leur rested her elbows on the deck rail and watched the tawny dune grass bend against the breeze in the last of the evening light. The Long Island beach house, an angular structure of glass and weathered clapboard, blended with the sand and water. She was glad she’d been invited here for the Fourth of July weekend. She needed to get away from the city for a while, and she also needed a distraction from that mental tape recorder that wouldn’t stop replaying Alexi’s words. Guard your dream. Alexi hadn’t forgotten what she’d done to the Royale—not that she’d expected him to—and he still wanted his revenge. But other than keeping her eyes open, she didn’t know what she could do about it.

She pushed aside her worries and thought about the four-story Upper East Side townhouse she’d leased for her new offices. The renovations were under way, and she hoped to be able to move in by mid-August, but before then she had to hire a staff. If a few breaks came her way and she had no big emergencies, she had enough money to keep the agency afloat until spring. Unfortunately a business like hers needed at least a year to get established, so she was at risk from the start, but that just meant she’d have to work harder, something she’d discovered she was good at.

She’d hoped to keep her salary from Parker coming in a little longer, but when he found out what she was up to, he’d fired her. They’d had an acrimonious parting. Lynx had broken up, and Parker had delegated too much of his business to Fleur. Now he was blaming her for the desperate game of catch-up he had to play with resentful clients.

Fleur had made the decision to expand the clients of her “caviar agency” beyond musicians and actors to include a select group of writers, maybe even artists—whoever she thought had the potential to rise to the top. She’d already signed Rough Harbor, the rock group Simon Kale was founding, and she’d stolen Olivia Creighton out from under Bud Sharpe’s greedy fingers. Then there was Kissy. All three offered the earnings potential she was looking for, but three clients weren’t enough to keep her aloft after her start-up money ran out.

She slipped her sunglasses on top of her head and thought about Kissy. Other than a hypnotically restrained performance as Irena in a workshop production of The Cherry Orchard and a one-liner Fleur had gotten her on a CBS soap opera, nothing much had happened for her since Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and Kissy had stopped going to auditions again. Recently too many men had been passing through her bedroom door, each one a little more muscle-bound and a little stupider than the last. Kissy needed a showcase, and Fleur hadn’t figured out how to find one for her, which wasn’t the best omen for someone who only had until spring to prove herself.

Through the glass doors, she spotted Charlie Kincannon, their host for the weekend. Charlie had backed Kissy’s workshop production of The Cherry Orchard, which was how Fleur had met him. It was painfully obvious that he’d fallen for Kissy, but since he was smart, sensitive, and successful, Kissy was ignoring him. She preferred beefcake losers.

The patio doors slid open behind her, and Kissy stepped out onto the deck. She’d dressed for the party in a one-piece pink and blue candy-striped romper, big silver heart-shaped earrings, and flat-soled pink sandals with beaded straps across her toes. She looked like a seven-year-old with breasts. “It’s getting late, Fleurinda, and what’s-his-name’s guests are starting to show up. Aren’t you going to change your clothes?” She took a sip of her piña colada from a lipstick-tipped straw.

“In a minute.” The white shorts Fleur had pulled over her black tank suit had a mustard stain on the front, and her hair was stiff from salt water. Since Charlie Kincannon had backed several off-Broadway plays, she hoped to make some contacts at tonight’s party, and she needed to look decent. First, though, she reached for Kissy’s piña colada and took a sip. “I wish you’d stop calling him what’s-his-name. Charlie Kincannon is a very nice man, not to mention rich.”

Kissy wrinkled her nose. “Then you date him.”

“I just might. I like him, Kissy. I really do. He’s the first man you’ve hung around with who doesn’t eat bananas and gaze longingly at the Empire State Building.”

“Cute. I give him to you with my blessings.” Kissy reclaimed her piña colada. “He reminds me of a Baptist minister I used to know. He wanted to save me, but he was afraid I wouldn’t put out if he did.”

“You’re not ‘putting out’ for Charlie Kincannon. If you have such an overpowering need to play the sexpot, do it onstage, where you can make us both some money.”

“Spoken like a true bloodsucker. You’re going to make a great agent. By the way, did you notice those guys on the beach this afternoon tripping over themselves trying to catch your attention?”

“The one with the sippy cup or the kid with the Star Wars light saber?” If she listened to Kissy, she’d believe every man in the world wanted her. She brushed the sand from her legs and headed inside. “I’d better get in the shower.”

“Put something decent on. Never mind. I’m wasting my breath.”

“I’m a business tycoon now. I have to look serious.”

“That stupid black dress you brought makes you look dead, not serious.”

