There were azaleas and geraniums in what must have been a peaceful place. But as he sat smelling the tender fragrance of the earliest spring blooms mixed with the scent of the sea, listening to some night bird call its mate, he thought that no boardroom had ever been so tense or hostile.

“I wonder where you developed such a high opinion of me.” And why, he

added to himself, it seemed to matter. “You come here—”

“By invitation.”

“Not mine.” She tossed back her head. “You come in your big car and your dignified suit, ready to sweep my home out from under me.”

“I came,” he corrected, “to get a firsthand look at a piece of property. No one, least of all me, can force you to sell.”

But he was wrong, she thought miserably. There were people who could force them to sell. The people who collected the taxes, the utility bills, the mortgage they'd been forced to take out. All of her frustration, and her fear, over every collection agency centered on the man beside her.

“I know your type,” she muttered. “Born rich and above the common man. Your only goal in life is to make more money, regardless of who is affected or trampled over. You have big parties and summer houses and mistresses named Fawn.”

Wisely he swallowed the chuckle. “I've never even known a woman named Fawn.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” She rose to pace the path. “Kiki, Vanessa, Ava, it's all the same.”

“If you say so.” She looked, he was forced to admit, magnificent, striding up and down the path with the moonlight shooting around her like white fire. The tug of attraction annoyed him more than a little, but he continued to sit. There was a deal to be done, he reminded himself. And C. C. Calhoun was the foremost stumbling block.

So he would be patient, Trent told himself, and wily and find the hook. “Just how is it you know so much about my type?”

“Because my sister was married to one of you.” “Baxter Dumont.”

“You know him?” Then she shook her head and jammed her hands into her pockets. “Stupid question. You probably play golf with him every Wednesday.”

“No, actually our acquaintance is only slight. I do know of him, and his family. I'm also aware that he and your sister have been divorced for a year or so.”

“He made her life hell, scraped away her self-esteem, then dumped her and his children for some little French pastry. And because he's a big-shot lawyer from a big-shot family, she's left with nothing but a miserly child

support check that comes late every month.”

“I'm sorry for what happened to your sister.” He rose as well. His voice was no longer sharp but fatalistic. “Marriage is often the least pleasant of all business transactions. But Baxter Dumont's behavior doesn't mean that every member of every prominent Boston family is unethical or immoral.”

“They all look the same from where I'm standing.”

“Then maybe you should change positions. But you won't, because you're too hardheaded and opinionated.”

“Just because I'm smart enough to see through you.”

“You know nothing about me, and we both know that you took an uncanny dislike to me before you even knew my name.”

“I didn't like your shoes?”

That stopped him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” She folded her arms and realized she was starting to enjoy herself. “I didn't like your shoes.” She flicked a glance down at them. “I still don't.”

“That explains everything.”

“I didn't like your tie, either.” She poked a finger on it, missing the quick flare in his eyes. “Or your fancy gold pen.” She tapped a fist lightly at his breast pocket.

He studied her jeans, worn through at the knees, her T-shirt and scuffed boots. “This from an obvious fashion expert.”

“You're the one out of place here, Mr. St. James III.”

He took a step closer. CC's lips curved in a challenging smile. “And I suppose you dress like a man because you haven't figured out how to act like a woman.”

It was a bull's-eye, but the dart point only pricked her temper. “Just because I know how to stand up for myself instead of swooning at your feet doesn't make me less of a woman.”

“Is that what you call this?” He wrapped his fingers around her forearms. “Standing up for yourself?”

“That's right. I—” She broke off when he tugged her closer. Their bodies bumped. Trent watched the temper in her eyes deepen to confusion.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“Testing the theory.” He looked down at her mouth. Her lips were full, just parted. Very tempting. Why hadn't he noticed that before? he wondered vaguely. That big, insulting mouth of hers was incredibly tempting.

“Don't you dare.” She meant it to come out as an order, but her voice shook.

His eyes came back to hers and held. “Afraid?”

