aula looked from Dale Stevens to Ross Nelson. "My grandmother would never consider selling her stock in Sitex Oil. Never."

Ross Nelson smiled, his expression sanguine. "Never is a word I've learned to distrust. It has a way of coming back to haunt one, and that's why I hardly ever use it."

"I understand the point you're trying to make," Paula said, "but, nevertheless, I know what my grandmother's feelings are about Sitex, and she wouldn't be interested in your proposal. She promised my grandfather—" Paula cut herself short, shrugged offhandedly. "However, that's another story, and this conversation is really a waste of time—Dale's, yours, and mine."

Dale Stevens said, "Maybe-you ought to broach it to Emma when she gets back from Australia next month, test the water, see what she has to say. She might like the idea. Times have changed, and let's not lose sight of the fact that she stands to make millions if she sells out."

"I don't think money comes into play here, "--Paula answered.

"Harry Marriott and his cronies on the board are a tough bunch, Paula," Dale remarked, giving her a pointed look, leveling his alert dark eyes at her. "They've wanted Emma out for years^-resent her influence—and the situation can only worsen, get harder for you in the future. When she's no longer around, you'll find yourself—"

"My grandmother's not dead yet," Paula interjected, meeting his fixed stare with a cool glance; "and I refuse to speculate about the future and eventualities that are a long way off. I deal with business the only way I know how—on a day-today basis. I'm certainly not going to seek out trouble, and I'd like to remind you that Marriott is a very old man. He won't last forever, and, therefore, neither will his influence."

"There's that nephew of his," Dale pointed out quietly. "Marriott Watson's a nasty son of a bitch, a troublemaker."

"Oh, don't talk to me about nephews," Paula began and -stopped, biting her inner lip. She turned to Ross, remembering that he was the nephew of Daniel P. Nelson and his heir. She laughed lightly and apologized, "Sorry, Ross, I didn't mean to sound disparaging about nephews in general. I wasn't getting at you."

He laughed with her, and there was a hint of humor surfacing in his hazel eyes. "Don't worry, I don't take offense that easily." He leaned forward, his face growing serious. "What Dale is trying to say is that those members of the board who have strained under Emma's yoke are going to be awfully rough with you, for the simple reason that you're a—"

Paula held up her hand. "You don't have to say it, Ross. I know the reason. I'm a woman, and a young one at that. I realize they've only listened to my grandmother all these years because they've had no option. She is the single largest stockholder, and my grandfather was the founder of the company, and obviously certain people have always hated her because of her enormous power, and, of course, because she is a woman." Paula paused. "Still, Emma Harte has managed, and managed very well indeed. She has always outsmarted that board, and so will I. I'm not without intelligence and inventiveness. I'll find a way to make them listen, take notice of me."

Ross and Dale were silent, exchanged knowing glances.

Ross spoke first: "I wouldn't want you to think I'm bigoted, a male chauvinist pig like some of those idiots on the board of Sitex, but despite the inroads women have been making in business lately, of which I totally approve, I might add, I'm afraid we have to face the facts. It's still a man's—"

Paula broke into laughter, instantly cutting him off. "I know it's still a man's world. You don't have to rub it in. And it always will be until the day women can go to the men's room."

Ross Nelson's smile was slow, amused. He appreciated her sense of humor as well as her inherent toughness and courage. She was one hell of a woman. His eyes lingered on her appraisingly. He was strongly attracted to her, fascinated by her self-control, her sharp mind, her extraordinary selfconfidence. He wanted her for himself. He wondered what approach to take, the best tactics to use, how long it would take him to get her into his bed. He fully intended to do that—and the sooner the better.

He disengaged his eyes from hers, conscious of the prolonged silence. He said, with a strangled laugh, "Not all deals are made in the men's room, Paula."

"Most of them are," she shot back, throwing him that challenging look again. "Or the equivalent of the men's room," she added, making a moue with her mouth.