Fleur ignored her and headed inside. The house had angular ceilings, slate floors, and minimalist Japanese furniture. She spotted the owner sitting on a sand-colored couch, staring mournfully into what looked like a double shot of bourbon. “Could I talk to you for a minute, Fleur?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He pushed aside his copy of Rabbit Redux so she could sit next to him. Charlie Kincannon reminded her of a character Dustin Hoffman might play—the kind of man who, despite all his money, manages to look a little out of step with the rest of the world. He had short dark hair and pleasant, slightly irregular features, with a set of serious brown eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He swirled the liquor in his glass. “It embarrasses me to sound like an adolescent, but how do you assess my chances with Kissy?”

She hedged. “It’s sort of hard to tell.”

“In other words, no chance at all.”

He looked so sad and sweet that her heart went out to him. “It isn’t your fault. Kissy’s a little self-destructive right now, and that means she’s doing an even worse job than normal of seeing men as people.”

He thought it over, his brown eyes growing even more serious. “Our situation is an interesting role reversal for me. I’m used to women being the aggressors. I know I’m not a sex object, but they usually overlook that because I’m rich.”

Fleur smiled and liked him even more. Still, she had a friend to protect. “Exactly what do you want from her?”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Do you want a real relationship or is this just about sex?”

“Of course I want a real relationship. I can get sex anywhere.”

He looked so offended she was satisfied. She thought it over. “I don’t know if it will work or not, but except for Simon, you’re the only man who’s figured out how intelligent Kissy is. Maybe you’d catch her attention if you ignored her body and concentrated on her brain.”

He gave her a reproachful look. “I don’t mean to sound like a chauvinist, but it’s difficult to ignore Kissy’s body, especially for someone like myself who has such a strong sex drive.”

She smiled sympathetically. “That’s my best shot.”

A few guests had begun to arrive, and a man’s voice, lightly accented, drifted toward her. “The house is amazing. Look at that view.”

She stiffened and turned her head in time to see Michel step into the living room. He was part of Kissy’s workshop group, so she should have realized he’d be invited. Her pleasure in the weekend vanished.

They’d run into each other twice in the year since they’d met, and both times they’d exchanged the barest minimum of conversation. Michel’s companion was a muscular young man with dark hair that fell over his eyes. A dancer, she decided, as his feet automatically came to rest in first position.

The glass doors were her closest escape. She gave him a brief nod, excused herself from Charlie, and slipped back outside.

The moon had come out, Kissy had disappeared, and the beach was deserted. Fleur needed a few minutes to put her armor on before she went back inside to get cleaned up. She walked down to the water, then wandered along the cool, wet sand away from the house. She had to stop letting herself get thrown off stride so easily, but every time she saw Michel, she felt as if she’d been thrust back into her childhood.

She stubbed her toe on a rock she hadn’t seen sticking out of the sand. She’d walked farther than she’d intended, and she turned to go back, but just then, a man stepped out from the dunes fifty yards ahead of her. Something about his stillness, combined with being alone on a deserted beach, made her instantly alert. He stood darkly silhouetted against the night, a tall man, bigger than anyone she wanted to tangle with, and he wasn’t trying to disguise his interest in her. She automatically glanced toward the distant lights of the beach house, but it was too far away for anyone to hear if she yelled for help.

Living in New York had made her paranoid. He was probably one of Charlie’s guests who’d drifted away from the party just as she had. In the moonlight, she dimly made out a shaggy head of Charles Manson hair and an even shaggier mustache. The words to “Helter Skelter” skimmed through her brain. She picked up her stride and edged closer to the water.

Abruptly he tossed down his beer can and began coming toward her. He covered the sand in long, swift strides, and every cell in her body went on full alert. Paranoid or not, she had no intention of waiting around to see what he wanted. She dug in her feet and began to run.

At first, she could only hear the sound of her own breathing, but she soon grew aware of the soft pounding of feet on the sand behind her. Her heart thudded. He was coming after her, and she had to outrun him. She told herself she could do it. She ran all the time now. Her muscles were strong. All she had to do was pick up the pace.

She stayed in the hard-packed sand near the water. She extended her legs, pumped her arms. As she ran, she kept her eyes on the beach house, but it was still agonizingly far ahead. If she headed for the dunes, she’d sink into deeper sand, but so would he. She grabbed more air. He couldn’t keep up with her forever. She could do this, and she pushed herself harder.

He stayed with her.

Her lungs burned, and she lost her rhythm. She sucked in ragged gasps of air. The word “rape” rattled around in her head. Why didn’t he fall back?

“Leave me alone,” she screamed. The words were garbled, barely comprehensible, and she’d lost more precious air.

