His Mistress (Harlequin Stolen Moments)

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Author: Carrie Alexander

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Carrie Alexander His Mistress

Chapter 1

William Justice was about to propose marriage. A shudder of sheer delight took hold of Calla Quinn at the very thought. How interesting, she noted. Love gives you the shivers! There were times she wondered if this was too good to be true. She'd never imagined falling in love with a man like William, who was so securely set in his niche amongDenver's rich and powerful that she'd questioned her suitability as his future wife. Her usual outlandish artists and scruffy musicians were comfortably undemanding, arousing neither insecurities nor shivers. But then, she hadn't been in love with any of them, not really. She knew now she'd found the real thing. And her every instinct told her this was it. Their courtship had finally reached the moment of truth. William Justice was about to propose marriage. Calla shivered again, her skin going all goose bumpy under the high neckline and long sleeves of her classic navy blue dress. She forked up a bit of the delicious sole Parisienne, savoring the tang ofDijon mustard as it cut through her light-headed excitement. She must try to think clearly and concisely. William, such a proper gentleman, would expect decorous behavior even on this, the most thrilling night of her life. Sipping Chardonnay, Calla distracted herself by peering into the dim, candlelit interior of L'Etoile. Some might have called the sedate, Gallic-toned restaurant a conventional setting for a marriage proposal. She preferred "traditional." William could always be relied upon to follow tradition. Calla daintily patted her lips with a linen napkin and settled back against the plush banquette, wriggling her shoulders contentedly. Unaware of the obvious adoration shining in her eyes, she gazed across the table at her soon-to-be fiancé. Under the circumstances, she was as poised and prepared as possible. Wasn't it time he got on with it? "We've known each other for — what? Almost two months?" William leaned forward from the deepest curve of the banquette so that the harshly hewn angles and planes of his face suddenly loomed from the shadows. Although the severe lines of his profile would never qualify him as conventionally handsome, Calla found William's looks extremely compelling. Something in his knowing dark brown eyes provoked an elemental response in her, one that was both deeply exciting and quite impossible to define. As usual, she caught her breath as she absorbed William's marvelously masculine aura. It took a moment to subdue the quaver in her stomach before she could answer in an outwardly unaffected tone. "To be precise, it's been exactly seven weeks and three days, dear heart." He smiled faintly at the quaint turn of phrase. It didn't seem to fit the Calla Quinn he was positive lurked beneath the sleek veneer she'd assumed, the woman he hoped to uncover tonight in more ways than one. "Shall we make the fifty-second evening the most memorable?"


So tonightwas the night! Calla felt a tingling in her veins, as if her blood had been infused with champagne. William, traditional man that he was, would no doubt signal the waiter for Dom Pérignon once he'd popped the question. While champagne was all well and good, Calla had discovered the effervescent elixir of love and romance.

She murmured an assent, again fixing her starry gaze upon William. Fifty-two days before, they'd met at a classy little cocktail party Frogg, Underwood had thrown for some of their toniest clients. Vivien Willowbrook-Grey, the sharp-eyed copywriter of the creative team who'd produced the Justice Bank and Trust campaign, had instantly picked William out of the crowd. A generous friend and, not coincidentally, a recent bride, Vivien had steered Calla in his direction and then discreetly disappeared. For his part, William had needed no prompting. Once he'd spotted Calla's wild tumble of red hair and lively emerald eyes, the crush of guests had obediently parted before him as he made his way toward her. As he'd approached, his intense, dark-eyed stare seemed to freeze Calla in place. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist so tight her long, enameled nails incised half-moon marks into the soft flesh of her palm. William halted before her, and the air between them was charged with an electric anticipation. Calla found she couldn't speak, and William didn't seem inclined to. Fortunately, a hefty woman in a chartreuse caftan, chugging like a barge on her way to the buffet, had pushed between them and broken the spell. Calla averted her eyes, laughing nervously as her shaky fingers toyed with the fruit-shaped buttons and asymmetrical neon lapels of her avant-garde suit. William had been wearing a somewhat dull but subtly expensive Brooks Brothers suit with a red power tie and gleaming Italian shoes. A man of substance, an urbane and thoroughly civilized male, Calla had thought, evaluating him from beneath lowered lashes. Certainly no reason to send her pulse speeding to the Indy 500, she'd chided herself, while carefully avoiding his magnetic eyes. Then again, without the tailored suit he'd have looked little like the conservative banker she knew him to be. His body was solid and substantial, yes, but too muscular and powerful to belong behind a desk. After introducing himself, William had suavely complimented Calla on her design of the new Justice Bank logo and illustrations for their print ads. Flustered and flattered by the praise, she blurted something about being surprised that he knew who she was. Lowly illustrators didn't usually garner the attention of bank vice presidents. Arching his heavy black brows as he'd noted the banana, strawberry, and pineapple buttons parading down her curvy front, William had eyed her from head to toe. Blatantly. Like an aspen leaf in the wind, she trembled slightly inside the multicolored suit, wondering why she'd dressed so outrageously. But he just tipped up one corner of his mouth in an amused grin and said, "I make it my business to know every detail of any subject vital to my interests." A flummoxed Calla was unclear on whether he was speaking professionally or personally.

She'd found out when the next day brought a sheath of calla lilies wrapped in jewel-toned foil and an invitation to dinner. From there, she and William had eased into a leisurely but steady series of dates that had included a concert, art galleries, movies, a Nuggets playoff game, and theRockies' opening day. Justice Bank and Trust retained both courtside tickets and field-level box seats. They saw a Remington show at theDenverArt Museumand even tried fishing, a not entirely successful outing for Calla, who preferred to enjoy nature from afar and fish in restaurants. Since there were Justice banks scattered


throughout the West and Northwest, William was also maintaining a full schedule that included several business trips; even at his busiest, he made an effort to suggest a quick lunch or a shared cocktail hour before his next meeting. Their relationship had progressed quite nicely, albeit more decorously than Calla had anticipated. "And in that span of time, we've become very well acquainted," William was continuing in his suede-smooth voice. "Have we not?" Calla almost purred with pleasure as his words slid over her like a warm cloak. "We have," she agreed. "I like what I've learned about you, Calla." Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she didn't reply. While it was true they'd gotten to know each other in many ways, there were still aspects of her personality and her past that she hadn't revealed. She'd answered his questions honestly, but she hadn't volunteered any disturbing information. Vivien claimed everybody toned down or tuned out their less-desirable traits during the early phases of courtship. William didn't have to know every single little detail of her past, did he? She was just cultivating an air of mystery, wasn't she? So why did she have a vaguely guilty conscience? "Can you say the same about me?" William asked at her continued silence. How startling — and sort of endearing — that he might harbor doubts! "Oh, of course, William. Of course," she hastily affirmed. Did she sound too eager? "I believe we're quite — compatible," she added with a touch more restraint. Certainly they'd talked. Over cozy brandies after a late movie, between bites of relish-smothered hot dogs at the ball game, on the phone in the middle of a business day with calls waiting on their other lines. She'd discovered that William was, predictably, a Republican, but one with a social conscience. Calla was a firm Democrat, rabid on the gender inequity in Congress. She'd even persuaded William to contribute a wad of Justice money to aLittletonwoman gearing up for a run at a seat. They'd exchanged childhood stories, too. William's favorite birthday party had been an extravaganza of clowns, jugglers, and ponies, topped off with the best cake any seven-year-old had ever had — three-tiered chocolate fudge. In a slightly tipsy moment, Calla had confessed the story of acquiring her first bra: a polyester lace-and-elastic affair called a Beauty-gro. She'd even exhibited her laughably horrible eighth-grade class photo, baby fat, braces, limp shag cut, and all. They'd compared first-date disasters, blind-date revelations, prom-night fiascos. On a dare, William had shown her what he carried in his wallet and pockets. Fascinated, Calla had cataloged the items: a gizmo the size of a thick charge card that contained all his vital stats — agenda, addresses, phone numbers; tickets from the dry cleaner's; an elegant silver-tipped fountain pen; his personalized Justice Bank and Trust card; two gold (of course) charge cards. There was also a tiny tin of extra-strength aspirin, a small plastic comb, and photos of his family and Yale rowing team. Crisp bills neatly filed in descending order of denomination. An immaculate silk handkerchief and a beeper. Red with embarrassment, she'd revealed the contents of her purse — except for the lone condom she'd been carrying for the past five weeks; a lady had to keepsome secrets. They'd included a bulging makeup case that held everything from an eyelash curler to a full-size can of hair spray. A tube of mauve lipstick that had looked super on the salesgirl but funereal on herself. Charcoal pencils and sketch pad, her mini-address book and week-at-a-glance calendar. Phone card,


credit card, and the department-store card she kept swearing to cut up. Photos of friends she hadn't seen in aeons. Three unmatched earrings, one pair of sandalwood panty hose for emergencies, and 12 dollars and 62 cents. A fat, glitzy paperback with a creased take-out menu for a bookmark. HerPikes Peakkey ring jangling with nine keys and a tiny round tin of lip balm. William had gaped in amazement at the pile before she'd hastily scooped it helter-skelter back into her bag (a big one), afraid she'd revealed too much of her messy, not-so-sophisticated life. They'd talked religion, art, the glass ceiling, their preference in Sunday comics. Wood stoves versus fireplaces. Letterman versus Leno. Travel destinations — they'd agreed the best getaway-from-stress vacation was lying on a beach anywhere, the best cultural trip museum-hopping inParis. William wanted to raft the Salmon; Calla said no way would she risk a trip down the "river of no return." William had already hikedNew Zealand's Milford Track; Calla hiked to the library on Saturday mornings. She admitted to a secret MissAmericafantasy, he to a cowboy dream, claiming it was something about their weatherbeaten toughness and tin platefuls of beans. Then he'd started talking about the Justice Ranch in Castle Rock, a spread homesteaded by one of his ancestors who'd come to Colorado to make a killing in gold and stayed to start a bank. William had asked her about the worst mistake shedidn't make, and she related the tale of how she'd narrowly avoided dropping out of college to live in aParisgarret with Tristan Truckey, her crystal-caressing, pyramid-preaching, New Age artist boyfriend. What had ultimately decided her were Tristan's awful artworks, which involved much chanting, proselytizing, and endless trips to the junkyard. Naturally, she'd quizzed him about the worst mistake he had made, but he'd gone all quiet and remote, especially noticeable after their chuckles over the lamentable Mr. Truckey. She'd come to the conclusion that he didn't want to answer, but then he'd shrugged as if it didn't matter and told her about his short-lived marriage. Calla could tell that what really bothered William was the way the marriage vows had so quickly become meaningless. Her heart ached as he'd hid this past hurt with a nonchalant macho air, and later she'd wondered if that had been the moment she'd fallen in love. A man to whom marriage was a serious undertaking had seemed a rare and wonderful thing. Calla had been further touched to learn he sponsored two Guatemalan children through one of those back-of-a-magazine organizations. She was impressed by his easy command of everyone from ushers to waiters to business rivals; disconcerted by his background of Eastern prep school and Western oil-rich ranch land. William had been taken with the way she got huffy and hot under the collar in her defense of the spotted owl and baby seal; admiring of the prodigious artistic talent that was wasted while she toiled over Munchee Krunchee cereal ads; confused by her attempts to suppress her naturally passionate responses to life. "Compatible?" mused William now. "Let's see — intellectually, gastronomically, spiritually — What am I forgetting?" Calla thought the evening was losing its romantic overtones and on its way to becoming a stodgy progress report. "Financially," she suggested caustically. "So you're no heiress. Not that it will ultimately matter, but your job at Frogg, Underwood pays reasonably well, doesn't it?"


"Oh, sure." But not in his league, and itdid matter to her. Calla sat up straighter, her eyes flaring. "I pay my own way." "Well, then." William shrugged. "Where were we?" He'd retreated into the shadows again. A wary Calla could just make out the gleam — indulgent? teasing? — in his eyes as he stretched one arm out along the back of the banquette. Was he toying with her? His white teeth flashed like a wolf's when he smiled. "Hmm. Yes, of course. We shouldn't forget to consider our physical compatibility." Calla's stomach clenched. "Physical?" So they were finally getting down to the nitty-gritty. The waiter arrived to whisk away their dinner plates. "Mademoiselledid not care for zee sole?" he asked solicitously. Calla caught a glimpse of her swiftly vanishing half-full plate. She looked up owlishly and blinked several times. The looming waiter was some odd sort of Francophile; he'd tried for the debonair Frenchman but wound up as Pepe LePew. "It was delicious," she said. Perhaps she might yet become one of those wilting maidens who dined only on the satisfying richness of love, a pleasing enough prospect, since her figure — which Calla preferred to think of as voluptuous — could not exactly be described as willowy. "Monsieurwould lack to see zee day-zert menu?" Pepe's mouth pursed as he attempted to fit a French accent around an American drawl. William dealt with dessert with such eager dispatch Calla had to wonder just how interested he was in discussing their physical compatibility. Especially since up till now there hadn't been much of a physical relationship to speak of. When he'd so politely kissed her cheek as they stood before her apartment door after their first date, she'd basked in his gentlemanly decorum. A brief kiss had followed the second date, and she'd been pleased to have discovered a man who wouldn't rush things. But when nothing more developed by the third and fourth, she'd spent a few lunches dissecting the problem with Vivien. She'd been afraid he didn't find her attractive. Viv had pointed out that Calla's beaux were usually overenamored of the full curves her Beauty-gro had helped develop, and William was obviously not blind. "Maybe he's gay," Vivien had suggested. But the memory of those fleetingly intense moments at their first meeting and her rather earthy, instinctive response every time he was near had long ago convinced Calla otherwise. "Could he be, uh, you know, physically defective?" Viv suggested next, trying to be delicate. "No way," was Calla's immediate answer. She'd intercepted too many hot and hungry looks in between their maddeningly proper good-night kisses to take such an idea seriously. Still, when they'd progressed very little after two more dates, she buffered her frustration with William's confounding inaction by ordering garlic shrimp at Salvatore's, Vivien's treat. "Why not?" Calla had moaned. "There's nobody to mind if my breath reeks. Maybe I'll breathe on Betsy Bonner in the elevator." The thought of annoying Frogg, Underwood's senior copywriter cheered her briefly, but Sal's shrimp had never tasted so bland. Sipping cheap Chianti, Viv had succinctly narrowed the problem down to one last probability. "What if he's the old-fashioned type?" she asked. "Maybe he's chosen you to become Mrs. William Justice. The 100-percent pure, veddy-veddy proper Mrs. Justice. The girl he won't take to bed unless it's a marriage


bed." "That's the most sexist thing I ever heard," Calla had protested. But she'd dropped her fork and forgotten all about the linguine still on her plate. Vivien could — just possibly — be right. For what other reason had she moderated her usual style of dress and tempered her natural exuberance to appear as calm and cool, and as dowdily dressed, as Queen Elizabeth? She'd known from the start, when he'd raised his eyebrows at her banana buttons, that William Justice was the sort of man who expected the woman in his life to be what Calla thought of as a real lady. So she'd pushed everything sequined, low cut, and clinging to the back of the closet and stacked her bedside table with books on art history, finance, and etiquette. She'd trimmed and attempted to tame her hair. Practiced the art of social chitchat so she could converse with his crowd at their charity luncheons and cocktail parties. Given 20 bucks to the Red Cross and gone door-to-door for famine relief so she could honestly say she was involved in good causes if William should ask. Why, she'd even submitted without a murmur of protest to his politely bland kisses when she'd really wanted to wrassle him to the ground like a cowboy with a steer. What was it all for if not to demonstrate what a suitable Mrs. Justice she would be? Viv was right.

While it was true she'd suffered a few misgivings over her deception, Calla had soothed the guilt by telling herself that she was only making improvements. Conforming to William's expectations. Practicing prudence, instead of extravagance, for a change. It had absolutely nothing to do with any lingering childhood inadequacies. She was doing it strictly out of love, and what's more, it had worked. A virile man like William would control his urges only for the chaste, demure lady he meant to marry. About that, Vivmust be right. William Justice was going to ask the "new and improved" Calla Quinn to become his wife. The waiter arrived with a cup of chocolate mousse for Calla, and she absently picked up a spoon, unaware it was not the one Miss Manners would have used. Pepe placed a plate ofmille feuilles with caramel-and-orange sauce in front of William and clasped his hands at his waist, a penitent at the shrine of the hefty tip. "Will zair be anyzing else formonsieur ?" William was absorbed with watching Calla's full pink lips close around a spoonful of mousse, and he waved the annoying waiter away without a word. He stabbed into a pastry vehemently, wondering if a man could explode from the pressurized buildup of seven weeks' worth of sexual frustration. Surely he'd played it cautious long enough, been circumspect and prudent enough to make up for a thousand disastrous marriage mistakes. Calla was as ready as a ripe plum, poised to fall into his hands at the merest tweak. And he could no longer wait. He wanted to taste her sweet, firm flesh and watch her burst with desire as he squeezed her between his arms. This was definitely the right night to make his proposal and then close the deal in magnificent style. Through half-lidded eyes William considered Calla's blithe, unassuming innocence. She seemed so happily concerned with eating her dessert. "Now, what was it we were discussing before that untimely disruption?" he asked with deliberate provocation. If the mousse had been a touch less creamy, Calla would've choked on it. Was William a man or a machine? Couldn't he feel the electricity zinging in the air between them? Come to think of it, maybe he couldn't. How else to explain his unfulfilling kisses? Then why was it she wanted more of them, she had to wonder.