This further inflamed him, and he could only grin, suddenly feeling asinine, like an inexperienced schoolboy. He had the compelling urge to fasten his mouth on hers, and he would have done so if Dale had not been present.

Dale coughed behind his hand, said quickly, "Marriott Watson has been gunning for me for a long time, Paula, because I'm Emma's protege^ Don't think he won't make strong moves against me when I'm no longer under her protection. He can't wait."

"I'm well aware of that," Paula replied, her tone as sober as his. "But right now you do have her protection, and mine, for what it's worth. Also, let's not overlook those board members who are on our side. Together we wield a lot of power. In September you promised me you'd stay on as president until Christmas. Last month you agreed to continue until your contract runs out, in spite of the present harassment from certain quarters within the company. You're not changing your mind—reneging—are you?"

"No, honey, no way. I'll be right in there with you, fighting the good fight," Dale insisted with firmness. "However, I would like you to mention Ross's idea to Emma when she's back in England."

"I've every intention of doing so, and she has a right to know. Don't be concerned. She'll get a full report of this meeting." She swung her head to face Ross. "She will ask me who your client is, Ross. Naturally shell want to know who's interested in buying.her stock. You haven't given me the name yet." She sat back in the chair, eyeing him speculatively.

Ross Nelson, in full control again, shook his head. "I can't tell you, Paula. At least not yet. Once you express a genuine interest in selling the Sitex stock I will, of course, do so at once. Until then, the name must remain confidential. At the specific request of our client. And I would like to repeat what I said at the outset of this meeting—that the interested party has been a client of the bank for a long time and is highly respected."

Paula was amused at his insistence on secrecy but she kept her face neutral. "It's obviously another oil company, and I doubt that it's one of the really huge ones like Getty or Standard. It must be a medium-sized company—a company such as International Petroleum, perhaps?" There was a shrewd glint in her knowing violet eyes.

Ross was impressed. His admiration for her went up another notch. She had stabbed in the dark most probably, but hit the bull's-eye nonetheless. "No, it isn't International Petroleum," he lied smoothly. "And please don't start a guessing game, because it won't do you any good." He flashed her one of his deep, warm smiles. "The name cannot be revealed until our client gives permission, and it may interest you to know that not even Dale has an inkling of who it is."

But you haven't denied it's an oil company, Paula thought. She said, "Then I suppose I may never know, since my grandmother won't be interested in selling." Paula crossed her legs, adopting a more relaxed posture, wondering if Ross had told her the truth when he had denied it was International Petroleum. She was not sure. Neither was she sure of her feelings about the man himself. Her attitude toward him had always been ambivalent. She had never been able to decide whether she liked him or not. On the surface Ross Nelson was charming, courteous, sure of himself, forever ready to oblige. A handsome man in his late thirties, he was about five feet nine, well built, fair of coloring, with an open, almost guileless face and the friendliest of smiles that flashed relentlessly to reveal his big white perfect teeth. His appearance was sleek and polished, his clothes impeccable, as were his manners.

And yet all of this was deceptive, or so it seemed to Paula. She could not help thinking that there was something concealed and predatory about him. Quietly observing Ross now, it suddenly struck her that the beautiful clothes and the insouciance he projected were mere fafades to camouflage unpleasant characteristics that only came to light behind the closed doors of the bank's boardroom. As Emma had divined before her, Paula scented a cold and calculating ruthlessness in him, a grim hardness behind the charm, the smiles, and the golden boy image.

Dale and Ross had been chatting about the explosion in the engine room of the Emeremm III, and Paula gave the two men her entire attention.

Dale was saying, "Of course sabotage crossed my mind,

Ross, but it's been ruled out. There was that recent inquiry and nothing untoward was discovered, nothing at all. Anyway, who would do such a thing?" He shook his head rapidly, frowned. "No, no, it was definitely an accident, even though we haven't been able to discover exactly what caused the explosion."