He shouted something. Near. Almost in her ear. Her chest was on fire. He touched her shoulder, and she screamed. The next thing she knew, the ground rushed up, and he was falling with her. As they hit the sand, he shouted the word again, and this time she heard.

“Flower!”

He fell on top of her. She gasped for air beneath his weight and tasted grit. With the last of her strength, she clenched her hand into a fist and swung hard. She heard a sharp exclamation. His weight eased, and the ends of his hair brushed her cheek as he raised himself on his arms above her. His breath fanned her face, and she hit him again.

He pulled back, and she went after him. Scrambling to her knees, she hit him again and again with her fists. She didn’t bother aiming, but caught whatever she could reach—an arm, his neck, his chest, every blow punctuated with a sob.

Finally he made a vise of his arms and squeezed. “Stop it, Flower! It’s me. It’s Jake.”

“I know it’s you, you bastard! Let me go!”

“Not till you’ve calmed down.”

She gasped for air against the soft fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m calm.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am!” She slowed her breathing, quieted her voice. “I’m calm. Really.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Gradually he released her. “All right, then. I was—”

She slugged him in the head. “You son of a bitch!”

“Ouch!” He threw up his arm.

She caught him in the shoulder with her next blow. “You arrogant, hateful—”

“Stop it!” He snagged her wrist. “If you hit me again, I swear, I’ll deck you.”

She seriously doubted he’d follow through, but her adrenaline rush was beginning to fade, her hands hurt, and she was so wobbly she was afraid she’d throw up if she took another swing.

He crouched in the sand before her. His tangled, unkempt hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and his mustache obscured all of his mouth except for that impossible, sulky bottom lip. With a Nike T-shirt that didn’t make it to his waist, faded maroon shorts, and his long, outlaw’s hair, he looked like he should be carrying a cardboard sign that read, WILL KILL FOR FOOD.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” she managed on a thin stream of air.

“I thought you recognized me.”

“How could I recognize you? It’s dark, and you look like a wanted poster.”

He released her wrist, and she struggled to her feet. It shouldn’t have happened this way, with her wearing mustard-stained white shorts and a ponytail slipping out of its rubber band. She’d imagined herself dripping in diamonds when she met him again. She wanted to be standing on the steps of the casino at Monte Carlo with a European prince on one arm and Lee Iacocca on the other.

“I’m making a new Caliber picture,” he said. “Bird Dog goes blind, so I have to learn to use the Colts by sound.” He rubbed his shoulder as he stood. “Since when did you turn into such a chickenshit?”

“Since I saw a man who looks like a serial killer coming out from behind a sand dune.”

“If I have a black eye…”

“Here’s hoping.”

“Damn it, Fleur…”

None of this was playing out as she’d imagined. She’d wanted to be cool and aloof, to act as if she barely remembered him. “So you’re making a new Caliber movie. How many women do you slap around in this one?”

“Bird Dog’s getting more sensitive.”

“That’s gotta be a real stretch for you.”

“Don’t be a bitch, okay?”

Fireworks went off in her head, and she was once again standing in the rain on the front lawn of Johnny Guy Kelly’s house finishing a conversation that had barely gotten started. She spit out her words through a rigid jaw. “You used me to get your picture finished. I was a stupid, naïve kid who didn’t want to take her clothes off, but Mr. Big Shot’s love machine made short work of that. You made me happy to take everything off. Did you think about me when they handed you your Oscar?”

She wanted to see guilt. Instead he launched a counterattack. “You were your mother’s victim, not mine—at least not much. Take it up with her. And while you’re doing that, remember you weren’t the only one who got screwed. I’ve lost more than you can imagine.”

Her fury ignited. “You! Are you seriously trying to paint yourself as the injured party?” Her hand flew back of its own volition. She hadn’t planned to hit him again, but her arm had a will of its own.

He caught it before she made contact. “Don’t you dare.”

“I think you’d better take your hands off her.” A familiar voice drifted toward them from the dunes. Both of them turned to see Michel standing there. He looked like a boy who’d accidentally wandered into the company of giants.

Jake loosened his grip on her arm but didn’t let her go. “This is a private party, pal, so how about minding your own business?”

Michel came closer. He was dressed in a madras blazer and yellow net-T-shirt, with wisps of blond hair blowing across his delicately carved cheek. “Let’s go back to the house, Fleur.”

She stared at her brother and realized he’d somehow appointed himself her protector. It was laughable. He stood half a head shorter than she did, and yet here he was challenging Jake Koranda, a man with quicksilver reflexes and an outlaw’s squint.

Jake’s lip curled. “This is between her and me, so unless you want your ass kicked, leave us alone.”

