roberto. First I'll put Roberto to bed." But Roberto wailed so hard when Vince tried to take him that Charlie kicked off her high-heeled sandals and began walking with him around the room. "Give him to me," Vince ordered, but Roberto still refused to go to him. "He needs to be in bed," Vince said, his teeth gritted. "When a little child isn't feeling good," she said, looking over Roberto's rumpled dark hair, "sometimes the best medicine in the world is to hold him. I may be a kid, Vince, but I know that much." She and Vince eyed each other a moment, but Roberto only sniffled and clutched Charlie tighter. "Then walk him, Wonder Woman." Vince stalked from the room, and she heard him knocking softly on a door down the hall. "Mrs. Hopwood? Are you all right?" A throaty, quavering voice answered, "Go away! I am prostrate upon a bed of pain. Go away. No man shall ever see me thus. Open that door and I resign." "Oh, lord," she heard him mutter.

Roberto had stopped crying hard, giving only an occasional racking whimper. She walked him around the living room and to the kitchen and back. She rubbed his back. "There, there," she soothed him. "Your big brother says you'll be fine soon. Just an old tummyache, that's all." He sniffed and buried his little face in her neck. "Luis, how did all this start?" she asked, still rubbing Roberto's back. "Who got sick first?" "Miz Hopwood," he said, his face against the sofa pillow. "Then Roberto, then me. She went out and bought a bunch of cream puffs today. I only had half of one, and so did Roberto, but she ate three. She likes pastry, you know? But the doctor said it shouldn't last too long—maybe six hours. But, boy, do I feel lousy." Vince returned to the living room, his jacket off, his ruffled shirt unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. His arms were full of bedding. Roberto shuddered with another spasm, gave a sniffling sob and wound his arm around Charlie more tightly. "Up," said Vince, lifting Luis from the couch to a reclining chair. Charlie switched Roberto's position so that he rested on her hip. "I'll make up the bed," she offered, holding out her free arm for the sheets. "I can do it," Vince said impatiently. "How can you make a bed with only one arm?" "Well," Charlie replied, "I've probably made a lot more beds in my lifetime than you have. I happen to be very good at it." He gave her a dark glance. "I was a Marine," he grumbled. "I can make a bed so tight you can bounce a dime off the sheets."

"Well, la-di-da," Charlie said, unimpressed, and headed for the kitchen, shifting Roberto's position again. She patted his back and kissed his neck. "That's my good boy," she said. She heard soft thumps from the living room as Vince struggled with the couch cushions. "How do you put a fitted sheet on a couch?" he growled. She had to smile. It was the first time she could remember that Vince hadn't seemed omnipotent. She walked back to the living room; Roberto was almost asleep in her arms. She looked dubiously at the sheets Vince had arranged on the couch. "I'd hate to try to bounce a dime off that," she said, shaking her head at the loose bedding. "She's right," Luis said, sunk in his chair. He stared at the couch without enthusiasm. "It looks like a pile of old parachutes." "Just put on your pyjamas and get in it, will you?" Vince said, giving first Luis, then Charlie, a disgusted look. Luis plodded off weakly to change his clothes, and Charlie, ignoring Vince, expertly straightened the sheets on the couch. "It's a good thing you make your living on Wall Street," she gibed, feeling rather satisfied for the first time that night. "You'd never make it as a maid." "I never had to make it as a maid," he replied. "Besides, it's in your hormones or something. Everybody knows women are born knowing how to do these things." "That's very sexist," she said, dismissing the remark. "I'm very sexist," he replied. "At least in the good old days I was. Living with these kids has given me a new perspective. Everybody

with children ought to be given battle pay. And two weeks off in a rest home." She smiled coolly and carried Roberto into the kitchen again. She sat down and rocked him gently. She heard Luis return to the living room. He and Vince talked quietly for a few minutes. When she heard Luis say, "Elena phoned," her moment of self-satisfaction ended abruptly. At last the light in the living room was switched off, and Vince joined her in the kitchen. He pulled off his half-undone tie and tossed it on the counter. He undid another button on his ruffled shirt. His chest was bare beneath. He poured himself a glass of Scotch and stared down at her. "I'm starving," he said at last. "We never ate. Can I get you something? You want a drink?" "No," she said softly, rocking Roberto. "I don't drink much." Besides, she thought, she was rather light-headed from hunger herself. The evening had taken enough twists and turns and she didn't need drink adding to her confusion. He opened the refrigerator, then the cupboards. "Having kids is like being plagued by locusts," he grumbled. "The eggs are all gone. The milk is all gone. The bread is all gone. The peanut butter is gone. Care to share some pea soup and maple syrup?" "I think I'd rather starve. Thanks, anyway." She looked down into Roberto's face. He slumbered uneasily. "I think I'll have to agree. Ah... is he really asleep? Let me take him. I'll put him to bed, then get you home."

Charlie shook her head. "I'd better put him to bed. He's not sleeping very soundly." "I'd rather do it myself," he said, moving toward her. "You know, you look so natural holding him. It's unnerving me." As soon as he was next to her, ready to take Roberto into his arms, the little boy's eyes flew open as if on cue, and he began to cry again. The cries swiftly gave way to a sinister hiccuping sound. "Stand back!" Charlie cried, shooting out of her chair. Vince followed her as she raced into the bathroom, where she managed to manoeuvre Roberto over the bowl. "You must feel better now, Robby," Vince said consolingly as he put a towel under the tap. As he was mopping Roberto's face, he accidentally soaked the top of Charlie's silk dress. Vince put his fist against his forehead and swore. "I'm sorry about that, Charlie. I hope I didn't ruin it. Damn." "Well, it's not the end of the earth," Charlie protested, slightly alarmed by his reaction. "It could have been worse." He looked grim. "For once in your life I wanted to see you treated like a woman, not a workhorse. Nevertheless, you seem to cope. Better than I do, at least." At last he smiled at her, a meditative smile. "I'll get some clean towels and find something for you to wear." She finished cleaning up Robert. Then Vince reappeared, holding out a stack of towels and clothing. "This is going to have to be it. My sweatshirt and a pair of Luis's shorts. Now give me Roberto." But Roberto didn't want to go to him.

"Roberto," Vince said sternly, taking him into his arms. "What's wrong with you? It's me! Your father! You hardly know this woman!" Vince carried the reluctant child off to the kitchen. Charlie hung her water-stained dress over a towel rack. Vince's sweatshirt was too large and kept sliding off her shoulder, and Luis's shorts were too tight. The hair Mr. Felix had laboured so intently on was now in hoydenish disarray, and the baby orchids looked a bit drunken pinned to the spilling curls. Barefoot, she padded into the kitchen, where Vince was unsuccessfully trying to feed a tearful Roberto a spoonful of chipped ice. The little boy cried for Charlie when he saw her. Wordlessly she took him and fed him the ice. Vince eyed her ironically. "I thought I gave you some shorts," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "You did," she said, smoothing Roberto's hair. She tried to keep her tone cool. "Your sweatshirt hides them. You're too big." His tone was weary. "What do you mean, I'm too big?" he asked. "You say it like it's my fault or something. Am I forgiven nothing, Charlie?" He smiled. "Not even my size?" "Oh, you're forgiven," she said gruffly, moving to the counter to spoon more ice into the bowl. Vince leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. His gaze was intent upon her. "Forgiven what? My size?" "Whatever," she said vaguely, then felt a flush of guilt. It should be more formal than that, she thought, more ceremonious. She should be standing on a dais in a white robe, with him kneeling at her feet. "I forgive you for the death of my brother," she should say

magnanimously. "I forgive you for making me fall in love with you when you belong to someone else." But she hadn't said it that way at all. "Whatever," he repeated, his eyes still unwavering. "That covers a lot of ground," he said sarcastically. "There's a lot to be covered," she muttered. "Indeed there is," he said, lifting his glass to his lips. The steadiness of his stare was beginning to unnerve her. She was relieved when Luis shouted from the living room, breaking the tension. "Can you people hold it down? How's a person supposed to get sleep? I mean, if you're going to talk all night, I'll probably have this terrible relapse." "Luis!" Vince said, his voice stern. "Just go to sleep. Get some rest." Luis muttered something rapidly in Spanish. "The kitchen light's in my eyes," he complained. "This couch, it's like sleeping on a stone. I'm not exactly feeling the best I ever felt in my life, you know. And I can hear you talking. It's distracting." "Luis," Charlie called in frustration. "You mind your father. You're a very resourceful boy, and I'm sure you could sleep on the couch even if I were shining a spotlight in your eyes." "She's right!" Vince said emphatically. "Listen to her." Suddenly the living room became silent. Vince gave her a wry smile. She smiled back shyly. Roberto gave a shudder and a sniffle, and Charlie rubbed his tummy. "Poor Robby. Do you feel better when we walk? Come on. Let's walk."

"Let me take him," Vince said. "He's heavy. I know." But again Roberto buried his face in Charlie's neck and refused to budge. "I can handle him," she said, tired but confident. "I'm pretty strong." "Maybe." He raised a brow, picked up his Scotch and drained it. "Maybe you are, after all." What did he mean by that, she wondered, but pushed the thought aside. She walked Roberto. Vince paced with her. She lost track of time. Sometimes the child nodded off, his dark head nestling against her shoulder, but then he would awake and whimper softly. He always kept his arm around her neck, as if afraid to release her even in sleep. Luis had fallen into a deep and exhausted sleep on the couch. Vince finally wound his arm around her to give her physical as well as moral support. Twice they heard Mrs. Hop- wood groaning stertorously from her bedroom. At last the house was quiet. Vince leaned his head against Charlie's and whispered, "The only way we're going to get him to lie down is for you to lie down with him. Take my bed. You need to get off your feet." Exhausted, she nodded wearily. He led her to his bedroom and turned down the sheets. Gratefully she climbed in, careful not wake Roberto, who slept fitfully in her arms. Vince bent his blond head and kissed Roberto's cheek. He drew up the sheets, and his fingers brushed her shoulder. She heard him whisper, "I'm sorry it has to be this hard on you. But don't worry."