"Uh, compatibility?" she supplied tentatively. "Yes, that's right. Physical compatibility." William smiled at her wide-eyed stare. "I suppose there's only one way to testthat ." Now wait a minute, buster! Calla wanted to protest. What about Vivien's theory? Weren't they supposed to wait till their wedding night? "But I've always found that if the hearts and minds are attuned, the bodies will follow," he continued, glibly gallant. She hoped he hadn't found it too often. "I agree," she murmured gratefully, glad he was at last talking like a man about to propose. "Are our hearts in accord, Calla?" "I think so," she whispered. "I'm hoping for more than aphysical agreement between us." "Huh?" she said inelegantly. "But that side of it must come under serious consideration, too. Especially in this day and age." "I suppose," she said doubtfully. What did the day and age have to do with it? "There's also the um, more romantic implications," she prompted, hoping to get the proposal back onto the appropriate track. "Of course. I do have deep feelings for you." Well, I should hope so! Swiftly, Calla banked the spark of irritation and continued to gaze lovingly into William's unfathomable eyes. The poor dear had a tendency to be a bit too pragmatic. She could change that. "After all," he went on. "I wouldn't ask just anyone. You may have noticed that I'm a careful man. It took some time to check you — uh, discover if we were truly suited. Compatible. I've decided that you are the woman I'd like to become my —" "William." Much as she hated to interrupt his solemn proclamation, Calla had spotted Pepe out of the corner of her eye. He was skulking their way. Besides, she'd rather not receive a proposal that could easily be confused with a Justice Bank and Trust year-end report. "Why don't we discuss this in a more private location?" she quickly suggested. Perhaps a change of scenery would provide him with a smidgen of romantic inspiration. "Certainly," he agreed crisply. He knew just what she had in mind. "Sounds like a great idea." The waiter darted forward as they stood to depart, a burble of mangled French phases falling from his lips as he obsequiously presented the bill in a discreet burgundy leather folder. Calla tucked a loose strand of hair into the faux-pearl clasp not up to its task, fighting back an urge to whip out her wallet and show William just how good she was at paying her own way. In past relationships she'd considered it a point of honor to pay her share. It might even have been a compulsion, stemming from her ingrained dislike of being beholden to any man. Long before, she'd vowed never to give up the control and power


that money represented. It didn't matter that her savings were minuscule compared to William's holdings. With him, though, she'd been forced to make an exception, out of the worry that he would think her too aggressively independent, too unladylike. She was supposed to be the new Calla Quinn. But could she reconcile one with the other? Especially on this issue?

Since William was already taking care of the bill, Calla slipped away to the richly appointed ladies' room, frown lines marring her smooth forehead. She sank onto a gilt-edged French Provincial chair, drew a tube of rose-hued lipstick from her small beaded bag, and pursed her lips at the mirror. Rose was not her preferred shade — the only color that could compete with her hair was fire-engine red — but it suited the rest of her conservative getup. Disquietude again nibbled at her conscience as she applied the lipstick. Okay, so she wasn't quite playing fair, with either William or herself. But what's a smattering of subterfuge between friends?I'm doing it for love, she silently repeated.I want to make William an excellent wife. If she learned to fit into his world, he'd never have regrets, even though she wasn't exactly the well-bred lady he'd bargained for. Calla dropped the lipstick back into her purse and smoothed the sailor-style lace collar of her dress, skeptically inspecting her reflection in the mirror. Sweet, demure young ladies did not usually have bonfire hair and green eyes as sharp as their tongue. Just who was she fooling? William — or herself? Calla sighed and walked to the door. Did it matter? The most important truth was the one in her heart that said she would love William forever. And he was all set to announce that he would do the same for her. William Justice was about to propose marriage. And with just a bit of gentle maneuvering, she would make this the romantic and picturesque proposal of which she'd always dreamed. Chapter Two

"Calla, this isn'tCentral Parkin June. Don't you think it's a little chilly for boating?" William sounded on the verge of exasperation, so Calla batted her eyelashes at him in her best imitation of a Southern belle. It would have been more impressive if she'd worn long, thick, false ones, but of course they'd be considered tacky. "Sugah pie, please? Indulge me." William rolled his eyes at her dramatic flair and shrugged. "When you suggested adjourning to a more private location, I had in mind your cozy apartment. Definitely not a boat in a lake in the middle ofCityPark. In the first week of May." "But this is so romantic!" "As would be a love seat by the fireplace. It's certainly chilly enough for a fire tonight," he added hopefully. Calla burrowed her chin into the soft folds of her ivory cashmere cape, allowing her lower lip to pout


fetchingly. The practical people of the world sure made it tough on the romantics. "I promise you a snifter of brandy by the fire, William. Afterward." They could discuss all the dry logistics of their union to his heart's content. He saw the enticing way her full lower lip glistened in the lights of the boathouse and withheld any further protest. What the heck. He'd been prolonging this business — he could not, unfortunately, call it an affair — for so many weeks that one chilly boat ride wouldn't hurt him. It couldn't be worse than 51 cold showers. "Just pay the woman." Calla pressed a quick kiss onto his cheek and hopped into the rowboat beside the dock. William reached down to still its rocking as she happily plopped herself onto a cushioned seat and artfully rearranged the draping of the long cape over her modestly crossed legs. William had to smile at her obvious pleasure, even though inside he was cynically telling himself that this was always the way. Women batted their lashes and he paid the bill. He sometimes wondered what it would take to find a woman who'd offer to pay. Just once. Just to prove she was dating him, not his wallet. Not likely, pal,the cynical inner voice sneered. William paid the rental fee, adroitly settled himself opposite Calla and picked up the oars. At least after tonight their roles in this relationship would be clearly defined. The leathery-faced woman in charge of the rental concession clucked a warning about the approaching nightfall and untied the painter, giving the small skiff a strong-armed shove that, with William's braced oar, propelled it away from the dock. "Now this is more like it." Calla sighed with contentment, watching William man the oars with a smooth stroke that soon had them approaching the middle of the small lake. William did everything so well. Perhaps there was something to be said for practicality, especially when it came wrapped in such a deliciously male package. "What was that?" William paused in his exertions, letting the rowboat drift with its own momentum. "Did you say something?" Calla's lashes fluttered flirtingly. "Don't we make a splendid team?" she prompted. "Oh, you wanted to take an oar?" She twittered at the suggestion, determined to plumb the Southern-belle image for all it was worth. She'd always fantasized about being a lady in white, lounging indolently as a handsome rogue manned the oars of a boat drifting beneath the overhanging limbs of willows. It did seem the perfect setting for a proposal. Too bad she didn't have a huge, flower-crowned hat, a boatload of crinolines, and a frilly parasol to protect her dainty white skin from the glare of theGeorgiasun. Well, one must make do. "Silly William! What I meant was my brilliant idea and your execution of said idea. We complement each other beautifully." William resumed his rhythmic rowing. "Wasn't that what we agreed on over dinner? Our compatibility?" Oh, no-no-no, she wasn't about to let him veer off onto one of his pragmatic tangents again! "Isn't the sunset fabulous?" she hastily remarked. "Look at those colors. We couldn't have asked for a better display if we'd expressly ordered it." Ribbons of pink and gold had unfurled across the deeply blue sky from the glowing orb of the low sun. The gabble of ducks echoed across the lake from a cove sheltered by drooping boughs of tall evergreens. A gentle breeze carried the scent of green leaves, damp earth, and spring. Calla figured if anyone had command of Mother Nature, it was William Justice. He had that way


about him — wielding power and control as easily as a king waved a scepter. "If it had been up to me, I'd have ordered the mercury to rise by fifteen degrees or so." Calla slipped her hand over the side. "What an old stick-in-the-mud you're being, William. Honestly, a husky fellow like you complaining about a slight nip in the air —" With a quick flick of her wrist she sprayed him with a minigeyser of water. He barked out a protest, shaking his head like a wet dog. "Calla, don't do —" Laughing, she did it again. "Okay." Moving with caution but a certain determination, he rested the oars and leaned to the side, putting one hand in a scooping position just above the water. His top lip curled in a playful sneer. "You asked for it." Intellectually, Calla knew they were playing a game established when the first 10-year-old girl tossed her braids in the freckled face of the boy at the desk behind her. She knew William was just yanking her braids, stealing her hat, taunting her with a snowball, and still she responded with the predictable reply. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin defiantly. "You wouldn't dare!" William's hand lowered, and water drenched one starched cuff. "Wouldn't I?" he murmured, a glint of something naughty flickering to life in his dark eyes. A thrilling quiver coursed over Calla's skin. Now this was more like it! She finally had him where she wanted him, with business and compatibility the furthest things from his mind. A picture-perfect sunset even painted the glowing sky behind him. "Oh, William," she whispered throatily, her body melting toward his. Ask me now, she psychically urged.Ask me now! At that moment, the far-reaching rays of the setting sun suddenly imbued their small world with a glimmering golden magic. The looming city skyline was delineated by the gilding light, the gold-leafed dome of the capitol building like a molten second sun. The trees ringing the lake shimmered in the breeze sweeping toward them, ruffling new waves into lapping at the boat. William scarcely noticed. His eyes were filled with the glorious sight of Calla. Her red hair was burnished by the sun, her skin blushing as pink and gold as a peach. Her liquid emerald eyes reflected tiny twin medallions of gold, watching him with an expectancy so sweet and willing it sent a flood of emotion into his usually prosaic heart. He suddenly wanted to cradle her in his arms, whispering a lover's eternal promises. He wanted to protect her, ignite her, consume her, make her irrevocably his. What he did was kiss her. When his lips touched hers in the first true kiss they'd shared, Calla felt a connection between them that was deeper and stronger than any she'd ever known. An absolute knowledge invaded her brain, shattering previous doubts into a thousand little bits that showered inside her like confetti. Had she ever doubted William's masculine prowess? Or the attraction between them? How utterly inconceivable, now that he'd finally delivered on the promise she'd discerned in the depths of his eyes. She didn't even dare to contemplate what their wedding night would be like. Webster's would probably have to make up a whole new definition of bliss! William's kiss was all firm lips and teasing tongue, warm and incredibly quick and mobile. So deep Calla


knew she'd never touch bottom. Her head was swimming and her heart was floating and her bones had turned to water, but it was all okay because William was holding on to her and that was better than the last life raft on theTitanic. He murmured lovingly, his voice a swath of velvet against her skin, downshifting into a long, slow, lazy kiss that went on and on and on. When Calla finally surfaced, more or less intact and trying to gasp for air in a way that didn't make her look like a fish out of water, she could think to utter only two words in a "may I kneel at the foot of your throne" tone of voice. "Holy bejeebers!" William laughed huskily. The last drop of golden sun disappeared below the horizon, leaving only a few pinkish streaks in the dusky sky. He had to lean closer to make out the stunned expression in Calla's wide eyes. "I guess I'm lucky you didn't kiss me like that seven weeks ago, or I'd probably be seven-weeks pregnant at this very moment!" "Sounds promising," he said. "Mmm — maybe." Calla felt as if she were submerged in a thick, rich syrup. She touched a wondering fingertip to her warm lips. "But I guess it's a good thing it takes more than kissing." "If I'd known you have such a talent...Why ever were you keeping it under wraps?" she asked. "I mean, it's a gift, William. You're a — a genius! A prodigy! The laureate of lip lock! If kissing was an Olympic event, you'd win the gold every —" "Hush, Calla. You must know a good kiss takes two." Calla was taken aback by the statement, at least enough to finally stop gushing. "You mean —" her hand gracefully waved back and forth between them "— me and you?" "You —" he planted a kiss on her parted lips "— and me. We make a good team, right?" Of course he was right. William would've been snatched up long ago if he'd regularly gone around sharing such explosive kisses with all the marriage-hungry kegs of dynamite out there. It was more than technique — it was chemistry! Calla mentally apologized for calling her high school chemistry teacher an old fuddy-duddy. She wished now she'd paid more attention to what was happening in all those dreary test tubes. Of course, love hadsomething to do with it, too. "We make a perfect team," she cooed. "And I'm beginning to suspect you've known it all along. The only reason you restricted us to all those tame pecks on the cheek was that you're a true gentleman." Calla moved to sit beside him, her body cuddling into the lovely warm hollow his just naturally created for her. "You were simply waiting for the absolutely right moment. How wise of you, dear heart!" Now if only she could controlherself until they were legally wed. Calla doubted she possessed William's enviable willpower. William uneasily cleared his throat. She was calling him a true gentleman? Uh-oh. What had happened to the woman stoked to a blazing passion by his great kissing? His arm was around her shoulders, his hand


automatically stroking her soft cashmere cape. He'd been anticipating her slick nude flesh sliding against his, but this woman felt like a fuzzy bunny. How had she gone from such an enticing state to this cuddly bundle of sweet, feminine trust? "This is the moment, don't you think, William?" Calla stretched her neck so she could nuzzle him lovingly, her nose and lips pressed to his strong jaw. She nudged him when he didn't immediately respond. William was at sea. "The moment for what?" "You know," she said sagely. "Go ahead and ask me." "I would, but I think I've forgotten the question," he said, hedging. "You couldn't possibly have forgotten the question!" "Well —" "Really, William! You know, the question you were about to ask me at dinner?" Calla pulled away from him and sat up straight. Nostrils flaring, she tossed her head so her hair flipped like a matador's cape. Did other women have to work so hard to pull a proposal from their man? William wouldn't know a romantic moment if it gored him in the gut. "Just ask me already!" Relief washed over him. This was the woman he wanted, the one with spirit and spice and passion. She was staring sternly at him, piqued auburn brows arched over flashing eyes. Her artfully arranged coiffure had not withstood the damp lake breezes. Wavering corkscrew curls floated about her lifted head like live wires. Indeed, her whole being looked as though it might sizzle and snap if he touched her. He could barely resist. "Ah, my mercurial Calla," he murmured, instead. "So sweet and accommodating one moment, sending out sparks the next. There's only one thing a man can do with the likes of you." Calla's yearning soul brought her chin down a trifle and arched her spine as her torso swooned to connect with William's. "And that is?" William's hands caught her forearms to hold her in place. He wanted to look into her face a bit longer. This close he could see every curling lash fluttering over the liquid pools of her verdant eyes. Desire stirred anew in their depths. She wanted the same thing he did. "Calla, beautiful Calla," he said softly. "I adore you. Will you be my —" Every cell of Calla's body was poised to say yes! "— mistress?" Chapter Three

Only quick reflexes stopped Calla from shouting her joyful answer. She swallowed theyes! with an appalled gulp, and it lodged in her throat like a stone. She emitted a humiliating glugging sound, her body awash with shock waves. Maybe she'd heard wrong, maybe it was a trick. The word "mistress" hung over her head for a long moment of suspended animation, then dropped like a 10-pound anvil.


"Mistress?" she repeated in a quavering, quizzical voice. Reality slammed into her. A cry of anguish rose in her throat but she muffled it, determined not to be a victim. Anger followed, an emotion she found easier to accept. She leapt up, outrage spewing from her pores like lava from a volcano. The boat rocked wildly from the force of her catapult as she steamed and seethed, a rumbling MountSaint Helensof insulted woman . "Mistress!" she shouted at top lung capacity. Waves lashed the boat, and William hastily tried to steady the rocking. Calla was bound to go overboard. "Sit down!" he ordered in the stern Justice Bank voice nobody ever disobeyed. "You want me to be your mistress!" Calla yelled, waving her arms, oblivious to the precariousness of her footing. She glared at him in fulminating, volcanic style. "How dare you ask me to be your mi —" The offending word was cut off by her gasp as William did the only sensible thing. Releasing his grip on the gunwales of the boat, he wrapped both arms around Calla's legs in his best linebacker imitation and yanked. At the sudden jerk, her knees buckled. Arms cartwheeling for balance, a cry of surprise on her lips, Calla's derriere hit the bottom of the boat with a healthy whump. The small craft tossed back and forth, waves splashing over the sides. Neither noticed when one of the oars bounced out of its lock and dropped into the lake. "U-u-ungh — let go of me, you Neanderthal oaf!" Calla raged. William was trying, but her voluminous cape had metamorphosed into a tentacled squid wrapped around his neck. Beneath the sodden cashmere, he found himself in an ignominious position: flat atop Calla, one hand captured beneath her squirming bottom, his face mashed into the cushion of her full breasts. "If you would help me get this thing off my neck," he said in an amazingly calm, but rather muffled voice. There were worse positions a man might find himself in — such as ones that involved 25 feet of cold lake water. "I have only one free hand." Calla screeched as she realized exactly where his other hand, and his face, was. "Get off of me, William Justice. Immediately. I-am-not-your-concubine!" Her voice came out in staccato reports as she struggled to twist away from six feet of heavy damp male. Another cold dose of water swamped the rocking boat. The wet tongue of cashmere fell from his neck and glopped into her mouth as she opened it for another verbal assault. "Shut up for a second, Calla," William commanded as she spat out the fuzzy fabric with disgust. He levered himself up and off her shuddering body. "May I assist you?" he asked wryly. Without waiting for an answer, he clamped his hands over her elbows and almost effortlessly hoisted her uncooperative body onto the seat.

