How could his name still stun her after all this time? So many years had passed, so much had happened: her marriage; the birth of her daughter; the business; the divorce; so many edges had blurred, memories tarnished.

But not his.

That image in the moonlight was as fresh and pure as a rose under lucite. And as disturbing as it had been that night in August.

With heroic effort, Molly shook away the shattering remembrance, forcing her face into a polite social smile. Share as she had with these friends of her youth, she had never completely shared Carey with them. He'd been too special, too different, and perhaps she'd known her feelings were too intense to share. “So the world-renowned director is back in this little burgh,” she said in a neutral tone. “He's going to find it dull as dishwater after his travels.”

“Want to see him again, Molly? Hmmm?” Marge teased. “There was something between you two that spring and summer, even though you wouldn't admit it. Now that you're divorced, why not look him up?”

“No thanks,” she said in a deliberately cool voice. “Too much competition from all those glamorous beauties.” She shrugged, but was annoyed to feel her face flushing. “Every paparazzo photo shows at least one groupy clinging to his arm, and usually there's more. He's probably never heard a woman say ‘no'.” Every one of those pictures she'd seen over the years was cinema veritй, sharp in her mind: the one taken when he and some duke's wife were slipping out of the back door of an exclusive hotel in London early one morning; the full array of shots taken with telephoto lenses on the Greek island where everyone was bathing au naturel; those in St. Moritz with a deposed monarch's youngest daughter smiling up at him; and the nightclub scenes with starlets entertaining one of the handsomest men in the world. “At my age, with an eight-year-old daughter in tow,” Molly reminded them, her face set now to disclose no emotion, “I don't stand a chance against all that fair pulchritude surrounding him. I'll settle for the memories and leave the flash-and-dazzle Carey Fersten for the jet set.”

“His films aren't like that at all,” Nancy, who'd flown in from California, interposed. “Quiet, intimate mood pieces. No flash and dazzle anywhere.”

“His life apparently doesn't follow his art, then, because lean, suntanned, sexy Carey Fersten is almost always ‘where the action is',” Molly rebutted.

“How do you know?” Linda remarked, and for a moment Molly had the distinct impression her friends were defending him.

“Because I read-”

“Those articles aren't always true,” Georgia cut in, her voice moderate, her eyes on the slight flush reappearing on Molly's cheeks.

“None of the publications have been sued for libel,” Molly replied.

“Well, those kind of pictures and headlines sell; they could be innocent friends,” Linda acknowledged.

“Like hell,” Molly said. “And don't forget Sylvie von-what's-her-name, the young wife and actress of slightly blue reputation. That was real.”

“But not long-lasting,” Georgia reminded her.

“Do me a favor, will you?” Molly retorted in a small huff of exasperation. “Stop gushing over him. He could be a saint in monk's clothing, misunderstood by the world at large, but I'm not interested. It all happened ten years ago, for God's sake.”

“So you don't want to see him,” Marge declared.

“No. You can't dredge up the past. People change, times change, circumstances change. It's impossible.” But even as she emphatically pronounced the trite maxims, a tiny voice deep in a forgotten, locked-away corner of her mind cajoled, I wonder what he looks like in real life, stepping out of the photographs? Does his hair still glisten in the moonlight? Are his hands still as gentle? With sheer willpower, Molly wrenched her mind from the disturbing thoughts and, upending her rum, finished it in one great gulp. “Another drink, anyone?”

CHAPTER 16

A fter the banquet and the speeches, the dancing and drinking, after the Moose finally closed down, the party moved to the motel where most everyone was staying. Situated on the freeway south of town, the Holiday Inn was the largest, the best the small town of Amberg had to offer.

Hours later, temporarily escaping the smoke and noise of the transferred party, Molly was leaning on the balcony railing overlooking the indoor pool. She was in the midst of a struggle, trying to subdue a curious sense of longing and indelible images of Carey when the subject of her musing strode into the atrium.

Her mouth went dry.

A stunning redhead was hanging onto Carey's arm, and they were laughing. My Lord-her pulse leaped treacherously-his smile hadn't changed. Warm, open, intensely vital. And nothing else had changed, either-except the burnished tan. He hadn't had a tan like that then, the permanent kind, testifying to life in southern latitudes. His tall, rangy body, the body of Creswell's leading basketball scorer that year, was still lean and elegant. And those powerful muscles, shoulders, arms, and thighs, clearly visible under the white knit shirt he wore tucked into tight-fitting jeans, were taut and youthful. He was wearing sandals-almost barefoot, as he preferred. He'd had a phobia against shoes, not a sensible eccentricity when living in Minnesota's climate, so he'd always compromised with the lightest possible footwear the weather allowed.