Paula thought: The disaster to the Emeremm III was a harbinger of bad luck, but she said, "So it remains a mystery, and a terrible stain on our safety record."

" 'Fraid so, honey." Dale's grin was rueful and his brown eyes crinkled at the corners in his leathery, weather-beaten ' face. "Hate to keep repeating myself, but the oil game is a high-risk business. However, the Emeremm III is a sturdy vessel and I just heard this morning that she's seaworthy again and back in the fleet."

"Well, that's a bit of good news!" Paula exclaimed, looking pleased, giving Dale a warm smile. The president of Sitex was a man she liked and trusted and whom she never had any qualms about. He was smart, tough, exceedingly ambitious for himself, but he was honest, and exactly what he seemed— not given to dissembling or craftiness. Studying him surreptitiously, she thought that even his clothes reflected the man himself, were good but conservative, lacked the expensive elegance of the ones that Nelson wore. She asked herself then what this wily, hard-grinding, fifty-three-year-old Texan who had risen the hard way could possibly have in common with the smooth Eastern Seaboard banker sitting next to him. The latter reeked of the old guard, pots and pots of inherited money and a privileged heritage. Yet close friends they were. Ross Nelson had introduced Dale Stevens to Emma two years ago, and it was through the investment banker that Dale was now president of the oil company.

Watching her watching him, Dale suddenly said, "I hope you don't think I lack confidence in you, because that's not true, honey." '

"But I am an unknown quantity, right?" she retorted swiftly, and continued in the same mild voice, "I understand your motives, Dale, and I can't say I blame you. You're looking to the future, and you've decided that things will operate much more smoothly at Sitex if our big block of preferred stock is controlled by someone else, someone whom you believe might be better equipped to handle the disruptive faction on the Sitex board."

Continuing to scrutinize her closely, forever conscious of her astuteness and perception, and never one to underestimate this clever young woman, Dale decided to be truthful. "Yes," he said, giving her a direct and open look, "that's part of my reasoning, I admit that. But it's not all of it. In one sense I'm also thinking of you, your heavy burdens. It seems to me that you have your hands full with the Harte chain and your considerable business interests in England and Australia. And of course, you are based in England, honey."

Paula said pithily, "Telephones work, telex machines transmit, planes fly."

"But Sitex is still an additional pressure for you," he said, paying no attention to her sarcastic tone. "And do you really need it?" Dale shook his head, as if making up her mind for her. "I don't think you do, and if it were me, why, I'd persuade Emma to sell out and make a huge profit. You could reinvest the millions you make from the stock in something else—something that's less of a headache."

She said nothing.

"I concur with Dale," Ross stated, his tone flat. He cleared his throat. "Obviously I've long been aware of the difficulties at Sitex, not only through Dale, but because of Emma's confidences over the last few years. And so, when the bank's client professed an interest in buying up Sitex stock, I immediately thought of Emma's vast holdings in the company. I spoke to Dale and he agreed we should raise the matter with you immediately. The bank's client has already invested in Sitex's common stock. And with your forty-two percent—" He stopped, offered her one of his perpetual all-embracing smiles. "Why, Paula, that would give our client real clout."

"Anybody who owns that forty-two percent has 'clout," Paula said crisply. "Whether it's us or your client is quite beside the point. You know as well as I do that it's the actual stock, not the owner of it, that counts. And anyway, your client's common stock doesn't come into play since it's not voting stock and has no power attached to it. Obviously this client of yours—whether an individual or a company—needs my grandmother's stock to give him, or them, a voice in the running of the company. Control is what they're after. I understand everything perfectly."

Neither man responded, both acknowledging to themselves that there was no point in making denials and in so doing looking foolish.

Paula stood up and, adopting her most gracious manner, went on, "I'm afraid I have to bring our informal little get-together to a close, gentlemen. I think we've covered as much ground as we can today. I will talk to my grandmother in December, and I'm sure you'll be hearing from her personally. And it really is up to her—her decision." Paula laughed softly, murmured, "And who knows, she might surprise even me and decide to sell after all."

