“He wasn’t in any way…unkind, Matthew,” she said miserably, needing to reassure him immediately of that. There was no reason for either of them to say Mr. Whitaker’s name out loud; they both knew what was wrong. “I never expected him to believe me about Johnny, anyway. I never even expected he would be as…civil as he was. It was just…”

“It was just that you wanted him to acknowledge his grandson,” Matthew said softly. “Or did you, very badly, want to hear from him that he just might have been very wrong about you, Misha? Can you dare acknowledge such feelings?”

“I…” She took a breath, then another, her whole body still violently shaking. “You just don’t know…what it was like. Being condemned without a trial. Without even a hearing. Feeling judged, feeling guilty and ashamed when it wasn’t like that… I went to see him back then, to ask him for help, and he treated me with such contempt…”

The words spilled out, one after another. Words she had never spoken out loud before, feelings she had never expressed. What Ron Stone had really been like, her inability to cope with the situation at the time, that awful afternoon, Richard’s reaction, then his father not even making the attempt to listen…

“But I would have listened, Misha,” Matthew scolded fiercely. “I tried to talk with you. You shut me out. Why couldn’t you let me help you?”

“Because…” But she didn’t know why. She had been ashamed at the time, embarrassed, mortified, proud. Because Matthew had controlled a strange little corner of her life, even then. His respect had always mattered. All of it. None of it. She didn’t know why.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmured, and held her close until the need to cry eased and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. “There’s more, I think, Misha. There’s more that you have to let go of. But not now. Not now,” he repeated, brushing his fingers through her hair over and over. “Just let it be with my father,” he murmured gently. “It will happen, sweet, about Johnny. If you want to know the truth, I think my father knows already that Johnny is Richard’s son. I watched him when he first set eyes on the boy… I see the Whitaker in Johnny more and more, and my father isn’t obtuse, either. He simply finds it hard to admit that he could conceivably make a mistake. My brother never could admit such a thing.”

She heard the slight trace of bitterness in his voice. Lorna looked up at him, wanting to respond, but he gave her no chance. Kissing her gently on the forehead, he stood up and set her on her feet, pausing long enough to hug her close yet again. “I don’t want you worrying about it anymore. You, Misha,” he whispered, “you matter. When you’re troubled, tell me about it. You had to bridge that silence with my father alone, but that’s done now. The rest we can handle together. Make no mistake about one thing-you’re not going to elude me, love. I want you, all of you… I love you, more than those three words can express…”

She looked up into his eyes. He was so sure, so absolutely sure; she saw love, strong and determined, and possession. A love so deep it almost frightened her. He wanted her; he loved her. She was the one who had erected barriers, which he seemed to understand more than she did herself. And if she wasn’t going to work on pulling down those fences herself, he would force her into action, so he could have what he wanted.

Had she ever really thought he might only want an affair? This man wanted to possess, body and soul.


When she awoke in the morning, she sensed that something was different. Before Lorna even opened her eyes, she tested out that feeling. Early-morning brightness came in the appropriate window; she recognized the faint, familiar scent of Johnny’s gift cologne, and the kind of silence that existed only in the morning before her son was awake. The room was on the cold side, exactly the way she liked to sleep, the comforter tucked around her just so. Absently frowning, she readjusted her pillow and closed her eyes again for one more tiny catnap.

Something hard and small brushed her cheek. She was thinking of Matthew. He’d put her to bed last night because she was exhausted, only by then she hadn’t been exhausted. Nor had she wanted to be separated from him. He was a bewilderingly complex man. He’d stopped her from making love so they could talk, but they’d stopped talking just as abruptly so he could make love to her…a slow, lazy seduction that began on the way to the bedroom. His caresses had been deliberately arousing, leaving her sleepy and wanting him and loving him. It had slipped out then, so naturally. “I adore you, Matthew. I never thought I could love as I love you…”

Those beautiful brooding eyes had captured hers. “That’s all I’ve been waiting for, Misha…”

But they hadn’t made love. He had left. It made no sense… She stirred again, and felt an odd, sharp little scrape on her cheek. Grudgingly opening her eyes, she squinted down at the offending object, and her heart stilled as she stared at her finger.

