ou’re not talking me out of being pissed.”

“Stuff it, Bird Dog.” Fleur had awakened a little after two in the morning to discover she was alone in bed. She’d slipped on her panties and Jake’s black sweatshirt with the sawed-off sleeves, then headed for the kitchen, where she found him devouring a serving bowl piled with ice cream. He started to go at her the minute he saw her, and they’d been arguing ever since.

“You should have told me before we did it.” He dropped his dish in the sink and pulled on the faucet.

“Did it? You’ve got a real gift for self-expression. You should be a writer when you grow up. That would be, what? When you’re fifty?”

“Don’t be such a wise-ass. It wasn’t right, Flower, not telling me you were a…newcomer.”

She smiled sweetly. “Afraid I wouldn’t respect you in the morning?” She was getting good at matching him wisecrack for wisecrack, but she wished he’d stop arguing and kiss her. She began opening drawers at random, looking for a rubber band.

“Damn, it, Flower! I wouldn’t have been so rough.”

“That was rough? You’ve got to be kidding. I could take you with my eyes closed.” She found a rubber band and pulled her hair into a ponytail high on her head. Then she walked into the living room and scooped up a batch of chunky candles she’d seen on the table.

He followed her in as if she were a kid who needed watching. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to take a bath.”

“It’s almost three in the morning.”

“So what? I’m stinky.”

For the first time since she’d walked into the kitchen, he relaxed. “Yeah? Why is that?” He almost managed the cocky grin that made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.

“You’re the expert. You tell me.” His sweatshirt didn’t completely cover her panties, and she twitched her rear as she walked away from him.

She set the candles around the edge of the sunken tub, lit them, and poured in a generous amount of bubble bath from a bottle sitting on the side. Somehow she didn’t think it was Jake’s. She hated every single woman he’d ever dated.

While the tub filled, she twisted her ponytail into a loose knot and secured it with a clip she found in the makeup pouch she kept in her purse. No matter what Jake said, she didn’t regret what had happened between them. So much of her life had been forced upon her. This choice had been hers alone. And when he’d been inside her, she’d felt as if her heart would burst with the enormity of her love for him.

She slipped into the water. The candles flickered in the wall of glass suspended over the side of the cliff, and she felt like she was floating in space. She remembered that sweet moment when he’d entered her and his tenderness afterward.

“Is this a private party, or can anybody join?”

He was already unzipping his jeans, so the question was rhetorical. “Depends on whether you’re done with your lecture.”

“Lecture’s over.” He muttered something as he stepped into the tub and eased down beside her.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“All right. I said I was sorry.”

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “Sorry for what? Exactly what are you sorry for?”

He must have heard the unsteadiness in her voice because he pulled her into his arms. “Nothing, babe. I’m not sorry for a damned thing except being so rough on you.”

And then he was kissing her and she was kissing him back, and her hair came undone and neither of them noticed. They wrapped their legs and arms together, fell back in the bubbles, and Fleur twisted her hair around them both. Jake pulled the plug so they could breathe, then began loving her in that delicious way that made her cry out again and again until he stilled her with his kisses.

Afterward he wrapped her in a towel. “Now that you’ve worn me out,” he said, “how about feeding me? I’m a lousy cook, and I haven’t had anything but ice cream and potato chips since I got here.”

“Don’t look at me. I’m a rich kid, remember.”

He fastened a matching towel around his hips. “Are you telling me you don’t know how to cook?”

“I might remember how to hard-boil an egg.”

“Even I can do better than that.”

For the next hour, they made a mess of the kitchen. They grilled steaks that didn’t have the decency to thaw in the middle, incinerated a loaf of French bread under the broiler, and fixed a salad from a head of browning lettuce and some limp carrots. It was the best meal Fleur had ever eaten.

They planned to go for a run on Sunday morning but went back to bed instead and made love all over again. In the afternoon they played cards and told terrible jokes and took another erotic bath. Jake woke her just before dawn on Monday morning for the trip back to Los Angeles. Since they both had cars, they had to drive separately. He kissed her after she got in the Porsche. “Don’t straighten out any curves, okay?”

“You, either.”

She’d called Belinda the day before and guiltily repeated her lie about Lynn needing her. Now she drove straight to the studio.