Why, she wondered groggily, was he always telling her not to worry? Since she'd met him she had worried more than ever. She slept uneasily at first, then deeply. She awoke six hours later to the smell of frying bacon and the sound of a pitched video-game battle. Roberto was gone from her arms, and she stretched luxuriously, then blinked awake in surprise. She suddenly realised she hadn't called Eddie. It also dawned on her that if Emma Bartleby had stayed the night next door—and overnight baby-sitting was her speciality—she would see Charlie leaving the house in broad daylight. And nobody was going to believe she'd spent the night in Vince Gambit's bed comforting a sick four-year-old. She hopped out of bed, tugged down Vince's baggy sweatshirt and examined herself in the bedroom mirror. Her hair was full of dead orchids. She bolted for the bathroom to wash her face and pluck the dead vegetation out of her tangled waves. Vince was in the kitchen, frowning as he flipped pancakes and talked on the phone at the same time. Luis and a surprisingly well-recovered Roberto were playing a video game in which they shot down demons, who, as they expired, made horrible buzzing sounds. "Aren't you guys kind of loud?" she asked the boys, feeling as if she had wandered onto somebody else's planet. "It's hard to kill demons quietly," Luis explained, shrugging. Then he cried, "Ha! I got him! Bit the dust, intergalactic death-bearer!"

Charlie moved toward the kitchen but stopped when she heard Vince's voice. "Look, Elena, I'd like to spend an hour telling you how wonderful you are, but things are getting hectic here. I'll call you when I have more privacy. I've got some loose ends to tie up here, and then, beautiful, it won't be long until we're all a family. Vaya con Dios, sweetheart." He said goodbye and hung up. Charlie felt shaken and slightly sick but entered the kitchen as calmly as possible. He caught her eye and nodded. "Welcome to the monkey house," he said wryly. "These kids obviously feel a lot better than I do, but then I was up half the night and had to go out this morning to do the shopping and come back and work my fingers to the bone slaving over this hot stove. I'm definitely starting to understand Women's Liberation." "Good," Charlie said, trying to look dignified while she tugged the sweatshirt down farther over her thighs. She wondered if he knew she had overheard him. "You," he continued, flicking her a glance, "look disgustingly radiant. And Mrs. Hopwood won't talk to me except to ask for a lawyer to make out her will. She claims small men have seized control of her head and are beating out her brains with jackhammers." "Should you call the doctor again?" she asked, moving beside him and staring suspiciously at the pancakes. The breakfast smells were wonderful. "Irma Hop wood was a registered nurse," he said drily. "She's sure she knows more than any mere country doctor. What are you staring at? I happen to be very good at this."

"That's why I'm staring," she replied, impressed. "You really are pretty good.'' "I am," he said, giving her a sideways glance, "a man of many talents. Unfortunately sleeping in a bunk bed isn't one of them. Sit down. I'll feed you. It's breakfast in shifts this morning. How do women do this, anyway—feed more than one person?" "I've got to call Eddie," she said, worried again. "This is going to be hard to explain." "I've already called him," Vince said, sliding a chair out for her. "It wasn't so hard to explain. I told him the truth. Eddie's a reasonable fellow. And I told him I'd drop by the motel this morning, anyway." She was too famished to question why he felt he should meet with Eddie. "You'd just better make sure everybody knows the true story on this," she said, worrying again about what Emma Bartleby was probably already saying. The woman could use the telephone like a lethal weapon. Expertly he slid bacon and pancakes onto her waiting plate. "And just what would suit you? To tattoo the true story on my forehead? Put up billboards? I'll handle it. At this point, my reputation hangs in far more delicate balance than yours." "I doubt that," she said stonily, but she began to attack the pancakes like a ravenous wolf cub. He filled his own plate and sat down across from her. "The fallen woman, I noticed, hasn't lost her appetite." She met his derisive eyes with a smouldering look. "I am not a fallen woman."

"If you ever decide to become one, let me know," he said with cool smugness. "You look very fetching in a king-size bed." "You'd look very fetching in a body cast," she warned. She speared a forkful of bacon and tried to ignore him. "No, thanks," he said easily. "I already had one. For longer than I care to remember." She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "How long were you in the hospital after you got shot?" she asked. "A year," he said, as if it were of no consequence. "One of those bullets lodged in my spine. They didn't think I'd walk again. They were wrong." She looked at him, putting her fork down. She couldn't imagine him lying in a hospital bed that long. He was too vital, too in control of things. Tom, for all the seriousness of his wounds, had been in only six weeks. "A year?" she repeated. "It wasn't so bad," he said. "It gave me too much time to think, but it also gave me time to win a lot of poker games. And I met a young man with a bad leg wound and a good idea—and he just happened to need a little money to finance it. The rest, as they say, is history." "What kind of good idea?" she asked, looking at her plate. "He was a radio man," he said, refilling her juice glass. "He had an idea about making a radar thing for cars— strong but compact. I invested a thousand dollars. It was all I had. We made a million. Actually more than a million. That was my kind of gambling. Then I went back to school, started investing in other things. It's worked out."

Obviously, Charlie thought. She couldn't even imagine that much money. "But that's a fait accompli," he said. "I won't say it wasn't satisfying. But it got old, repetitious. Now there are family matters to attend to. And, it seems to me, it's harder being a family man than making millions. Money never falls down and skins its knees, has nightmares, eats bad cream puffs, or talks back to you. Kids do. Sometimes I think I understand why the old man drank." She heard the video game being switched off. Luis strolled into the kitchen. "Hey, Charlie," he said. "You look nice sitting there. Want to play Demon Death with us?" Vince gave the boy a warning look. "I have to get her home," he said shortly. "It's a working day. Why don't you take out the garbage?" "I already did," Luis replied. "Hey, did you get any oranges this morning? I'm still hungry." "In the refrigerator," Vince said. "Locusts. I'm surrounded by locusts." "Ah, you like it," Luis said easily, opening the refrigerator and taking out an orange. "Roberto and me, we're good for you. We keep you young. You're getting up there, you know?" "Thanks a lot," Vince said, stabbing a piece of pancake vindictively. "Hey," Luis said, grinning, "facts are facts." They heard the padding sound of small feet, and Roberto appeared. He still wore his striped pyjama bottoms but, for a top, had on a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. He smiled shyly at Charlie but scrambled up into Vince's lap.

"Ha," said Vince in mock scorn. "Now that the storm is weathered, you come back to me. Or do you just want my pancakes?" At the word "pancakes," Roberto brightened and nodded. Vince sighed, cut him a piece and fed it to him. Luis came to the table and offered Roberto a section of his orange. Charlie's heart contracted painfully as she watched them. Vince's blond-streaked head was bent over Roberto's dark one, and Luis, with his sandy hair and freckles, played absently with Roberto's plump toes. I do love you, Vince Gambit, she thought with certainty. And I love your boys, too. And every moment I see you, I love you more. I'd stay here forever with you. She felt so much at home here with them. She tried to remember it was his family, not hers, and she had no right to feel that way. He had made other promises. He had other commitments. Her appetite disappeared like a will-o'-the-wisp. She pushed her plate away. Vince looked at her, and the kitchen seemed unnaturally silent for a moment. She couldn't read the expression in those seablue eyes. He studied her for a long time, then looked away. "I'll take you home," he said at last. "I've got to talk to Eddie." "Why?" she asked, her heartbeat thin and erratic. He set Roberto down. He gave her a brief glance. "Don't worry," was all he said.

CHAPTER NINE EMMA BARTLEBY was on the porch next door, watering plants in a window box when they came out of the house. She stared at Charlie with an expression that said, "Humph. Look at this—and a Benteen, too." Charlie had no doubt that as soon as the Porsche pulled away, Emma would burn up the telephone lines between here and Ogunquit. Vince noticed Emma, too, but all he said was "Hmm. Wasn't that Emma Bartleby? I thought she'd talked herself to death years ago." He was silent for most of the ride to Charlie's house, as if he was deep in thought. Charlie's thoughts warred too chaotically for her to trust herself to speak. When she left his car, all Vince said was a cryptic "I'll see you later." She walked away with as much dignity as a woman wearing an enormous grey sweatshirt could.

CHARLIE ARRIVED AT DRAGON SEA an hour and a half late and threw herself into her work with a vengeance that surprised even herself. She could feel her crew giving her furtive looks and knew they had some inkling of what had happened. After all, everyone in the town knew that Vince had taken her to the dance. None of them said anything about her being late, and that was suspicious in itself. She was certainly in no mood to be accosted by Bus O'Conner. His oiled hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he was wearing plaid shorts that were too baggy and a tight red knit shirt that accentuated his belly. "Tell Gambit I want to see him," he said shortly. "I've got a problem with the carpeting people."

