e owned the penthouse, Leigh realized as he put his key into that slot inside the elevator. Too nervous to attempt idle conversation, she rode with him in silence to the twenty-eighth floor.

It was pitch black inside his apartment, but instead of turning on lights, he stopped close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "May I have your coat?"

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her shoulders when he started to draw it off, and Leigh shivered, pulling it back on. "I think I'll just keep it on. It's a little chilly in here."

"I'll turn up the thermostat," he replied firmly.

Leigh relinquished her coat, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness as he opened a door next to them and hung up her coat, then his.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"For what?" she asked uneasily.

"For your first look." He stepped to one side, and a moment later a series of lights came on, illuminating what looked like an empty acre of gleaming black marble floors that were divided into two circular areas, each on a raised dais with graceful white columns and arches.

There was no furniture! No furniture… no bed. No bed… no danger to this extraordinary relationship that she treasured more every day.

"I haven't moved in yet."

Leigh's tension over his intentions evaporated in a rush of happy relief. "This is… glorious," she breathed, walking down the foyer steps. "You can see the Hudson from there." She pointed toward the huge dais on the left and looked questioningly over her shoulder at him.

"That's the dining room," he told her. "The dais on the right is the living room."

She turned back toward him, studying the wide curving staircase near the front door, her gaze moving along the intricate wrought-iron railing that had once adorned a palatial old New York mansion, tracing it across the balcony overhead. "It's exquisite."

From there, he guided her toward an arched hallway adjoining the dining room, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the high-ceilinged room.

"You dislike closed-in spaces," Leigh said, smiling. "So do I." A big, inviting kitchen was completely open to a family room whose two glass walls at either end had a view of the Hudson River to the west and overlooked Central Park to the east.

The south wall had a stunning alabaster fireplace surrounded by mellow wood panels and wide carved molding, all of it so distinctive that Leigh recognized it at once. "This came from the Sealy mansion." Clasping her hands behind her back, she slanted him a knowing look over her shoulder. "You were the 'unnamed bidder' who paid 'an undisclosed fortune' to get it." She walked over to the windows on the east. "Your views are all breathtaking. I can even see our—my—apartment over there across the park."

As she spoke, Michael walked over to the bar that was recessed in the wall, the family room shared with the dining area. He took off his suit coat and tie, tossing them over a barstool; then he loosened the top button of his shirt. She joined him at the bar, walking toward him with the same unconscious grace that he'd always admired in her. She'd relaxed the moment she realized his apartment wasn't furnished, so he intended to give her a glass of brandy to help her relax before she discovered that his bedroom suite was furnished.

She slid onto a barstool, folded her hands, and perched her chin on them. "I had such a lovely time tonight. I love your aunt. It must be nice to live where you grew up, and be able to see people like Frank Morrissey who've known you all your life."

"And whose personal lifetime goal is to assault your dignity every time he has the chance," Michael joked, locating the bottle of brandy. "The night I walked you home, you told me you were from Ohio. Is that where you were born?"

"No, I was born in Chicago. My mother was a nurse and I lived with her there until I was four."

"What about your father?"

"He left her as soon as she got pregnant with me. They weren't married."

"How did you end up in Ohio?" He bent down and located some brandy snifters in the moving boxes behind the bar, and then he straightened, but what she said next made him forget the snifters were in his hands.

"When I was four, my mother was told she had what was then an incurable form of fast-spreading cancer, so she sent me to live with my grandmother in Ohio. She thought it would be easier for me to make the adjustment to living permanently without her if she did it that way, in stages. She came to see us often at first, while she was undergoing an experimental treatment at her hospital, and she kept working as long as she possibly could."

"Then what happened?"

Leigh dropped her hands and spread them, palms down, on the bar as if bracing herself. "One day, when I was five, she hugged me and kissed me good-bye and said she'd see me soon. She didn't realize there wasn't going to be another chance for that."

Leigh's eyes, her face, her gestures—they were so expressive that they'd drawn him into the story with her, just as they mesmerized and drew in audiences that paid to see her perform. But she wasn't performing now, this wasn't a script, and he was a hell of a long way from being an impersonal observer. He had to look down and concentrate on pouring the brandy to break free of the spell. "Do you remember her well?"

"Yes, and no. I remember loving her and being excited to see her. I remember she read me stories at bedtime, and—as odd as this seems under the circumstances—I truly remember her as being happy and gay when we were together. And yet she knew she was dying, that her life was ending before it had a chance to begin."

This time, he met her gaze. "You must have inherited her gift."

"What gift?"

" Her gift for acting."

"I never thought of that. Thank you," she said softly. "I'll never forget it. The next time I walk onto a stage, I'll remind myself that a part of her is right there with me."

A minute ago, she'd made him ache for her; now she smiled at him and made him feel like a king. Loving Leigh Kendall had always been an emotional roller-coaster ride for him. Long ago, he'd had to stay away from her, and that had been agonizingly hard. Now, he was with her, and he was growing so attuned to her that he could almost feel what she felt. "You grew up in Ohio, then?"

She nodded. "In a tiny little town you've never heard of."

"Were you lonely?"

"No, I really wasn't. Everyone in town knew my grandmother and they'd known my mother when she was a girl. I was 'a motherless waif,' so half the town just sort of—adopted me."

"A beautiful motherless waif," he clarified.

"I've never been close to beautiful, and especially not in those days. I had freckles and fire-engine red hair. There's a picture of me when I was about three, sitting on a sofa, holding my Raggedy Ann doll up to my face." Laughingly, she confided, "We looked like twins!"

Her smile was so contagious that he grinned at her. "How did you end up in New York?"

"My high school teacher decided I had a talent for drama and she made it her mission in life to get a scholarship for me to NYU. When I left for New York, half the town went to the bus station to see me off. They never doubted I'd succeed, and for a long time, I felt driven to do it more for their sake than mine. My grandmother died two years ago, and I stopped going back there."

Michael handed her a glass of brandy and picked up his. "Come with me," he said, "and I'll show you what architects refer to as 'the owner's retreat.' " He waited for her to stand up and take a sip of brandy; then he put his hand on the small of her back. He had waited long enough to taste those soft lips of hers.

She shivered and said, "The first sip of brandy always tastes like gasoline."

Leigh saw his mouth quirk in a half-smile. "Did I say something funny?"

The half-smile became a lazy grin. "No."

"Then—why are you smiling?"

"I'll tell you later."