Dale and Ross had risen when she had, and as Paula walked them to the door, Dale said, "I'm flying back to Odessa tonight, but just give me a holler if you need me, or need anything at all. In any event. 111 be calling you next week to touch base."

"Thanks, Dale, I appreciate that," Paula said, taking his • outstretched hand.

"Are you sure you won't join us for lunch?" Ross asked.

"Thank you again, but I can't. I have a date with the fashion director of Harte's USA, and since we're going to be planning the French. Designer Week promotion over lunch it's not possible for me to cancel."

"Our loss," he said, sounding disappointed, keeping his eyes focused on her, still clasping her hand tightly in his. "Unlike Dale, I'm not flying off anywhere, Paula. I'm staying right here in little old Manhattan. Let me know if 1 can help you with anything—anything whatsoever. And I hope I can take you to dinner one evening this week."

Extracting her hand, Paula said, "How kind of you, Ross. I'm afraid I'm rather busy this week. Every night, actually." This was untrue bu^ she had no desire to see him socially.

"Not next week, I sincerely hope!" He leaned into her, squeezed her arm. "I'll call you on Monday and I won't take no for an answer," he warned, with a hearty laugh.

Once they had left, Paula walked slowly across the room to the desk, a great slab of glass supported by a simple base of polished steel. It was the dramatic focal point in Emma's highly dramatic office at Harte Enterprises, where Paula always based herself when she was in New York. The room was furnished with modern pieces and washed throughout with a melange of misty grays and blues. The soft muted colors were enlivened by some of Emma's priceless French Impressionist paintings, while sculpture by Henry Moore and Brancusi, and rare temple heads from Angkor Wat, were displayed on black marble pedestals around the room. All made a strong, definitive statement, and evidenced Emma's great love of art.

Seating herself at the desk, Paula placed her elbows on it, cupped her face in her hands, thinking about the meeting she had just finished. At the back of her mind a germ of an idea flickered, began to take shape, and as it did a slow smile spread across her face. Quite unwittingly Ross Nelson and Dale Stevens had 'shown her a way to resolve some of her problems at Sitex, if not, in fact, all of them. But not now, she thought. Later, when 1 really need to make everyone keep in step to the beat of my drum.

As she straightened up, she laughed out loud. It was not a very nice idea, indeed, it was rather diabolical—Machiavellian—but it would be effective, and it bore Emma Harte's inimitable stamp. Still laughing quietly, she thought: I must be growing more like Grandy every day. The possibility that this was true pleased her. In a sense it helped to alleviate some of the depression and frustration she had been experiencing since her abortive attempt to talk to Jim before she had left England.

If her marriage was in a shambles, her personal life grounded in aridity, then she was going to make certain she had a fruitful career, her own successes in business to compensate for her'other losses. Work had been Emma's strong citadel when her private life had been wrecked, and so it would become Paula's, sustaining her at all times. With her business to occupy her thoughts, and her abiding love for her children to give her emotional nourishment, she would survive, and survive well, perhaps even with style, as her grandmother had done. Her thoughts jumped to Jim, but they were neither rancorous nor condemning. She felt only a terrible sadness for him. He did not know what he had lost, and that was the pity, the tragedy of it all.

Shane O'Neill was in a quandary this afternoon.

He strode up Park Avenue at a rapid pace, dodging in and out amongst the other pedestrians, his thoughts twisting and turning at a similar accelerated rate. He was unable to make up his mind about Paula. Should he phone her or not? The knowledge that she was in New York, sitting only a few blocks away from him at this very moment, had so unnerved him he couldn't imagine what being in her'presence would do to him. And if he did call her he would have no alternative but to see her, invite her out, take her to lunch or dinner, at the very least have drinks with her.