Charlie, who was sanding a banister, didn't want to look at him. He was glowering at her as if she had just been convicted of treason. "I don't know where he is," Charlie said, shrugging, and sanded so furiously that she almost sanded her thumb. "Well, tell him to come see me muy pronto," Bus snapped. "If he wants this damned house finished on time." "I think you're talking to the wrong person," Charlie said, casting him a brief stormy look. "He doesn't check with me to see if he has any messages." Bus stared at her slyly, his small eyes narrowed. "Oh, I've got the right person," he purred. "For the time being, at least. Enjoy it while you can." Charlie's spine straightened, and she felt her mouth tensing for an angry reply. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, putting her hand on her hip. Bus snarled. "I hear you spent last night with him. Then you came waltzin' in here almost two hours late. I don't know if I want that kind of woman workin' for me." She stared at him, stunned and angry. The small-town gossip network had outdone itself this time. "Bus," she hissed, "watch what you say to me—" "Yeah? I'll give you some advice, Charlie. I'd be careful if I was you. Because you ain't gonna set no hook in Mr. Big. He's all tied up with a woman in New York. In fact, you're just a little last-minute recreation before he makes it permanent with her. I thought you should know. For your own good."

Charlie's temper flared at Bus's insinuation. At the same time her mind leaped. Elena again. Just how was Bus so sure about Elena? "Nothing happened last night," she chided. "And I'm not trying to set a hook in anybody. And if I were, it wouldn't be your business." "Just having a little fun, were you? Who'd have thought it of TouchMe-Not Charlie? Just don't get your hopes up, you mercenary little gold-digger. I've heard him talking to this Elena on my office phone. A person can't hardly help overhearing. I heard him say he couldn't wait until it was all final. He told her he was going to buy her the biggest diamond in New York City. Too bad he don't feel that way about you." Charlie wrestled down her anger and another feeling she couldn't identify. "I wish them every happiness," she said coldly, trying not to let Bus see her emotions. "I just thought you should know," Bus said, shrugging and hitching up his baggy shorts. "Louise—you know, Louise at the florist shop? I met her on my coffee break. She said that, only this morning, Vince sent two dozen roses to this woman. And a card saying some real flattering things. I hope he at least sends you a carnation or something—in return for services rendered." Slowly Charlie crumpled the piece of sandpaper she had been using and then she hurled it to the floor. "Maybe somebody should send you some poison ivy," she said as evenly as she could. "To plant in your mouth. It ought to do very well there." Bus took it coolly. "Just don't say I didn't warn you," he said, reaching out and trying to pat the seat of her cut-offs. "Everybody in town thinks so much of you, Charlie. I hate to see your sweet little reputation ruined. Especially when you won't get nothin' out of it.

Looks like you wasted it, after all. Well, don't forget to tell your boyfriend where to find me, will you?" He turned on his heel and left, stalking with distaste through the litter and sawdust. Charlie stared after him, dizzy with resentment, her heart beating hard. She was conscious of Mitchy Bouvier's dark eyes glued on her and knew he had overheard the whole exchange. So, obviously, had Swede, who seemed to be furiously ignoring her. She gave Mitchy a weak smile. He didn't smile back. He simply turned his eyes away and went back to work, as if she had somehow disappointed him. She was grateful when the crews broke for lunch. She wandered to the Cove, as usual. The heat was still severe, but was not as impenetrable as it had been. She knew she wouldn't see Luis or Roberto today. Mrs. Hopwood probably wouldn't be able to drive for at least another day. She had been consciously avoiding Gully, but today he spotted her, and imperiously waved her over to his bench. She shuffled toward him reluctantly, one hand jammed in her back pocket, the other holding the lunch she'd haphazardly thrown together before running out that morning. Overhead, the seagulls wheeled and mewed. "Ha!" Gully said, squinting up into her face when she finally stood before him. "You didn't take my advice, did you? Walked into Vince Gambit's parlour the way the lobster walks into the trap. You're a fool, Charlotte. All the strength in your brains went to making that red hair." She shifted uncomfortably under his watery blue stare. "And all I've got to tell you," he said, his seamed mouth working angrily, "is he's no better than I gave him credit for, but you're a damned sight worse. Out all night long. Didn't take him long, did it?

For shame, Charlotte. What would your father think? He'd disown you. He was a decent man, your father." Charlie rolled her eyes heavenward in disgust and cast her lunch bag down on the bench. "Gully—the gossip around here is going to make me crazy. I don't see how these things spread so fast. I really don't. And I didn't do anything. His kids were sick." "Bah!" Gully said with equal disgust. "This is a small town—once you take the tourists out—and small towns always teem with rumours and gossip. Emma Bartleby saw you. You may be innocent as the driven snow, but it sure didn't look like it. You might as well go out of your way to make sure you get talked about." "Let people talk," she grumbled, sitting down beside him. "I didn't do anything." "Didn't you now?" Gully mocked, shaking his pipe at her. "I'd say you did. You fell in love with his house, and you fell in love with his children, and worse to tell, you fell in love with him—I know that sick look when I see it, more's the pity. The Gambits was ever great ones for turnin' women's heads." She stared sullenly out to sea. A mist of heat rode the ocean's back like a ghost. She tried to find a denial for Gully's words but couldn't. She opened her lunch bag, then closed it again. She wasn't hungry. She wanted to be angry with Gully but couldn't be. He was only saying to her face what half the town was probably saying behind her back. She remembered sitting at breakfast with Vince and the boys, feeling as lovesick as a puppy. "You remember this, Charlotte," Gully warned. "He's no good and he never was, and he bears you and your family no love. He's got every reason in the world to bring you down to his level, then to push you in a pit that's even lower. He won't rest until he's got both

you and Eddie where he wants you. And, by Dad, you're fool enough to stand there and help him do it." "Gully," Charlie said miserably. "Just leave me alone, will you? There's nothing between us. Nothing. What happened was an accident." "Was it?" Gully challenged. "Then it wasn't the first accident between a Gambit and a Benteen. Don't you understand what he's after, girl? Haven't you figured it out? Don't you know why he wants to bring you down?" "He doesn't," Charlie objected, shaking her head. "He's only interested in Eddie and me because of Tom." But she could not shake off her doubts. What Gully had said was what she had feared all along. "Tom indeed," scoffed Gully. "You bet he's interested because of Tom. You think Tom was such a saint that Vince Gambit's come back to make amends? Tom was no saint, Charlotte. And Vince Gambit has no cause to love him. Nor to bring you anything but harm." Gully's pale blue eyes seemed to be drilling into hers, as if by sheer willpower he could infuse some sense into her. She became frightened of what he might say. She wanted to leave, go back to Dragon Sea, yet some elusive force she had no control over was holding her there. "What do you mean?" she asked softly, knowing she shouldn't ask. "I mean use your eyes. You should have known from the minute you saw him—that oldest boy, Laura Gambit's boy."

"What do you mean?" she repeated. Again she knew she should not ask, but was somehow compelled to. "Gully, what are you talking about?" Gully's gaze left her face. He looked out to sea at the mare's tail clouds on the horizon. "Laura Gambit left town to have her bastard child. Your brother wasn't a saint, Charlie, no matter how much it hurts you to admit it. He made two bad mistakes in his life. One was going off with Vince Gambit. The other was coming home on leave after basic training without him. And poor Laura Gambit was all alone here, in need of comforting. Her no-good brother Vince couldn't find the time to come home to dry her tears. But yours did." "No!" Charlie said. The entire seascape in front of her seemed to tilt crazily. Her fingers tightened on the bench until they hurt. She felt as if Gully had struck her a hard blow to the stomach, knocking out all the wind, all the sense from her. "Charlotte, I know what you thought of Tom," Gully said solemnly. "And I've never said a word because I respected Tom—and what you felt for him. But you take one look at that child and tell me it isn't his." Charlie drew in her breath, tears stinging her eyes. "No!" she said again automatically, without thinking. But she knew it had to be true. Luis was Tom's child. And deep within her, she wondered if she had known it from the first moment she had seen him. Luis, she thought dizzily. Luis. Difficult, complicated, handsome little Luis. So Tom had had a child, after all. Had he known? A rush of memories seemed to sweep her away, to drown her. She remembered Tom at home on his last leave before being shipped out to Vietnam. Vince Gambit hadn't come with him. Tom and her

father had argued a lot. Tom had stayed out all night—more than once. Her father had been furious. He'd insisted that some day Tom would pay for his multitude of sins. That was when Tom, rebellious, must have been with Laura Gambit. Then Tom had come home wounded, a haunted look in his eyes. He'd constantly stated that he owed Vince Gambit, yet quietly refused to say what was owed or why. It had been the one thing Tom and her father had continued to argue about, until Tom had simply refused to discuss it. Her father had fumed and damned all Gambits to hell—but no longer within Tom's hearing. Tom had had a mysterious private box at the York post office and he'd constantly sent letters out, letters that Eddie had said always came back. Eddie had thought Tom had met a girl overseas who he was trying to find again. Charlie had thought that was terribly romantic but secretly hoped Tom would have no luck; after all, he was her big brother, and he belonged to her. But it must have been Laura Gambit he'd searched for and had not found. Yes, it all made sense, now. And Tom's one piece of self-indulgence—the yearly one- week trips to the southwest. Arizona once. Texas several times. Mexico once. Charlie had thought he had gone because the change of air would be good for his lungs. But he must have been looking for Laura and the child. How had he even known which way she had gone? How close had he come to finding her, and how much had it hurt him when he had not? She remembered the sadness and regret that had seemed to nag Tom after he'd come home from the war. And she remembered the way he had so fiercely protected both her and Eddie, as if he were making up for something. And the way he worked too hard, as if to forget something—that something must have been that he blamed himself for ruining Laura Gambit.