There was something different this morning. A ring. She wore no rings to commemorate her commitment to Richard. Certainly not a single brilliant marquise diamond, set exquisitely in antique gold. Certainly not on that finger. But she wore it now…


“Let’s see it once more,” Freda insisted.

The mall was packed with throngs of tired people returning presents and hustling toward the after-Christmas sales. It just wasn’t that easy to stop every five minutes, readjust all the packages and find enough space so they could both stare at the ring again.

“It’s probably the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life,” Lorna said absently.

“I’m not sure we need to go that far,” Freda began.

“Should have such taste.”

“You’re probably right.”

They picked up next year’s wrapping paper and bows, exchanged Johnny’s sweater for a larger size, Brian’s boots for a smaller size; both bought nightgowns on sale and debated whether to risk looking into the dress sales even though neither of them wanted to spend any more money. Useless friend that Freda was, she talked Lorna into buying a lavender sweater and a lavender and pale blue plaid skirt, then didn’t buy a thing herself.

“That burnt orange would have been perfectly beautiful on you,” Lorna scolded, as they stood in line for a seat in the coffee shop.

“Not my style.” Finally, they were ushered to a booth and piled their packages next to them with mutual weary sighs.

“It was, too. Freda, you have a very nice figure. And the color would have been special on you,” Lorna told her as their waitress brought coffee.

“I need to lose weight.” Freda pushed off her coat and crossed her arms on the table. Lorna grinned at her friend’s navy sweatshirt. There Are Only Two Things Wrong With Men, it said, Everything They Say and Everything They Do.

“Let’s see it again.”

Lorna obligingly put her hand on the table.

“Offhand, I’d certainly say he made up for forgetting to give you a present yesterday,” Freda remarked dryly, and then gave Lorna a basilisk stare. “I don’t know what’s brighter. That stone, or your eyes. You have no idea how annoying it is to sit across from someone in love.”

“Will it help if I pay for the coffee?” Lorna asked.

“A little.” Freda shook her head ruefully as she stirred her brew. “I could see it coming. You were either higher than a kite or moping around like a dead sponge. Washing your floor three times last week…” She leaned back, bringing her coffee cup to her lips. “I could have sworn the last I heard you weren’t even thinking about getting married again.”

“I wasn’t,” Lorna said absently.

“You’re being awfully closemouthed about how he staged the whole romantic scene. When did he ask you to marry him?”

“I adore him, Freda.” Lorna’s tone was grave as she changed the subject and abruptly put an end to Freda’s affectionate teasing.

They talked about clothes, bills, jobs and cats. They were still talking as they drove home, stopping to pick up the boys from a playmate’s house along the way. The roads were a potpourri of slush and traffic; Freda kept chattering, and the boys in the back were bickering at high speed.

Lorna had her hands on the steering wheel at ten and four, a position where the ring could continually wink brilliantly at her. Like a silent beacon, the diamond on her left hand gave her messages only she could hear. Matthew loved her.

Pausing at a red light, Lorna touched the marquise diamond, well aware that in fact there had been no proposal; the candlelight seduction Freda had assumed had never happened. He had simply left the ring on the appropriate finger for her to find, and he had left her in silence to think on it, because Matthew was unforgivably, cruelly, disgustingly fair.

The light turned green, and she put her foot on the accelerator. He had hedged his bet, more than a little, by arousing her until the only thing on her mind when she went to sleep was her greedy, aching soul, avid for the kind of fulfilment only he could give her.

He was very good at setting up all the stakes on his side, she thought ruefully, a small, dreamy smile playing on her mouth. He hadn’t just promised her trust; he’d given it, freely, in teasing her about Stan, in believing in her when she’d needed to be believed. He’d respected her feelings for her son; he had put her feelings ahead of those of his father; Lorna knew well he had told Mr. Whitaker straight-out that she came first in Matthew’s life. He was a man she could trust, a man of compassion and strength and sensitivity. A man of the sort she’d never believed had existed. And when he touched her…

Such love… All that morning she’d been exhilarated, restless, giddy, laughing at nothing, not able to think a single coherent thought. She adored him; she needed him; she wanted him…