Earlier that day, when he had been talking to their London office, he had been taken aback when his father had mentioned in passing that Paula had flown to New York. "Merry and I had supper with her in London on Sunday night," his father had gone on to explain before reverting to their discussion about current business matters. And before they had hung up, his father had exclaimed, "Oh, Shane, just a minute, here comes Merry now. She wants to say hello to you."

But Merry had given him more than a greeting. She had issued instructions. "Please ring Paula," Merry had urged. "I gave her your numbers the other night, but I know she won't call you. She'd be too intimidated." When he asked her for clarification, his sister had told him that Paula had long been acutely conscious of his aloofness, as she had herself. "She'll be scared of being rebuffed," Merry had pointed out. "So it's really up to you. Be nice, Shane, she's such an old friend. And she doesn't look very well." This last statement had been announced in a grave and worried voice, and Merry had rushed on, "She seems weighted down, troubled, morose even, and that's not the Paula we know.. Please take her out, give her a good time. Have some fun together, Shane, make her laugh again, like you used to do when we were all children." His sister's comments had alarmed him; he had pressed for more information about Paula's state of mind and health. Merry had riot really been able to enlighten him any further, and before they had said good-bye he had faithfully promised his sister he would get in touch with Paula.

But he was wavering again. Whilst he longed to see her, he knew that by succumbing to his yearning he would only be inflicting punishment on himself. She was another man's wife. Lost to him forever. To spend time with her would open up all the old wounds... wounds which had not exactly healed but had scabbed over at least, and were therefore much less painful. It will be unsettling, he thought, reflecting on the life he had built for himself in New York over the past eight months. It was not an exciting life; rather, it was dull and uneventful, with no great highs, but no debilitating lows, either. He was neither happy nor sad, in limbo in a sense, but he did have peace and quiet. There were no women around anymore. Two sorties in that direction had foundered miserably and rendered him helpless, despairing. And he had decided, yet again, that celibacy was infinitely preferable to disastrous scenes in the bedroom which ended in embarrassment, left him shaken and filled with mortification at his own inadequacies. And so he scrupulously avoided all female entanglements and spent most of his time working. More often than not, he remained at the new offices of O'Neill Hotels International until eight or nine at night, and then went home to a dreary supper in front of the television set. From time to time he made a date with Ross Nelson or with one of the other two men he had become friendly with; occasionally he took Skye Smith to a movie or the theater and then on to dinner afterward. But for the most part he led a solitary existence, with books and music as his sole companions. He was not happy, but there was no pain to deal with. He was dead inside.

As all of this ran through his head, Shane had a sudden change of heart. He really ought to see Paula, if only for appearances' sake. Should any of his other childhood friends happen to visit the city, he would wine and dine them automatically. To avoid Paula would look peculiar, pointed, actually, especially to Emma and his grandfather, who would undoubtedly ask him about her when they passed through New York next month. Besides that, Merry had said Paula was not looking well. Yes, he had better invite her to dinner, just to satisfy himself she was really all right. But she's not your responsibility, he cautioned himself, thinking of Jim Fairley. Her husband. Unexpectedly, a savage feeling of jealousy seized him, and he had to make a strenuous effort to fling this emotion off as he crossed Fifty-ninth Street and continued on up Park, making for the mid-sixties.

In a few minutes he would be arriving at the site of their new hotel. The construction company had almost finished rebuilding the old-fashioned interiors and momentarily he would be surrounded by the crews, the foremen, the architects, and the interior designers. All would be demanding his attention. I must make a decision about Paula. Now. No more procrastinating. Oh, to hell with Jim Fairley! She's my oldest and dearest friend. I grew up with her. Of course I'm going to see her. No, you can't. It will be too hurtful. Once again Shane reversed himself.

And he was paralyzed into inaction by the knowledge that he was vulnerable to her. If he so much as set eyes on the only woman he loved he would be exposing himself to pain and suffering from which he might never fully recover.