"You always knew?" she said at last. "And you never said anything?" Charlie was shocked that the story hadn't spread. "I told you—I respected him. And I saw them more than once," he said darkly. "On the cliffs, that time that Tom came home on leave. I knew no good would come of it. Then he went off to war, and a few months later Laura left. Everyone knew why she left. No one knew who the father was. I can count months as well as the next man. I guessed it was his. And as soon as I saw that boy, I knew for sure." She stared out at the edge of the sea, at the clouds afloat on the horizon. Luis, she thought. So like Tom. Even the way the boy carried himself now seemed fatally familiar. Her brother's blood and her own. "And Vince Gambit knew. He had to know," Gully continued, nodding curtly to himself. "She always turned to him. Who else was there? He must have got himself shot before he could get word to her. Then he couldn't write back. Or get back. And then she was gone." Tears stung her eyes. "Did he love her?" she asked, her voice choked. "Tom? Did he love Laura?" "Well, he searched for her. I'd say he loved her. Though maybe it was guilt he felt. He was young. It's hard to say." "He wouldn't have let her go off alone," she said, her throat still tight. "Not if he hadn't been shot himself. Not Tom. He wouldn't have." "What he would or wouldn't have done don't matter," Gully snapped. "What he should or shouldn't have does. He never should have touched her. When he had that damned leave, Vince Gambit trusted him to see to Laura. He saw to her, all right."

The old man's tone was cold and accusing. Charlie ducked her head and stared at her hands, which were locked together in her lap. "I'm only tellin' you what you would have found out, anyway," he rasped. "The whispers are already starting. All anybody has to do is look at the boy. And if you think Vince Gambit is the type to forgive and forget, you're crazy." She shrugged weakly, not knowing how to reply. "I seen how he was with his sister," Gully warned her. "And I heard the way he talked. Lloyd Barnes went after her once. Vince caught him right about here." Gully pointed his pipe stem at the asphalt of the parking lot. "He grabbed him by the shirtfront and hit him so hard they probably heard it in Portland. Then Vince stood over him and said, 'I'll kill anybody who hurts my sister.' Then he walked off and left Lloyd counting his teeth." Charlie looked back out to sea. She stared unseeingly at a lobster boat in the distance, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Tom had been Vince's friend. In those old, hard days, Tom had been his only friend. And Tom was the one who'd destroyed Laura Gambit, perhaps the one other person in the world Vince had cared for. "He can't punish Tom," Gully said sinisterly. "But he can see that you end up like his own sister—or worse. And I knew that's what he was going to do—knew it from the first night I saw you together, saw the way he hypnotised you like a snake does a bird." She tried to say "No," but could only shake her head numbly. He probably did hate her, and Eddie, too. He had probably hated all the Benteens so long that the hate was old and cold and almost dispassionate, automatic as breathing.

"He's come back to show us all," Gully continued grimly. "He's come back to make himself king of this town. And he'll build his castle on yours and Eddie's bones if he can. He's even brought two bastards to make into his princes. And like a fool, you're helping him every step of the way." "Don't call them bastards," she said, no emotion at all in her voice. She had held Roberto in her arms all last night. She didn't want anybody calling him that. Or Luis either. Ever. "I call a spade a spade and a bastard a bastard," Gully said relentlessly. "And if one of those bastards has Benteen blood, all I can tell you is that you'll keep away if you know what's good for you. No matter what he says to you, he's already got a woman. Everybody knows that. There's just one thing he wants from you. Do you understand me?" "I understand." Her voice sounded like a robot's. She stood up. She had to get away. She started walking aimlessly. "Charlotte!" Gully called after her. "I told you for your own good!" I know that, she thought. But she couldn't force herself to turn or to speak to the old man. She kept walking. She was surprised her legs carried her. They felt as if they belonged to someone else. Her whole life felt as if it belonged to someone else.

SHE WENT DOWN to the beach. It was crowded, but she found a large rock that jutted into the surf and sat by herself, her arms around her knees, staring out at nothing. She would have to tell Eddie, but how could she? What would he say when she told him that there was a skeleton—a big one—in the closet of the respectable Benteen family and that Vince Gambit planned to make the most of that.

Charlie knew her reputation was damaged because of last night. Maybe Vince had even had a hand in spreading the word. He might have called Bus himself. But it wasn't her reputation she worried about. It was the cold, sick suspicion that Vince had lied to her all along. He had lied consistently and carefully. He had made her want to trust him just so he could eventually seek revenge. Strangely, Gully's news didn't affect her feelings for Luis or Roberto. The boys, alone, in the whole tangled mess, were still innocents. It was toward Vince that she felt numbed, paralysed. Vince and Tom. She had thought Tom was a saint. She had believed that he'd never done anything even approaching wrong in his life—except to rush off to war. Now she finally understood what Vince had meant when he'd said that Tom had come to believe her father's words. He'd probably even thought their parents' deaths had been some kind of judgment on him. He had been punished and punished for his mistakes, but had been both the agent and victim of that punishment. Why shouldn't Vince hate Tom? He had trusted him. The pain of Laura Gambit's death wasn't going to be wiped out by one act of heroism, by Tom's saving Vince's life. It wasn't going to be wiped out by anything. Except maybe real revenge. The Benteens were going to pay for every moment of Laura's sorrow—and the boys' as well. Vince had told her he'd learned how to forgive. That had been his finest lie of all. Everybody was going to be sorry about Laura Gambit's death, all right. Especially what remained of the Benteen family. She went back to work, feeling as if the world had unalterably changed. She was late again. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything.

When Bus grabbed her by the arm and started growling at her, she simply stared at him. She barely heard what he said. She watched his lips move, and it was like watching a television set with no volume. He shook her. The pain and humiliation of that shake seemed to clear her mind slightly. "—and you're gonna give me a full day's work, Charlie. I don't care if you do sleep with the owner. You aren't gonna use that for an excuse to slack on the job. I oughta kick your cute little rear end out of here, Charlie. You can peddle it somewhere else." She became conscious that Mitchy and Swede were watching her. She also became conscious of another presence on the scene. "Leave her alone," ordered a low voice. She turned and saw Vince standing by the west door of the ballroom. As he approached, she noticed he was dressed in white slacks that made his legs look even longer than usual and a knit shirt that emphasised his muscular shoulders. "I said leave her alone, O'Conner. Don't ever talk to her like that again. Or handle her like that. In fact, get out of here. I don't want to see you again. Find another job. I'm terminating this one." Charlie looked up. Bus's heavy face paled. His hand still gripped her arm painfully hard. "This—this is the second time she's been late today," he stuttered. "And she's behind. She's been behind from the beginning. I'm just trying to— You can't fire me! I've got a contract." "And I've got an office full of lawyers that spend all their working hours breaking contracts when I want them broken," Vince said, his

voice dangerously even. "Now take your hand off her. Before I break it, along with the contract." The blood that had left Bus's face came rushing back, almost purpling his visage. His hand fell away from Charlie's arm as if it had been struck. "I—" he said. "She—" He looked down at Charlie. "I was practically in love with you," he stammered, his thick lips trembling with rage. "And now you've ruined me. Ruined me." He took a step away from her, gave her a scathing look, then stamped from the room. Charlie stood there, shaking. She seemed to have completely lost her powers of logic. She felt sorry for Bus. She shouldn't have, but she did. Vince was by her side now. He ran his hand over her arm where Bus had gripped her. "Come on," he said firmly. "I'm getting you out of here." She didn't want to go with him, but she had to escape the ballroom. For the second time that day, her crew were trying to pretend they hadn't seen anything. "You shouldn't have done that," she said nervously as they left the house. "You shouldn't have fired him. He'll take it out on Eddie." She didn't want to say anything about Luis being Tom's son yet. There were too many people around, and she wasn't sure how to approach the whole subject. "Eddie can take care of himself," Vince said shortly. "And maybe I'll hire O'Conner back. If he comes begging on his hands and knees—to you and me both. Next time try to pick a better class of admirer."

"What—what do you want with me now?" she asked. He was leading her down the back stairs. "To talk to you. To make you a proposition." The word "proposition" filled her with trepidation. His tone was a mixture of concern and mockery. He was pretending to be kind to her again. After what Gully had told her, she knew she should be wary of Vince, exceptionally wary. "Come on," he ordered her, guiding her along the Way to one of the weathered benches that overlooked the sea. It was set in a kind of natural bower of twisted cedar and nodding lilac bushes and looked out over waves that tossed at the foot of the cliffs. "Sit," he said. "Maybe you're going to need to sit down for this." Obediently she sat. He settled beside her, his arm along the back of the bench. She stiffened slightly to avoid his touch. "I want you—" he began. Again she was unnerved by how closely the colour of his eyes resembled the sea's, but she didn't let that stop her. She cut him off. "Why didn't you tell me about Luis?" she demanded, turning and looking him in the eyes, her chin trembling. "He's Tom's, isn't he?" The scarred brow rose slightly. Otherwise, his face was expressionless, but his eyes held hers. "Tom's and Laura's," he said slowly. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded again. "How could you keep it to yourself?"

"I tried." His expression was serious. "But from the first night I saw you in Dragon Sea, I knew it wasn't something I could just blurt out. Last night, I almost did—until I realised you wouldn't listen to any words that put Tom in a bad light. And I began to suspect you'd hate me when I told you. And you're looking at me as if you do. Who told you? Or did you just finally guess?" "Gully told me," she said bitterly. She steeled herself, remembering what else Gully had said. "Gully," he said in disgust. "Somebody should have thrown that old coot into the sea years ago. What else did he tell you?" "Nothing," Charlie lied, "except it happened when Tom came home on leave and you didn't. Right before you got shipped overseas. Tom knew, didn't he?" His eyes went cold. "Oh...he knew all right. And he was just very lucky he got shot. Because if the enemy hadn't blown him away, I would have. Only not where there was an officer around to report me. I read that letter from Laura, and I told him what was in it, and I told him I was going to kill him." "You hated him, didn't you?" she accused. "Of course I hated him," he said, the line of his mouth dangerous. "Then the bastard saved my life, so I had to hate him and be grateful to him at the same time. Think of that, Charlie. I told him I'd kill him, and he still saved my life. Then they told me I might never walk again, and I found out that Laura had disappeared. Gratitude disappeared. I just hated him again. A good deal, in fact." "He never, ever would have wanted to hurt her. You knew him. You knew he wasn't that kind of person."