It sounded like a line from a Caliber movie, and she almost stopped the confrontation right then. She could have stopped it…but she didn’t. Michel, her protector. Would he really stay here and defend her?

“I’ll be happy to leave,” Michel said softly. “But Fleur goes with me.”

“Don’t count on it,” Jake retorted.

Michel slipped his hands in the pockets of his shorts and held his ground. He knew he couldn’t physically remove her from Jake, so he’d decided to wait him out.

Bird Dog wasn’t used to confronting a soft-spoken opponent with wispy blond hair and a delicate physique. His eyes dropped to half mast as he turned to her. “A friend of yours?”

“He’s…” She swallowed hard. “This is my brother, Michael An—”

“I’m Michel Savagar.”

Jake studied them both, then stepped back, the corner of his mouth twisting. “You should have told me that right away. I make it a rule never to be in the same place with more than one Savagar at a time. See you around, Fleur.” He strode off down the beach.

Fleur studied the sand, then lifted her head and gazed at her brother. “He could have broken you in two.”

Michel shrugged.

“Why did you do it?” she asked softly.

He looked past her to study the ocean. “You’re my sister,” he said. “It’s my responsibility as a man.” He headed toward the house.

“Wait.” She moved automatically. The sand tugged at her feet like old hurts, but she pulled herself free. Images of the beautiful gowns she’d seen in his shop window flashed through her head. Who was he?

He waited for her to reach his side, but when she got there, she didn’t know what to say. She cleared her throat. “Do you…want to go someplace and talk?”

Several seconds ticked by. “All right.”

They didn’t speak as he drove his ancient MG to a roadhouse in Hampton Bays where Willie Nelson sang on the jukebox and the waitress brought them clams, french fries, and a pitcher of beer. Fleur began, haltingly, to tell him about growing up at the couvent.

He told her about his schooling and his love for his grandmother. She learned that Solange had left him the money that was supporting his business. An hour slipped by and then another. She explained how it felt to be an outcast, and he talked about his terror when he’d realized he was gay. As the neon sign outside the roadhouse window flashed blue across his hair, she leaned against the back of the scarred wooden booth and told him about Flynn and Belinda.

His eyes grew dark and bitter. “It explains so much.”

They spoke of Alexi and understood each other perfectly. The roadhouse began to close up for the night. “I was so jealous of you,” she finally said. “I thought you had everything I’d been denied.”

“And I wanted to be you,” he said. “Away from them both.”

Dishes clattered in the kitchen, and the waitress glared at them. Fleur saw that Michel had something more he wanted to say, but he was having trouble forming the words.

“Tell me.”

He gazed down at the battered tabletop. “I want to design for you,” he said. “I always have.”

The next morning she pulled on a tangerine bikini, fastened her hair into a loose top knot, and slipped into a short white cover-up. The living room was deserted, but through the windows she saw Charlie and Michel lounging on the deck with the Sunday papers. She smiled as she took in Michel’s outfit for the day, a pair of Bermuda shorts and an emerald-green shirt with “One Day Dry Cleaning” emblazoned across the back. After so many years of misdirected hatred, she’d been given the unexpected gift of a brother. She could hardly take it in.

She went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. “How about making that two cups?”

She spun around and saw Jake standing in the doorway. His long hair was damp from his shower. He wore a gray T-shirt and a pair of faded swim trunks that looked like the same ones he’d worn six years ago when Belinda had invited him for a backyard barbecue. She’d already figured out that last night’s encounter hadn’t been accidental. He was one of Charlie’s party guests, he’d known she was here, and he’d gone out looking for her.

She turned away. “Get your own damned coffee.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you last night.” His arm brushed hers as he reached for the coffeepot. She smelled Dial soap and mint toothpaste. “I wasn’t completely sober. I’m sorry, Flower.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, too. That I didn’t split your head open.”

He leaned back against the counter and took a sip of his coffee. “You did okay in Eclipse. Better than I expected.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Go for a walk on the beach with me?”

She started to refuse, only to hear one of Charlie’s houseguests coming downstairs. This was as good an opportunity as any to say what she needed to. “After you.”

They slipped out the side door, avoiding the group on the deck. Fleur pulled off her espadrilles and tossed them aside. The wind tugged at Jake’s Wild West hair. Neither of them spoke until they got near the water. “I talked to your brother for a while this morning,” he said. “Michael’s a nice guy.”

Did he really think he could melt away the years so easily? “A nice guy for a dress designer, you mean.”

“You’re not provoking me, no matter how hard you try.”

She’d see about that.

He flopped down on the sand. “Okay, Flower, let’s have it out.”