When she came out from hair and makeup, Jake and Johnny Guy were already arguing, this time about the revision Jake hadn’t finished that weekend. Jake gave her an impersonal nod. She hated the idea of everyone gossiping about them, and she told herself she appreciated his discretion. Still, she felt just a little disappointed.

Johnny Guy came over. “Now, honey, I know Friday was a little hard on you, but we’ll try to make things easier today. I’ve made some changes—”

“I don’t need any changes,” Fleur heard herself say. “Let’s do it right.”

He looked at her doubtfully. She gave him a cocky thumbs-up, as if she were a fighter pilot about to take off on a dawn patrol. She could do this. And this time she wouldn’t let Jake forget that he was looking at a woman, not a kid.

Jake reappeared in costume. As Johnny Guy began outlining the scene, Jake interrupted. “I thought we decided to cut most of this. We already know she can’t handle it. Let’s not waste any more time.”

Johnny Guy didn’t let her respond. “The little lady says she wants to give it a try.” He turned toward the crew. “Showtime, boys and girls. Let’s get to work.”

The cameras rolled. Jake glowered at her from across the tiny bedroom. She grinned at him, her hands going to her buttons. He was too cocky, and she was going to show him. She stepped out of the dress without taking her eyes from his. They had secrets now, the two of them. He was funny and maddening and dear, and she loved him with all her heart. He had to feel the same—at least a little bit—or he could never have made such sweet love to her.

Please love me. Just a little.

She unfastened her bra. Jake scowled and stepped off his mark. “Cut it!”

“Goddamn it, Jako, I’m the one who calls ‘cut’! She was doing great. What’s wrong with you?” Johnny Guy slapped his leg. “Nobody calls ‘cut’ except me! Nobody!” The tirade went on, and Jake grew more sullen. Finally he complained that a chair had been moved out of position. Johnny Guy nearly hit him.

“It’s okay,” she said to the director, feeling very much like a woman in control. “I’m ready to go again.”

The cameras rolled. Jake’s face was a thundercloud. The bra came off. She unfastened it slowly, tantalizing him, torturing him with her delicious, newfound power. Bending over, she pulled off her panties and walked over to him.

His body was rigid as she unbuttoned his shirt and slipped her hands inside. She touched the spot she’d kissed just that morning. She pushed her hips against his, and then did something that hadn’t been rehearsed. She leaned forward and flicked her tongue over one of his nipples.

“Cut and print!” Johnny Guy yelled, jumping around like a jubilant jack-in-the-box. “Beautiful, honey lamb! Just beautiful!”

Jake scowled, grabbed the white terry-cloth robe from the wardrobe girl, and shoved Fleur into it.

During a break, she sought out Lynn. Since she didn’t want her to know she’d gone to Jake’s house, she couldn’t come out and ask her directly if she’d sent the note, so she had to poke around. But Lynn refused to take the bait. Sooner or later, Fleur vowed, she’d weasel the truth out of her.

Things went well for the rest of the morning, and by late afternoon they’d reshot all the material from Friday and begun shooting the two of them in bed. Johnny Guy captured everything—Matt’s tension, his guilt, the anguish simmering just beneath the surface…and Lizzie’s relentless seduction. Jake barely talked to her unless the cameras were rolling, but it was an intense scene, and they both needed to stay focused.

As soon as they wrapped for the day, he disappeared. Neither of them had gotten much sleep for the past two nights, and she told herself he was tired. But as the next few days passed and he continued to keep his distance, she ran out of comforting excuses. He was avoiding her.

The weekend came and went, and her hopes that he’d call her turned to misery. Monday morning arrived, and she thought about forcing a confrontation, but she was too afraid she’d end up begging him to love her, and she couldn’t bear that. Jake was telling her loud and clear not to place any significance on what had happened between them in Morro Bay.

Instead of days, she began counting the hours until she was done. Thursday was her last day on the set. She moved mechanically through her scene with Lynn, did some close-ups, and went home in despair.

“Did Jake say anything to you about Johnny Guy’s party this weekend?” Belinda asked over dinner that evening. “Surely he’s planning to attend.”

“I don’t know. We didn’t talk about it.” Fleur would never talk to Belinda about her feelings for Jake, and she excused herself from the table.