Skye Smith looked at Ross Nelson nervously, and her voice quavered slightly as she said, "But your divorce has been final

for weeks now. I don't understand. I always thought we were going to get married."

"I'm afraid that has been wishful thinking on your part, Skye," Ross said, endeavoring to keep his voice level, to be courteous

if nothing else.

"But what about Jennifer?"

"What about her?"

"She's your child, Ross!"

For a moment he said nothing. He had been furious when he had arrived home from Wall Street ten minutes earlier to find Skye Smith, his former mistress, sitting in his living room so coolly composed and obviously determined to fight with him yet again. He was growing exasperated with her and the constant pressuring. The moment she left he was going to fire his housekeeper for being stupid enough to allow her into the apartment.

Skye sat twisting her hands, her face white, her eyes filled with mute appeal.

Ross Nelson stared at her, his implacability increasing as he noted her agitation. Her apparent distress did nothing to engender sympathy or compassion in him. It only served to annoy him further. "You say she's my child. But is" she, really?" he asked cruelly. "I've never been too sure... about her paternity."

Skye gasped, drew back on the sofa. "How can you say that! You know you're her father. She's the spitting image of you, Ross, and there's the blood test. And anyway, you kept me virtually under lock and key for four years. I never so much as looked at another man."

He smiled ironically. "But you're looking at one these days, and very lovingly so, aren't you, Skye? Shane O'Neill, to be precise. And since you're sleeping with him I suggest you use your considerable sexual wiles to ensnare him. You'd better

lead him by the nose to the altar, and as quickly as possible."

"I'm not sleeping with him," she protested fiercely, her apathy dropping away, her eyes flashing angrily with sudden life.

"Do you really expect me to believe that?" he exclaimed, with a cynical laugh, "I know everything there is to know about you, Skye, and then some." His eyes hardened as they swept over her and his mouth lifted at the corner in a scornful smile. "You can't resist tall, husky, handsome studs, they've always beon your terrible weakness, my dear. As we both know only too well. You'd be wise to marry one of them while you still have your beautiful blond looks and that extraordinarily athletic sexual ability. Shane's definitely the most likely prospect. He's getting it from you in bed, so why don't you get him to make it legal, while the romance is still in that first euphoric flush. He's your type, no two ways about it. He's also a rich man, and he's certainly available."

"Ross, I'm telling you the truth. I'm not having an affair with Shane O'Neill," she insisted.

Ross laughed in her face, reached for the silver cigarette box on the antique Chinese coffee table, slowly put a flame to the cigarette he held between his fingers.

Skye's eyes rested on him. She wondered why she had ever let herself become embroiled with him—and so foolishly— years ago asked herself why it was her misfortune to love this man in the way in which she did. The trouble was, he knew exactly how she felt, and that was why he had lately begun to cool toward her. Ross only wanted the things in life which he could not possess, and especially women who showed no interest in him whatsoever. He's perverse, she thought, but oh God how I love him. She knew she had to make him believe her about Shane for the child's sake as well as her own. Suddenly realizing that the only way to convince him was to be open and explicit, she said quietly, "All right, I admit it. I aid go to bed with Shane. Once. It was when 1 discovered you'd taken Denise Hodgson to South America with you, when I found out about your affair with her. Retaliation, I suppose. But it didn't work between us. We never made love. And we've never been near each other since, not in that way, Ross. We're friends, that's all. Chums."

"Chums," Ross spluttered, shaking his head. "Come on, Skye, it's me you're talking to, remember? 1 haven't known you for five years not to understand exactly how you can make a man feel, especially in the beginning, when he's not yet slept with you.' He laughed derisively. "Didn't work between you, eh?" he muttered, his expression one of total disbelief.

Skye swallowed, knowing she had to continue talking, give. him a full explanation if she was to make any headway, ingratiate herself with him again, somehow win him back. "Yes, that's correct, I promise you, Ross. Shane and I are simply good friends." She swallowed again. "He couldn't... well, the night we went to bed... he wasn't able to... you know, do anything."

