“And now?”

“Now I want to make love with you more than I want to go on breathing.” “To make love,” C.C. repeated steadily. “But you don't love me.”

“I don't know anything about love. I care for you.” He walked back to touch a hand to her face. “Maybe that could be enough.”

She studied him, realizing he didn't have any idea that he was breaking an already shattered heart. “It might be, for a day or a week or a month. But you were right about me, Trent. I expect more. I deserve more.” Keeping her eyes on his, she slid her hands over his shoulders. “I offered myself to you- once. That won't happen again. And neither will this.”

She pressed her mouth against his, pouring every scrap of her tattered emotions into it Her arms enfolded him even as her body swayed seductively toward his. With a sigh, her lips parted, inviting him to take.

Off balance, needy, he dragged her head back and plundered. Unsteady, his hands skimmed beneath her wrap, urgently seeking the warmth of her skin.

So many feelings, too many feelings, bombarded him. He wanted only to fill himself with the taste of her. But there was more. She wouldn't let him take only the kiss, but all the emotion that went with it. He felt he was drowning in it, but it was so strong and heady a flood, he couldn't fight.

Love me! Why can't you love me? Her mind seemed to scream it even as she was borne away on the tide of her own longings. Everything she wanted was here, inside the circle of her arms. Everything but his heart.

“Catherine.” He couldn't get his breath. Dragging her closer, he pressed his mouth to her neck. “I can't get close enough.”

She held him to her a moment longer, then slowly, painfully, pulled away. “Yes, you could. And that's what hurts the most.” Turning, she dashed up the steps.

“Catherine.”

She paused at the door. With her head high, she turned around. He was already coming after her when he saw the tears glittering in her eyes. Nothing else would have stopped him.

“Goodbye, Trent. I hope to God that keeps you up at night.”

As he listened to the echo of the door slamming, he was certain it would.

It cannot go on. I can no longer pretend that I am disloyal to my husband only between the covers of this journal. My life, so calm and ordered during my twenty-four years, has become a lie this summer. One I must atone for.

As autumn approaches and we make our plans to return to New York, I thank God I will soon leave Mount Desert Island behind me. How close, how dangerously close I have come these past days to breaking my marriage vows.

And yet, I grieve.

In another week, we will be gone. I may never see Christian again. That is how it should be. How it must be. But in my heart I know that I would give my soul for one night, even one hour, in his arms. Imagining how it could be obsesses me. With him there would finally be passion, and love, even laughter. With him it would not simply be a duty, cold and silent and soon over.

I pray to be forgiven for the adultery I have committed in my heart.

My conscience has urged me to keep away from the cliffs. And I have tried. It has demanded that I be a more patient, loving and understanding wife to Fergus. I have done so. Whatever he has asked of me, I have done. At his request, I gave a tea for several of the ladies. We have gone to the theater, to countless dinner parties. I have listened until my head was throbbing to talk of business and fashion and the possibility of war. My smile never falters, for Fergus prefers that I look content at all times. Because it pleases him, I wear the emeralds when we go out in the evenings.

They are my penance now, a reminder that a sin is not always in the action, but in the heart.

I sit here in my tower now as I write. The cliffs are below, the cliffs where Christian paints. Where I go when I sneak from the house like a randy housemaid. It shames me. It sustains me. Even now I look down and see him. He faces the sea, and waits for me.

We have never touched, not once, though the ache is in both of us. I have learned how much passion there can be in silences, in long, troubled looks.

I will not go to him today, but only sit here and watch him. When I feel I have the strength, I will go to him only to say goodbye and wish him well.

While I live through the long winter that faces me, I will wonder if he will be here next summer.

Chapter Ten

“Here are the papers you asked for, Mr. St. James.”

Oblivious to his secretary's presence, Trent continued to stand at the window, staring out. It was a habit he'd developed since returning to work three weeks before. Through the wide tinted glass, he could watch Boston bustling by below. Steel-and-glass towers glittered beside elegant brownstones in a architectural potpourri. Thick traffic weaved and charged on the streets. In sweats and colorful running shorts, joggers paced themselves along the path beside the river. Then there was the river itself, streaming with boats, sails puffed full of warm spring breezes.