He gave a derisive laugh. "He meant no harm. He made love to the poor girl, but he meant no harm. Charlie, the worst harm in the world is usually done by people who mean no harm. Thanks, but that doesn't quite justify it." "And you said you'd forgiven him." Her voice was edged with sarcasm. "I did," he said simply, though his face still looked hard. "I don't believe you," she said. "Don't. I didn't say it was easy. And I didn't say it happened overnight." His tone was a", abrupt as hers. "Does Luis know?" "Not yet. But it's not always easy to tell what Luis knows. He may suspect." "You're going to tell him?" she asked. "You'll make him hate us, won't you?" He sighed harshly. "He likes you. They both like you. Quite a lot. If they grow to hate you, it'll be because you made it happen, not me." "Me?" She looked at him with-angry disbelief. "Because you can't or won't accept what your brother did." "I'd never take something like that out on them. And Tom—" "I know," he said impatiently. "Tom meant no harm. We've been through that part. All I want from you, Charlie, is for you and Eddie to accept the boys. When the time comes, I want you to acknowledge them. Because, whether you like it or not, you and I—

and Eddie—are the only family they've got. Luis is of our blood— all of ours, and Roberto is his brother." "That's all you want?" she asked, unable to believe him. "That's all." The handsome face still looked stern, almost severe. "I—" She did not know what to say. She fell silent, a prisoner again of his dark blue gaze. "Eddie knows. And he agrees with me," he said in the same businesslike tone. "I told him this afternoon." "He knows?" Her eyes widened slightly. "I was going to tell you first. Last night I realised you couldn't stand to hear it from me. I was going to have Eddie break the news. Gully beat him to it." "What... did Eddie say?" "That he'd suspected for a long time there'd been a woman in Tom's life. That he was glad I was being honest with him. That he was glad his brother's son had come home. That he'd do his best always to treat the boys with respect. That he wanted to do the right thing. In short, all the things that you've neglected saying." She turned her eyes out toward the sea, feeling ashamed. She could see Eddie, solemn and careful and thoughtful, saying all those things. "Well," she said, trying to sound calm. "Certainly. I'll acknowledge Luis. Both of them. I've never been ashamed of Tom or anything he's done. And I never will be. I know he tried to find her whether you believe it or not."

"I believe he did, Charlie. But he was like me. He tried to find her too late." She looked at him warily. "There's one more thing I want from you," he said, his face implacable. "What?" She tried to keep her face controlled, emotionless. "I want you to move into our house for a while. Stay with the boys." "What?" she asked in disbelief. "I have to go back to New York. Mrs. Hopwood's still ill, and at her age, she doesn't bounce back the way she used to. And, to be perfectly frank, I'm sick of seeing you work yourself to death at Dragon Sea. I want you to move in. For about a week. I'll find someone to take your place on the crew." "I can't move in," she protested, alarmed. "I have work to do. And what would people say?" "Charlie," he said, a spark of anger flashing deep within him, "who cares what people say? I won't even be there. You know the kids. The kids know you. And pretty soon, they're going to find out you're their aunt—at least Luis's. And it's fine with Eddie. He trusts me, even if you don't." "But people are already saying—" "Damn what people say. It's the kids' welfare I'm concerned about. Can't you shake your small-town mentality for an instant? A fraction of an instant? Who cares what people like Emma Bartleby think? In a short while they'll know the truth, anyway—that we're all just one big happy family."

Her mind veered drunkenly. She didn't understand anything. What was he trying to do to her now? And how had he talked Eddie into it so easily? "Half the town knows I was there last night," she protested desperately, "and Gully said you wanted to—" "I can imagine what Gully said," he replied acidly. "If it makes you feel safer, bring a chaperon along. How about Gully himself? I'm sure he'd love to go through my dresser drawers, read my mail, listen in on my phone calls." He wasn't looking at her any longer, but at the waves that were starting to swell as the tide came in. What difference did it make, she thought wearily. What difference did anything make? "All right," she said at last. "I might as well let you completely flush my reputation down the drain. Gully says that's what you want. Fine. Maybe you deserve the satisfaction." He stood up, glanced at her, then back out to sea. He shifted his shoulders impatiently. "What do I have to do to make you understand? I never meant to hurt you, Charlie. Ever." She looked up at his profile, strong against the afternoon light. "I imagine that's how Tom felt about Laura." She had not meant to say it, but it had come out. He turned and smiled down at her. There was something very controlled in his smile. "I imagine so," he said. "I imagine that's exactly how it was. It's a pity he's dead, isn't it? And that I can't tell him how clearly I understand it all now."

She didn't understand the look in his eyes—perhaps she was afraid to. She looked away. "Be there tomorrow at nine," he said casually, as if telling her the weather forecast. "And don't go back to Dragon Sea. That's an order. Go home." She kept her head down. She still didn't look at him. Then he was gone, and she was alone.

CHAPTER TEN BY THE NEXT MORNING, Charlie's dark suspicion that Gully was right—that Vince wanted revenge—had intensified. Her quixotic hope that Vince had no ulterior motives had completely fizzled away after her argument with Eddie. When Eddie had come home from work the night before, he had dismissed Gully's opinions as twisted fantasy. "Vince is a nice guy, Charlie," Eddie argued wearily. "All he wants is to do right by the kids. And now that we know one of them is Tom's, we ought to want the same." "He admitted he hated Tom after he found out about him and Laura," Charlie argued. "I could see it on his face that he hated him." "Did hate him, Charlie. Past tense. I'd have hated him myself if I'd been Vince. But it's been a long time. Time changes your perspective on things. I mean, they were only kids when it happened. Give the man credit for growing up." "I just wonder why he's so interested in us, that's all," she said unhappily. "He told you. Because of the kids. We're practically related now." "So related that he wants to buy into the business?" she asked sharply. "I told you," Eddie said doggedly. "He just wants to help. He admitted he was mad at Tom for a long time—but he finally realised he still owed him a lot. And I'm not selling the business. But he is going to loan us some money."

"Loan us money?" Charlie cried, more disturbed than before. "To expand," Eddie said firmly. "He says we'll never break even with the business this size, and he's right. But if we could afford more help and more equipment, we'd turn a profit." "Eddie," Charlie said desperately, "we can't go any farther in debt. We just can't." "Look," he reasoned with maddening deliberation, "this way we consolidate the debts. We get money to extend our operations. That's what he calls it, 'extending our operations.'" "He'll extend us right into the poor house," she objected. "We're gonna end up there anyway if we don't do something," he said stolidly. "And there's no risk. I just put up a percentage of the business as collateral for the loan." "What?" Her eyes widened in alarm. "How big a percentage?" "Fifty-one percent." "But that's a controlling interest." She panicked. "That's as good as selling it to him!" Eddie sighed. "Charlie, it makes sense. If I can't make it on the loan—but I know I can—the business is still safe. He takes over his percentage and pumps in as much money as he thinks it needs. But that won't happen. If I finally get some cash behind me, we can make it. I know it." "We don't even know if we can trust this man!" she protested. "I know we can," Eddie said with finality. "You're the one who's having problems. I'm glad you're going over to his place for the rest

of the week. Frankly I don't want to argue with you. It's always like beating my head against a wall." "Eddie!" she wailed in despair. "Those kids are our responsibility, too," he said flatly. "Charlie, think about it. Luis is Tom's son. Everybody's going to know it soon enough. And Vince won't even be there."

CHARLIE ARRIVED, apprehensive, at Vince's house at precisely nine o'clock, carrying her battered suitcase. The hefty Mrs. Hopwood, looking slightly pallid, met her at the door. She wore a voluminous housecoat and large fuzzy slippers. She sat Charlie at the kitchen table, laid down the ground rules of the household like a general, then hobbled back to bed. Luis and Roberto were clamouring to go to the sand- castle-building contest at the beach in Ogunquit, so she herded them into the Volkswagen and set off. On the way, they planned the week's itinerary. They'd go to Kittery and Kennebunk, Fort Foster and Witch Rock, Mount Agamenticus and Biddeford Pool. Luis was ecstatic about going anywhere. Mrs. Hop- wood's idea of a good time, he claimed, was complaining about the crowds, the traffic and the fishlike smell of the sea. Roberto, sweet-natured and silent as always, was happy just to be along. Throughout the day, she found herself stealing glances at both the boys, watching their actions. Luis really was very much like Tom, and Eddie, too. But she also felt he had a certain wiry strength of character that made him like Vince: a survivor.

Roberto, however, was gentler, quieter, trapped in the prison of his own shyness. One thing they had in common, though, was they were both going to need love, and lots of it. As they strolled the crowded beach in Ogunquit, Luis looked up at her. "My father grew up here," he said, watching carefully to see the effect the words had on her. She kept her expression blankly cheerful. "He did?" "He's dead," Luis said. "He got shot in the war, and he couldn't come home and help my mother. She got scared and ran away to Mexico, and she never wrote him where she was. But I know my father was a good man. She always told me." She nodded, feeling numb to the marrow of her bones. "I'm sure he was." He still watched her expression carefully. "I probably got relatives in this town, you know? My father's hair was kind of red. I saw a picture. I been watching for all the redheads, you know?" She nodded. "You're a redhead," he said almost casually. He knows, Charlie thought, her heart starting to hammer in her chest. He's figured it out. "My adopted father—he says he'll explain it all in time. I wish he'd hurry up." "Well," she said carefully. "You don't do these things all at once, you know. You've had enough jolts and changes for a while. Maybe he wants you to get used to him before he dumps a horde of new relatives on you."