Ross slapped his knee, raucous laughter rippling through him. "Do you expect me to believe Shane O'Neill couldn't get it up with you? Oh no, Skye, I'll never accept that one from you."

"But it's the truth," she whispered, remembering so clearly that miserable night, Shane's dreadful embarrassment, her own confusion. "It's the God's truth." She leaned across the coffee table, finished in a much stronger tone, "I swear it on Jennifer's head, on my child—on our child."

His laughter ceased and his eyes narrowed, observed her thoughtfully. Instantly he knew she was not lying, not when she brought the child into it. He said, "So... Shane's got a little problem, has he?"

She nodded. "With me at least." She hesitated. "I have a feeling he's in love with someone."

"I wonder who that could be, who the woman in question is. Do you know?"

"That's a silly thing to ask. How could I possibly know. He hasn't confided anything. Don't you see, Ross, that's why he's not available as a husband for me."

"Neither am I."

"Why?" she demanded with terseness.

"I have no desire to get married again," he said almost chattily, "not with my track record. I've had enough of grasping wives and the divorce court. Besides, I'm paying too much in alimony as it is. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. But if I were ever demented enough to take that suicidal plunge, I can assure you my bride would have to be a rich one."

"Oh come off it! Money doesn't interest you, Ross," she scoffed. "You couldn't spend your millions if you lived to be a hundred."

He said nothing.

Skye said slowly, her face growing soft, almost tender,

"We've had so much together. We have a child, and I love you very much." '

"You don't seem to understand—I don't love you."

She flinched but kept her hurt to herself. He had a penchant For being cruel, and his moods changed like the wind. In five minutes he might easily do a turnabout and sweep her off to bed. That had happened so many times before. A thought came to her, and she stood up, went and sat down next to him on the other sofa, laid her hand on his knee. She drew closer, whispered, "You don't really mean that, Ross darling, you know it's not true. You do love me. There's a special kind of magic between us, and there always has been." She smiled into his cold face, her eyes enticing. "Let's go to bed. I'll show you just how strong the bonds are between us."

He lifted her hand from his knee and placed it in her lap. "I didn't think you were a masochist, that you'd want a repetition of your misadventure with Shane O'Neill. It must be very humiliating for a woman like you to realize that her sexual expertise has lost its power.";

She pulled away from him, gasping, and her eyes filled with tears.

Wanting to be rid of her, he went in for the kill, said in the quietest but hardest of voices, "You see, Skye, you don't turn me on anymore."

Rising, she blundered across the 'room to the window, flicking the tears off her cheeks, trying to stem their flow, her shoulders heaving. She knew she had lost him. Her life was in shreds.

Ross also rose and crossed to the small Regency writing table. He opened the drawer, took out his checkbook, picked up the pen and wrote. As he ripped the check out of the book she turned around, stood staring at him, puzzlement replacing the anguish on her strained face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, beginning to tremble.

'This is for you, for the child," he said, pushing himself up out of the chair, walking to her. "I will make arrangements with my accountants for you to receive the same amount every month. It should be more than enough." He stopped in front of her, held out the check.

Skye shook her head wildly. "I don't want it, Ross. I can support our child. I'm not interested in your money, and I never have been. It's only you I want. As a husband, as a father for Jennifer."

"That's too high a price for me." He tried to force the check into'her hands but she refused to take it, balling her fists, backing away from him.

He shrugged, turned, walked back to the sofas in front of the fireplace. He opened her handbag, slipped the check inside,

then carried her bag to her, put it in her hands. "I think it's time for you to leave, Skye. I'm expecting guests. It's over between us. There's nothing more to say."