He fished the seat cushion and her purse out of the inch of water in the bottom of the boat and placed them, dripping, beside her. "There you go. A little the worse for wear, but at least we didn't capsize." "I'd like to capsize you, you low-down skunk."


William's waterlogged aplomb had returned. A wry grin quirked his lips. "It seems we've crossed our signals." "I'll show you crossed signals." Quick as a striking rattlesnake, Calla snatched up the cushion and threw it at his stunned face. It bounced off his forehead and into her lap. Unsatisfied, she whipped up the beaded bag, intending to smack him in the side of the head. He could pick bugle beads and sequins out of his ears for the next week and see how much he had to smile about then! This time William was ready. His hand caught her wrist in a squeezing grip that caused her fingers to fly open. The purse sailed over his head and into the lake. "Now see what you've done!" Calla grabbed his lapels. "Go get it before it sinks, William. My credit cards and driver's license are in there." "You should've thought of that before using it as a lethal weapon." He forced Calla's clenched hands into her lap. "Sit quietly and don't move. I don't relish having to contend with an attack from the rear while I rescue your damned purse." She pressed her lips together to prevent the reply "attack from the rear" begged for. William picked up the oar that still remained in place and dipped it into the lake, triumphantly lifting the soaked purse out of the water by its long shoulder chain. He redeposited it on the seat. "Now that's twice I've rescued your purse and once I've prevented your suicide dive into the lake. You might show a little gratitude," he said. The water that had washed into the boat hadn't doused Calla's flame at all. "Gratitude for what?" she replied haughtily, determined to deny her hurt by keeping a stiff upper lip. "Frankly, swimming to shore seems preferable to sharing a boat with a man as despicable as you, William Justice. The sooner I'm away from you the better." "Aren't you overreacting a little? I'm not really such a bad guy." She was trying to gauge his feelings, but his face was as hard and implacable as granite. Such complete control annoyed her, she abruptly decided. Why hadn't she seen that the two of them were as compatible as a rock and a bird? Would that she could fly away from this humiliating situation! "Don't tell me how to act, Mr. Justice," she said icily, but her stiff upper lip quivered. "I thought we had an understanding. Or were coming to one, anyway." Shivering, Calla drew the damp cape around herself to combat the cool night air. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She sniffed. "Furthermore, I'm cold and wet and mad. Please get this stupid boat to shore so I can go home. Alone." She sneezed. "Poor girl. You look like a tabby that's lost a battle with a fish tank." William reached for her, wanting to warm her up, but Calla shrank back to avoid the contact. "Do not touch me, Mr. Justice!" she snapped. "I'm in no mood to be toyed with." Which was all he wanted to do, she now knew. "The drowned cat can still hiss and spit," he said, unperturbed. "As the laureate of lip lock, I believe I know a way to warm you up."


"I've changed my mind about that," she bit out through chattering teeth. Hewould bring that up! "You are — loathsome." "It seems my sweet Calla has a temper," William said, not terribly insulted by her name-calling. Actually, he was pleased she was no longer hiding behind a sugary facade. Perhaps they could still come to an understanding. He picked up one oar and looked for the other. A roaring fire would feel very good about now, and then he knewseveral ways to warm her up for further negotiations. The evening might yet be salvaged. "I am notyour Calla," she protested lamely. Dejection was threatening to overtake the anger that had fired her veins. "You will be." The statement was neither a threat nor a promise; it was spoken in the tone of flat-out, undeniable fact. Frustrated by his unrelenting stolidity, Calla glared at William in smoldering exasperation. She might as well beat her head against a stone wall. If the man was so dense he couldn't see that she'd been expecting a proposal — She snuffled, beginning to feel sorry for herself. She didn't understand how she'd misjudged William's intentions so badly, how he could be so callous as to ask her to be his mistress. Callous — or astute? A self-doubting voice inside her head whispered. "No," Calla said aloud. No! She'd been docile and demure and well behaved; he had no reason whatsoever to believe she'd become his mistress. The nerve of the man! The unmitigated gall of his assumption! He was selfish and conceited to the extreme if he thought she'd fall into his bed like a cheap floozy! Glowering anew, she continued to stare at William as he searched out the missing oar in the gathering darkness. His short black hair had gone a little spiky from the water and his cheeks were ruddy with cold, but he was otherwise untouched by their mishap. Calla shivered. She'd been the one tackled in a puddle of water. Her teeth chattered, yet her lips still held the memory of their warm kiss. Had she so misread the feeling behind it? She'd been sure it was love. And love was supposed to progress from courtship to marriage to children and a lifetime of happiness. Nowhere in that scenario was there room for a mistress. Calla sighed deeply. Maybe she was ridiculously optimistic; the divorce statistics said so. Maybe she was a hopeless romantic; certainly her childhood should have taught her otherwise. Or maybe she was just a big fool to believe she could escape her destiny. The sins of the father — "Perfect," William muttered. His expensive leather shoes squidged soggily as he shifted to point out the missing oar to Calla. It was floating in the choppy water some yards away. "So?" she retorted grumpily. "Go and get it." "You're wetter than me. Why don't you hop in and swim for it?" "You are no gentleman, William Justice," she huffed. Clearly, neither did he consider her a lady. He was paddling the boat with one oar, awkwardly circling closer to his quarry. Stretching to the limit, he couldn't quite snag it. Cold waves buffeted the boat. "I'm sorry this evening hasn't been a success, Calla," he said, "but do you think it's possible to set aside your animosity long enough to cooperate? Or would you prefer to spend the night here?" With numb fingers, she poked at the wad of wet hair that had fallen over one eye. "Well, I'm not going


overboard." "Would it upset your delicate sensibilities too much if I told you to get your sweet butt over here to act as ballast while I reach for the other oar? If anyone goes overboard during this maneuver it's going to be me." Revenge flickered in Calla's injured psyche as they moved into position. She stared at William's backside as he perched precariously on his knees to reach for the drifting oar. The jerk deserved it. She'd opened her heart to him and he'd steamrollered it. He'd insulted her terribly and apparently didn't even care. Then he'd tackled her, flung her to the bottom of the boat like a flounder and jumped on top of her. How much indignity was one woman supposed to take? She deserved better. She deserved respect. Since William had shown her none, it was only fair — Calla didn't think further. She just shoved. When William felt the hands on his posterior, for a split second he thought she was trying to steady him. Then he belly flopped into the water. Instantly, he came up gasping for breath, the water having flash frozen vital body parts, like his lungs. His flailing arms hit the oar and he latched onto it like a pit bull. Something had to help keep him afloat. Calla felt an immediate remorse for her impetuous action. She knew she'd made a huge mistake as William surfaced, fierce eyes burning in his frigid white face. But she wasn't one to go back and correct her errors. Nor did she want to wait around to find out what he would do to her. Frantically, she seized the remaining oar and began rowing madly. "Don't leave me here, Calla." Her hands spasmed on the oar, reflexively lifting it from the water. William's voice was low and icy and hard, the force of his will almost making her obey.But he humiliated me! her mind shrieked.He wants me to be his mistress, not his wife! "Maybe a cold dunk is what you needed, William," she flung back over her shoulder. "Maybe you'll think twice before making some other woman such an insulting offer!" "Calla!" he bellowed. "I'm not your mistress, William. I don't have to follow your orders." She put all her strength into rowing, her aroused temper fueling the physical surge. It seemed very important that she get away from William as quickly as possible. An arrow of adrenaline shot through William's system, counteracting the frigid temperature that was making his limbs as heavy as blocks of cement. His heart started to pump again. He could even almost manage a laugh. Calla was stroking the oar so strenuously, face going red beneath a flopping mass of sodden hair, that she hadn't even noticed the boat was moving in jerky circles like a mallard gone berserk. Still clutching the other paddle, he swam closer in a numbed sidestroke. Calla screamed as though she were being beset by a sea monster when his shiny, water-slicked head popped up beside the boat. William grabbed the thrashing oar before she could wallop him in the head and finish him off for good. Calla yanked back. "Let go of my oar!" she yelled. "I want to go home!"


"You're not going anywhere with only one oar, you little idiot." She froze, looking up at the still-distant shore in confusion. She hadn't made an inch of progress. Slumped in defeat, she simply stared as another flood of lake water swirled around her low-heeled pumps when William pulled himself into the boat. Shuddering mightily, he chafed his arms and thighs to get the blood flowing again. He made a sorry sight. Calla reached for his tie, fumbling fingers wringing it out, then patting it comfortingly back into place against his broad chest. It was a very nice gold silk tie. "Thanks a lot," William said sarcastically. He peeled off his streaming suit jacket and dropped it in the bottom of the boat. "I can't believe you did that." "Neither can I," she answered in a small voice. He took off his shoes and tipped out a cupful of water. "Does that prove it?" Well, he didn't have to be so self-righteous. There was more than one injured party here. Still, Calla couldn't quite work up her previous level of indignation. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I shouldn't have pushed you overboard. No matter what you'd done to me," she couldn't help adding defensively. Water sluiced off William's bent head as he pressed his palms to his skull. Calla's little-sad-girl tone was heart wrenching. Then again, so were 25 feet of cold, dark water. "I suppose I could apologize, too." He grabbed the oars, twisting his shoulders to limber them up as he muttered beneath his breath, "Although I'm not sure why." Calla instantly decided he'd gotten what he deserved. Why waste her remorse on such a boor? "In that case, don't bother!" she snapped. "Your apology isn't worth spit to me, anyway!" Matching Calla glare for glare, William rowed the boat ashore.

Chapter Four

She stealthily opened the door and peeked inside. Steam clouded the air, but she could still make out the blurred male figure behind the clear-plastic shower curtain. He was standing in side view, twisting slightly to allow the shower's spray to wash away the soap foaming on his body. Rivulets followed the contour of muscles and tendons from his chest to his thighs; her eyes traced the same path. His skin had a healthy tan beneath the wet whorls of dark hair — hmm, except for the intriguing band of paler skin on his lean hips and tight buttocks. After a brief inner tussle, she averted her eyes and reached for the pile of wet clothes on the tiled floor. Clutching them to the front of her crushed-velvet burnoose, she retreated to the kitchen. Calla smiled to herself. No matter what happened next, she'd been right about at least one thing: Without his staid business suits, William Justice looked nothing like a banker. The ride to her small duplex apartment in theDenversuburb ofAurorahad been silent and tense. Warming her hands in front of the car heater, Calla had acknowledged that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. She'd half expected William to drop her off in a swirl of exhaust smoke and a squeal of spinning


tires. She wouldn't have blamed him if he had. To her amazement, and sudden apprehension, he'd followed her inside without a word. He'd promptly preempted her into the shower, stalking to the bathroom and shutting the door in her astonished face. Calla held up the wrinkled, fishy-smelling mass of William's tailored suit and shook her head. It would never be the same. She brushed aside her blame in the matter and violently wrung lake water into the kitchen sink. It was a pity, but he could easily buy another. She couldn't do the same when it came to her indulgent purchase of the costly cashmere cape. With a hard heart, she tossed the clothing into the dryer tucked inside a convenient closet between the kitchen and bath. She couldn't take the time to wash it first. She had to get William out of here as quickly as possible. The drumming water in the shower ceased. Calla scurried back to the tiny kitchen, not eager to be found lurking near the door as if she were dying to catch a glimpse of William's hot bod. Since she'd failed to convince him she was a true lady, she could at least emerge from this incident with some semblance of pride. She was fiddling with a coffee filter and a scoop of freshly ground Jamaican when William entered the kitchen wrapped in one of her copper-and-cream-striped bath sheets. He looked like a pagan beast, sleek and dangerous as he padded barefoot to the counter that held the big balloon glasses and bottle of brandy she'd set out earlier. "I've got coffee coming up," she ventured calmly. Her insides were tumbling and churning like a clothes dryer set on high. "What I need right now is liquor." He splashed a prodigious amount of brandy into one of the glasses and took a swallow. "Care to join me?" "Uh, no, thanks. I'm sticking to coffee." She had to keep her wits about her. "Then I'll go start a fire." He exited and Calla slumped against a bleached-pine cabinet, pressing her hand to her pounding heart. This situation was out of control. William should've been on his way home, not parading about her apartment, gloriously naked beneath a flimsily knotted towel. She needed to assert her command and order him to leave. Only where was all the vehemence she'd shown in the rowboat? She felt about as firm as a jellyfish. William had settled onto the couch as if he meant to stay awhile, his hairy legs crossed, bare feet propped atop the chunk of carved Grecian column that served as a coffee table. He stared broodingly into the crackling fire. Calla, watching from the open doorway, thought he looked devilishly wicked, hellfire flickering in the depths of his dark eyes as he plotted the downfall of an innocent. Well, she wasn't all that innocent, was she? If she'd been sure what girding of loins entailed, she would have done it. Instead, she spunkily flipped her newly braided hair over her shoulder and strode into the room with a long-legged confidence she was far from feeling. She halted between William and the fireplace, crossing her arms over her chest. "Your clothes will be dry in a few minutes. Then you can leave." Not even bothering to look up at her, he shrugged nonchalantly and took another sip of the golden liquid he'd been warming between his palms.


"I — I'd just as soon you'd leave, William. Let's not prolong this — this — fiasco. I'm tired and I want to go to bed." "So do I." The statement was blunt, obvious in its meaning. "Impossible," she said flatly, but her knees went weak and she suddenly dropped into the bright yellow armchair opposite the couch. She couldn't help herself — It did sound tempting. Defensively, she curled up in the chair, tucking her bare feet beneath her legs and holding on to her crossed arms. "As I see it," William said in a smoky, lazy drawl, "ultimately, we both want the same thing." Calla bared her teeth. "You can't be as dense as all that. I would have thought the cold dunking had cleared your head of such, well, lusty notions." He swallowed the last of the brandy and set the empty snifter on the table. The motion emphasized the slide of lean muscles across his wide shoulders. "Perhaps I have been dense in my miscalculation of your intentions. As have you in your assessment of mine." "My intentions?" Calla repeated blankly. "Yes, your intentions. Don't pretend you didn't have them or that they were all that different from mine." "But you want me to be your mistress. A kept woman," she sneered. "And you were expecting to be offered the position of wife." William let his words trail off meaningfully, telling Calla all she needed to know of his respect for the role of a wife in a marriage. She felt like a fool for even hoping to marry a man with such a narrow and mercenary view of women. She could thank her lucky stars she'd escaped so nasty a fate. "I expected nothing," she lied boldly. "Which is fortunate, since that's exactly what I got." "Ah, Calla. So stubborn, so contemptuous. But you can't fool me." Although his tone was lightly teasing, she caught the darker undertone. Leaning her head against the high back of the armchair, she contemplated him through the fringe of her lowered lashes. His rough-hewn face would brook no nonsense; the chiseled perfection of his big hard body backed it up. He would make a formidable opponent for anyone. An image of a feral black cat toying with a defenseless mouse popped into her mind. Calla had never seen herself as mousy, but she was vividly aware that she must maneuver carefully now or he would pounce. "Is the idea of marriage so repugnant to you?" she asked. "The Justice family is well known and respected among society, yet you prefer to offer me the socially unacceptable position of paid mistress. Tsk, tsk, William. Would your mother approve?" The gleam in his eyes as he sat forward was incendiary. "I look for nobody's approval." "Except mine." William's grin was full of smug male confidence. "The woman who came alive with greedy passion and begged for more of my kisses shouldn't be difficult to persuade."


Calla fingered the gold braid stitched down the front of her robe, flushing at the memory of all she'd said and done when William had kissed her. Would she never learn to control her imprudent tendencies? "You are not a gentleman," she said tartly. "Please try to conduct yourself with a modicum of discretion." "I can be very discreet about what will occur between us in the bedroom. You'd be surprised how many gentlemen conduct circumspect affairs away from public view and censure." "Of course. How naive of me. You're only asking me to join history's long line of courtesans, concubines, and harlots!" Furious, Calla jumped up and stared down her nose at William. "How dare a penniless girl without a proper pedigree wish for more? I should be complimented to be offered a paid position by a man of your stature!" Chapter Five

How magnificent she was, William thought. As regal as a queen, yet as lush and passionate as a voluptuous wench. Her crown of titian hair was tipped with gold by the firelight, her chin lifted proudly above the high, hooded neckline of her burnoose. He could only imagine the full curves hidden beneath the thick red-velvet folds. True, she was feeling quite scornful at the moment, but he had no doubt once she fully understood his reasoning she'd come around. "As long as it's kept hush-hush, why shouldn't the respected William Justice enjoy a tumble with whatever tempting tidbit he fancies," Calla continued. She intended to steamroller his indecent proposal as thoroughly as he'd steamrollered her heart. "Shall we get down to the nitty-gritty? Exactly what are the practical details of your offer? Do I get furs and diamonds, a fringed and swagged love nest? Or perhaps only a little trinket when I've been especially pleasing? How much am I worth to you, William?" "You've misunderstood my offer," he patiently explained, trying to stay rational despite her wild accusations. "When I asked you to be my mistress, I was thinking of us as lovers, not client and professional." "Lovers? Ha! Not a chance!" William's arm flashed out to catch her around the waist. Before she could protest, Calla found herself flat on the couch beneath his heavy, immovable body. "You wouldn't say that if you realized how it's going to be between us, honey." His voice had thickened with an unquenched passion. "Let me show you how good it will be. Let me make love to you, Calla." She looked away from the chiseled face looming above her. The need and desire branded upon it was palpable. "Release me, William," she said past the lump in her throat."Or I may scream." "I can bring you to the point of ultimate release. I can make you scream with ecstasy." "Do you really believe that sex is what this is all about?" she demanded, nonetheless feeling her outrage abate as his grip eased and his body shifted atop hers in a languidly sensual movement. She couldn't stop her body's automatic response even though her heart was crying out for love. "William, please. I want more than just a —" Her heart's wish was lost as lips descended to hers.