"Yeah," Luis said tiredly, as if he'd heard that line of reasoning before. "Anyway, I just want you to know that I know my father was a good man. "His father," he whispered, pointing to Roberto, who was staring happily at the sand castles, "was a son of a bitch." ' "Luis!" Charlie said, stopping and staring at him in horror. "That's awful! I don't ever want to hear you use those words again. I mean it." Luis shrugged. "Well," he said righteously, "he was. Nobody ever says it so Roberto could hear, but it's true." "It's not polite to swear.'' "Well, I'm not always so polite," he said saucily. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You will be when I get through with you," she warned. He only grinned.

SHE TOOK OVER the evening cooking duties for Mrs. Hop- wood, who still got queasy even contemplating food. Luis told Charlie privately that she was a better cook than Mrs. Hopwood, whose meat loaf, he claimed was like rubber. Like the boys, Charlie was a horror-movie fan, so after dinner they popped some corn then lay on the living room floor, watching Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. Charlie felt so comfortable with them—as if they were all a family... But that was impossible, she reminded herself, thinking of Vince's conversation with Elena.

"Uh," Charlie asked Luis casually, "who's, er, Elena?" Luis was entranced as he watched a giant tomato stalk the movie's hero. "Some woman Dad knows in New York. They're always on the phone." "Oh," she said, feeling guilty for asking. "Ah!" Luis said with satisfaction. "He's going to get it now—major tomato slaughter!" The phone rang and she leaped into the kitchen to answer it. It was Vince. At the sound of his voice, her pulse started to gallop. "How are things?" he asked. "What are you doing?" She had never heard his voice on the phone before, and it was the kind of satiny deep baritone that tickled the ear. "Everything's fine. Mrs. Hopwood's feeling better. She thinks she'll finally get a full night's sleep. The boys and I are watching Attack of the Killer Tomatoes'' He groaned. "Again? Be careful. It can give you nightmares about being chased by salads." She smiled in spite of herself, but quickly forced it away as darker thoughts surfaced. "What's this about you loaning Eddie money?" "That's between Eddie and me. It doesn't concern you." "It certainly does concern me," she argued. "No, it doesn't," he said easily, "because you won't be working for him any longer." "What?" she demanded.

"Keep your voice down," he insisted. "Luis has big ears. That's part of the terms of the loan. Eddie hires help, and you stop working like a mad woman." "What?" She was shocked. "I figured he wouldn't have had the nerve to tell you that part yet. I don't blame him." "What are you trying to do?" she whispered furiously. "Take over my whole life? What is this?" "What? This connection must be bad. I can't hear you." "You can hear me perfectly well, and you know it," she whispered. "What? All I hear is static. I'd better hang up. Tell the boys hello and that I miss them. Have fun." "Who's Elena, by the way?" she whispered. "What are you up to? Are you going to spring a new stepmother on these children without even telling them?" she blurted out the questions unthinkingly, then hoped she hadn't gone too far. "What? I thought I heard you say something that sounded almost jealous. I must have been mistaken. Good night, my little fireball." She heard a click. She stared at the phone in frustration, then hung it up. All right, she admitted, she was jealous. She'd never been jealous of another woman in her life, but now she was, and it felt terrible. She went back into the living room and moodily sat down crosslegged in front of the popcorn bowl. "Was that Dad?" Luis asked.

She nodded, trying to approximate cheerfulness. "He said to tell you hello and that he missed you." "Um," Luis said, staring at the television set. "You like him a lot, don't you?" She felt the colour rising in her face. "He's all right," she said noncommittally. "I wish Dad didn't have so many women," Luis complained. "I wish he'd settle down." She digested his comments carefully, then asked guiltily, "He.. .has a lot of women?" "Ugh. Gobs. Or he did till a few months ago. But don't get the wrong idea. He doesn't bring them home and stuff. He's... uh... I heard Mrs. Hopwood talking on the phone about it once. He's discreet." Her face burned. Luis really was too wise for his years. She vowed not to ask one more question about Vince's women; the answers were always too painful.

THE DAYS PASSED quickly. They went on lots of outings, and the boys behaved as well as young boys could be expected to behave, and she grew fonder of them every day. But despite all the activity and her excellent rapport with the boys, it struck Charlie that something was missing—Vince. She had to admit the house seemed empty without him. Her clothes hung beside his in the closet. She slept in his bed, rested her head on his pillow and dreamt about him at night. He haunted

the house like a ghost. She realised that she, like the boys, was eager for him to come home. Except, she had to keep reminding herself, he wasn't coming home to her. That fact became painfully clear one night when he called and she overheard Mrs. Hopwood talking to him on the phone. "Isn't that marvellous?" Mrs. Hopwood was saying. "Isn't that fine? Elena is a marvel, just a marvel. Give her a kiss for me. I'm so glad the two of you have worked it out at last. Blessings on you both." As the boys took turns chatting with Vince, Mrs. Hop- wood turned, beaming to Charlie. "Miss Elena," she said, "is a marvel. Just a marvel. Mr. Gambit was so lucky to find her." Charlie, who had vowed not to ask any more embarrassing questions, kept silent. She had talked to Vince the evening before, but he had mentioned nothing about Elena.

LUIS HAD GRILLED CHARLIE incessantly about her family and then insisted on meeting Eddie. Charlie was almost sure Luis had guessed the truth. For one thing, he was suspiciously careful when he questioned her about Tom. He asked few specific questions about him, but constantly asked, "What was he like?" "He was wonderful," she would reply. "You would have liked him a lot. And he would have liked you." "You think so?" His face would look troubled. "I know so," she would assure him.

She was nervous about introducing the boys to Eddie. She wanted to wait until Vince was home, and, anyway, she was still upset with Eddie for accepting money from Vince and for agreeing to the loan conditions Vince had insisted on. But Luis persisted and finally wore down her resistance. She decided, too, that maybe the boys' presence would provide a buffer between her and Eddie. At least she wouldn't be able to snap at him. Lately, all of their phone conversations had ended hostilely. She arranged for them to meet for a picnic on the river beach, which generally wasn't as crowded as the white sands of the ocean beach. Luis and Eddie eyed each other a bit nervously at first, and Roberto had an almost disabling fit of shyness. But Eddie had had the foresight to bring Max, and the old dog, grumpy and comic, helped break the ice. Although Eddie was no raconteur, he was capable of telling many wry stories about Max's misdeeds, including the time he had fallen out of a tree into the river. "Ah, come on," Luis said. "A dog can't climb a tree." "He can climb a fallen tree," Eddie said solemnly. "A tree on the bank fell over, and he went running out—'cause this is a very nosy dog—and he got out on a limb and lost his balance and fell right in. Charlie yelled until I dived in and saved him. I ruined my watch. Crazy dog." After lunch, the boys played- on the beach, sending Max off to chase gulls. Eddie and Charlie sat watching them. "It wasn't as hard as I thought," Eddie said, his face solemn. "They're nice kids. But it was a jolt. He really is like Tom, isn't he? And the little guy, Roberto, he gets to you, doesn't he?" "He certainly does," she answered rather sadly.

"I think it's gonna be all right, Charlie. I think maybe we'll all get along fine. I been thinkin' about it a lot. I mean I'm not as good as Tom was with kids, but I could teach 'em to fish and stuff. What do you think?" "I think that would be great." She shook her head, fighting back a sudden impulse to shed tears. They sat in silence. "You want to bury the hatchet?" he asked at last. "What do you mean?" she asked. "You want to stop disagreeing about this loan and everything? Vince wants to do right by you, Charlie. He really does. He knows what you meant to Tom. He's a good man, Charlie. I wish you'd believe it." "In a way, I guess I do," she admitted reluctantly. Believing in Vince only made things more difficult. It made her want him more than ever. And he saw her only as a stubborn and embittered brat that he had vowed to protect as best he could. "I signed the loan agreement," Eddie said. "No interest. I pay it back when I can pay it back. He won't keep a copy of the agreement. He wants you to have it." "Me?" She blinked in surprise. "Because he knows you're suspicious. He says if you keep it and anything should happen—if things go wrong for me or something— you can tear it up. You can say I never signed anything. It's all in your hands. Here." He handed her a long white envelope.

"I can't -" she began. "That's the way he wants it. He doesn't want you to worry, that's all. He wants to prove to you that your idea of his getting even with us isn't true." She took the envelope, feeling humbled and foolish. "Oh, Eddie," she said weakly. "And don't worry—I'll pay him back. Every cent. You know that, don't you? That I'm honest?" "Oh, Eddie," she said again, shaking her head. "Of course I know that. You're more than honest. You're wonderful. You always have been." "Hey," he muttered. "You look like you're gonna get weepy. Don't." In a rare display of affection, he put his arm around her awkwardly. She leaned her head against his shoulder and watched the boys run after Max. She held the envelope tightly, as if it was the final proof that Vince Gambit had no evil designs on the business. Or, she admitted, on her. He had tried to be kind to her. He had stolen a few kisses, which she, like a fool, had taken too seriously. He hadn't asked her to fall in love with him. All he'd ever wanted was for her to accept him and the children. "I gotta get back to work," Eddie said at last. "Let's round up these kids and take them to the Cove for ice cream. I guess I better get used to buying 'em ice cream." "I guess you'd better," she said, smiling. At the Cove, Charlie saw Gully on his bench, staring hostilely at her and Eddie as they stood in line with the boys in front of Barnacle Billy's.

