CHAPTER 1

Soft night sounds and cool, whispering breezesat last persuaded her thickly lashed eyes toclose in slumber. Stars shone in the black sky,and a mellow sliver of moon watched over theearth like a lonely sentry, protecting the lovers inthe magic hush of the desert darkness.

Morganna lay quietly, listening to the slow,even breathing of the dark-eyed, raven-hairedman beside her. From time to time she gentlytouched his cool skin to reassure herself that hewas real. He was hers, totally hers, for now, forever,for all eternity. Nothing save death couldtake him from her.

He stirred, extending a muscular arm to bringher closer. She sighed contentedly as she laid herdark head on his broad chest, feeling the thicketof fine fur soft against her cheek. Imperceptiblyhis arm tightened and Morganna nestled closer,whispering soft words of endearment. She feltwarm lips caress her bare shoulder and thenheard her husband's soft murmur as he breathedher name. "Morganna ... Morganna ..."

"Hush." She placed gentle fingers upon hisface, and he turned his head to press his mouthagainst her sweetly scented wrist. Her skin wassmooth and warm, and even in sleep he wasdrawn to that place where her pulse drummed ina contented rhythm. "I am here, I'll always behere," she whispered. "Sleep, my love." The softmoan of her name on his lips drew her back totheir lovemaking of a few hours past....

It was all there. Every last word, every lastemotion. A little of her life's blood, a lot ofsweat, and far too many tears. Her editor wouldgenuinely like it, her publisher would find it salable,and her agent would pretend to love it forthe fat advance payment. Her readers would notbe disappointed; this was what a Rita Bellamynovel was all about. Love. Passion. Romance.

"I'm the one who's disappointed," she mutteredsourly. Her eyes dropped to the last pagestill in the printer. It was good. Over the pasttwelve years Rita had become a best-selling authorof romantic novels, progressing steadilyfrom obscure little Gothics to historical novelsof national notice. It had been said that in a RitaBellamy novel there was a sense of soul touching.She knew her public speculated on whatkind of woman their favorite novelist was, whaterotic sensual delights she had tasted, what deepand meaningful relationships she enjoyed. OnlyRita herself knew that her life was empty, hadbeen empty, and that her soul had never beentouched.

Rita ripped out the paper with a fierce jerk ofher hand. It was all a sham, a farce, this livingthrough her writing. Six more chapters and Passionin Paradise would be finished, right onschedule. Two weeks until she met her deadline.She was a pro; she would do it. She couldn't disappointher editor, her publisher, her agent, andher readers. What did it matter if she disappointedherself?

Now that the love scene was finished, sheowed herself a breath of fresh air to shake awaythe shadows her characters had created. Whenshe returned she would get into the confrontationbetween the hero and the heroine before the"happy ever after" ending. One of these days shewas going to write a book and leave the endinghanging in the air. Just like real life.

Leaning back on her hard, wooden chair, shelooked around the cottage. It amazed her thatshe could write in such a dreary place. Withoutthe aid of her thesaurus the only other adjectiveshe could come up with to describe it was "dismal."Brett had taken everything, had demandedeverything, at the time of the divorce. The divorceor his divorce, never their divorce or her divorce.Those were terms she had not come to gripswith in the two years that had passed. Brett demandedthe divorce, wanted to be free. He hadfound love, he declared, total all-consuminglove. But his charged emotions didn't cloud histhinking where salvaging material assets wasconcerned. He traded on Rita's insecurities as awoman and the pain of her rejection, which hemasterfully inflicted. Wounded, feeling a failureand guilty into the bargain, she had stoodnumbly by while he packed up the gleamingdecorative copper, the antique wall hangings,the colonial furniture that was so homey andcomfortable. He had even taken the plaiddraperies and the huge, oval, hooked rug shehad slaved over one winter while she had beentrying to prove her domesticity at a time whenher professional life seemed to revolve aroundfinances and bigger and better contracts. Noweverything was gone but her pottery collection.It would be a long time before she would forgetthe disdainful look in Brett's eyes when he passedover her treasured one-of-a-kind pieces of earthenware.

Rita rubbed her aching temples. God, why wasshe still feeling guilty after two long years? Thedust had settled and she was on her own, makinga living at something she loved. Maybe it wasn'tso much guilt as the sense of failure. If shechose to see herself as the heroine in one of herbooks, she would have lost patience with thecharacter before chapter three. How tragic andbesieged could a character be without becomingtiresome?

She lit a cigarette, her fifteenth, or was it thesixteenth in six hours? She looked with disgustat the littered tin pie plate that served as an ashtray.Brett had taken the dishes as well as theashtrays. It didn't matter, she told herself, forthe thousandth time. The hell it didn't, she reconsidered,inhaling a lungful of smoke. She exhaleda steady stream, hating herself and herneed to pacify herself with a cigarette. After twoyears the melancholy was wearing off, the angersetting in, and suddenly things that hadn't matteredbefore mattered now.