His light hair was rough-cut, perhaps a shade longer than before. She remembered he had a habit of raking it back with his fingers when it got in the way. And even from this distance, across the illuminated pool, his dark eyes and heavy brows, the sensual, predatory eyes that had earned him her intimate name “Tiger” were potent as fevered memory. The opulent redhead was gazing adoringly into those eyes at the moment, and that heated adoration drove Molly away from the balcony railing, just as those intense, dark eyes looked up as if answering a sixth sense.

Molly was gone by that time-only a flash of honey-colored hair and a gleam of azure silk registered in the dusky eyes.

Raucous good cheer greeted Molly when she returned to the large motel room crowded with ex-classmates seated on chairs, on the floor, on the beds, and dressers.

“What you need, Molly baby, is another drink. You're falling behind. Don't want to let down the reputation of our entire class, do you?”

She smiled at Pucky Kochevar and blew him a kiss. “Have I ever let you down, Pucky?” And before the sentence was finished a drink had materialized in her hand.

Needless to say, no one rose early the next day. In fact, it was close to two when Molly opened her eyes and gingerly flexed each muscle and appendage, all of which responded normally if somewhat slowly. She'd survived her first class reunion.

Georgia and Marge were at her door first and within the half-hour had rounded up Linda and Nancy for a late lunch. Sitting beside the pool, eating with the ravenous appetites peculiar to the morning after a long night of drinking, the old friends relived the previous night. So-and-so hadn't changed, so-and-so had changed immeasurably. Professional job choices were analyzed, new husbands or wives scrutinized, who had danced with whom and who hadn't were noted. The conversation was fluid, rapid, neurotically funny as it can be with old friends who share the same sense of humor.

“Should we go and knock on Carey's door? He's here, you know,” Marge teased, her audacity as prime as it had been at fourteen.

“I don't think his bed-partner would appreciate it.” With a grin, Molly pulled Marge back into her chair.

“You saw him?” Linda breathed, wide-eyed and awestruck, her naivetй undiminished by the years.

“Briefly,” Molly said. “He and a model-type redhead walked in around three. I was out on the balcony getting away from the smoke.”

“Did you talk to him?” Marge asked, and every eye at the table swiveled to Molly. They could all display a certain blasй facade-all except Linda-but Carey Fersten was as close to a star as any of them had ever known.

“No, so put your tongues back in. Jeez, he's only another guy-not some superhero,” Molly replied, a sudden image of Carey and the adoring woman last night provoking her nettled tone.

“Just another guy?” Marge repeated in accents heavy with disbelief. “Are you blind, deaf, and dumb? He's the sexiest guy I've ever seen, and if I could be certain Bill who's snoring three doors down wouldn't wake any time soon, I'd be tempted to knock on his door. I could introduce myself as Molly Darian's best friend. I'm sure he'd remember you.”

“Don't be so sure. I expect several dozen women have come and gone since my little fling with him.”

“He was a hunk,” Nancy reminisced with a small sigh. “Do you remember how he looked on court? Nobody had muscles like Carey Fersten.”

“An ex-marine back from Vietnam,” Marge added. “Experienced, older, the women were panting after him even then. You met him in that film appreciation class, didn't you? The one on Saturday mornings at Creswell.”

Molly nodded, but she wasn't about to reminisce about that. It was one of the most enduring memories in her life, and hers alone-not available for public consumption. It was the spring quarter of her senior year, and honor students were allowed to take college courses across campus at Creswell. Carey was doing T.A. work for the professor, and did most of the grading for the course. She'd gone in one afternoon to pick up her test score, and he'd asked her out to a movie.

She said, “I'm engaged.”

He'd looked down at her from under those half-raised, heavy brows and said, “So?”

She'd heard all the stories concerning the old count's wayward son; the one who'd been expelled from every good prep school in the country. The rich kid-bad boy image had evolved somewhat with maturity, Vietnam, and his enthusiasm for film, but a touch of the renegade lingered in the improved persona. And that nervy insolence was manifest in the softly spoken, “So?”