he room was in total darkness.

Not even the merest sliver of light penetrated the tightly drawn curtains, and the lamps had been doused. He craved the darkness. It was like a balm to him. The darkness brought anonymity. He liked it that way. He could not bear to make love in the light anymore.

He lay absolutely still, with his eyes closed, flat on his back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms resting by his sides inertly. His shoulder barely touched hers. He could hear her breathing softly in unison with himself.

It was not working between the two of them.

And it would not work—he knew that and wondered why he was here at all. He really ought to leave. Make a graceful exit. Immediately. He swallowed, fighting back the nausea, wishing he had not downed two glasses of whiskey on top of all that champagne. His head was swimming and he was dizzy, but he was not drunk. In a way he regretted he was not.

She murmured his name, meltingly, pleadingly, repeating it several times, her fingers brushing up and down his arm.

He was motionless, saying nothing, endeavoring to find the energy to get up and dress and leave. He felt enervated, lethargic. The ghastly afternoon, with its extreme tensions and painful moments, plus the effort he had exerted to conceal his raw emotions, had vitiated him, undermined his stamina.

Now he felt an imperceptible movement close to him, but still he did not open his eyes.

She touched one of his nipples, tentatively at first, then more insistently, pinching it between her fingertips. Absently he moved her hand away, without bothering to explain that his nipples were not as sensitive as she obviously believed they were. But he had told her that before, hadn't he? Her hand rested on his chest for a moment, then fluttered onto his stomach, making gentle circular movements, creeping down in the direction of his crotch. He knew what she had in mind, what she was about to do next, but he lacked the will to stop her or to tell her he was leaving in a moment.

She began to stroke him. He hardly paid attention, drifting off into his thoughts. Vaguely he heard the rustle of sheets. She had slithered down the bed and was crouched over him. Her long hair brushed his thighs, and then her warm lips encircled him, enclosed him fully. She was a versatile lover. Despite his buzzing head, his queasy stomach, and his lack of interest in her, slowly, steadily, with infinite care, and painstaking deliberation, she managed to arouse him. And in doing so she took him by surprise. When finally she lifted her head and moved her lips higher onto his stomach, trailed them up over his chest to settle on his mouth, he found himself responding automatically. He returned her fervent kisses, his excitement mounting.

With suddenness, abruptness, he moved rapidly, holding her rightly against him, rolling them both over so that he was lying on top of her. His hands went into the cloud of dark hair, and he held her head in his hands, kissing her more deeply and thoroughly, their tongues grazing. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to look into her face pressed so close to his. His fingers left her hair, moved down to fondle her full, voluptuous breasts, her hardening nipples; he pushed his hands under her shoulder blades, then her buttocks, lifting her body, fitting it into the curve of his. He was hard enough to slide into her swiftly, easily, expertly. Together they found a rhythm, rising and falling, their movements growing swifter, more frenzied, gaining in momentum. Her legs went high around his back so that he could shaft deeper and deeper into the warmth of her.

The darkness... the blackness... welcoming him...

enveloping him. He was falling... falling into that endless, bottomless, velvet pit. Paula. Paula. Paula. I love you. Take me. Take all of me. All of my essence. Brilliantly clear images of her exquisite face flashed behind his eyes, were trapped beneath his lids. Paula, my darling, he cried silently, oh Paula...

"Shane! You're hurting me."

He heard the voice as if from a long distance, and it was like a knife slashing at his viscera.

It brought him down. Brought him back to this room. And back to her. And it killed the mood he had so carefully created for himself and only for himself. His fantasy shattered around him.

He fell against her body and lay perfectly still. He was deflated, flaccid, all of his vitality draining away. At last he said in a low mumble, "I'm sorry if I hurt you, Dorothea. It seems I don't know my own strength." Perhaps you do, he added sardonically under his breath. Or rather your want of it. Instantly he was embarrassed by his lack of staying power, his inability to bring the act of love to its proper culmination for them both. Act of sex, you mean, he thought, and he shuddered. Revulsion trickled through him, for himself, for her, although she was hardly to blame.

Dorothea said, "Your watch strap was cutting into my back. But I suppose I shouldn't have said anything just then. You were on the edge, the verge of—"

He covered her mouth with his hand, gently but firmly, in order to stop the flow of words. He did not want to hear her apology. He did not say one single word, but just lay against her for the longest smoment, his heart slamming against his rib cage, his throat tight with a strangling sensation. Thankfully she too was silent. Finally he lifted himself off her body, touched her shoulder lightly, and left the rumpled bed.