Johnny Guy’s wife, Marcella, was one of Hollywood’s favorite hostesses, and she’d invited everyone who was anyone to the party she was throwing to celebrate the completion of Sunday Morning Eclipse. Fleur was a slow learner. Right up until the last minute, she’d entertained the frail hope that Jake would ask her to go with him. Instead she ended up going with Belinda.

Marcella had filled the Kellys’ Brentwood home with flowers, candles, and music. Fleur knew the only way she could get through the night with any kind of dignity was by playing the Glitter Baby, and she wore an ecru silk gown with shimmering horizontal stripes of mocha, beige, and terra-cotta. The tubular dress had a subtle Egyptian feeling that she’d emphasized with matching gold cuff bracelets and flat sandals that had a jeweled clasp at the instep. She’d braided her hair wet and brushed it out after it had dried so it fell down her back in a cascade of tiny waves. Marcella Kelly told her she looked like a blond Cleopatra.

Marcella was as sophisticated as Johnny Guy was homespun. While he walked around with a can of Orange Crush and a Cuban cigar, she encouraged her guest to try the hors d’oeuvres—salmon cured in tequila, canapés decorated with edible cactus leaves, and tiny beignets stuffed with hydroponically grown vegetables.

Fleur studied the crowd over the top of Dick Spano’s head, but Jake was nowhere to be seen. Belinda had wedged Kirk Douglas into a corner. The actor, who had a slightly bemused expression, was undoubtedly being bombarded with the history of every film he’d made, some of which he’d probably just as soon forget. Fleur sipped her drink and pretended to listen to the male rising star who’d popped up at her side. Outside, she heard a clap of thunder. Then the crowd shifted, and she spotted Jake.

He’d arrived with Lynn and the documentary filmmaker who was Lynn’s latest lover. Fleur’s heart constricted. Marcella Kelly swooped down on him and began leading him through her guests, a prize catch put on display. Fleur couldn’t endure it. She excused herself from the rising star and locked herself in the bathroom, where she leaned back against the door and told herself—no matter what—she’d hold on to her pride tonight. He was going to remember her dressed like Cleopatra with a Hollywood heartthrob dancing attendance at her side.

Finally she made herself leave the bathroom and slip back into the crowd. Rain had begun tapping on the mullioned windows. She looked around and saw that Jake had disappeared. Moments later, she realized Belinda was nowhere to be seen, either.

It could have been coincidence, but she knew her mother too well, and she immediately felt uneasy. I only do what’s best for you, baby. What if Belinda had figured out how Fleur felt and decided to interfere? Just the thought of it made Fleur shudder.

She began to search for her, weaving through the guests as she moved from room to room while an invisible conversation played out in her head. Just give her a chance, Jake, and I know you’ll fall in love with her the same way she’s fallen for you. The two of you are a perfect match.

Fleur would never forgive her.

When her downstairs search came up empty, she slipped upstairs, and though she managed an embarrassing intrusion on Lynn and her lover, she couldn’t find her mother. Just as she was getting ready to return downstairs, however, she heard noises coming from Marcella Kelly’s bedroom. She peeked in.

“There’s nothing more to talk about. Let’s go back to the party.”

It was Jake’s voice. With her heart in her throat, Fleur slipped into the bedroom.

“Two more minutes for old time’s sake,” Belinda said. “Remember how much fun we had together in that awful motel in Iowa? I’ll never forget that morning.”

The intimate note in Belinda’s voice caught Fleur by surprise. As she took another step into the room, their reflections jumped out at her from a floor-length antique mirror, Belinda in shrimp-pink Karl Lagerfeld and Jake wearing a jacket that looked almost respectable. They stood in some kind of dressing alcove. He crossed his arms over his chest. Belinda reached out and touched him. The soft, terrible expression on her face made Fleur’s mouth go dry.

“It must be your mission in life to break the hearts of the Savagar women,” she said. “I understand a rebel spirit, and I knew from the beginning that I wasn’t special enough for you. But Fleur is. Don’t you see that? The two of you belong together, and you’re breaking her heart.”

Fleur dug her fingernails into her palms.

Jake pulled away from her. “Don’t do this.”

“I sent her to you!” she exclaimed. “I sent her to you, and now you’re violating my trust.”

“Trust! You sent her to me to save five minutes of film that you didn’t want to end up on the cutting room floor. Five minutes of your precious Glitter Baby’s career. Fuck my daughter, Koranda, so Baby can save her career. That’s what you told me.”