It was a two-bedroom cottage set back fourhundred feet from a gigantic natural lake in themountains of Pennsylvania. She loved it and hadfought to keep it as well as her home in Ridgewood,New Jersey. "I'll buy your share," she hadsaid to Brett. "Mostly for myself, but for the kidstoo. Take what you want, but I keep the houses."Brett's lawyers had kicked up a fuss, wantingeverything sold and split down the middle. Butshe had held out.

This was the first time she had come to thecabin since the divorce. She should do somethingwith this place. Two years was a long timeto leave it empty and now she was literallyroughing it with her sleeping bag and campingutensils. Besides, she had come here to work,not to play at camping. The two sawhorses withthe old door laid over them served as a desk,and her computer had been transported in thetrunk of her Dodge SUV.

Crushing out her cigarette, Rita poured coffeefrom her thermos into a heavy mug. Fortified,she stared into space and contemplatedher future and her past. Why couldn't she pickup the pieces and put the divorce behind her?Other women did; why couldn't she? Lately thewall she had built around herself was beginningto crumble. She knew it was time to get on withher life. To make a stand, to make decisions.But how?

"I just don't know you anymore," Brett hadsaid, accusing her when he had demanded thedivorce. That was another thing—he hadn'tasked, he had demanded. He was in love. God,that had been almost funny, and it was a pity shecouldn't have laughed. Instead, she had cringed,hating herself, feeling a failure, wondering whereshe had gone wrong. She had failed Brett. Reluctantly,she had agreed to the divorce, believingthere was something definitely wrong withher, that in some way she alone was responsiblefor Brett's sagging ego and his midlife identitycrisis. If she were a better woman, a true woman,Brett would never have sought a divorce.

Trouble had been brewing for some time.The financial rewards of her writing were a measureof her success, and she had naturally welcomedit. More than a measure of her success,her growing bank statements were a yardstick ofher independence. This was something Brettcouldn't deal with—or, apparently, live with. Ithad occurred to Rita after some revealing statementsmade by Brett that men equated moneywith power. If a woman had a dollar that wasn'tgiven to her by her husband, she was exactlyone dollar more powerful than he wished her tobe. When a woman made thousands of dollarsmore than her husband and really had no needto ask him for anything, that made her thousandsof dollars more powerful than he. Bretthad been almost calm when he told her he didnot need an over-the-hill forty-year-old writer ofsteamy sex in his life.

Her career had cost her her marriage, butshe had not offered to give it up. She had paidher dues for over twenty years, and when shehad finally succeeded in achieving something,becoming a person in her own right, he had nobusiness to expect her to give it up so he couldsoothe his sagging ego. What about her ego?What about her wants and desires? What abouther goddamned soul? Did he even know shehad a soul and how it ached to be touched?

The cigarette scorched her fingers, remindingher that it was time to stub it out. Brushingher short, chestnut hair back from her forehead,Rita walked out to the back patio and surveyedher country home. It was beautiful. ThePocono mountains loomed above her, and thefragrant smell of pine and hemlock delightedher senses. She breathed deeply, savoring thepungent aroma. The acre and a half of pine-studdedland and the cabin were all hers. Hername alone was on the deed. One of these daysshe would have to see about attaching the children'snames on the crisp, legal paper. But notnow. For now it was hers alone. Her eyes weredry when she looked at the brick barbecue sheand Brett had built so long ago. And the clotheslinewith the rusty pulley. They had rigged thattogether too. A small outcropping of rock coveredwith dwarf pines and red maples made herdraw in her breath in admiration. This wasn'texactly God's country, but it was damn close.

If the weather continued as it had, she wouldstill be able to swim in the lake. The days remainedwarm, the breezes soft, the water only ashade colder than "bracing." Summer was over;the neighbors had already left for home takingtheir children with them. The beauty and thesolitude were all hers, shared only by the manwho was renting the Johnson cottage at thebend of the lake. Taking her light Windbreaker,she made her way down to the edge of the lake,her sneakers scuffing at the pebbles on thewalk.

If work went well today, she would go intotown tomorrow and order some furniture. Rita'sclear blue eyes widened at this thought. It occurredto her that this was one of the few consciousdecisions she had made in the last twoyears that had nothing to do with her childrenor her work. She smiled; it was time to lay oldghosts to rest. Time to see to her own needs andcomfort. Rachel, her youngest daughter, wouldbe coming up to the cottage soon, and shewouldn't like sleeping on the floor. Not modern,liberated Rachel.

She stopped herself from lighting anothercigarette as she slowly walked along the shoreline.Perhaps she should jog. Rachel was alwayssaying it was the best thing in the world for athick midsection. Rita pinched her own waistline.