Shane went into the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, rilled with considerable relief. He fumbled for the switch, snapped on the light, blinked rapidly in the sudden intense glare. The room swam in front of him, and the white-tiled floor appeared to tilt upward to hit him between the eyes. The vertigo and the nausea returned.

He stumbled to the wash basin, leaned over it, and vomited. Blindly he searched for the tap with one hand and turned it on so that the sound of running water would drown out his retching. He retched and retched until he thought he had nothing left in his insides. When the nausea mercifully, subsided, he wiped his mouth with the washcloth and drank several glasses of cold water, braced himself against the sink, staring down, his eyes closed.

Eventually Shane lifted his head and saw himself in the mirror, and he did not like what he saw. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face puffy and congested, and his tousled black hair stood on end. He noticed a smudge of bright red lipstick on the side of his mouth and took the damp washcloth and scrubbed at it furiously, angrily. But his anger was directed solely at himself. It had nothing to do with Dorothea. This was not her fault. He was entirely to blame.

He could no longer make love to her successfully, or to any other woman for that matter. Something always happened to bring him back to reality, and when he realized it was not Paula in his arms, as he had fantasized, he fell apart, could not reach fulfillment. Sometimes, stupefied by drink, his vision and his senses blurred, he could somehow manage, but even these rare occasions were becoming rarer.

He stared at his face in the mirror, and without warning he was struck by panic and fear.

Was it always going to be like this? For the rest of his life? Would he never have a happy sexual relationship again? Was he doomed to lead an arid existence without a woman? Would he have to resort to celibacy to save face? To stave off that dreadful moment of embarrassment, such as the one which had just occurred in Dorothea's bed?

He was not impotent. He knew he was not afflicted in that way. It was a simple matter really—if his partner intruded into his thoughts, made her presence felt, no longer remained anonymous, then he lost his erection. Try though he did, he could not hold it long enough to satisfy her or himself. The woman he idolized impinged, edged in between them, rendering him weak and ineffectual, he who had always been considered a good lover. What would he do, for Christ's sake? How would he cure himself? Was there a cure? Did he need to see a doctor?

The silence in the room pressed in on him. He had no ready answers for himself in his awful predicament.

His anguish flared. God damn it! God damn it to hell! he blasphemed silently, and unexpectedly his eyes filled with tears of helplessness, frustration, and rage, startling him. And then instantaneously he was shocked and mortified by this shameful loss of control. For a split second he wanted to smash his fist into the mirror, to shatter that tearful image of himself staring out to mock him. He wanted to smash those finely tuned, crystalline images of Paula. Damn her. Destroy those indelible imprints of her that were stamped so strongly on his tormented, aching brain they seemed to control his life, affected everything he did. At times he felt hopelessly victimized by the vibrant inner vision of her face, the sound of her laughter, and her gentle voice that echoed endlessly in his head. But all were locked so securely in his imagination he could not eradicate them, no matter how hard he tried.

But he did not move. He kept his hand clenched at his side, the knuckles white, protruding sharply. Then he closed his eyes convulsively, no longer able to look at himself in this moment of weakness. He leaned against the wall to steady himself, was immobilized like this until he grew calmer, got a • grip on himself. Swinging around, he stepped into the shower stall, turned on the taps, let the water sluice down over him. And slowly but with an iron-clad determination, he emptied his heart and his mind, threw out every vestige of emotion, all feeling.

Minutes later he emerged from the steaming shower, took a bath sheet, and dried himself vigorously. He found a fresh towel, tied it around his waist, then searched the cupboard under the sink for the toilet kit he had left there weeks ago. He cleaned his teeth, ran the electric razor over his chin to remove his faint five o'clock shadow, splashed cologne on his face, and combed his damp hair.

He was refreshed, looked more like himself... coolly contained, smoothly in control once more. He stared at his reflection a fraction longer, wondering about himself. He was a strapping, healthy young man of twenty-seven, stood six-foot-four, and had a muscular body that was strong and powerful. He had an equally powerful brain to go with his splendid physique. And yet... he was so fragile really. The mind is a peculiar thing, he thought, it has such a delicate balance. And who can explain the logic of the heart?

Turning away, he took a deep breath, prepared himself for the inevitable scene with Dorothea. Today he had come to her against his own volition—he could not wait to leave her.

He opened the bathroom door, blinked as he walked back into the shadow-filled bedroom, adjusting his eyes to the

darkness. The room was silent, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep, prayed that she had. He groped around for his clothes on the chair where he had discarded them earlier, pulled on his underpants and socks, dispensed with the towel. He slipped on his shirt, buttoned it quickly, dragged his trousers up over his legs, and zipped them.

At this moment the bedside lamp flared into life, flooding die room with chilly brightness.