His breath was warm and flavored with brandy. Her mouth opened and she drank many small kisses from his lips, intoxicated by their taste. His tongue taunted her hungering mouth, dancing along her lower lip, then finally thrusting inside and doing all the secret, sexy things she craved. Her fingers tangled themselves in his short, thick hair, urging him to continue. This was definitely not one of the boring good-night kisses that left her feeling empty and frustrated. The promise of complete fulfillment was there in every flick of his tongue as it traced patterns over her lips to her arching neck to her delicate ears; it was there in the pleasurable weight of his strong shoulders, the roughness of his heavy thigh parting her legs, the words, hot and exciting, he whispered in her ear. The promise was especially there in the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against her lower belly. Calla moaned and lifted her knee, causing her robe to fall away and bare one long leg. The dull gleam of white flesh in the dim light drew William's hand. As he trailed his sensitive fingertips from her ankle to her thigh, Calla felt her skin tingle with a sharply undeniable need. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. William's palm curved around her breast. "The shrew's tongue is no longer so sharp," he said with a low chuckle. Calla's hands stilled over the terrain of smooth male skin and corded muscle they'd been freely exploring. Her fingernails sank into his firm biceps. "But she still has sharp claws," he grunted, the lines of his face tensing as he gritted his teeth. Exhaling with a hiss, he lifted his head to study her with glittering eyes. "I can see I'll have to be careful with such a spitfire of a mistress." "Mistress?" Calla sharply repeated. William groaned. He'd blown it. "Haven't we already played out that scene?" "Is that what you think this is? Bedding your mistress?" "I'd hoped so." Her false laugh was bitter. "Silly me. I thought we were making love." She thrust mightily at his chest, succeeding in lifting it an inch or two, enough for her to squirm partway out from beneath him. Flailing wildly, urgently, she struggled for her release. William stood without warning, and she lost her balance on the edge of the couch cushions, falling awkwardly to the floor in a tangle of bare legs and twisted burnoose. Fuming, ignoring William's helping hand, she scrambled to her feet and fumbled with handfuls of fabric before the hem finally dropped to her toes. She whipped up her head to glare at him. William seemed to have a knack for humiliating her. With an angry finger, she poked him in the chest. "Now I see all I was doing was making a mistake." Although she meant to sound defiant, there was no denying the regret in her voice. It was not easy to turn off all the feelings their near-coupling had aroused. William caught her hand and pressed it to his chest as though his heartbeat could convey the truth better than words. Her fingers instinctively curled into the thick mat of ebony hair, and she felt with a shock the


heat he was generating like a blast furnace. "It would not be a mistake for us to make love," he murmured, unerringly pulling her closer. "Let me love you, Calla, honey." Resolutely inviolate, she shook her head. Yet she made no move to retreat. His scent filled her nostrils, warm, pungent, 100-percent male. She laid her head alongside her hand, his crisp hair scratchy against her cheek as she closed her eyes and sighed with longing. "I wish it was that simple," she whispered. "It can be." William cupped her chin in his palm and lifted her face to receive his kiss. "Simple" was exactly what he'd been aiming for. Calla's lips were tender and slightly swollen, the kiss sweetly poignant because she'd decided it would be their last. It had to be. Her hands trembled as they framed his face, and when she pulled away, it was with great reluctance. "If it would be makinglove , I'd say yes." She wouldn't allow herself to plead with him. A pledge of love was worthless unless freely given, and it was now terribly clear that he'd always been scrupulously careful about not making such a statement. He hadn't promised her a thing. Calla's lips thinned, her eyes darkening to shutter the tattered remnants of her dreams from William's view. "Since it's not, the answer is no." William made a motion with his empty arms that was pure frustration. Acute despair tore at him, stronger than he'd been prepared for, but even then he was too honest to make promises he wasn't sure he could keep. Loving Calla might have come easy, especially after the past two months together. There had been moments he'd found himself dangerously close to falling full-fledged in love with her. Each time, though, he'd forced himself away from the brink, because he knew that saying "I love you" was never enough. Like every other woman he'd known, Calla would want more. She'd want the guarantee of a marriage license, the one thing he was extremely reluctant to ever give again. Chapter Six

Why were women such complicated creatures? Why couldn't Calla be satisfied with the prescribed parameters of an affair? They could have great sex, good companionship, no surprises or uncomfortable demands. They would be beyond the unsteady vagaries of dating and the unrealistic expectations of marriage. He thought he'd come up with the perfect compromise. Why couldn't Calla agree? "I've never deceived you," said William. "I told you about my disastrous first marriage. You had no reason to expect a proposal." Maybe William was right and she'd deluded herself completely on her own. It wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten carried away by her enthusiasm. "Lots of divorced people remarry," she persisted. Her shaky fingers ran over her hair, trying to contain the flyaway tendrils escaping from her braid. She was mussed and uncertain and flustered. "Was I so wrong to believe you felt more for me than lust?" "Of course not." William hitched up the towel that was dropping dangerously low, wondering how he was to negotiate this treacherous path. Once a woman knew you were vulnerable to falling in love, she wouldn't give up until she was walking down the aisle. "I — like you." That sounded incredibly lame, even to him. "The whole point of these past weeks was to get to know each other. I've found you to be smart, witty, talented. Despite your sometimes too-well-behaved demeanor, I know you're also sassy and outspoken. You're passionate. Very passionate. That's the woman I truly —" he surprisingly found himself wanting to saylove "— want."


Calla closed her eyes and groaned. She should never have attempted the genteel, white-glove approach. Naturally, a well-bred specimen like William Justice would see through the charade, even when she called it "improving herself." The woman he'd described — the woman she was at heart — was just the type a man of his stature would see as a mistress, not a bride. And he didn't even know the whole truth. She'd set herself up for a fall, and he was trying to be gentle about letting her down. "I'm appalled at myself," she mumbled. "I've been a fool." "No, Calla. I'm the one at fault here. I should have realized my intentions needed to be spelled out." He paced back and forth in front of the stone fireplace, mentally berating himself. Calla looked so dejected. He should've been up front. Instead, he'd acted like an ignorant dolt, making assumptions right and left. "Try to understand. Nowadays a man has to be careful. It's too dangerous to play musical beds. I was hoping we could settle into a steady, caring relationship. One with no false expectations, however." Oh, he'd fixed her false expectations, all right! She was seeing things rather more harshly now. It was not a pretty sight. "Perhaps you wanted to set up an appointment with a doctor of your choice?" she asked sourly. "You shouldn't close the deal without an ironclad guarantee that your chosen mistress is verified disease-free." "Now, Calla," he chided. "This arrangement can be beneficial to both of us" "The only thing I'd like to arrange is your brain, since it apparently belongs where your heart should be." He ignored that and headed toward her. "I've given plenty of thought as to what I can do for you." "Really?" She backed away, batting at his hands. "You could quit your job. No more toiling on commercial illustrations for whatever product Frogg, Underwood is pushing next. I'd give you the freedom and space to set up a studio, to concentrate on your talent without worrying about paying bills." "How thoughtful and generous of you," she said sarcastically. "I suppose this nirvana you describe would entail a move?" "Why not? I've heard you complain about the small size of this place. My staff can easily find a condo or a town house in the city. It would be more convenient for both of us." "This whole thing is a setup for your convenience, isn't it? Can't you see how arrogant it is to ask me to rely on your charity for everything from shelter to — to toothpicks?" "I'm sure you'd soon be making enough from the sale of your artwork to pay for incidentals. You wouldn't have to come to me every time you wanted to get your hair done or buy a pretty frippery." Calla's distaste burned in the pit of her stomach. "How nice to know you've got such belief in my talent," she said. "I do so want to pay for my own fripperies." "Calla, I'm just offering to take care of you. I thought that was what you wanted."


She stared at William in amazement. He seemed sincere. Couldn't he understand that she wantedhim, not his money? "This is not the Dark Ages," she said with real anguish in her lowered voice. "All options are open. Women no longer have to choose between the roles of wife, nun, and prostitute." Breathing hard, she paused and knew her decision had been made long before. She stalked out of the room. William heard the slam of a small metal door and then she was back, flinging an armful of clothes in his face. "My choice is to throw you out of my small, inconvenient apartment. Put on your damned clothes and leave." Like any staunch businessman, William continued to outline his plan, perhaps a bit desperately, while he yanked a pair of oddly warped trousers up beneath the damp towel. "We could travel together, Calla. I'd like company on my business trips toSan Francisco,Jackson Hole,Coeur d'Alene,Portland. We could go toEurope. You'd like to visitParis, wouldn't you? And that would be difficult on a Frogg, Underwood salary. I'd give you nothing but the best —" "Never." Calla turned her back on the sight of his bare chest and flexing shoulders as he shrugged into a ruined dress shirt. This was not the time to be seduced by a display of gorgeous male anatomy. "Why are you making me such a crude offer?" she asked plaintively. "Never in a million years would I lower myself to being a kept woman." A long pause was finally broken by William's gruff voice. "But you would lower yourself to take your revenge out on my suit." Calla started and spun around in a swirl of red velvet. He was standing directly behind her, fully dressed in a mass of wrinkles and misshapen cloth. Everything was askew, shrunken, or sagging. He spread his hands, dumbfounded by what she'd wrought. Calla choked back a chortle of vengeful mirth. "I guess your suit was dry-clean only. What a shame I left the dryer on so long." "What a marvelous homemaker you'll make for some lucky guy." Her eyes narrowed. "That's right," she said seriously. "I will." The idea of Calla as another man's wife didn't sit well with William, but he was sick of pleading his case and tired of combating her sharp tongue. Perhaps he was even having doubts about the proposal that had once seemed so businesslike. The Calla he'd uncovered was not the woman he'd expected; this one possessed more depth and scruples, not to mention a mean way with a clothes dryer. William slid his feet into his soggy shoes and walked to the front door. Halfway out, he thought better of allowing Calla the satisfaction of the last word. But he wouldn't retaliate with words. They weren't working. Besides, there was a better way for a man and a woman to communicate. He turned away from the door and deliberately stalked Calla as she backed up as far as the tiny foyer allowed. Her jewellike eyes were wide open and a little frightened. William grasped the thick braid at the back of her neck and used it to propel her lips toward his. She twisted her head in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. "Brute," she breathed. "Witch," he responded.


He claimed possession of her mouth in a kiss that was ferocious in its intensity. A tiny whimper sounded at the back of Calla's throat. William responded by pressing his advantage, using his tongue like a rapier. A fiery reaction burned through Calla's body, weakening her stubborn will. She relaxed against him, the length of his body searing hers. One of his hands settled over her breast, fingertips delighted to discover the tautened nipple hidden beneath the thick folds of her concealing robe. No longer working against each other, their mouths had mated in a passionate pas de deux, a dance as old as the battle between the sexes. A smug satisfaction settled in William's gut. Knowing he hadn't miscalculated Calla's physical desire for him would give him the upper hand intheir battle. She could deny his money but not her intrinsically passionate nature. He suddenly released her. Calla fell back against the bright yellow wall, knocking askew her print of van Gogh's sunflowers. She pressed her ravished lips together, as if it would be so easy to stem the sudden flow of emotion. Surely no man could kiss in such a way unless he had at least some feeling for its recipient! "My offer is still open, Calla," William said as he backed through the open doorway. "Don't make a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life." The door slammed on her gasped "Arrogant bastard!" Calla hit it with her fist. "Ouch!" She turned around and leaned against the door, trying to sort out the feelings rampaging through her. One thing was clear. William was right. Oh, she'd never, ever change her mind about becoming his mistress. Nor even allow herself to mourn very long for the lost dream of being his wife. It would hurt too much to think of that possibility as anything but folly. No, her body was throbbing with the near knowledge of what she would truly regret. She'd never make love with William Justice. Chapter Seven

"It was the most humiliating night of my life," Calla moaned through the weave of crossed fingers in front of her face. "I've never been so thoroughly insulted." Vivien Willowbrook-Grey handed her a green pepper and a knife. "Chop," she directed. "The thing I don't understand is how we could've misinterpreted his intentions so badly. There must have been some warning signals." Calla viciously sliced into the pepper. "You don't have to so kindly say 'we.' I'm the one with egg on my face." "Good thing I'm making omelets," Viv observed lightly. "Humph," Calla grunted. The two women had a standing date for Saturday brunch, an event that had often developed into an analysis session of their Friday-night dates. At least it had before Vivien married one of her dates and began using the brunches to extol the benefits of married life. She was the type of woman who'd happily manage not only her own life but the lives of all her friends, as well. Her current project was to find a


husband for Calla. She believed in tidy endings and round numbers. Calla sat on the dining-room side of the pass-through, watching her friend crack eggs into a mixing bowl. Although she got along well with Viv's new husband, Alexander Grey, she was just as glad he was off on one of his outdoor adventures — a fishing trip in theRockies, according to Vivien. On this particular Saturday morning, Calla was in need of a good dose of girl-talk. Vivien waved her whisk in the air. "Men like William should be marked to warn innocent women away. If he glowed in the dark, say, or emitted high-frequency beeps, you wouldn't have wasted any time on him. Not to mention your clothing budget for the next three years." "Tell me about it," Calla replied glumly. "Perhaps my senses have been dulled from too much exposure to newlywed bliss." Vivien assumed her patented cat-eating-cream look. "Hmm — but William did seem to be perfect." Handing Calla a package of Monterey Jack cheese to shred, she went to check on the tomato sauce simmering on the stove. "Perfection is an illusion." Thoughtfully, Calla watched Vivien sample the sauce and add another dash of chili powder. "It seems obvious now that the saga of his divorce was a warning signal. I guess I didn't think too much about it at the time because he told the tale so wryly, with that sardonic grin he uses to cover up his feelings. Since I've now been clued in to his idea of a 'caring relationship' — ha! — I'd better rethink." "You told me he was divorced many years ago, but I don't know the details." Vivien added the chopped peppers to a skillet containing sautéed and diced potatoes. "In my pre-Alexander days, I usually considered a past divorce to be a good sign. At least it meant the guy was capable of some sort of commitment." "William's plenty willing to commit — money." Calla made a growling noise and pushed down on the block of cheese too vigorously, scraping her knuckles painfully across the ridges of the grater. "This is what happens when a guy is allowed to pay for all the dates," she complained. "He gets the idea he owns you. He gets the idea he can getideas. " She stuck her red knuckles into her mouth. "Do I wook wike the type can be baw an' pay fo'?" "Bought and paid for?" Viv laughed. "No, I've never thought so." "Apparently William did," Calla muttered, pushing aside the mound of cheese and shifting on the stool. She laced her hands beneath her chin. Vivien danced in front of the stove, emptying the mixing bowl with a flourish, tipping the omelet pan and eyeing it judiciously. She was a small, slender woman with a sharp nose and chin and a full head of flyaway, jaw-length hair in a shade she liked to call "toasted almond." For a piercing instant, Calla was filled with envy for her best friend's perfect life: a handsome husband who loved her, a satisfying job, a prospective new house. Viv had everything in line for a straight progression into a bright and brilliant future. Calla felt stuck in the mud at the side of the road. Vivien handed her a steaming plateful of Southwestern omelet, and they went into the small dining area to eat. Vivien and Alex rented the other half of the same side-by-side duplex Calla lived in, so they didn't have a lot of room. Vivien shoved a pile of papers and magazines to one side of the table to make room for their plates, exhibiting an indifference to the mess Calla never would have believed her capable of. Now that she thought about it, Calla realized there'd actually been more than a few adjustments to Viv's


lifestyle. For instance, the apartment was no longer spit-shined to a fare-thee-well. It was cluttered. Skiing paraphernalia was stacked in the corner, and the desk beneath the big picture window was piled so high with junk the view was obscured. There were even chunks of burned logs and a mound of ashes in the fireplace. The pre-Alex Vivien had scraped ashes and scrubbed stone after every use of the fireplace. Vivien intercepted Calla's glance. "I know, I know," she said with a shrug. "I keep telling myself we'll be moving soon, anyway. Then I can make Alex confine his stuff to one room and earn back my cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness halo." Calla grinned around a mouthful of omelet. "You'll never be the same," she said cheerfully after swallowing. "How is the Great House Search proceeding?" "Don't ask. Alex is beginning to make noises about building a log cabin on some remote mountaintop." "Compromise is the secret to a happy marriage," Calla said, using her friend's words against her. "I already compromised on our Hawaiian honeymoon. One week lying on the beach and the second camping in the jungle and hiking up volcanoes." Vivien snorted derisively, but the look in her eyes spoke of extremely pleasing memories. "What do you think of this sauce? Maybe I shouldn't have added that extra chili powder." Calla forked up another mouthful. "Can't be too hot for me. I adore the spice of life." That had been her motto — before she'd remade herself for William Justice. One would think a mature woman who believed Anita Hill and heroine-worshiped Gloria Steinem would've known better. "Must've been hormones," she muttered. "Huh?" "Hormones," Calla sagely repeated, pointing the fork at herself. "They do weird things to your brain. Such as turning you into an imperfect Stepford wife. Sweet and compliant but with a scheme." "Come on, Calla. Buck up. So you toned down your natural tendencies a teensy bit hoping for marriage. Men do it, too. It's called putting your best foot forward." Vivien slid her empty plate aside and said eagerly, "Tell me about William's divorce." Calla bit down on a huge chunk of green pepper. "She was his college sweetheart. All spun sugar and perfect white teeth. She wore old family pearls and silk blouses with froufrou bow ties. She hunted." "Hunted?" "You know, riding to the hounds. In one of those cute black velvet helmets and neon red coats." "Never trust a woman who wears tall black boots and carries a riding crop." "She had blond hair, of course, and her eyes were small and mean. Still are, I suppose." "You must've seen a photo. That's a bad sign, him keeping her picture around." Calla stared at a potato speared on the tines of her fork. She shook it off. "They were in a photo album stuffed on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. I sneaked a peek when he was getting coffee."