She knew Rachel looked at her with criticaleyes and had intended her remarks about exerciseand running for her mother. A slight womanand considered quite attractive, Rita had takento hiding her thickening waist with overblousesand casual shirts. Exercise was just too time-consuming.One of these days she would shedthose extra fifteen pounds and firm up—if andwhen she felt she was ready. Her thick, curly,chestnut hair was her pride and the envy ofmost women. Rita considered it her one redeemingfeature. To hell with blow dryers andcurling irons. A professional haircut and ashampoo and a good shake of the head and itdried to perfection, framing her softly roundedface and accentuating her clear, blue eyes.

The sun felt good. Her eyes dropped to herwatch. She'd been working since seven and itwas now past one. She deserved the break. Walkingout onto the rickety boat pier, she inchedher way past the missing planks. She wonderedwhat Brett was doing with his new wife rightnow. She wasn't quite resigned to the fact thathe had married a twenty-two-year-old. The lake,christened Lake Happiness, sparkled a deep,azure blue in the bright sunlight.

Sitting down on the end of the pier, shehugged her knees. See that, Rachel? Old Momcan still get her knees up to her chest. It hadbeen a good day. She had managed to write thelove scene she had been postponing. Thesedays, she couldn't seem to find the heart forlove and romance. Her own life was so barren,so indecisive and unfocused. She laughed aloud,a soft, throaty sound. Perhaps she should try herhand at science fiction? Yes, it was a good day.She had made a decision to buy furniture forthe cottage, and she even thought she knew whatshe would choose. Not colonial. She didn't wanta reproduction of what the cottage had beenwhen she shared it with Brett. No, this time itwould be something lighter, yet substantial. Notwicker; that always seemed so temporary to her.Something contemporary. Hefty pillows, eclecticdecorations, bright colors with tinted glassand chrome. The kind of things she couldn'tbecome attached to—nothing resembling familyheirlooms. Bright, light, and crisp. That wasthe way to go.

When she went back to the cottage, she wouldcomplete the chapter, make herself dinner, andstart the new chapter. Yes, it was a good day. Tomorrowwould be better and the day after thatbetter still. Slowly, she was coming out of herstupor and taking a good look at the world shelived in.

Twigg Peterson shoved his papers into an untidypile and pushed back his chair. He hadworked most of the night and again this morning,and he needed a shave and a shower. Reddishgoldhair stood on end like furbishes on aValentine card, and he ran a long, slender handthrough it, absently trying to smoothe it. Theone thing he hadn't counted upon when hesigned the lease for the cottage was loneliness.The owner had tried to tell him that summer wasover and hardly a soul ever came up here duringthe fall and winter, but he had ignored theadvice and signed the lease. There were times,like this, when he regretted his impulse to bealone, but he was sick of sand, sun, surf, andstring-bikinis. By nature he was a social animaland gregarious. He missed having someone toconverse with, to share a dinner with. He hadtaken a two-year sabbatical from the college wherehe was a professor of marine biology to studythe relationship between killer whales and dolphins.He had spent eighteen months in thefield, traveling from the blue of the Pacific tothe black waters of the Indian Ocean. Now hehad six months to write his reports as well asthree articles he had promised to Marine Lifeand National Geographic. He wished he had a dogor a cat, someone. Something. Hell, at this pointhe'd settle for a goldfish!

Twigg Peterson had never been a creature ofdiscipline; he preferred doing things when theurge came over him rather than waiting forsomeone else's schedule. Except, of course, whenhe was due in the classroom. Expressive greeneyes and a winning smile made him a favoritewith his students, and rarely did he ever have toask for their attention. He was tall, athletic, andsapling slim. At thirty-two he felt he knew whohe was and where he was going. He wore hisself-confidence like a Brooks Brothers suit. Oneof his students, a precocious coed who had thehots for him, said he had a grin that made a girljust want to cuddle and snuggle with him. Hehad shied away from her after that, as well asseveral others whose interests were more for theinstructor than the course. It wasn't that he didn'tlike aggressive women; he did. But "BettyCoeds" were hardly women as far as he was concerned.They were little more than girls, all gigglesand Pepsodent smiles.

Twigg's eyes went to the cluttered kitchenwith its seven-day supply of dirty dishes. He wasgoing to have to do something about the messor he wouldn't be able to eat without riskingfood poisoning. And, he was out of clean dishes.Baked beans out of a can only required a fork,and it was better than slugging into town andlosing precious time from his writing. What heneeded now was some exercise before he hit thesheets for a nap. A couple of laps along the lakewould get his adrenaline flowing. Then a showerand a shave and he'd be a new man. Starting theiPod and adjusting the ear set, he hooked themodular miracle onto his belt buckle and leftthe cabin at a slow trot. He picked up speed ashis feet left the rough, pebbled walkway.

(Continues...)