Fleur’s stomach pitched.

“Don’t be so sanctimonious,” Belinda hissed. “I saved your picture.”

“The picture wasn’t in that much danger.”

“That’s not how it looked to me. I did what I had to.”

“Yeah, right. You dropped your daughter on my doorstep for Mommy’s magic bedroom cure. Tell me something, Belinda. Is this going to be the pattern with you? Trying out your daughter’s lovers first? Auditioning them to make sure they meet your standards before you let them into Baby’s bed?”

The room reeled around her.

Jake’s contempt scorched the air. “What the hell kind of woman are you?”

“I’m a woman who loves her daughter.”

“Bullshit. You don’t even know your daughter. The only person you love is yourself.” He spun around and came face-to-face with Fleur’s reflection in the mirror.

Fleur couldn’t move. The pain in her chest twisted like some terrible beast, stealing her breath and turning the world black and ugly.

Jake was beside her in an instant. “Flower…”

Belinda let out a soft sharp gasp. “Oh my God. My baby.” She ran to Fleur and grabbed her arms. “It’s all right, baby.”

Tears rolled down Fleur’s cheeks. She pushed them away and stepped backward—jerky and awkward, trying to escape the awful beast clawing at her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t either of you touch me!”

Belinda’s face twisted. “Baby…Let me explain. I had to help you. I had to…Don’t you see? You could have ruined it for us—your career, all our plans, our dreams. You’re a celebrity now. The rules are different for you. Don’t you see that?”

“Shut up!” Fleur cried. “You’re filthy. Both of you.”

“Please, baby…”

Fleur drew back her hand and slapped her mother as hard as she could. Belinda cried out and stumbled backward.

“Fleur!” Jake rushed toward her.

She clenched her teeth and let out the snarl of a feral animal. “Stay away!”

“Listen to me, Fleur.” He reached for her, and she went wild, swinging at him, screaming at him, kicking him, killing him…Oh God, kill him. He tried to catch her arms, but she broke away and ran from the room, down the stairs. Dozens of startled faces stared at her as she raced through the foyer and out the door.

A driving downpour lashed at her. She wished it were ice, hard slivers of ice that would cut her up and slice her into tiny pieces of flesh and bone small enough to be washed away. She pulled up her wet skirt and raced down the curved driveway. The straps of the sandals bit into her feet and the soles slid on the wet blacktop, but she didn’t slow down. She cut across the grass and ran for the gates.

She heard him behind her, calling her name over the rain, and she ran faster. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. He cursed, and the sound of pounding feet grew louder. He caught her by the shoulder and threw her off balance. She tripped on the wet silk, and they fell together, just as they had that very first time in front of the farmhouse.

“Stop it, Flower. Please, stop.” He pulled her to him and held her tight there on the rain-soaked ground. His fingers tangled in her wet hair, and his breathing was rough and uneven. “You can’t go off like this. Let me take you home. Let me explain.”

She’d believed he’d wanted her that night. The little oatmeal string dress and the flesh-colored slip and the shining gold hoops that had swung from her ears…All of it had been chosen by Belinda. Her mother had sent her to him in costume. “Get your hands off me!”

He tightened his grip and turned her so she was facing him. His jacket was soaked and mud-streaked. Rivulets of rainwater ran down the slopes of his face. “Listen to me. What you heard wasn’t the whole story.”

She barred her teeth. “Were you my mother’s lover?”

“No…” He dragged his thumbs over her cheeks. “She came to my room, but I stopped. I didn’t—”

“She wrote that note! She sent me to you so you could make love to me!”

“Yes. But what happened that night was only between you and me.”

“You shit!” She swung at him with her fist. “Don’t try to tell me you took me to bed because you fell in love with me!”

He caught her wrists. “Flower, there are different kinds of love. I care about you. I—”

“Shut up!” She tried to punch him again. “I loved you! I loved you with every part of me, and I don’t want to hear any of your shit. Let me go!”

Slowly his grip eased, and he released her. She stumbled to her feet. Her wet hair hung over her face, and her words came out in little gusts. “If you really want to help me…get Lynn. And then…keep Belinda away from me. For an hour. Keep her away…for an hour.”

“Flower…”

“Do it, you bastard. I deserve that much.”