"That's okay, then. Can't expect a guy to hack her face out of every photo he owns. Was the album dusty?" Vivien asked hopefully. "William has a daily cleaning woman. Rich people do that." Calla sighed deeply. "Anyway, from what William said, his lovely bride turned into an ice cube with dollar signs in her eyes. He says he knew it from the first night, when she laid back and thought ofEngland . After that, all she wanted to do was shop and check on her position in the social register. She thought Denverwas the boondocks and told William she wouldn't give him any babies until they at least moved to New York. He got out as fast as he could." "Whew! No wonder he's a bit cynical about marriage." "It gets worse. She fought him in court over the divorce, and he wound up giving her the equivalent of the U.S. Mint to get rid of her." "Damn." "Double damn." They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at their plates. Vivien's was clean; Calla's was decorated with globs of leftover egg and potato. "So he's been burned," Vivien said. "Yeah, but is that enough reason to treat me like a gold digger?" "Look at it this way, Calla. Men aren't as rational as women. They don't analyze their feelings, so they rarely learn anything constructive from past experience. Their thought processes are muddled by too much testosterone. I know it's not fair, but the truth is it's up to us women to keep them in line." Viv grinned. "Which is exactly what you did." "I thought so. Until he made the crack about me regretting turning him down. As if." Calla's lip curled. "The egotistical son of a b —" "Let's not impugn his mother." "Banker," Calla finished, looking glum despite her fighting words. "I just don't get men. Why do they think love is a four-letter word? Well, okay, it is, but you know what I mean, Viv. Why don't men know the difference between making love and making sex?" Calla yawned, remembering the idea she'd had at four minutes after three that morning: She could point out the difference to William. She'd always been good at show-and-tell. "They do. It's just that the knowledge isn't as close to the surface as it is with women." Calla squared her shoulders. "So somewhere deep down inside William does have love for me. He must. Aside from this mistress thing, we've been getting along just great. We talked. We laughed. I know his ticklish spots and the story of him peeing his pants on the first day of kindergarten. We like the same movies, and you know how rare that is. He sends flowers. He sends faxes. He once sent me a postcard with cute little x's and o's under his signature. And — and, dammit, his kisses are better than Hershey's!" Vivien was several sentences behind the pace. "Big Mr. Banker told you he made a pee-pee? He sends


you hugs and kisses?" She chortled. "It must be love!" Her brown eyes widened and she held up one hand. "Whoa there, Calla. Kisses better than Hershey's? Last I heard he was still kissing you on the doorstep with no more passion than a dead fish." Calla's smile was sheepish. "Recent developments have convinced me he's more of a — very lively stallion. And not just on the doorstep." "Aha! The plot thickens." Viv eyed the pink blush creeping into Calla's cheeks. "So he's not running for mayor of Eunuchville, after all?" "Heavens, no! Did I really say that?" Calla gnawed on her lower lip, remembering how they'd cast aspersions on William's manhood over dinner at Salvatore's. How could she have been so dumb? The man might be a no-good rotten chauvinist, but at least he was a virile no-good rotten chauvinist. "Take my word for it, Viv. All his equipment is in working order." "Well, then?" Vivien prompted. Calla had a strangely goony look on her face and her eyes were closing dreamily. Vivien recognized the expression — she'd seen it on her own face after the first time she'd made love with Alex. "Calla! Did you and Williamdo it?" Calla's eyes opened wide and her parted lips snapped shut. "Do you really think I'd hit the sheets with a man who'd just offered to pay me?" she asked tartly, but her hands fluttered over the tabletop like butterflies. She gathered up a fistful of silverware and retreated to the kitchen. "I'm no turncoat to the sisterhood," she said, head poking out the pass-through. "We women must uphold our standards. Fight for equality. Stamp out sexism. Stand firm on our principles and — Vivien! Will you please stop laughing?" A chuckling Vivien strolled into the kitchen. "Feminists have sex, too, sister Calla. Where d'ya think all the little feminists come from?" "The sperm bank." "Ho-ho. Why do I suspect, despite your fervent protests, that you're considering making a withdrawal from a Justice Bank account?" Calla flung up her hands in defeat. "I'm so confused." "You're in love." "I'm afraid of turning into one of those women who buy hardcover copies of self-help books. They go on 'Oprah' and talk about how they're always attracted to jerks." "You've never been a masochist." "Remember Paulette?" Calla frowned. "Paulette was the Schwarzkopf of attorneys. She could mow down public defenders and turn them into mulch, but when it came to her boyfriend she'd get all whiny and wimpy and clingy. She supported him for three years while he wrote fifteen pages of a bestseller, then moved toLa-LaLandwhen he decided he wanted to write sitcoms. Nobody ever heard from Paulette again," she concluded dolefully. "That's neither here nor there." Vivien set the plates on the counter next to a stack of cookbooks left near the sink. "Besides, Paulette was living under the onus of being named after her father. She was trying


to please men from the day she was born." "The Wild Game Gourmet?" Calla asked, one eyebrow canted curiously as she read the title of the cookbook she'd picked up. "What happened toZen and the Art of Nouvelle Cuisine? " "Okay, so Paulette's not the only one." Vivien snatched the book away from Calla. "Alex is trying to convince me venison is edible. I'm thinking, maybe with shallots and red wine." The tip of her agile tongue touched her upper lip, the way it always did when she was concentrating on a recipe. "Possibly a pâté withCumberlandsauce," she murmured, then caught Calla's eye. "Compromise is the secret of a —" "Happy affair?" Calla supplied. Vivien was bent over the sink, her face moist from the steam of the hot running water. "Affair," she repeated doubtfully. "Calla, I don't see you becoming a mistress." "Give me some credit. I'm not looking to relive my mother's mistakes. If I do this, it's got to be on my terms. And I've decided that being a lover is very different from being a mistress." "You're still risking your heart." "Nothing risked, nothing gained." Calla flipped open the dishwasher and began to load the rinsed dishes Vivien handed her. "William is trying to keep me at arm's length, emotionally speaking, with this mistress thing. He doesn't yet realize that he loves me. I will show him the error of his ways. What could be simpler?" "Uh-oh. You've got that devious glitter in your eyes." Calla puffed out her lower lip and blew several strands of hair out of her eyes. "Nope. No more dishonesty. No more shirtwaists and lace handkerchiefs. No more sweetness and light. I'm breaking out my wallet and my spike heels and my gumption. William is going to take me as I am and he's going to like it. No, he's going to love it." She dried her hands on the front of her "A Woman's Place Is in the White House" T-shirt. Vivien, knowing how vulnerable Calla was beneath her flamboyant shell, was more cautious. "Are you sure? Sometimes it's better to cut your losses. Spend a Saturday night drowning your sorrows in mocha almond fudge and then forget him." "William Justice is not the type of man a woman can lose in a dish of ice cream." "He's definitely worth the trouble?" Calla shrugged. "He's thick skulled, egocentric, insulting, demanding, and totally unreasonable." "Just like most men." "Also generous, successful, compelling, intelligent, and incredibly sexy." "Like very few men." They smiled at each other, shaking their heads in mutual chagrin. "Men!" Calla said with age-old exasperation.


Vivien nodded wisely. "Every woman should have one." Chapter Eight

Wednesday. Four minutes afterthree P.M.He'd waited long enough. William pressed a button on the intercom. "Mrs. Pennyworth? Get me Calla Quinn at Frogg, Underwood." If only it were so easy. Thirty-six interminable seconds went by. "Ms. Quinn is on line one, Mr. Justice." "Hello, Calla." "Hi, there!" He hadn't expected her to sound so damn perky. His heart was hammering in his throat. "How've you been?" Brilliant. "Quite well. Working hard to pay the bills." Score one for her side. "So —" he said, drawing the word out expectantly. She didn't respond. "What was it you wanted to speak to me about?" "You're the one who called me." "I had a message you'd called." "Mmph." Her breath chuffed into the phone. "Wasn't me. Perhaps you know another Calla." He shuffled a sheaf of handy papers near the mouthpiece. "Maybe it was an old message. My mistake, I guess." She paused for so long he thought his nerve endings would be rubbed raw from the tension of waiting. "Well, as long as I've got you on the phone —" she said tentatively. "Yes?" He sounded calm, but he wanted to shout. "Why don't you come over for dinner? We have something to discuss." Yes!He shoots, he scores! "Sure," he said gruffly. "Good idea." "Friday night?" She was as cool and pointed as an icicle. "Yeah. I'll be there." "Okay. And William? Maybe you should replace Mrs. Pennyworth with a ditzy blonde. A bubbleheaded secretary would make your lame excuse much more plausible. In case you ever have to use it again."


*** She was absolutely the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. Had his heart grown fonder with a week's absence, or did she really look even better than before? More vibrant and alive? It seemed to him that she'd usually contained her hair in clips, twists or braids; tonight, it was gloriously released over her bare shoulders, rich red curls licking at her upper arms like tongues of flame. She'd tended to dress conservatively, in classic dresses or suits that never looked quite right on her voluptuous figure; tonight, she was glowing with color and movement and a lot of bared skin, her flowing dress shimmering with tiny threads that caught the light, blinking gold and blue and red. A stack of bright enamel bracelets clacked together as she reached out to close the door. Her glossy deep red lips stretched into a smile of greeting.

William thrust a green tissue-paper cone of daffodils at her with a touch less than his usual gallantry. "Calla lilies might be the appropriate flower, but I thought these looked more like you." He hadn't realized at the time how true that was. She was no sleek, subtle, expensive lily. The name was a misnomer. Calla was bright, showy, bursting with life, absolutely the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. Calla took the bouquet in her arms. "How perceptive, William. I've always loved daffs best of all. They're so bold in declaring springtime." William felt like a gawky kid on his first date in the face of her graceful ease, and he'd never evenbeen a gawky kid. "Something smells good," he said to fill the awkward pause. "Oh, I minced and diced under Viv's direction. She's the Michelangelo of spatulas." "I meant you smell nice." Like a drift of wildflowers hidden deep in a fern-filled forest grove. Calla laughed and twirled away from him. "I always dab a bit of beef gravy behind each ear before a big date." She waved the flowers at the living room. "Make yourself comfortable while I get these into a vase. Alex is tending bar." William pulled up short in the doorway. Two people already occupied the room, both of them looking very much at home. The woman glanced up from selecting one of the hors d'oeuvres off a tray on the coffee table. "Hello again, William." She smiled brightly and he belatedly recognized her as Calla's Frogg, Underwood friend. Calla swept grandly into the room, her full skirt sparkling and swishing. "I know you've already met Vivien, William. This is Alex Grey, her husband," she introduced, indicating the tall blond Viking. "He's a freelance writer, an inveterate sportsman and intrepid adventurer." Alex's big hand rubbed across the stubble on his chin. "You have a way with words, Calla."


While the men exchanged handshakes and went to mix drinks, Vivien popped a dill-garnished salmon on pumpernickel into her mouth. Her quick chocolate-brown eyes studied William as she licked her fingers. Under the pretense of helping Calla arrange the daffodils in a dribble-glazed urn, she whispered, "William looked like he was choking on a horse when he saw Alex and me. He definitely wants to be alone with you." She shot him another assessing glance. "You'd be crazy not to want the same." "Stick around a while longer," Calla pleaded under her breath. "You promised you'd stay to break the ice." At the temporary bar arranged in the pass-through, Alex dropped three cubes into a glass with a clatter. "Fab flowers," Vivien announced loudly for William's benefit. Calla held out the platter of hors d'oeuvres, urging everyone to sample. The foursome chewed and swallowed and chewed again, the women sending each other wide-eyed silent messages, the men unsure of what was going on, so they lapsed into baseball talk. Calla passed the tray again. "It always takes time for an expansion club," said Alex. "Look at theSeattleMariners." "I'd rather not," said William, laughing. Calla stared at the tray's contents. Nobody was eating the stuffed grape leaves. Viv had warned her that nobody ever ate stuffed grape leaves. She crammed one in her mouth and chewed to the accompaniment of "Defense wins games" and "His screwball has more moves than a belly dancer." A ripe cherry tomato filled with hummus burst on her tongue. Vivien mouthed, "Say something!" and Calla looked down at the tray again. She'd disarranged the perfect pattern of rows. "Oh, my, we're running low," she trilled. "Excuse me while I replenish the stuffed grape leaves." William interrupted himself right in the middle of saying something about the designated-hitter rule and set his glass on the coffee table. "Excuse me," he said, and followed Calla to the kitchen. Calla was poking at her hair, holding up a shiny silver serving spoon as a mirror. It clattered to the floor when William barged through the swinging door. "What's going on here?" he whispered urgently. "I thought we were going to be alone tonight." "You don't like Alex and Vivien?" she asked, attempting to keep her tone light as she rinsed the spoon at the sink. "They seem very nice, just not what I expected." Calla pretended that arranging a semicircle of pineapple-and-ham spears needed all her concentration. "You said we have something to discuss," William persisted. He grabbed the platter from her hands as she was about to sail past him. "I'd assumed we would be speaking privately." "Never assume, dear William. I don't like to be predictable." She tried to take the tray, but he wouldn't let go. "One might think —" she exerted more pressure "— you'd never attended a friendly cocktail party before. Can't you go out there and chat with Alex like a good little boy?" His grip tightened. "This is a friendly party only on the surface, and I am anything but a good little boy. Is that it? Alex and Vivien are here because you're counting on me being the perfect gentleman in front of them?" Calla yanked the platter, not answering. Sometimes William was too astute for his own good. Or hers. "News flash, honey," he continued brusquely. "Tonight I'm not any more a perfect gentleman than I


am a little boy." His demeanor was extremely heated. She got cold feet. Vivien poked her head into the kitchen and interrupted their tug-of-war. "It's getting late. Maybe Alex and I should be —" Calla suddenly abandoned the tray, and a dozen mushroom caps popped into the air. The stuffed grape leaves didn't even quiver. "You can't leave yet," she hissed, rolling her eyes at William, who was wondering what he'd wanted with the hors d'oeuvres in the first place. Calla's social voice returned. "We haven't had dinner yet. You haven't even finished your drinks. And goodness knows we haven't run out of baseball talk." She herded Vivien out of the kitchen, glancing briefly back over her shoulder. "Quit fussing with the hors d'oeuvres and come along now, William." He gave her a black look. Women! Well, two could play this game. He set the platter beside the vase of daffodils and approached Calla from the rear. She jumped as his arms suddenly circled her possessively, pinning hers beneath them. He nuzzled her ear, setting her long metallic earrings jangling. "William," she muttered warningly, turning in his arms. He lifted his head and looked her straight in the eye. A communication passed between them. "A pinch hitter is always up at bat withother players on base," William said seemingly out of the blue, which made Vivien snort in amusement. "Okay, that's enough baseball talk," Calla commanded, her social voice strained. "Or take the outfielder. There he is, playing deep in the field,all alone ." Vivien definitely giggled this time. Nodding, Alex poked a mushroom cap in his mouth and washed it down with the last gulp of his vodka. "Now, the umpire," William continued, his strong arms quelling Calla's attempt to wriggle free, "There's a lonely job. It's all up to him, call the runner safe or —you're outta here! " "Yeah, absolutely," Alex agreed, grinning hugely. He grabbed his wife's hand. "Say, Viv, did you forget those tickets we had?" She stared up at him through the curly wisps of her bangs. "Tickets?" "To the ballet. Or maybe it was the symphony." He looked at William apologetically. "You know wives, always trying to insert culture in a guy's life. But, hey, can't disappoint my sweetheart, right?" He put his arm around Vivien's shoulders, discreetly pointing her toward the door. "Gotta run or we'll be late." "Oh, yes, the symphony tickets," said Vivien, looping her arm around Alex's waist. "Sorry we couldn't stay longer, Calla. But I'm sure you two won't mind being alone." Calla opened her mouth to protest. She caught William's warning eye. She closed her mouth. "It's been great," William said cheerfully, shaking hands with Alex. "We'll have to get together and take our ladies to a ball game real soon."