Lifting her head, she gathered some of her shattered pride around her, and she was surprisingly cool and steady as she said, "Oh yes, there is something more to say, Ross, and it's this..." She paused, looked deeply into his face. "Things are not over between us and they never will be, whether we see each other again or not. And one day you're going to need me. I don't know for what reason, or why, but need me you will." She opened her bag, took out the check and tore it in half without looking at it. She let it flutter to the floor. And then.she pivoted and walked away from him without a backward glance, her pace measured and controlled.

Ross picked up the torn check and pocketed it, his face expressionless. He would write another one tomorrow and mail it to her. He ambled over to the window and parted the curtain, looked down onto Park Avenue. In a few minutes she would leave the building and cross the street as she always did, heading in the direction of Lexington. He sighed. It was a pity about the child. His face softened a fraction. There was no way he could have his three-year-old daughter without the mother, and the mother he neither wanted nor needed. She was far too troublesome in far too many ways. He felt a sudden twinge about Shane and the manner in which he had maneuvered him, had tried to throw Skye into his arms. Funny coincidence, he thought, the way Skye and Shane were introduced in Yorkshire and then a week later he phoned me at the bank with an introduction from Emma Harte. The minute he had met Shane he had thought of Skye, realizing he might have found a solution to his problems with her. He had manipulated Skye, had augmented the beginning of the affair, if one could call it that. Oh well, they say all's fair in love and war. Skye's unexpected revelation about Shane's impotency had surprised him, though. Shocked him. Shane O'Neill, of all people. Poor son of a bitch, Ross muttered, wondering for the second time what woman had so got her hooks into O'Neill he couldn't perform with anyone else.:

Ross pressed his face to the glass, saw Skye hurrying across Park, lingering on the center island, waiting for the lights to change. She was wearing the mink coat he had given her. He supposed he had loved her once. Now she bored him. He let

the curtain drop, and she was instantly dismissed as he turned his mind to his present plans.

Moving toward the fireplace, Ross Nelson stood for a few minutes with his hand on the mantelshelf, staring into space, lost in his reverie, pondering Paula Fairley. He had known her for years, paid little attention to her in the past. But this morning, in her office, he had been intrigued by her. He had to have her. He was going to have her. Nobody, nothing would stop him. Now there is a powder keg of suppressed sexuality, he decided. He had spotted that at once. It was apparent in the way she held her body, from the hunger he had detected in those unusual violet-tinted eyes, so long-lashed and seductive. He would put the match to the powder keg, explode it, then lie back and let the flames of her sexuality consume them both. He began to realize that just thinking about her excited him inordinately, in a way he had not been excited for some time, jaded as he had become. He itched to get his hands on that slender body, so willowy and graceful, yet curiously boyish except for the beautiful breasts. He closed his eyes, holding his breath, recalling how taut and firm they had looked under the white silk shirt she had been wearing. He lusted for her right now, this very minute. Her image was suddenly so vividly alive in his mind he snapped his eyes open swiftly, lowered himself onto the sofa, knowing he must dispel the tantalizing picture of them in bed together. He would have a miserable evening if he did not do so immediately.

But Ross Nelson discovered she was difficult to forget, so potent was her sexual appeal to him. And then of course there was her money. He began to contemplate her great fortune, Emma's fortune, which she would inherit one day. To his astonishment the idea of matrimony was suddenly most appealing after all. There was a husband in the background somewhere, wasn't there? He would soon dispense with Fairley. Once he had bedded Paula she would be his completely. They always were, particularly those who came inexperienced and breathless with anticipation into his arms.

He felt the old familiar ache in his groin. To take his mind off sex he endeavored to concentrate on Paula Fairley's huge fortune. The ache only intensified. He crossed his legs, growing uncomfortably hot. He began to laugh at himself. How fortunate it was that he had not indulged himself in his erotic imaginings about Paula earlier. Otherwise he would have been forced to take Skye to bed—for one last time.

He glanced at the phone on the writing desk, wondering why it had not yet rung. He had been expecting to hear from Paula the moment he had arrived home.