"You're not leaving!" Dorothea exploded. She sounded aghast, furious.

He pivoted.

He could not look at her. Unable to meet her gaze, which he knew would be hurt and condemning, he stared at the far wall.

"I have to go," he said after a short pause. He sat down on the chair and began to put on his shoes. He could feel her eyes on him.

"You've got a nerve!" she cried, sitting up violently, rattling the headboard as she did. She pulled the sheet around her body with an angry gesture. "You stroll in here unannounced, help yourself to my booze, bed me, fumble that, and leave me high and dry while you disappear into the bathroom for half an hour." She glared at him, added in the same harsh, accusatory tone, "Then you creep back in here and calmly proceed to dress in the dark as if you owe me nothing. You were obviously going to sneak off to your blasted dinner party!"

He winced. Sighing under his breath, he stood up and walked over to the bed. He sat down on the edge, took hold of her hand, wanting to be nice, to part with her in a friendly manner. She snatched her hand away and pressed it to her trembling mouth, attempting to quell the tears glittering in her dark eyes.

Shane said in his gentlest voice, "Come on, don't get upset. I told you last week about the dinner tonight. And I reminded you about it when I first arrived this afternoon. It didn't seem to bother you a few hours ago; you were very welcoming."

"Well, it bothers me now," she gasped, choking on her words. "I didn't think you'd leave me, not on your last evening in Yorkshire. Especially after we'd spent several hours in bed together. I thought we'd be having supper—we usually do—and that you would be sleeping here tonight, Shane."

He was silent. He glanced away uncomfortably.

She misconstrued his reticence. "I'm sorry I spoiled it for you, Shane. At the last minute, I mean," she whispered, her voice softer, more cajoling. She adopted a most winning and conciliatory demeanor. Please say you forgive me. I love you so much.

I can't bear it when you're angry."

"I'm not angry, and there's nothing to forgive," he muttered, striving for patience whilst longing to be gone. "Don't start flagellating yourself or donning a hair shirt. Look, it doesn't matter, honestly it doesn't, Dorothea."

She caught something strange in his voice. She was not sure what it was exactly, but it riled her nevertheless., "It matters to me," she snapped, her sweetness immediately evaporating. When there was no response from him, she cried heatedly, 'This afternoon finally proves it to me."

"Proves what?" he asked, sounding bored.

'That you can't make it with me—because there's another woman. You're in love with someone else, Shane, and I think you're a bastard for using me the way you have."

Stunned that she had unwittingly stumbled on the truth but trying to hide this, he stood up at once, his movements jerky. He edged away from the bed. "I haven't used you," he protested, his mouth tightening. He glanced at the door.

"I haven't used you," she mimicked, her. tone mocking, hard, her lip curling down with derision. "Of course you have. And, by the way, I think your friend Winston Harte is as big a bastard as you are for not inviting me to the dinner party tonight."

"He's not giving it—Allison Ridley is, and she doesn't know you or know about our relationship. You and I always agreed we would lead our own lives, with our own friends, and not become a special twosome," he exclaimed, his voice rising. "There've never been any strings attached to our relationship... that's the way you wanted it if I'm not mistaken."

Shane took a breath, curbed his increasing annoyance. "Besides you've never been interested in my chums before today," he reminded her with a cool indifference now, wishing she would not color everything with emotion.

"I've changed my mind. Please take me with you, Shane. I want to come. I really do. This is your last night. Please, darling," she begged, offering him a wistfully sweet smile, but it faltered in the face of his chilly expression, his rigid stance.

"You know that's not possible, not at this late hour. Anyway, it's a seated dinner. Look, don't try to make me wear a hair shirt—" He moved wearily toward the door. '

"I know I'm not welcome in your precious little clique!" she yelled, further losing her control. "My God, you all make me want to puke! The O'Neills, the Hartes, the Kallinskis... what a tight, toffy-nosed group you are. No outsiders permitted to join your exclusive club, to become part of your charmed circle. No room for us common folk among your snooty lot. Anybody would think you're royalty the way you all behave,' what with your airs and graces and pretensions. And your stinking money," she scoffed irately, her face ringed with bitterness. "You're just a bunch of rotten snobs—the lot of you. And bloody incestuous if you ask me, huddling together in the rarefied air of your posh compounds, shutting out the rest of the world. It's sick!"

Flabbergasted at her violence, he looked at her icily and with spiralling disdain. He was appalled at her words, her venom, but immediately held himself in check, deciding not to be provoked into retaliating.

There was an unpleasant silence.