"I love baseball," announced Vivien. "Especially the game within the game. Baseball has a very intriguing subtext, don't you think?" "Shut up, Viv," Alex said through his broad smile as they departed. William waved and nodded and smiled and quickly shut the door behind them. Calla, still standing at the living-room window, watched Vivien scurry after her husband as he strode across the yard to their side of the duplex. Vivien, glancing back and spotting her through the window, shrugged, apparently not too contrite about leaving her best friend swinging on a trapeze without a safety net. "Alone at last." William's proclamation held a great deal of satisfaction. He thought he'd handled that very neatly. Calla's stomach somersaulted twice and went into free fall. Chapter Nine

William dropped his napkin. "That was a fantastic meal, Calla." She looked up from fiddling with her pilaf and arched a skeptical brow. "Shall I call Vivien back over here so you can thank her properly?" "They had tickets to the symphony." She stood up and started stacking plates, clashing the china together like cymbals. "You know as well as I do that they had no tickets." She accusingly pointed a knife at him. "You practically forced them out the door." "All's fair in love and war, honey." Calla caught her breath. "And which is this?" "Maybe a little bit of both," he said. Calla escaped to the kitchen. Her throat was growing tight, as if she'd stuck her head in a noose. The choice that had seemed so clear and easy last Saturday morning at Vivien's was now most difficult to act on. William was unnervingly solid, a boulder in her prettily imagined path to marriage. How was she to move him? She dumped the dishes she'd gathered into the sink and realized the kitchen was suffocatingly close. She charged the door, bursting into the dining area like a cork shot from a bottle of champagne. William was watching her curiously. "Something wrong?" Calla waved her arms, no words forming. The apartment had never seemed so tiny. And when she thought of the bedroom — Her tongue was as thick and coarse as a brick. She couldn't breathe. William's hands dropped onto her bare shoulders and he looked closely into her face. "Calla, what is it? Can I get you anything? A drink?" "Air," she croaked.


"Air? Okay, let's go for a walk." With his customary efficiency, William propelled Calla out the door, pausing only to retrieve her keys and toss a light sweater over her shoulders. Fingertips on her elbow, he escorted her down the front steps. "We could go for a ride," he suggested solicitously. His sleek, forest green Jaguar was parked at the curb. The cool night air was clearing Calla's head. "A stroll would be nice," she managed to say calmly. "The house seemed so stuffy all of a sudden." A lame excuse, but better than trying to explain her panic. William gently took her hand in his and they sauntered along the sidewalk. A breeze whispered through the aspen trees with a rustle, carrying upon it a hint of wood smoke. Calla breathed deeply. The touch of William's hand was both steadying and exhilarating. "Nice night," he mildly observed. "Yes," she agreed softly. Their bodies were finding a matching rhythm, now and then brushing against each other in an intimate way that sent ripples of awareness up Calla's spine. Passing a yard with mounds of lilacs clustered at the gate, she let her free hand furrow through them to release their perfume into the night. "In this moonlight, you look like a Gypsy enchantress." She turned to him in surprise — it wasn't like William to be so poetic — and the wind caught her loose hair, making her earrings chime, and billowed her skirt, making the fabric shimmer in the dark. William's arms slipped around her. Calla thought of all she'd meant to say tonight, all the words she'd use to make him realize he loved her. They no longer seemed to make a lot of sense. "I thought I knew what I was doing," she said wistfully, without elucidating. He touched his cheek to her forehead. "Maybe this would go more smoothly if we don't discuss it. That seems to be where we run into trouble." Calla's long red nails flashed as she reached up and pressed her palms to his chest. "I need to make you understand why —" His hands slipped lower to cup her bottom in a gentle squeeze. "Believe me, Calla, I understand. You don't have to explain a thing." Her body was imprinting itself on his. She brushed her cheek against the soft, silver-gray sweater he wore under his tweedy jacket, inhaling his unique scent. Her head whirled with the sensations of the spring evening, the beating of William's heart, the gentle persistence of the masculine body under her fingertips. It would be very easy to abandon rational thought and submerge herself in pure feeling. But among all the things she wanted to say, there was one very important declaration that had to be made. Her throat began to tighten. "William?" she whispered. He was bending toward her lips. "William, I can't be your mistress. I can't." Her lips were dark and moist, trembling slightly. He very much wanted to kiss them. "Oh, God, please don't say that, Calla. After so many weeks of frustration, I don't think I can bear it if you turn me away again. I want you so much. Please don't say no." His voice was roughened by a wild surge of need for her that went beyond the physical.


Calla's last-minute jitters disappeared. She'd heard a message from the deepest part of William's heart in his voice. It didn't matter that he wasn't yet aware of it. For the moment, this wonderful, glorious moment, she'd allow her heart to answer his on the most basic level. Fingers tangled in his short dark hair, she dragged his face down to meet hers. "I don't want to be your mistress, William. I want to be your lover." She kissed him with such deep sensuality he felt it to the bottom of his soul. He groaned in his chest and wrapped his arms so tightly around Calla that for an instant she lost her breath. A hiccup of laughter escaped her mouth and William eagerly captured it. He greedily drank the essence of Calla — fiery, impetuous, romantic — into his body, absorbing her with an unquenchable thirst until she had become a part of him in a way he hadn't known he needed. "Will you be my lover?" she gasped against his hungry mouth. His voice was almost indistinguishable from the moan of the wind. "Yes. Of course." They kissed again, clinging, clutching. "Can't you tell?" he whispered. She could indeed. If they stayed any longer on this street corner, all her neighbors would, too. Somehow they made it back to her house, a slow progression that required numerous passionate pauses. William fumbled with the keys, dropping them on the doorstep, then thrusting them into the lock with an impatience Calla had never seen. His control had deserted him. She basked in the heat of such intense desire, remembering previous kisses on this step. She now knew they'd been mild only because he hadn't wanted to tip his hand. He'd thought it was because they were negotiating a delicate agreement for a no-strings relationship. Calla thought it might be because he was leery of allowing himself to feel too deeply. Once they were lovers, could he still deny their love? The question made her pause as he flung open the door. Calla tossed her head, ready to take any chance if it might bring her William for keeps. He was worth the risk. Taking a deep breath, she hooked William's belt loops with her index fingers. He came willingly, kicking the door shut behind them. Laughing, she besieged him with kisses, quickly covering his cheeks and jaw and forehead while her hands tore away his jacket and dropped it to the floor. "You're wearing too many clothes," she accused him breathlessly, tugging on his sweater. He yanked it off over his head. "I can't say the same for you." Unerringly, his fingers found the single button that held up her halter-style bodice. It fell away easily, revealing her naked pink-and-white flesh with a suddenness that shocked him into a moment of inaction. He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. "You're beautiful, Calla. Exquisite." She blushed, feeling the searing touch of his gaze on her bare breasts. William and she didn't seem to need actual physical contact to be connected. She was experiencing his pull from the pit of her stomach to the tingling alertness of her beaded nipples. With a raspy growl reverberating in his throat, William came to her, lowering his head as his hands lifted and squeezed her full breasts. His warm, suckling lips eased her aching need. "Oh!" she breathed. "That's incredible." She kissed the thick black hair at the crown of his head. His teeth nipped and she trembled with a sweet agony, tugging his lips back up to hers. They kissed flowingly, indulgently, taking smug pleasure in it. Dispensing quickly with buttons, Calla smoothed William's shirt away from his chest with her palms,


drawing them delightedly over the contours of firm, rounded muscles and fuzzy hair she'd uncovered. Her lips tweaked his flat nipples in turn, nuzzling playfully. William's hands spanned her waist, pressing her torso to his. Their naked flesh fused. "Does that feel as good for you as it does for me?" he asked huskily, stroking the satin-smooth skin on her back. "So —" Calla's tousled head lifted. "Indescribable," she provided, letting her breasts shift tantalizingly against his abdomen, nipples grazing the crisp, black curling hair. Her arms tightened around his shoulders. She didn't ever want to let go. William was investigating the rest of her dress, his hands filling with filmy, glittering fabric until he found the zipper and eased it downward. The dress fell to the floor and Calla unconcernedly stepped out of it as her own hands moved lower, traversing the tight, flat muscles at William's waist to reach the heavy bulge beneath his zipper. She chuckled at his harsh intake of breath as she boldly and intimately caressed him. "Too many clothes," she muttered again, eager to unleash the throbbing, turgid shaft under her fingers. A feminine satisfaction curled her lips at the knowledge of her effect on William. "The bedroom," he uttered hoarsely. "I think we need the bedroom." Suddenly the ceiling tilted at a crazy angle and Calla lost her sense of direction. Then she realized William had picked her up, and she nestled into the broad expanse of chest before her eyes. Let him do as he would. Any direction he took would be the right one. Before she could fully savor the novel experience of being carried to bed, William had set her upon it. She lay back and stretched luxuriously, preening like a cat as she smiled up at him in invitation. He quickly stripped off the remainder of his clothing and she saw for the first time the blatant masculine power of his nude body. Desire rippled through her, and her heart thundered out of control. He lowered himself beside her in a crouch. His hands slid over her ivory thighs and carefully eased the emerald silk panties off her rounded hips. She kicked them away. His heavy body settled atop hers and she reached again for his shoulders, needing to grasp his solidity, to clasp him to her heart. "That's right," he breathed into her ear. "Hold on tight, Calla sweet." Calla felt herself melting into the fire William had kindled. She gave herself up to passion, confident that if it wasn't the right thing to do, it couldn't possibly feel so perfect. Her gently curved belly jumped under the charge of his electric touch. "Easy," he murmured. His blunt fingertips found the moistening heat of her secret, feminine center and dipped inside. Back arching, she gasped out an unintelligible cry and pressed against his palm. He knew what to do and how to do it. Delicately. Dexterously. "I want to touch you, too," Calla whispered thickly. "Yes," he answered."Touch me." Her hips circled in a lazy motion that elicited another shuddering moan from William. She felt his hard shaft against her thigh and then held it — delightfully hot, deliciously heavy — in her hand. "Calla!" he muttered urgently. "Take me inside you. I can't wait any longer." She guided him to the entrance of her hungering body. William found Calla's mouth, taking it in a deep kiss as she was slowly filled by his long, easy stroke. "Oh — yes —" she said on a sigh. Her body


automatically molded itself to his, legs wrapping around his hips as he established their rhythm. "I knew you would feel this way," he said in a dark, tight voice. "So warm. So wonderful." She met and mated with his thrusts, the incredible feeling of it escalating ever higher as he surged deeper and faster. She clung to his sweat-slick shoulders, sinking her nails into them when she thought she must surely explode. But William knew better. He took her even higher. He teased and taunted her, teaching her secrets about her body she hadn't even suspected. When she was ready to scream with the knowledge, he finally released a million quivering spasms over every inch of her skin. "William!" she shouted, caught up in a whirlwind of sensation she feared would sweep her away from him. "I'm with you," he answered. "All the way." Beneath her clenching hands, she felt the muscles in his back ripple with his last deep thrust and then go rigid. His gutteral shout of release joined her high-pitched cry as they plummeted, intimately and blissfully joined, back to earth. Chapter Ten

So right. So absolutely right. For a long time, Calla was aware of nothing but a dark drowsiness. William was a pleasantly heavy weight anchoring her to the mattress as she absently stroked his back with one lazy hand. Gradually gathering her senses, she became aware of tingling sensations in muscles rarely so thoroughly used. She smiled to herself. Becoming William's lover had been a wise choice. The right choice. Her mind drifted. Was this how other women felt — smug, sassy, eminently pleased to have provided the ultimate pleasure for their men? Now she knew why Vivien was as glossy and sated as a cream-fed cat. Now she knew why so many women made themselves into fools for love — Calla's eyelids popped open. Was this how it had been for her mother? The reason she'd stayed in a demeaning, destructive relationship for far too long? A relationship that had, Calla believed, ultimately led to her mother's early death? William stirred to life, lifting his head. He touched his lips to hers. "Mmm. Should I move?" She hugged him tightly, like a miser with a bag of gold. "This is nice." He shifted a little to the side, settling one hard thigh between her softer ones, running his hand lightly over her warm hollows and curves. "I wonder what's going on behind those cat's eyes of yours. No regrets, I hope?" She closed her eyes, almost purring as she buffeted her head on his chest. "I'll never regret making love with you," she finally answered, remembering a time not so long ago when she'd been ready to deny herself the experience. William laid back against the pillow. This was the moment for lovers to whisper sweet promises in each other's ears, even though those promises were often rash and most likely impossible. Calla needed words of love, but, dammit, he was still holding back.


"My mother was a rich man's mistress," she said. "What?" He was instantly wide awake. Calla bit her lip, appalled at the way she'd blurted it out. She'd meant to ease into this explanation of her conduct. "Your mother," William repeated thoughtfully. "A mistress." She nodded, eyes downcast beneath a puckered brow. "It's time you knew the real me," she said haltingly. "I meant to tell you, but we — you know, before we'd —" She gestured helplessly at the rumpled bed as she took a deep breath and sat up, carefully pulling the splashy Hawaiian print sheet up to her armpits. "I'm not the demure, well-bred lady I was pretending to be. I prefer lace teddies to lace handkerchiefs, sequins and lamé to tailored wool. I can sometimes be goofy and raucous, and I've been known to eat canned spaghetti — straight from the can." William waved the confession off. He already knew or had guessed all that. "If I'd wanted a tame, well-bred companion, I would have bought a registered poodle. Why don't you get back to the part about your mother?" Her nervous fingers had pleated the sheet like an accordian. "Lily worked as a legal secretary for a well-respected firm inBoston. That's where she met my — her lover." Calla squeezed her eyes shut and hunched her shoulders, praying he hadn't caught the slip of the tongue. "Go on." She exhaled with relief. "He was an attorney, great-grandson of one of the founding partners, progeny of a Mayflower family with a house onBeacon Hill. You know the type." "I'm beginning to see why —" "He was also engaged," Calla said tightly. "He didn't bother to inform my mother because they were already having an affair." In her mind's eye, Calla pictured her mother. As a young woman, Lily Quinn had looked and acted very much like her daughter did now, although she'd been a smaller and softer doe-eyed brunette. Lily had been lively and fun, but her fatal flaw had been a will nowhere near as strong as Calla's. "Somehow Edward convinced her to continue the affair, even after his marriage to a blue-blooded equal." Calla's laugh was short and bitter. "He was afraid someone in the office would figure out what was going on, so he set her up in an apartment and paid her living expenses. Lily officially became his mistress." William raked both hands through his short hair, back and forth, several times as if to beat some perspicacity into his stupid brain. "Oh, Calla," he said in anguish, "I've been such a jerk." "How could you have known? I certainly wasn't about to tell you. I was too busy painting my fingernails pink and thinking it would make me a lady." One worthy of marriage, her yearning heart persisted. "I'm sorry." William curled his arm around her to pull her comfortingly close. "I shouldn't have made such an insensitive offer in any case. Can you call it dumb, macho ineptitude and forgive me?"