The acid words churned inside her, all the rage and bitterness ready to spill out. But as she watched a father and son fly a Chinese kite with a blue and yellow tail, she realized she couldn’t say any of it, not if she wanted to hold on to even a shred of her pride. “No lasting scars,” she said. “You weren’t that important.” She made herself settle next to him in the sand. “And you’re the one who’s had to live with what you did.”

He squinted against the sun. “If it wasn’t that important, why did you give up a career that was earning you a fortune? And why haven’t I been able to write anything since Sunday Morning Eclipse?”

“You’re not writing at all?” She felt a stab of satisfaction.

“You haven’t seen any new plays running around with my name on them, have you? I’ve got a frigging case of concrete writer’s block.”

“Too bad.”

He threw a shell toward the water. “Funniest thing. I was writing just dandy before you and Mama came along.”

“Hold on. You’re blaming me?”

“No.” He sighed. “I’m just being a prick.”

“Finally something you’re good at.”

He looked her square in the eyes. “What happened between us that weekend didn’t have anything to do with Eclipse.”

“Come off it.” Despite her determination, the words spilled out. “That picture meant everything to you, and I was ruining your big opportunity. A nineteen-year-old kid with an absurdly misdirected case of puppy love. You were a grown man, and you knew better.”

“I was twenty-eight. And, believe me, you didn’t look like a kid that night.”

“My mother was your lover!”

“If it’s any consolation, we never did the dirty deed.”

“I don’t want to hear.”

“All I can say in my defense is that I was a lousy judge of character.”

Fleur knew her mother well enough to believe Belinda had made it easy for him, but she didn’t care. “So if you were Mr. Innocent, why haven’t you been able to write since then? I can’t pretend to see into the murky depths of your psyche, but there must be some connection between your writing block and what you did to that stupid nineteen-year-old kid.”

He came to his feet, spraying her with sand. “Since when did I get nominated for sainthood? Nineteen and looking the way you did wasn’t a kid.” He pulled off his T-shirt and ran down to the water, where he dived under a wave, then swam out. His form was as lousy as ever. Big he-man movie star. Bastard. She wanted to retaliate, and when he finally emerged, she unfastened her beach robe and let it drop. Underneath was the tiny tangerine bikini Kissy had bought her, and she made sure he got a front-row view as she performed a perfect runway walk to the water, planting one foot directly in front of the other so that her hips swayed. At the edge, she lifted her arms to fasten a tendril of hair that had come loose from the pins, casually stretching as she did it to make her legs look even longer.

She stole a glance out of the corner of her eye to see if he was watching. He was. Good. Let him eat his shriveled little heart out.

She plunged into the water and swam for a while, then came out and walked back to where he was sitting. He held her beach robe on his lap, and as she leaned down to pick it up, he moved it just out of her reach. “Give a guy a break. I’ve been working with horses for three months, and this is a nice change of scenery.”

She straightened, then walked away. Jake Koranda was as dead to her as the grandmother she’d never known.

Jake watched Fleur until she disappeared into the beach house. The beautiful nineteen-year-old who’d sent him into a tailspin couldn’t hold a candle to this woman. She’d become every man’s fantasy. Was it his imagination, or did that pert little butt sit higher than ever on those knockout legs? He should have given her back the robe so he didn’t have to torture himself watching her body in that ridiculous tangerine bikini tied together with those little bits of string. He could eat that bikini off her in three good bites.

He headed for the water to cool off. The guy flying the kite with his kid had spotted Flower as soon as she came over the dunes, and now he was backing into the water to get a better view. It had always been that way—men stumbling over themselves while she sailed past, oblivious to the stir she’d created. She was the ugly duckling who wouldn’t look into a mirror long enough to see that she’d changed into a swan.

He swam for a while, then went back to the beach. Fleur’s cover-up lay in the sand. As he picked it up, he caught the same light floral scent he’d smelled the night before when she was struggling in his arms. He’d been a real prick, and she’d stood up to him. She always had, in one way or another.

He dug his heels into the sand. The music started playing in his head. Otis Redding. Creedence Clearwater. She’d brought back all the sounds of Vietnam. He’d never forget kneeling on Johnny Guy’s lawn with her wet and sobbing in his arms. She’d ripped a hole through the wall he’d built inside him—a wall he’d thought was secure—and he hadn’t been able to write a word since then for fear he’d bring the whole damned thing crashing down. Writing was the only way he’d ever been able to express himself, and without it, he felt as though he was living half a life.

As he gazed toward the beach house, he wondered if the woman she’d become could hold the key to unlocking this prison he’d fallen into.