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seen Marianne so devastated. It had been a relief, a great one, when
Marianne had finally broken out of her weepy depression, had cursed
Blackpool with an expertise that had warmed Emma's heart. Then,
ceremonially, she had tossed the diamond heart out of the window. Emma
had always hoped some sharp-eyed bag lady had happened across it.
She'd gotten over it, Emma mused. She'd bounced back into her work with
a crack that she'd owed Blackpool. No artist could be worth her salt if
she hadn't suffered.
Emma could only wish she herself had been able to forget it as easily.
She would remember, always, everything he'd said to her, every name he'd
called her. Her only revenge had been to burn his prints and negatives.
That was the past, she thought briskly and rose. Her problem was she
remembered things too clearly. It was both a blessing and a curse that
she could see things that had happened a year before, twenty years
before, as easily as she could see her own face in the mirror.
Except for one night in her life, she thought. And that only came in
misty dreams.
With her recovered clothes over her arm, she started downstairs. The
buzzer sounded, making her frown. Everyone knew Marianne was gone, and
that she herself was practically out the door.
The intercom squawked a bit when she pushed the b.u.t.ton. "Yes?"
"Emma? It's Luke."
"Luke?" Delighted, she released the outside door. "Come on up."
She dashed to the bedroom to toss the clothes on her bed, then raced
back in time to greet him when the elevator doors opened.
"h.e.l.lo." She hugged him, tight, a little surprised that he hesitated
before he returned the embrace. "I had no idea you were in town."
She pulled back to study him, and had to force her smile in place. He
looked dreadful, pale, shadow-eyed, too thin. The last time she'd seen
him he'd been on his way to Miami. A new job, a new life.
"I got in a couple days ago." His lips curved, but there was no
answering smile in his eyes. "Prettier than ever, Emma."
"Thanks." Because his hand seemed so cold in hers, she chafed it
automatically. "Come in, sit. I'll get you a drink. We might have
some wine."
"Got any bourbon?"
Her brows lifted. In all the years she'd known him, he'd never indulged
in anything stronger than Chardonnay. "I don't know. I'll check."
She waited until he'd lowered himself onto the sprawling L-shaped
sectional before she darted into the kitchen.
Miami didn't agree with him, she thought, pulling open cupboards and
searching through their meager liquor supply. Or perhaps it was
the breakup with Johnno that didn't agree with him. He looked dead on
his feet. Haggard. Like some survivor of a catastrophe. The Luke she
remembered, the Luke she had kissed goodbye eighteen months before, had
been a gorgeous, muscular, sleek specimen of humanity.
"Cognac," she called out. Someone had given them a bottle of
Courvoisier for Christmas.
"Fine. Thanks."
There wasn't a brandy snifter in the house, so she chose a wine gla.s.s,