"Excuse me a minute," she said. She marched across the street to face the old man. He was glowering sourly at her, but before he could open his mouth to begin his usual scolding, she shook her finger at him. "Don't you dare say a word, Gully. Not one word. Those boys are my nephews and Eddie's, too. The Gambits and the Benteens are related now, and anybody that says a word against a Gambit will have me to deal with. I mean it. I will jump down the throat of anybody who criticises Vince Gambit and those two children. That goes for you, too. And you can tell the gulls to spread the word around. I'll talk to you later when I'm not so fired up, but that's the only thing I've got to say to you right now." She turned and walked away, leaving the old man with his mouth open. "Charlotte," he called after her in irritation, "you're a damned fool." So what, she thought. She'd said what had to be said. THAT FRIDAY NIGHT, when Mrs. Hopwood hung up the phone after talking to Vince she was smiling widely. "Our man is coming back to us," she announced blithely. "And he's bringing Elena. This calls for a celebration, I'll tell you. Where's my notepad? I've got to make a grocery list. And remind me to call the florist. He wants this house filled with flowers for her. What a day!" "Hey, Charlie," Luis said as he peeled an orange. "Want to play a couple of rounds of Demon Death?" "Miss Elena is coming," Mrs. Hopwood burbled. "You'll meet her at last. Isn't that wonderful, Luis?"

"I guess so," he said, shrugging and strolling into the living room to switch on the video game. "They don't really understand yet how important all this is," Mrs. Hopwood whispered happily, and gave Charlie a wink. She tried to smile back but felt as if her mouth were only quivering helplessly. "Mr. Gambit wants you to stay for the celebration supper," Mrs. Hopwood added. "Oh, you'll love Miss Elena— such a bright lady. So many college degrees—and so good with children. Has he told you about her?" "Oh, yes. He's told me about her," she lied. She didn't think she could stand to hear another word about Elena. "Hey, Charlie, come on," Luis called from the living room; she could hear the sound of buzzing and beeping demons in the background. She went in and plunked down on the couch unhappily and let the demons have their way with her. "You're utterly destroyed," Luis said at last in disgust. "Yes," she said numbly. "I am."

THE NEXT MORNING, Mrs. Hopwood wanted to go to Portsmouth to do some special shopping for supper. The boys were excited about the trip because they always liked seeing the naval yard and the large ships, but Charlie demurred. She'd stay home, wash her clothes and start packing. She intended to be out of the house by the time Vince and Elena arrived.

Mrs. Hopwood ordered four dozen roses and two bouquets of mixed flowers from the florist. "Something splashy but still tasteful," she said firmly. "We have a lady we want to impress." Then she marched Roberto into the bedroom to wrestle him out of his beloved Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Charlie sat in the living room with Luis. They were both pretending to watch The Return of the Cobra Goddess on television. "You have to go home tonight?" he asked. "Yes," she replied unemotionally. "We'll miss you," he said gruffly, staring harder at the television. "I'll miss you, too." She avoided looking at him. He slumped lower in the armchair. "We'll still see you, though—a lot?" "Oh, yes, quite a lot. I'm sure of it," she answered. He knows, she thought. He knows Tom's his father. And whenever I see him, it's going to be so hard. It's going to be too hard. Because of Vince. "You know what I told Dad on the phone the other night?" he said, his voice low. "I told him he ought to marry you." "You what?" She spun to look at him, appalled. His handsome young face looked guilty. "Well, he's not getting any younger, you know? I mean, he's past thirty. And Roberto could use a mother, you know? He's just a little kid. And Dad ought to get married

before he's ninety or something. And you're nice. He could get to like you." "Oh, Luis," she said miserably, shaking her head. "Your father— well, he'll want to pick his own wife. You never should have said that to him." "That's what he said. I don't know why everybody gets so excited about it," Luis said grumpily. "It was just an idea, that's all." "It's an idea you'd better forget." This was a complication she hadn't thought of, she realised as a knot formed in her stomach. Vince was bringing Elena home to meet the boys. He would be angry if Charlie stood between the children and their future mother. After all, Elena was a marvellous woman. Everybody kept saying so. She put her face in her hands, deeply disturbed and embarrassed. "Gee, I just did because, well, we like you a lot. I mean..." She stared at the television screen, trying hard to regain control of herself. "I like you a lot, too." Suddenly Mrs. Hopwood barged into the living room with Roberto, telling Luis to hurry, hurry, hurry. "To the station wagon," she ordered. "Hut! One-two, one-two. Roberto, don't dawdle. Luis, stand straight, please." Charlie watched them go and put her face in her hands again. She didn't know what she was going to do. She thought about joining the Foreign Legion. Then the phone rang. She answered.

"Who's this?" a man's voice asked, puzzled. "Charlie Benteen," she said. "I'm staying with the boys." "Where's Vince? I thought he was there. With Elena." "No," she said softly, "they'll be in tonight." "Well, this is Herb. Tell Vince I called, and tell them both congratulations for me. I just heard the news. Couldn't be happier.'' "We're all... very happy," Charlie said as pleasantly as she could, wondering why the ground didn't open up and swallow her. It was the biggest lie she'd ever told. She moved around the house in a haze of melancholy. She had to leave before the boys got back. She couldn't stand any more pretending. She was opening her suitcase when the flowers were delivered. The card tied to the ribbon of each arrangement bore the same simple message: "For Elena." The scent of the blossoms seemed choking. Their colours flared all too happily in the morning light. I've got to get out of here, she thought desperately. She went back into Vince's bedroom, blindly tearing her clothes from the hangers and throwing them into her suitcase. She snapped it shut, picked it up and paused only long enough to leave a note on the kitchen counter. Bye, everybody. See you around. Herb called to say congratulations. It's been fun. Yours, Charlie

To make the forgery of cheer seem more complete, she drew a smiling happy face under her name. There, she thought, setting the note down with a shaking hand, that looked friendly enough. She left, locked the door and slid the key under the mat. She walked as fast as she could to her Volkswagen, her suitcase banging against her knees. She started the car, wondering briefly if she'd left anything in the house, other than her heart.

CHAPTER ELEVEN EDDIE SHEEPISHLY TOLD HER he hoped she wouldn't mind spending the evening alone. He had a date. He, too, had been invited to Vince's, but he had what he shyly called "a previous commitment." Charlie tried to conceal her surprise. Eddie hardly ever dated. "Yeah, well," he said, blushing beneath his sunburn. "I've had my eye on her for quite a while. Rita McClintock." "Rita McClintock?" Charlie asked, struggling to act normal as she tied Eddie's tie for him. "Why, she's a very nice woman. I didn't know you were interested in Rita McClintock." "Yeah, well, I didn't feel right asking anybody out. We were so in debt and everything that I figured I didn't have the right to get involved with anybody. But now... well... things are working out nice, Charlie. You should see Dragon Sea. And I got a contract this fall for two more motels. And a church. Things are lookin' up." Why did she feel so dolorous, she wondered, as she watched from the window as Eddie climbed into the van. Perhaps because she knew Eddie wouldn't really need her any longer. He could run the business without her help. She turned away from the window. "Stop feeling so morbid," she told herself. "You should be happy for him. It's about time he got a few breaks in life." Max looked up at her and wagged his tail. She managed to stay in the house until almost seven o'clock. Then her restlessness threatened to drive her insane. She had sat. She had paced. She had tried to watch television. She had tried to read her college prospectus and plan her courses for next fall.

Finally, she put Max into the car and began to drive aimlessly. She ended up, as she knew she would, at Dragon Sea. She'd thought she'd never go there alone again, especially at night, but she was drawn by a strange ghostly force beyond her control. She parked at the Cove and walked along the Way, with Max wheezing at her heels. The sea was grey, and the horizon slightly misty, stretching off into a soft vagueness that seemed to have no end. The sky, too, was a darkening grey, with faint streaks of pink in the west. The tide was out, and the ocean stirred softly and regularly like a great sleepy beast at the foot of the cliffs. She darted off the path, feeling furtive, and made her way through the bushes to the break in the fence. They still hadn't fixed it yet. She walked slowly up the stone stairs, and when Max refused to go any farther, she picked him up and carried him. Her old secret entrance had long since been repaired, but she still had a key to a side door from her days of labouring. She set Max down and let herself in. She went directly to the ballroom and looked around. Whoever Vince had found to replace her had done a superb job. The walls were pristine again, resplendent with a pale dusky-rose paper. A new chandelier hung in place. The great white marble fireplace was cleaned and gleamed softly in the half-light. The floor was clean of debris. She wandered from room to room. Most of the downstairs was finished. The rooms looked the way they had always been meant to look. Max followed behind, grumbling as she went up the great staircase. The upstairs halls were still in disrepair, but when she swung open

the door of the master bedroom, she felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. The trim was freshly painted in ivory, the walls papered in a pale dove-grey. She walked to the big window and sat on the sill, looking out over the cliffs at the darkening waves. The future stretched before her as grey and formless and foggy as the sea. There was enough money now for her to finish school, and she would go back to Bangor in the fall. After that, she had no idea. Perhaps she'd find some kind of job working with other people's children. Next time, though, she would have the good sense not to fall in love with them. She looked down at the window sill, wondering if Tom's carved message was still there. It was not. The wood was as smooth as if Tom Benteen had never lived. The words Were sanded away, the paint cool and smooth where they had been. She ran her fingers over the satiny finish. Oh, Tom, she thought, you were right. Your family will live here. At least your son. And you were right that you owed Vince Gambit. But the debt is settled. He's put everything right. Or almost everything. She thought she heard a footstep. Max lay by her feet, staring toward the door. His tail began to wag, thumping slowly against the floor. "Why so pensive?" a familiar voice asked. She turned and saw Vince standing in the doorway, his hand on the knob. He appeared tall and shadowy in the fading light.