They stood in the rain, their chests heaving, rain dripping from their hair. He nodded and turned back to the house.

Lynn drove Fleur home without asking questions. She didn’t want to leave her alone, but Fleur insisted she was going right to bed. As soon as Lynn drove off, however, Fleur threw some clothes into her largest suitcase, tore off her ruined dress, and stuffed her legs into jeans. Jake and Belinda had plotted over her, used her…And she’d made it so easy. She wondered if they’d talked about her when they were in bed together. Jake had said it hadn’t gone all the way, but it had gone far enough, and her stomach roiled.

She closed the suitcase, called the airline, and booked herself on the next flight to Paris. Only one more thing to do before she left…

By the time Jake let Belinda go, she was frantic. Her panic swelled when she reached the house and saw that the Porsche was gone. She ran to Fleur’s room and found the bed littered with discarded clothing. The wet Egyptian dress lay on the floor. She picked it up and pressed it to her cheek. Of course Fleur was upset, but she’d be back. She needed a little time to calm down, that was all. Belinda and Fleur were inseparable; everybody knew that. More than mother and daughter. They were best friends.

Belinda noticed the light in the bathroom. With the ruined dress still in her hands, she went over to turn it off.

She spotted the scissors first, gleaming against the white basin, and then she let out a soft, anguished cry. A great mound of wet blond hair littered the floor.

Jake drove aimlessly, trying not to think, but the icy lump wouldn’t dissolve in his chest. The day they’d passed out strength of character, he’d been at the goddamned end of the line. When Fleur had shown up at his door, he should have scared her away like he wanted to. But he hadn’t been able to resist her.

He left the suburbs behind, and soon he was driving through the wet, deserted streets that made up the heart of L.A. He shrugged out of his ruined jacket and drove in his shirtsleeves. She’d been beautiful. Sensuous, exciting…He’d hurt her that first time, but she’d still held on to him, still kept right on trusting him.

The playground was at the end of a street littered with trash and broken dreams. The jungle gym had lost its horizontal bars, and the swing set had no swings. A single floodlight shone over a backboard holding a rusted rim and the fragments of what once had been a net. He parked his car and reached in the back for his basketball. Only a kid would be dumb enough to trust as she did. A kid who hadn’t been knocked around enough by life to smarten up.

But she sure as hell had been knocked around now. He stepped through a muddy pothole on his way across the street to the empty playground. She’d been so knocked around, she’d never be dumb again.

He reached the cracked asphalt and began to dribble the ball. It hit the asphalt, slapped his hand, felt good, like something he understood. He didn’t want to remember her lying in his bathtub encircled by candles. Beautiful, wet, dreamy-eyed. He didn’t want to think about what he’d done to her.

He drove for the basket and slammed the ball home. The rim quivered and his hand stung, but the crowd began to roar. He had to pull out all the stops—show the crowd his stuff—make them scream so loud he couldn’t hear anything else, especially not the taunting voices inside him.

He spun past an opponent and took the ball to center court. He faked to the right, to the left, then came off the dribble for a quick jump shot. The crowd went wild, screaming out for him. Doc! Doc! Doc!

He grabbed the ball and spotted Kareem just ahead waiting for him, a cold killing machine. Kareem, superhuman, the face of his nightmares. Fake him. He started to swing left, but Kareem was a machine who read minds. Quick, before he sees it in your eyes, before he feels it through his pores, before he knows all your darkest secrets. Now.

He wheeled to the right lightning fast, jumped, flew through the air…Man can’t fly, but I can…. Past Kareem…into the stratosphere…SLAM!

Doc! They were on their feet. Doc! They screamed.

Kareem looked at him, and they silently acknowledged each other with the perfect respect that passed between legends. Then the moment was gone and they were enemies again.

The ball was alive beneath his fingertips. He thought only of the ball. It was a perfect world. A world where a man could walk like a giant and never feel shame. A world with referees who clearly signaled right and wrong. A world without tender babies and broken hearts.

Jake Koranda. Actor. Playwright. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He wanted to give it all up and live his fantasy. He wanted to be Julius Erving running down the court on feet with wings, leaping into the clouds, flying higher, farther, freer than any man. Slamming the ball to glory. Yes.

The screams of the crowd faded, and he stood alone in a pool of rusty light exactly at the end of nowhere.