She nodded. "If you can forgive my silly, feminine masquerade. And if you can forgive me for shoving you out of the rowboat." He laughed. "I figure I deserved that one." They kissed and Calla began to relax, hoping the worst was over. Then William asked, "How did it finally end?" She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Finally, in a dry voice, she continued the story. "The affair lasted for eight years. Eight years — can you believe that? Eight years of waiting for his phone call, for a few stolen hours, eight years of lonely, listless holidays —" Calla grew quiet, remembering the woman her mother had eventually become — a pathetic, dependent creature, warping her life to accommodate her lover's schedule, centering her existence on the illicit relationship that took place almost completely within the confines of her apartment. Edward wouldn't risk being seen in public with his mistress. "She thought he was the love of her life. He strung her along with the promise of a tomorrow when he'd leave his wife." William heard the sorrow for wasted years, saw the bitterness in her eyes and the disdainful curl of her lip. "What happened?" She shrugged. "You know what they say about tomorrow. It never comes." She blinked back a tear. "Edward decided he wanted to become a judge, and having a mistress was too risky. He arrived with flowers and informed Lily the affair was over. She was devastated. When she tried to see him again at his office, he settled a lump sum on her and whisked her out the door, as if money was going to make up for breaking her heart. The buy-off included a couple of one-way tickets back to Colorado— Lily was born here, you know. Some flunky from his office even escorted us to the airport. Just to be positive we left, I'm sure." "You were with her?" William quickly asked. "How old were you?" Calla clutched the sheet as if it were a life preserver. She didn't want to reveal all. Not yet. "Old enough to know I'd never let it happen to me," she said stonily. "I wish I could take back all the pain I must have caused you when I asked you to be my mistress." With her every word, William realized just how hugely he'd misjudged Calla, to the extent of making what she had every right to term an indecent proposal. "My only excuse can be that if I'd known about this, if I'd known the real you better, maybe I wouldn't have been so blinded by my own prejudices." "I guess everyone who's gone through a hurtful relationship brings a certain number of insecurities and scars to a new one." She drew a shaky breath and sneaked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. "But I was always fairly sure you wanted more than a business arrangement." Her voice trailed off hopefully and William knew he was supposed to make some sort of heartfelt declaration. Instead, he brushed his lips across her cheek, her shoulder, the plump curves of her breasts above the sheet. "I am definitely rescinding that offer. It was obviously rash and foolish. You are not that sort of woman." He kissed the slant of her patrician nose, which was dotted with tiny freckles. "No, I'm not," she whispered, but doubt had been inscribed across her frowning forehead. She tried to


brush off her disappointment that William had not replaced one proposal with another. She'd give him a bit of time to get used to the idea. At least she was his lover, not his paid mistress. William was warm and caring and considerate, not cold and selfish and calculating as Edward had been. Yet — had she fallen in love with a man she could never marry, as her mother had? Was something that felt so right — loving William Justice — actually going to turn out so wrong? Chapter Eleven

"What you have," Vivien shrewdly concluded after hearing the less-intimate details of the night before, "is a major case of the morning-after jitters. Almost everyone gets them sooner or later." Calla chewed on an already ragged thumbnail. "I have more reasons than most." Vivien's voice sounded hollowly from inside the open fridge. "You should be comforted." She withdrew with a big panful of French-toast casserole she'd prepared the night before, anticipating that there'd be four for brunch. While William and Calla had taken their truncated walk, she'd hacked up a long loaf of French bread. Now she slid the glass dish into the oven. "You told William about how your mom had been a mistress," she patiently reiterated. "So now he understands why you reacted so strongly against his — offer. He was nice about the whole thing. And he didn't immediately reject you as 'unclean,' as you'd feared." Viv shook her head as she placed a bottle of syrup on the counter. "I told you most people aren't as hung up on class distinction as you. Why would William care that you're the illegitimate product of an old affair? "Uh, well, that's the thing." Calla tucked her fingers into fists. "I didn't exactly tell him that part of the story." "The syrup should be warmed," Vivien was murmuring, "and the juice iced — What part?" "The part about being illegitimate." "Oh, Calla, Calla, Calla."Vivien rapped her knuckles against her friend's head. "What in the world is going on in there?" "Not all courtships go as smoothly as yours." "Don't tell me you've already forgotten how batty I was over Alex. I know very well the havoc love can wreak on a person's thought processes." Vivien looked at Calla sympathetically. "So thisis a courtship?" "Yes. Except I'm not sure when William will realize it." Vivien glanced into the living room, where Alex was ensconced on the couch with the newspaper, oblivious to the machinations of the women in the kitchen. "You'd better tell him the whole truth," she advised, remembering the terrifying raft ride she'd taken in a misbegotten attempt to convince Alex she was the outdoor type when the closest she'd ever come to adventure was the celluloid Indiana Jones. "I will. But not yet." "Wait too long and you could be sorry," Viv warned. "These things have a way of popping up at the


most inopportune times. And whatever happened to, and I quote, 'I will show him the error of his ways. What could be simpler?' William sounds like a tough nut to crack." "Just because my priorities got a little jumbled when he swept me off my feet doesn't mean I've given up. I am going to marry that man." Viv chuckled. "So what's next, then?" "I'm going to let William settle in to the realities of this relationship for about a week. Then, just when he's happily accustomed to my pleasant companionship, I'll zap him out of his complacency." Vivien's eyebrows rose. "You'll zap him?" "I'll zap him," Calla smugly repeated. And she knew just how to do it. William wouldn't know what hit him. A grumble in her tummy prompted Vivien to check on the browning casserole. "I don't know why you couldn't have let William stay for brunch. I made enough French toast to feed an army." "Part of my plan," Calla said. "William can settle in, but nottoo far. Brunch would've been too cozy, too intimate. Why should he have the comforts of marriage and hearth when he's not yet willing to admit he wants them?" When she thought about the coldhearted way she'd kicked William out of bed after their second bout of lovemaking, Calla's thumbnail edged back up to the danger zone. He'd been quite ready to snuggle in for the night, a thoroughly satisfied man. But a second after his head had landed on the pillow, she'd thought better of allowing him to get too comfortable. Driving back toDenverin the chilly dawn seemed like a good lesson for him, even though her bed had become vastly empty after his departure. Calla nibbled on her fingernail, wondering how long it would take for William to realize he wanted to fill her big brass bed on a more permanent basis. She hoped he wasn't a slow learner. Nine days later she sailed past Mrs. Pennyworth with a wink and a breezy wave of her wicker picnic hamper straight into William's office in the17th StreetJustice Bank and Trust building. She'd been by once before, so she didn't waste any time admiring the view from William's floor-to-ceiling windows or the expensive polished granite-and-leather decor and museum-quality artwork. She saluted his startled face and plunked herself into the smartly designed Eames chair in front of his desk. "Tell Branford to put his money where his mouth is," William said into the telephone with a stern tone, but his eyes were glued to Calla. They widened as she seductively drew off the prim white gloves she'd worn with her pink, ersatz-Chanel suit. Her lips pouted and puffed a breath at the delicate veiled netting that swooped over one eye from its anchor atop her very proper pillbox. "Uh — that mutual fund is top-heavy in —" William forgot what he'd been about to say because Calla had slipped out of her tailored jacket. Underneath she wore nothing but a white satin bustier, a dainty frill of lace and pink ribbon edging the cups from which spilled the lush fullness of her breasts. "Talk to you later," he said, not realizing he'd already hung up. "What are you up to?" he asked Calla in awe. "That depends on what you're up to." She dropped her skirt to the floor and stepped slinkily around his desk to seat herself on his lap, hips wiggling experimentally. "Mmm, I sense you'll soon be up to much


naughtiness," she purred, leaning forward to kiss him. The angle didn't work and William found his nose buried in her powdered cleavage. He breathed deeply, savoring the flowery scent that only enhanced her own womanly fragrance, blinking at the tempting display under his eyes. "I hate to tell you this, but I've got a meeting with somebody named Honeywell in about two seconds." Maybe he could have his secretary claim an emergency and cancel. This certainly felt like an emergency. "I'mHoneywell," Calla said, smiling flirtatiously. "I came here to discuss sinking my assets into a Justice Bank venture. I'd hoped to find a better bang for my buck." "You're asking for it," he warned, his hands finding the silky skin between the tops of her stockings and the lacy edge of her garter. "Exactly." She slithered down his legs and his palms became filled to overflowing with her satin-encased breasts. He caressed them, watching Calla's eyelids lower as she moaned with satisfaction. Her bare shoulders shimmied seductively. "Did you lock the door?" he asked, all senses aflame. "Maybe I did," Calla whispered, "and maybe I didn't." Her hands slowly traveled up his trousered legs until they reached the zipper. Smiling up at him, she lowered it and reached inside. "Live dangerously." A tumultuous 20 minutes later they were out of breath and recovering on the red leather sofa. William lay flat on his back, watching Calla adjust the satin bustier. "Rather interesting," he commented lazily, "The construction of such a garment. How does that tiny scrap of pure seduction manage to contain so much lovely flesh?" Calla contemplated her cleavage as she did up the last hook. "Good question," she said wryly. "I believe the point of a bustier is to make a little look like a lot. In my case —" "A lot looks like more." Calla giggled and shrugged into her pink jacket. She circled the huge slab of buffed and polished granite that was William's desk and opened the horizontal blinds with a flourish. When the bright sunlight washed into the room, William started scrambling about, hiking up his slacks and reaching for the zipper. "Where's my shirt?" She retrieved it from under the desk, along with his tie, trying futilely to smooth out the creases. "You have the most unique way of wrinkling me up," William observed thoughtfully. "Why don't you get back over here so I can return the favor?" She plucked her pink hat from its perch atop the tall cactus in the corner, waving a finger at him. "I believe Honeywell's scheduled time is about up." Patting her hair to see how much of it had escaped from its well-pinned French twist, she dropped into the chair by the desk. With the pillbox back in position, she pulled the wisp of veil down over one eye and winked the other. William groaned. She was making him crazy again, even though it was physically impossible to recover quite that fast. "When is Honeywell's next appointment? And how did you come up with such a suggestive name?"


She beamed innocently, once again all gussied up in her ladies-who-lunch outfit. "Honeywell was the name of my high school chemistry teacher." "Calla Quinn, what am I going to do with you?" She stood and slapped the white gloves into her hand the way she'd seen all those smart, sassy, broad-shouldered dames do in the movies. "No worries, there," she said archly. "You know exactly what to do with me." He chuckled and leaned back against the creaking sofa, his arms crossed behind his head. His bare chest expanded with male pride at the memory of her gasping out her climax beneath him. "Now that we've satisfied those appetites, why don't we dig into the picnic basket?" She laughed as she picked it up and turned it upside down, shaking it for good measure. It was quite obviously empty. "A ruse," Calla explained with dancing eyes. "I didn't want to scandalize Mrs. Pennyworth." "Wait a minute, Calla," William called when she started to leave. "I wanted to ask you. You did lock the door, didn't you?" The glance she threw over her shoulder carried a mischievous glint. Her lips curled upward like the Mona Lisa's. "You'll never know." She waved her gloves at him and slipped out the door without another word, grinning to herself. He'd been zapped. Thoroughly zapped. But had she left quite the right impression? William looked up in apparent surprise when she reentered the room. "By the way," she said, struggling for a casual air, "I love you, William Justice. Just thought you should know." She was gone before he could blink, let alone reply. Perhaps that was just as well, he realized, for what would he have said? He was as startled as he'd been when she'd pushed him into the lake. He took a deep breath and replayed the last minute in his mind's eye. There he'd been — slumped on the couch, satiated and self-congratulatory, extremely pleased with the way this affair was working out. Then — Calla's declaration. Enough to knock the smug stuffing out of any man. Gradually William began to smile. She loved him. She lovedhim , not his bank account, not his family connections, not his Jag or his diplomas or his status. Calla loved him, but did he — The door suddenly opened again and William sat forward, half hoping, half afraid, that Calla had returned. But Mrs. Pennyworth stuck her nose past the jamb and wiggled it like a rabbit, beady little eyes swiftly cataloging the disarray inside. William saw that his socks were draped over the desk lamp. A shoe poked out of the wastepaper basket. A stack of files had fanned halfway across the room when they'd been pushed off the desk. And he was only partially dressed. Thank God he'd at least zipped up. Mrs. Pennyworth's gaze worked around the room. When it lighted upon William, she emitted a squeak of surprise, string-bean body flinching as if she'd never before seen a half-nude man. After reflecting on the prissy bow-tied Mr. Pennyworth, William decided it was possible she hadn't. No doubt they did the deed under the blankets with the lights off. "Mr. Justice!" she gasped.


His eyebrow arched. Nothing for it but act as though a midafternoon interlude wasn't at all untoward and hope she wouldn't report the incident to the board of directors. "Yes, Mrs. Pennyworth?" She twitched at the sight of the overturned, completely empty wicker basket. "I'm glad you enjoyed the picnic," she said dryly. So, Mrs. Pennyworth was not quite the prude William had assumed — but neither was she overly indulgent. She fixed William with a hard stare. "Ms. Quinn is a nice lady. I know you will do right by her, Mr. Justice." She pulled back and firmly shut the door, leaving William with an uneasy recollection of Miss Blatty, his draconian kindergarten nightmare. His bamboozled brain slowly began to work its way out of the dazed state to which Calla had banished it with her hit-and-run. He'd always considered himself a fair man. Of course he would do right by Calla. The only problem was that since he'd met her his idea of "right" had been shoved, drowned, wrung-out, blissed-out, stripped, and taken on a loop-the-loop. "Sticky buns?" *** She'd thrown him out of bed.Again. He didn't like it one bit. William's fingers brushed the stubble sandpapering his chin as he tried to figure it out. By his estimation the evening had been a smashing success: an invitation-only opening at an art gallery (women adore exclusive culture), hearty bowls of cioppino at Salvatore's (Calla insisted on treating), a brisk walk (they needed to work off the calories and it was kind of nice to have an excuse to hold hands), and a split of rose champagne and slow dancing at a soothingly dark and subdued nightclub (women also adore sophistication and romance). Back in Calla's flowery chintz-and-brass bedroom, she'd been willing to allow him to do anything he pleased — except stay until morning. His punishment for not yet answering her pronouncement? "Sir, did you want the sticky buns?" William came out of his funk. "Uh, yeah. I'll take a dozen," he said to the hair-netted bakery clerk behind the counter. He'd spotted the early-opening bakery on his way into the city and impulsively decided to stop. Maybe 12 gooey rolls would help excuse him for what he was soon to do — crash Calla's cozy brunch with Vivien and Alex. He wasn't about to let her keep shunting him off to the sidelines of her everyday life. It was time they became an official and public couple. William handed the clerk some money and took the warm paper bag. "Keep the change," he said expansively. It felt good to be back in control of his future — even if he wasn't quite sure what that future was. Chapter Thirteen

Calla viewed the elegant ballroom of the Columbine Hotel with a jaundiced eye. Normally she would've


been awed by the high, vaulted ceiling with its carved, gold-leaf arches that met the shining marble floor. She would've been slightly intimidated by the odor of money and power that clung to the tuxedoed men, the glossy sheen of the bejeweled, high-maintenance ladies. Normally, but not tonight. She'd had a bad day. Five minutes late to a meeting with Kate Todhunter, the lean and severe creative director, Betsy Bonner had jostled Calla's elbow as she took her place at the conference table. The full coffee mug in Calla's hand had tilted just enough to spill onto her ivory silk blouse. Pacing the room like a nervous greyhound, Kate had decreed the Zippity-Zap campaign a dunghill. Betsy had the gall to blame it on the artwork, when anyone with half a brain could see Betsy's copy was the weakest of the weak links. Back at her drawing board, Calla had ripped up the discarded illustration boards, pinned a brooch over the coffee stain, chewed a Tums, and forged on with the miserable day. She'd raced home to change for the event William had invited her to last Saturday morning when he'd barged into brunch with a bagful of sticky buns and a declaration that he was now a permanent fixture in her life. She'd felt a warm glow developing in her heart — Was he saying what she hoped? — but had rattled off something about equal time. William retaliated by inviting her to what he promised would be an extremely boring fete for the retiring Judge Herman Brock. He'd even called atnoonto remind Calla the guests were a dull, conservative lot and she should dress appropriately. Viv had promised Calla the loan of the staid dress her great-aunt Chessy had given her one Christmas, so Calla let herself into Viv's apartment and caught Alex sitting in front of his word processor in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and black Jockey shorts. Finally clued in to why Vivien chuckled every time she heard the word "endowment," Calla stepped in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door to assess the doubtful tent dress. Barnum and Bailey could have made a big top out of the stiff taupe fabric, but the color was probably too drab for them. Alex confirmed her horror by asking why she'd put on his army-surplus tent. Her mood turning perverse, Calla decided on the spot that it was time William took her as she was. "Calla?" William asked, appearing out of a cluster of bank regulators in penguin suits. "Look at you," he added in wonder, eyes bulging slightly. "What happened to your Miss Prim and Proper outfit of last Monday?" She licked her scarlet-painted lips. "That was a costume. This is the real me." "Well." William was nonplussed. On the one hand, Calla was gorgeous, sumptuous, bountifully sexy in her tight sheath of emerald sequins. With her wild tumble of defiantly red hair and a necklace of chunky gold links, she looked like a gaudy Christmas ornament. This room would turn into bifocal heaven when the male guests saw such a glittering apparition heading their way. On the other hand, it would not be the discreet introduction he'd envisioned. "Is your tie too tight?" Calla inquired disingenuously. "You seem to be choking." The tailored outfits she'd worn for most of their previous dates might have been socially proper, but they sure didn't pack the wallop this sequined mini did. William looked like a poleaxed steer. "It's not as tight as your dress," he said in a strangled voice. Calla's figure winked and glimmered with her


every breath, and he wasn't sure the dress was capable of containing all parts of her anatomy if she should need to make a sudden move. No dancing, he vowed silently. "Justice! Long time, no see!" William's eyes swiveled toward the stocky man who'd sidled up next to Calla like a snake on a warm rock. "Pyle," he said unenthusiastically. "Been keeping yourself out of jail?" "Heh-heh. Always pays to know a judge or two and have a politician in your pocket. What else are campaign contributions for?" Pyle gulped greedily at his scotch. "Who's your lovely lady — heh-heh — friend?" William performed the introduction through gritted teeth. "I know your name, Mr. Pyle," Calla said warily. "You're the man behind the Savings and Loan disaster that's costing the taxpayers millions." She took a step away from him. Pyle put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed, not disguising that he was only interested in staring down her cleavage. "Not to mention what it's going to cost me," he replied heartily. "Why's a curvy li'l gal like you talking business? You were made for better things, heh-heh." William clamped his hand on Pyle's wrist like a manacle and lifted his arm away so Calla could free herself. "Heh-heh-heh," Pyle blustered, still leering. "Now don't go telling me you don't know what I mean, Justice. My momma didn't raise no fools!" William was about to inform the oily man exactly what his momma had raised, but Calla clutched his hand and towed him into the crowd. "He's not worth making a scene over," she said, shuddering to shake the creepy feeling. Pyle might as well have plucked his eyeballs from his head and rolled them across her skin. She shouldn't have been so quick in rejecting Great-Aunt Chessy's tent dress. "I hope that disgusting man is not typical of your acquaintances," she said. "Or the real reason I was to dress conservatively." "Pyle is a vile lecher, but perhaps he wouldn't have reacted quite so crudely if your dress wasn't so — so blatantly sexy." "Thanks for the fashion tip. I'll have to remember it next time I'm going to wear a see-through blouse to work or a bikini to your bank." William steered her to a quiet place against the wall, unsure of what she might do if she became any more ornery. There was a devil-may-care edge to Calla's manner tonight. "How about a drink?" he asked, craning his neck to spot one of the circulating waiters. Apparently the drinks had all been sucked up by the eddying crowd. "Will you be all right alone for a minute?" he asked, the wicked glint in her emerald eyes causing him some concern. "Certainly." But she'd bet 50 bucks she wouldn't be alone long. She'd already intercepted too many curious glances. William nodded gravely and made his way to the bar, around which guests were clustered four deep. Calla turned to study the crowd, wondering if her dressdid go too far. A majority of the group were past the five-decade mark, the women garbed head to toe in matronly lace overdresses and swaths of organza and taffeta. A waiter passed before her line of vision and she snagged him, downing a glass of champagne in a few gulps and lifting another off the tray.