"I've got to go. I'm extremely late." This was said evenly enough, but Shane was seething inside. He strode across the room, his blood boiling at her insults, threw his tie around his neck, picked up his jacket, and slung it over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry we're parting on such a bad note," he said, giving her a glance of condemnation, "but there seems to be nothing more to say." He shrugged. "I had hoped we could remain friends, at the very least."

"Friends!" she repeated shrilly, her temper blazing. "You must be crazy. Go on, get out! Go to your lady love. No doubt she'll be at your precious dinner!" She laughed hysterically through her blinding tears, then brushed her eyes, made an effort to cling to her last ounce of composure, without success. She swallowed a sob, cried, "I must admit, I'm curious about one thing! What makes you come crawling back into my bed all the time, hot and bothered and raring to go, when someone else has a claim on your heart? Is she a crown princess from one of the clans? A young lady of such refinement—so chaste and virginal—you wouldn't dream of sullying her? What's wrong, Shane, don't you have the guts to sleep with her until you're well and truly married and have the blessings of your families? Or could it be that she's not interested in you? Don't your fatal charms have any effect on her? Are you less than irresistible—" She bit off the end of her sentence when she saw the look of intense pain fly across his face, understanding that somehow she had struck the mark, albeit inadvertently.

"Shane, I'm sorry," she apologized at once, instantly contrite. She was genuinely concerned, afraid she had gone too far this time.

She leaped out of bed, struggled into her robe. "Shane, forgive me! I didn't mean it, didn't mean to be cruel, to hurt you. I love you, Shane. I have since the first day we met. Please, please forgive me. And forget what 1 just said." She started to weep.

He did not answer. Nor did he look at her again.

He left. The door slammed with finality behind him.

Shane hurried across the hall, let himself out of her flat, and ran down the stairs at breakneck speed. His head was pounding, and his stomach lurched as the nausea rose in him again.

He sprinted across the lawn, wrenched open the door of his car, and jumped in with agility. He drove off with a roar, his hands tightly gripping the wheel, his face set in angry lines, a muscle throbbing on his temple.

When he reached the Stray, the stretch of breezy open common ground in the center of Harrogate, he slowed down and parked.

Shane sat smoking for a few minutes, pulling himself together, calming his frazzled nerves, a remote look in his troubled black eyes. He stubbed out the cigarette impatiently, suddenly hating the taste of the nicotine. His head ached, reverberated with Dorothea Mallet's vituperative words. Her attitude had been extreme, uncalled for under the circumstances, but then that was her usual pattern. She had displayed her jealousy before, and by now he ought to be accustomed to her tantrums, her temperamental outbursts.

Quite unexpectedly it struck him that he had no reason whatsoever to chastise himself about his behavior toward her. He had always been considerate and kind to Dorothea. He was a decent man, and he had integrity and honor; furthermore he would never willingly hurt her or any woman.

He considered the lousy things she had said. In particular her comment about another woman in his life had been like a punch

in his stomach. But she was obviously stabbing in the dark, conjecturing, since she could not possibly know he loved Paula.

No one knew. It was his secret.

Shane's heart tightened as reality hit him in the face with some force. There was no chance that Paula would ever be his. She was most obviously very much in love with Jim Fairley. He had seen it written all over her face earlier in the day. Not only that, she was a mother now... they were a family. She had been transparently delighted to see him at the christening, yet despite her loving warmth, she had been preoccupied with her husband and her babies.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his face twisting in a grimace of mental anguish. His love for her was a hopeless love without a future. It had nowhere to go. He had known this for the longest time, and yet a faint hope that something might happen to change things had lingered in his mind. Of course it would not. He must put Paula Fairley out of his heart, obliterate her from his consciousness, as he had decided on the moors yesterday. It was not going to be easy, he was well aware. On the other hand it was imperative that he make the effort, draw on his inner reserves for strength. He had to make his sojourn in New York a new beginning... it was his chance to make some sort of worthwhile life for himself. His resolve intensified.

At last Shane opened his eyes, swung his head, and gazed out the window, shaking off the memories of Paula... his dearest love. And a married woman, a mother, he reminded himself.

Blinking, he became conscious of his surroundings.

He noticed the daffodils blowing in the breeze that had lately sprung up—rafts of stinging yellow against the verdant green of the grass. I ought to have bought flowers for Allison, he thought absently, remembering the dinner party. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read.seven-thirty. The shops were closed... and he was going to be late. But if he kept his foot down on the accelerator, he would make it in half an hour.

He switched on the radio, twiddled the knob to the BBC's classical station. The strains of the Pachelbel Canon filled the car as he swung it out onto the main road.

Within minutes the Ferrari was hurtling in the direction of the ancient cathedral town of Ripon where Allison Ridley lived. He gunned the engine forward, concentrating on the road ahead.