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you forgot your underwear this morning."
    Her smile widened provocatively. "What makes
you think I own any underwear?"
    "What's a man got to do to surprise you,
Gypsy?"
    She ran her tongue slowly along her bottom
lip. Then she pulled his face down and did the same to his.
"There's not a man alive who could," she whispered against his
mouth. "But if you want to die trying, that's all right with
me."
     
    By midnight the Whitfield house was empty
again. Even the caterer had gone home.
    Elisabeth supposed Owen had gone to bed,
too. His bed. In his room.
    She turned off the last light. The Roman
temple atmosphere of the house was most pronounced when nothing but
moonlight filtered in through the tall windows. She had argued with
Owen when he showed her the drawings. She had wanted something more
casual, an English country house with tasteful clutter. Laura
Ashley had once lived to design for women like Elisabeth. But Owen
had won, and now, of course, she was glad. The house was
extraordinary.
    Even if it no longer felt like home.
    She hugged herself since there was no one
else there to do it. The terrace with its silver moonlight puddles
and strange beckoning shadows was a temptation. But the night was
cool, although the spring day had been warm. She didn't want her
flesh as chilled as her heart.
    It was funny how quickly a life could
change. She had conceived tonight's party as a chance to relax with
close friends, then she had poisoned that innocent impulse by
inviting Anna.
    "Bess?" Owen's voice whispered from the
shadows behind her. "Are you coming to bed?"
    "I don't know. Am I?"
    "What's wrong with you tonight? You're a
million miles away."
    She felt his arms come around her. Her own
hug had felt warmer. "I don't know."
    "I doubt that."
    She had her opportunity to confront him now.
The moment had arrived to tell him what she suspected--no, what she
knew. Because now she did know. An evening of watching Owen
exchange intimate glances with Anna had strengthened her
suspicions.
    One stolen moment at the evening's end had
confirmed them.
    The time for confrontation ticked slowly
away. She had been trained from infancy to contain her feelings,
and she could not articulate them now. She could not tell him that
she had seen him embracing Anna on the walk to Anna's car, that she
had seen him pull Anna into the shadows and hold her as close as he
held his own wife now. She could not admit that she had spied on
them, that she had abandoned her ethics and stalked them like a
pulp fiction gumshoe. She wasn't sure how immersed Owen was in this
affair or what was left of their marriage. She was only sure that
somehow she had to retain her dignity.
    "I don't understand why you told Attila
you'd do that story," he said, when she didn't respond.
    Anger flashed through her. Anger that he
would so badly misunderstand her silence. Anger that he expected
her to be at his beck and call while he was falling in love with
another woman. "You're angry because I said I'd go to the lecture
at Stony Brook instead of shopping with Didi Caswell?"
    "I was counting on you. It's not like you to
back out of a commitment."
    "I like writing for Attila, Owen. I know
it's a little job, not an important job like yours. But it's all
mine."
    He was silent, but he tightened his arms
around her. As apologies went, it was the most she would
receive.
    She wasn't ready to pull the plug on their
marriage. A part of her still hoped that whatever Owen had found
with Anna would fade and die with time. And she knew she had to be
here waiting for him when it did. "I can still take Didi shopping
in the morning," she said, reluctantly offering an olive branch.
"But I'll have to skip lunch. Can we take them to dinner that
night, instead? Or a show?"
    "I've already confirmed the plans."
    "Are you trying to tell me that you never
make changes in your schedule?"
    He was silent for too long. "I'll explain
about lunch and see if we can do something in the evening," he said
at