“Mr. St. James?”

“Yes?” He glanced around at his secretary. “I've brought you the papers you requested.”

“Thank you, Angela.” In an old habit, he looked at his watch. It occurred to him, painfully, that he had rarely thought of the time when he'd been with C.C. “It's after five. You should go home to your family.” Angela hesitated. She'd worked for Trenton for six years. It had only been during the past couple of weeks that he had begun calling her by her first name or inquiring about her family. The day before, he'd actually complimented her on her dress. The change in him had the entire staff baffled. As his secretary, she felt obligated to dig out the source of it “May I speak with you a minute?” “All right. Would you like to sit down?” “No, sir. I hope you won't consider this out of place, Mr. St. James, but I wanted to know if you're feeling well.”

A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “Don't I look well?”

“Oh, yes, of course. A little tired perhaps. It's just that since you returned from Bar Harbor, you seem distracted, and different somehow.”

“You could say I am distracted. I am different, and to answer your original question, no, I don't think I am entirely well.”

“Mr. St. James, if there's anything I can do...” Studying her, he sat on the edge of his desk. He had hired her because she was efficient and quick. As he recalled, he had nearly passed her over because she'd had two small children. It had worried him that she wouldn't be able to balance her responsibilities, but he'd taken what he'd considered a chance. It had worked very well indeed.

“Angela, how long have you been married?” “Married?” Thrown off, she blinked. “Ten years.”

“Happily?”

“Yes, Joe and I are happy.”

Joe, he mused. He hadn't even known her husband's name. Hadn't bothered to find it out. “Why?”

“Why, sir?”

“Why are you happy?”

“I...I suppose because we love each other.”

He nodded, gesturing to prod her along. “And that's enough?”

“It certainly helps you get through the rough spots.” She smiled a little, thinking of her Joe. “We've had some of them, but one of us always manages to pull the other through.”

“You consider yourself a team then. So you have a great deal in common?”

“I don't know about that. Joe likes football and I hate it. He loves jazz, and I don't understand it.” It wouldn't occur to her until later that this was the first time she'd felt completely at ease with Trent since she'd taken the job. “Sometimes I feel like wearing earplugs all weekend. Whenever I feel like shipping him out, I think about what my life would be without him. And I don't like what I see.” Taking a chance, she stepped closer. “Mr. St. James, if this is about Maria Montblanc getting married last week, well, I'd just like to say that you're better off.”

“Maria got married?”

Truly baffled, Angela shook her head. “Yes, sir. Last week, to that golf pro. It was in all the papers.”

“I must have missed it.” There had been other things in the papers that had captured his attention.

“I realize you'd been seeing her for quite a while.”

Seeing her, Trent mused. Yes, that cool, passionless phrase described their relationship perfectly. “Yes, I had been.”

“You're not—upset?”

“About Maria? No.” The fact was he hadn't thought of her in weeks. Since he'd walked into a garage and spotted a pair of scarred boots.

Another woman, Angela realized. And if she'd had this kind of affect on the boss, she had all of Angela's support. “Sir, if someone—something else,” she corrected cautiously, “is on your mind, you may be overanalyzing the situation.”

The comment surprised him enough to make him smile again. “Do I overanalyze, Angela?”

“You're very meticulous, Mr. St. James, and analyze details finitely, which works very well in business. Personal matters can't always be dealt with logically.”

“I've been coming to that same conclusion myself.” He stood again. “I appreciate the time.”

“My pleasure, Mr. St. James.” And it certainly had been. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.” He turned back to the window. “Good night, Angela.” “Good night.” She was grinning when she closed the door at her back.

Trent stood where he was for some time. No, he hadn't noticed the announcement of Maria's wedding. The papers had also been full of the upcoming sale of The Towers. “Bar Harbor landmark to become newest St. James Hotel,” he remembered. “Rumors of lost treasures sweeten the deal.”