"Why, hello," a reedy voice chirped in her ear. A tall, skinny woman in pale blue had glided up beside her, thin lips forming an icy smile. "Suzanne —" a tip of one manicured fingernail indicated her companion "— saw you with Willy Justice, and I just couldn't resist coming over to introduce myself. I'm Mavis Tallyhope." Bully for you, Calla wanted to say. Instead, she offered her name and took another quick sip of champagne. "Quinn? Quinn?" Mavis pursed her lips and glanced at Suzanne, a lively looking blonde in plain gray velvet too heavy for the season. "Do we know any Quinns, Suzy?" "Don't think so." Suzanne was studying Calla with friendly but intensely curious blue eyes. "Well, you do now," Calla said flatly. "Too right." Mavis steepled her hands beneath her chin, tapping it with a bony index finger as her gaze slid up and down Calla's glittering form. "That's quite a dress, Calla." "Why, thank you, Mavis," Calla replied with false bonhomie. "One just like it in hot pink would be fabulous on you. Would you like to know where I bought it?" Mavis would look like a dyspeptic flamingo if she ever got wild and crazy enough to slip into something pink. Mavis's jaw clamped so tightly her lips disappeared. An oblivious Suzanne brayed, "Wish it'd work on me." "You'd look great in a bolder color," Calla replied sincerely. Suzanne had a pear-shaped figure, something the draped velvet did nothing to camouflage. "Try a bright blue to match your eyes. Or deep red." "Are you a salesgirl?" Mavis sniped. "I'm afraid we only shop in the more exclusive stores. I'm sure you understand." "Yes, of course. No doubt you patronize the exact same stores as your grandmother. It shows." Calla smiled through gritted teeth. Mavis smiled back venomously. "Do Willy's parents know he's dating a shop girl?" The smile dropped from Calla's lips like a bowling ball from a broken thumb. "Before you run off to spread false rumors, perhaps I should inform you that you're wrong on both counts." "Do tell," Mavis said with an arch coziness. "I just can't understand Willy appearing at such an important party with someone so very different from his first wife. It couldn't possibly be serious." "Divorced her," the terse Suzanne muttered. "Why not someone new?" Calla tipped her chin at a regal angle. "In the first place, I am not a shop girl, although it wouldn't matter to William if I were. Secondly, I am not his date." "No?" Mavis said gleefully.


"No. I am his mistress." Mavis looked as though she'd swallowed her buck teeth. Suzanne's rounded cheeks puffed out with a shocked gasp. Every cell in Calla's body froze as she looked past Mavis to a looming William. His eyes went from one woman to the next. "Hi, Suzanne," he said. Air whistled out her plump pink lips. "Good evening, Mavis." Her throat worked as she gulped hugely. "Calla?" She drained the flute of champagne still clutched in her hand and reached for the one William had brought. "Have you ladies introduced yourselves?" he asked. Mavis drew herself up, eyes beginning to burn with the hot potato of gossip that'd just been dropped in her lap. She simplymust pass it on. "In a manner of speaking," Calla answered woodenly. The tingling spreading throughout her body wasn't caused by the champagne she'd downed so indiscriminately. Through narrowed eyes, she watched Mavis grab Suzanne by the elbow, twitter a goodbye in William's direction, and plunge into the crowd. "Oh, no," she groaned. "What have I done?" "Whatever it is, you'd better collect yourself, honey," said William. "I ran into my parents near the bar and they're on their way over here. And dying of curiosity, I might add." He touched her elbow and moved to stand beside her. Like a bride and groom in a receiving line, Calla thought crazily. "Your parents?" she said in disbelief, looking down at her sparkly dress and the blood red tips of her fingers clenched around the crystal glass. "Omigod. Your parents!" "Chin up, Calla. It won't be that bad." Calla lifted her head. A full-figured woman in a sensible burgundy jersey was parting the crowd like the figurehead of a clipper ship under full sail. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut stylishly short and she wore no jewelry other than the understated diamonds in her ears. "William, you might have told me you'd changed your mind about attending Judge Brock's party," she scolded in a low, smoky voice. "And you must be Calla. How good to meet you after hearing William's rave reviews." "He told you about me?" Perplexed, Calla looked toward William for a clue. He'd raved about her? "Well, I did prod him with a few judicious questions," Mrs. Justice confessed with a jolly woman-to-woman laugh. "But once he got started, my goodness!" William shrugged sheepishly at Calla's quizzical gaze. "Now where is my slowpoke of a husband?" his mother continued. "He ran across some creaky Yale classmate who'd traveled fromBostonto honor Judge Brock, and the old goats can't seem to stop reminiscing about the class of fifty-five. Oh, there he is!" She waved into the crowd. "Cripes, he's bringing that stuffed boor along." Calla found herself grinning as the two older men joined them. Her gaze went first to Carl Justice, who was as square and solid as a fortress, with wavy silver-gray hair and a slightly thickened waist. His eyes were much like William's, chips of agate that darkened at the sight of her, making her wonder what he was thinking. "Lily?" said a shocked voice. Calla's gaze shot to the tall man just behind Mr. Justice, the Yale classmate fromBoston. For a long moment, she didn't recognize him, but her mother's name echoed between them.


Realization slapped her in the face, and she reached with blind desperation for the comfort of William's warm hand. She felt like a shattered window in the split second before it broke into a million razor-sharp shards. William's head bent toward hers. "Calla, what is it?" His deep voice blanketed her fractured heart, holding it together, holdingher together. "That man is — he's —" she whispered haltingly in William's ear. "He's my father. Chapter Fourteen

Calla stared into Edward Filbert's green eyes, the only part of him she truly recognized. The last time she'd seen him, more than 20 years ago, he'd still possessed a full head of ginger-colored hair. Now it was thinning and pure white. Age had wrinkled and sagged his skin, added a small pot beneath the custom-made tuxedo. Only his eyes hadn't changed. They were cool, sharp and haughty, though rather dazed at the moment. She still couldn't understand why her mother had looked into them and believed the hollow promises his lying lips had uttered. "Excuse me," Edward said, belatedly realizing the awkwardness of the moment had stretched too far. This woman was not Lily, but someone very like her. Someone who could cost him a shot at the Supreme Court. He wrenched his gaze away and muttered something about having to give a toast in honor of Judge Brock's 40 years on the bench. "Edward Filbert —" Calla breathed. She saw the fear in his furtive glance and knew he was worried she would do something to embarrass him in front of his conservative cronies. How uncomfortable to be confronted by your 29-year-old illegitimate daughter in such a public situation. She might do anything! An hysterical impulse sluiced through Calla's veins and jump-started her brain. She could throw herself in his arms and cry, "Father, at last I've found you!" in a voice loud enough to carry to every corner of the ballroom. She could pick up a bowl of caviar from the buffet and dump it over his head. She could — A strangled gurgle of mirth worked its way up her throat. She pushed into the crowd, eyes pinned to the stooped shoulders of her father as he hastily retreated. For a few unmoving seconds, William watched Calla go. He saw Edward Filbert's — Why was that name familiar? — frigid glare and sudden right turn to the buffet tables when Calla caught up to him. She hesitated before sweeping toward the exit. Then he remembered. Of course! Edward was the name of Lily Quinn's married lover.Calla's father? "Dammit," he said, in a fierce, low voice that nonetheless carried to quite a few straining ears. "What's going on here?" demanded Carl Justice. "I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out." William charged after Calla, his parents following, then Mavis and Suzanne and several of their interested circle, until he was leading a snaking conga line through the crowded ballroom. The line doubled back when William caught sight of Edward Filbert's balding head and abruptly changed direction. He grabbed the man's shoulder and whirled him about as easily as a rag doll.


"What the hell do you think you're doing?" William said harshly. "Don't you recognize your own daughter?" Edward Filbert took in the ragged circle of curious faces, the proximity of the newspaper photographers. He winced under the ironlike strength of William's unkind grip. "I don't know what you're talking about," he whined. "You ignorant fool," William said with utter disgust. He released the judge's shoulder and the man staggered backward, cringing. "I don't know what —" "Save it," William growled. He took several menacing steps closer and jabbed one finger into Edward Filbert's chest. "How can you treat Calla with such disrespect?" Edward's buttocks hit the edge of the buffet table. He had nowhere else to go to escape the madman stalking him like a ferocious tiger. He puffed up his chest and bluffed. "How dare you treat me with such disrespect! Don't you know who I am? I can have you thrown in jail." William's finger jabbed once, then twice, until Edward was bent back across the table, the tail of his tux trailing in a pâté. "I know who you are. And I know what you're not worthy of being called Calla Quinn's father." He yanked Edward up by his collar so they were nose to nose. "I'd love to punch in your slimy face —" the party guests gathered about gasped in unison "— but there's a much better fate for a man like you." William opened his fingers and Edward Filbert fell back onto the buffet table with a crash of serving platters. A dish of wild mushrooms in cream sauce flew up on impact and landed in his lap. A tiered tray of hors d'oeuvres tipped over, and stuffed grape leaves pelted the front of his immaculate shirt like slimy torpedoes. Someone screamed as the table collapsed under the sudden weight and Edward fell to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms, overturned bowls, and gooey quail eggs in aspic. A delicate ice sculpture slid down the slanted table and smashed into his head. Edward Filbert fell flat with a groan and a squish of pâté. "Wallow in it," William said shortly, and went to find Calla without a backward glance for the aghast guests. Most had never seen anything so outlandish in all their years of party going. Having heard the scream and terrific crash from her position by the elevator, Calla was just reentering the ballroom. "What's happening?" she asked anxiously when William met her near the doors. "Poor Edward Filbert," he said mildly. "He fell into the buffet." Calla stood on tiptoe in an attempt to see over the crowd gathered around the scene of the disaster. "He fell? Or was he pushed?" "Something like that." William took her hand. "Why don't we make our getaway before someone thinks to try a citizen's arrest?" "William!" she exclaimed. "You didn't! In front of all these people?" "The man deserved it."


"Oh, my," she breathed in dismay. No one had ever defended her honor so forcefully, or, for that matter, at all. She gaped at William, the man she'd thought to be so hopelessly conventional and correct. Laughter suddenly burbled forth from her parted lips. "We really do have to go, Calla." "Okay." She turned back to look at the ballroom, where some of the guests were beginning to point and whisper, a few of them to laugh. Calla didn't care. "There's one little thing I have to take care of first." She picked her way through broken dishes, scattered utensils and splotches of food, carrying the crystal bowl of caviar she'd plucked from its bed of crushed ice on one of the undisturbed tables. Edward Filbert was struggling in the mess, finding it difficult to get to his feet because no one was willing to take his jellied hand and his patent-leather shoes kept slipping in puddles of sauce. "Edward?" Calla said in a clear voice. He'd never deserved the title of father. When he looked up, she upended the dish of caviar on his head, giving it a twist and a firm press for emphasis. The sticky globs of fish eggs in his eyes prevented Edward Filbert from seeing the look of satisfaction on Calla's face as she made her way back to William, who'd certainly distributed justicethis evening. Second thoughts assailed Calla by the time they were safely aboard the elevator. "You're going to regret this tomorrow," she told William, voice muffled because she'd pressed her face to the pleated front of his formal shirt in belated mortification. "No, I won't." "There might be photos in the newspapers," she moaned. "The gossip will spread like wildfire. And most of it will be true —" "I do not care." William said each word with conviction. He cupped Calla's chin in his palms and lifted her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. He grinned wryly. "Quite some coincidence, our fathers attending Yale at the same time." "It boggles the mind." At least, her mind was boggled. They stepped into the formal lobby, and two hotel employees in crisp blue jackets rushed past them to take the elevator up. Calla stared after them with trepidation. "Your parents must be appalled. What are they going to think of me?" "Well, last I saw, my father was laughing his head off. I doubt either of them will be too upset." Calla wasn't yet placated. "You shouldn't have had to find out about my dirty linen in the middle of the Columbine's ballroom, of all places. I'd wanted to tell you, but I guess I was afraid you'd think less of me if you knew the circumstances I grew up in." William stopped her in front of the registration desk with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I wish you had told me sooner because then I would've reassured you that there's only one reason it concerns me — and that's the way it's affected you. Filbert's the only one who should be ashamed of the situation." Surprisingly, Calla started to giggle. She smiled up at him, brushing back the mussed waves of her unbound hair. "Maybe I should be glad I don't have to carry Edward's surname!" "Well, now," William drawled, "sometimes youfeel like a nut —"


"And sometimes you don't," Calla finished, growing serious again. Her moods were switching back and forth as fast as a carnival ride. "Perhaps that's the reason I've always been so determinedly and gaudily flamboyant. I never wanted to be one bit like a filbert." "Thank heaven for that." William took Calla's hand and guided her past a grouping of ferns and stiff, gold-brocade chairs on the way to the door. For some time his head had known Calla was unlike his mercenary, social-climbing ex-wife; at last that truth was also lodged in his heart. She shook her head in wonder. "You're taking this with such equanimity. Between Edward Filbert's dive into the pâté and what I told Mavis, I thought I'd have to move away toNome,Alaska." William halted. "Whatdid you tell Mavis?" Calla's hand stilled on the brass door handle. "I hope you findthis amusing. I mean, after pushing you out the rowboat and all, I can't understand what came over me to say —" She took a deep breath and slowly turned to look into William's dark eyes. "I'm afraid I told Mavis Tallyhope that I'm your mistress." After a stunned instant, William began to laugh uproariously. The desk clerk arched her brows, carefully keeping a watchful eye on them as she dealt with a guest. "It's not funny!" Calla wailed, hands on hips. "Mavis will tell the whole city!My reputation is already destroyed, but what about yours?" William spread his arms wide, a big smile plastered across his face. He'd never had such a good time! "You're just going to have to make an honest man of me." "Don't tease me, William Justice." "Hey, people are going to think I'm a cad, a playboy. A despicable, loathsome, low-down skunk. You must salvage my reputation, Calla." "I'm warning you," she seethed. "Do not tease me." "I've never been more serious." She goggled with the sudden awareness that he was serious. And her protestations were ruining the romance of the proposal. "Do you realize what you're saying?" she asked, still leery. "Has the exhilaration of sliming Edward Filbert gone to your head? Or is it the champagne?" He held up one hand like a Boy Scout making an oath. "Haven't touched a drop. And what I'm saying is that I'd like us to be married." "W-what?" she stammered. "Why are you asking me tonight, when everything else has just blown up and is lying in shreds around us?" "Why tonight?" William repeated, as much to himself as to her. "Oh, Calla, I'm not sure why. What I do know is that when a moment of such startling clarity, such — quintessence, comes along, I'm not going to argue with it. Perhaps I've been in love with you for weeks now, but it took Edward Filbert to hammer the truth into my stubborn heart. Seeing him being too blind to appreciate you has made me realize how I'd undervalued you, Calla. I will never do that again. If you marry me, I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our lives." His serious face was suddenly broken by a grin of delighted irony. "I'm sure glad


I've found alady worthy of those vows. So what do you say? Will you?" Calla had to wonder why she'd ever thought they needed a picturesque scene to make this moment complete. As far as she was concerned, the lobby of the Columbine, even with a bellboy trundling a cart of paisley suitcases through it, was the most romantic setting in the history of marriage proposals. A rush of pure joy flooded her senses. "Of course I'll marry you!" she announced, then launched herself into William's open arms. They clung to each other tightly, kissing and laughing and kissing again, every shared look, each tender caress, fulfilling the sweet promise of love. This time Calla Quinn was going to absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it marry William Justice. The End

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