Max gave one more wag, then put his head on his paws and closed his eyes. "Do you still call that a watchdog?" Vince asked dryly. "I think you'd be safer if you travelled with a really evil- tempered hamster than that old fraud." Her heart took its familiar flying leap into space. Her body tensed as he stepped closer. He was wearing dark slacks and a white pullover that glimmered in the falling darkness. "He didn't bark because he knows you," she said, and turned to stare out the window again. She did not trust herself to look at him. "What are you doing here?" he asked. She could feel his eyes on her. "Thinking about going back to Bangor," she said as lightly as she could. "Maybe I'll go early." "Why'd you come here tonight?" he asked, his voice low. "I thought after I found you here the first night you'd never come back to this house alone. I guess you're incorrigible." "I came to think." Her voice trembled noticeably. She wished now that she'd never come. "I was just about to leave." But she seemed incapable of moving away while he was there. She heard him moving toward her. He said nothing at all. "What are you doing here?" she asked, willing her voice to be steady. She had to talk. She couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Seeing the progress they made while you were gone? It looks wonderful. It really does. Maybe sometime I'll get to see it in the daylight."

"I came to find you," he said. Something in his tone made her feel vulnerable. She continued to stare out of the window. A few faint stars were piercing the mist, which was thinning. "Luis was upset that you left without saying goodbye. I called your house, but nobody answered. I had a hunch you might be here." "I think Luis knows," she said tightly. "About Tom. I think he's guessed." "I know he's guessed. He told me tonight. He misses you. I want you to have dinner with us. Meet Elena." "No," she said more sharply than she had intended. He put his hand on her arm. "Charlie—" "Don't! Don't touch me," she ordered, drawing away. "I can understand everything you did and why you did it—except that. You never had to touch me. You shouldn't have kissed me the way you did. The way you look at me sometimes—it's not right." "Isn't it?" His hand was on her arm again, but this time she didn't have the strength to fight him. "Why was it wrong? Because it happened so fast? I wasn't in control of that. Charlie, I've never been less in control of anything in my life." "You know why," she said stubbornly. "Because of Elena. It wasn't fair flirting with me when you belong to somebody else and when you say all you want is for me to accept the boys." His hands held her upper arms. His touch made her shiver.

"Charlie," he said in exasperation, "what are you talking about? I've sent Elena flowers, and I've never said much about her to anyone, because I couldn't, but I don't think you have the faintest notion of who she is." "I know who she is. The woman who's going to make your family complete," she said stiffly. "Please don't touch me. Please don't." "I want to touch you. I like touching you. I like nothing better in the world than touching you. And, dammit, Charlie, you don't think I'm going to marry Elena, do you?" "It's what everybody in town thinks," she said, trying to hold back tears. "Oh, Charlie, Elena's married already—quite happily. And she's fifty-five years old. And, although she'd murder me for telling you, she's about forty pounds overweight. The woman is my lawyer, a very well-respected one, and I went through the tortures of the damned to get her to take my case." "What?" she asked in disbelief, whirling to face him. "Everybody said you and she—Bus told me that you sent her flowers, that you said you were making it legal with her, that you were buying her a diamond!" He shook his head, drawing her to her feet. "Small towns. They'll never change. Elena's making it legal for me, not with me. She's the best family lawyer in New York State. And if I flattered and sweettalked her, it was to buck her up, because that lady just fought the toughest fight of her career.' ' "What fight?" she asked, so dazzled by relief she felt almost faint. "Against Roberto's biological father," he said, his voice intense. "Rafael Gomez. I had no trouble adopting Luis. I'd thought I'd have

no problem adopting Roberto, either. Gomez had long disappeared. But when he found out I had Roberto and that I had money, he smelled opportunity. He'd never signed any adoption release, so legally he had custody. He'd skipped town shortly after he'd found out Laura was pregnant. But then he crawled back out of the woodwork. He tried extorting money, and when that didn't work, he hired a team of lawyers that tied me up in legal knots in a way you wouldn't believe. Oh, don't worry. Gomez didn't want Roberto. He wanted as much money as he could get, and if he couldn't get it any other way, he was prepared to take Roberto back until I came up with the right price." "Oh, no," she breathed. "He had a lot of cards to play, Charlie. And Elena and I went through hell fighting him. He was the child's real father. He was a citizen of Mexico whose child had been taken out of the country without his knowledge or permission. He's a Catholic, albeit not a very good one, and I'm not, which counted against me. The boys were raised by nuns, after all. He was married, and I was the playboy bachelor—until Elena laid it on the line that I walk the straight and narrow. Roberto is too little to understand, and I never told Luis, because I didn't want to alarm him. Both kids have had enough insecurity. I kept it as quiet as I could because it was threatening to mushroom into the kind of down-and-dirty custody fight that gets splashed all over tabloids. It could have been a monster scandal that would have hurt both boys badly. And like I said, they've been through enough. Only a few people knew. I couldn't afford to let it get out." "But you won?" She looked up at him. She had put her hands on his arms without thinking.

"I always win," he said, smiling. "Or I find somebody who can. And Elena did it. She didn't want to represent me at first. She resented the same thing you did—that I had too much money. But she soon realised I'd make a far better father than Rafael Gomez. And Roberto's where he belongs for good now—with Luis and me. Now kiss me hello, dammit" His mouth bore down and took hers in a dizzying kiss. Strong arms pulled her gently but inexorably against him until she could feel his heart beating hard against her own. "Oh, Charlie," he said softly. "I missed you. I thought about you every day, every night, every minute. I'd think of you lying in my bed, and I couldn't sleep. I thought I had my return to Ogunquit planned down to the last detail, but I hadn't counted on you." "I missed you, too," she said, putting her arms around his neck and nuzzling against his chest. He kissed her on the nape of her neck. "I confess, in the old days, the bad days, I used to think of coming back and finding you when you were old enough, and hurting you the way Tom hurt Laura. And then I realised that was crazy— maybe worse than crazy—that morally you were the last person in the world I should hurt. I wanted to be so careful with you. I didn't want to be attracted to you at all. Then I saw you again, all grown up, and I knew I wanted you more than I'd ever wanted any woman in my life. I tried taking out other women. I tried to tell myself you were just a kid. I tried everything to get you out of my mind. But I couldn't, and I can't. So tell me you love me, because I know you do. We belong to each other. We have from the night I found you here in the moonlight. So say it, Charlie. Please, say it." "I love you." She smiled up at him, her eyes shining.

"And say you've learned to trust me and that the ghosts are finally appeased. I guess I never really forgave Tom until I found Laura again. Then I knew I couldn't carry the hate around any longer... and when I found out he was dead—and how he'd died—I felt terrible. There was no way I could tell him anything. But I thought maybe I could make it up to the rest of you. And I didn't come back to make you hate him. I know Tom would have gone after Laura and married her if he could have found her. But let him—and Laura—rest at last. Tell me the ghosts won't stand between us any longer." "I love you. I trust you. I'd trust you with my life. And the ghosts, I think, are satisfied. I don't feel them anymore. They've gone away." The moon had pierced the dissipating mist outside, and its beams fell through the window. His eyes were the same dark blue as the deep and dusky sky. "I'm not good at saying things like 'I love you' and 'will you marry me?' But I do love you—hopelessly, to be exact—and I want you to be mine. All I have to offer is a big house that isn't finished, two kids who despise the very idea of adult privacy and the most formidable housekeeper in the Western world. What's your answer?" She wound her arms more tightly around his neck. "My answer is yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes!" "Then it's official," he breathed. He kissed her again. He drew back a moment, half laughed, half sighed and shook his head. "I wasn't going to say any of that yet," he admitted ruefully. "I was going to wait and court you and sit under your window and serenade you if that's what it took, but you overwhelmed me again, Charlie. You did from the first. What I feel for you happens once in a lifetime—if a man is lucky. It isn't meant to be fought."

He gathered her more closely to him, and his mouth took hers in a long, exploratory kiss of possession. One hand tangled itself in the wealth of her hair, while the other brought her hips closer, fitting her body intimately to his. His lips sent a melting warmth racing through her. Then he swept her up into his arms, kissing her ear and then her lips. "I think I'd better take you home," he said, "before I spend the night ravishing you and letting Elena and my poor, neglected kids sit all alone. But it's ironic, carrying you out of the bedroom before I ever carried you in." She smiled and pressed her face against his neck. "Until I met you, I never really understood what desire could do to a person," he said against her ear. "I guess I never knew what Tom felt. Or Laura. How you could want someone that badly—even if you believed you shouldn't." "I didn't know, either," she whispered, her lips brushing against his throat. "It's frightening." "It certainly frightened me," he said, laughing. "But I've got one more thing to say to you before I take you home. That night, when the kids were sick, I knew I loved you and I wasn't going to be able to escape it. I saw you sleeping in my bed, and I wanted you there every night of my life. When I saw you sitting across the breakfast table from me, I knew I wanted you there every morning of my life. When you held Roberto, I couldn't imagine any other woman in the world doing it. And I wondered what a child of our own would look like." He lifted her face up to his and kissed her soundly. "When this house is finished, I want to marry you in it, downstairs in the

ballroom. And I want to make love to you every night, in this very room." "You won't get tired of me?" she said almost shyly. He looked down at her and laughed. "Don't worry," he said, and kissed her again. "Just don't worry." Then he kissed her again—a long, slow kiss that told her they both had come home at last. Below them, at the foot of the cliffs, the sea intoned its endless song, and the river flowed to it, fresh water mingling with salt, rushing, swirling, entering, joining as one at last. The stars sparkled more strongly in the sky, and the last scarves of mist fled away like ghosts.