The question was just the one to stiffen her spine. “Of course not. It's just that I'd rather be kissed by a rabid skunk.”

She started to pull back, then found herself tight against him, eyes and mouth lined up, warm breath mingling. He hadn't intended to kiss hercertainly not—until she'd thrown that last insult in his face.

“You never know when to quit, Catherine. It's a flaw that's going to get you in trouble, starting now.”

She hadn't expected his mouth to be so hot, so hard, so hungry. She had thought the kiss would be sophisticated and bland. Easily resisted, easily forgotten. But she had been wrong. Dangerously wrong. Kissing him was like sliding into molten silver. Even as she gasped for air, he heightened the kiss, plunging his tongue deep, taunting, tormenting, teasing hers. She tried to shake her head but succeeded only in changing the angle. The hands that had reached for his shoulders in protest slid possessively around his neck.

He'd thought to teach her a lesson—about what he'd forgotten. But he learned. He learned that some women—this woman—could be strong and soft, frustrating and delightful, all at once. As the waves crashed far below, he felt himself battered by the unexpected. And the unwanted.

He thought, foolishly, that he could feel the starlight on her skin, taste the moondust on her lips. The groan he heard, vibrating low, was his own.

He lifted his head, shaking it, as if to clear the fog that had settled over his brain. He could see her eyes, staring up at his—dark, dazed.

“I beg your pardon.” Stunned by his action, he released her so quickly that she stumbled back even as her hands slid away from him. “That was completely inexcusable.”

She said nothing, could say nothing. Feelings, too many of them, clogged in her throat. Instead she made a helpless gesture with her hands that made him feel like a lower form of life.

“Catherine...believe me, I don't make a habit of—” He had to stop and clear his dry throat. Lord, he wanted to do it again, he realized. He wanted to kiss the breath from her as she stood there, looking lost and helpless. And beautiful. “I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again.”

“I'd like you to leave me alone.” Never in her life had she been more moved. Or more devastated. He had just opened up a door to some secret world, then slammed it again in her face.

“All right.” He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her hair. He started back down the path toward the house. When he looked back, she was still standing as he had left her, staring into the shadows, with moonlight showering her.

His name is Christian. I have found myself walking along the cliffs again and again, hopingfor a few words with him. I tell myself it's because ofmy fascination with art, not the artist. It could be true. It must be true.

I am a married woman and mother of three. And though Fergus is not the romantic husband of my girlish dreams, he is a good provider, and sometimes kind. Perhaps there is some part of me, some small defiant part that wishes I had not bent to my parents' insistence that I make a good and proper marriage. But this is foolishness, for the deed has been done for more than four years.

It's disloyal to compare Fergus with a man I hardly know. Yet here, in my private journal, I must be allowed this indulgence. While Fergus thinks only of business, the next deal or dollar, Christian speaks of dreams and images andpoetry.

How my heart has yearnedforjust a little poetry.

While Fergus, with his cool and careless generosity, gave me the emeralds on the day ofEthan's birth, Christian once offered me a wildflower. I have kept it, pressing it here between these pages. How much lovelier I would feel wearing it than those cold and heavy gems.

We have spoken of nothing intimate, nothing that could be considered improper. Yet I know it is. The way he looks at me, smiles, speaks, is gloriously improper. The way I look for him on these bright summer afternoons while my babies nap is not the action ofa proper wife. The way my heart drums in my breast when I see him is disloyalty in itself.

Today I sat upon a rock and watched him wield his brush, bringing those pink and gray rocks, that blue, blue water to life on canvas. There was a boat gliding along, so free, so solitary. For a moment I pictured the two of us there, faces to the wind. I don't understand why I have these thoughts, but while they remained with me, clear as crystal, I asked his name.

“Christian, ” he said. “Christian Bradford. And you are Bianca. ''

The way he said my name—as if it had never been said before. I will never forget it. I toyed with the wild grass that pushed itself through the cracks in the rocks. With my eyes cast down, I asked him why his wife never came to watch him work.