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  “I look at you and Kyle,” he said frankly, “and I’m jealous. I’ve always been jealous. The way Kyle just picked up and moved, chucked everything on a whim. I wouldn’t choose this lifestyle, but that’s not the point. It’s the inner freedom, the courage to just get out and do it. Change. Even if it’s only short term.”

  Erica half frowned. Neither freedom nor choice had motivated their move to Wisconsin. Nor were they engaged in a “hobby.” It had never occurred to her before that Kyle hadn’t told his closest friend the real circumstances following Joel’s death. But before she could say anything, Morgan was rambling on. “I’ve been tied to the business ever since I got out of school, and there are times I’d just like to say to hell with it.”

  “Morgan,” Erica said gently, “you have so much to be proud of. You’re a lot younger than your father was when he-”

  “Yes. I’m a huge success, money-wise,” he said dryly. “And money buys a lot of toys. In the short run, it buys a lot of women as well.”

  She was silent, not so much shocked as saddened by his attitude-for his sake.

  “Who’s kidding whom? That’s the life I lead,” he admitted quietly, and looked at her, his features impassive. “But women like you aren’t just walking around, love.”

  “Sweetie,” she said affectionately. His compliment, so out of the blue, had warmed her. More than that, she simply wanted to help Morgan if he needed help. But she also felt a strange sort of unease. Where was Kyle? She stood up and teasingly ordered Morgan ahead of her toward the kitchen. “What kind of lady do you expect to pick up in a singles bar anyway?”

  If Kyle had been there, she wouldn’t have hesitated to remain sitting with Morgan, to reach over and hug him, to urge him to talk and get his troubles off his chest. But Kyle wasn’t there, and Morgan’s eyes on her had been just a little more than friendly, more than just superficially appreciative. She felt a touch of guilt. It felt good to be wanted, to feel needed-and perhaps she needed that a bit too much right now, when Kyle seemed to be going out of his way to tell her he didn’t need her, when in her heart she was afraid he didn’t want her as he once had.

  Chapter 2

  When Kyle walked in, Morgan was putting foil on the broiler for the steaks. Fresh mushrooms were simmering in soy sauce; the table had been set with china Erica hadn’t used in months, and the second bottle of wine was on the table ready for pouring. In the past hour, Erica had turned all her attention toward urging Morgan out of his depression, and in the process had cheered herself. Candles on the table and a chance to dress up were part of that; for weeks she and Kyle had only snatched a bite in work clothes.

  Her laughter was low and musical as she teased Morgan about his fastidious efforts in the kitchen, the effect of his elegant suit spoiled by the towel she’d given him to wear as an apron. When the front door opened, they were both hovering over the stove, with the bright lights of the kitchen haloing them in a little island of light.

  Kyle stopped short, for a moment saying nothing, his eyes riveted on the two of them. There was a bag labeled McDonald’s in his hand.

  He was in shadow with the sunset behind him, his black hair disheveled. Erica set down her fork with a clatter as she hurried down the three steps to the darkened living room and gave him a brilliant smile. There was only Kyle for that moment, as she went to him anticipating the change of mood that he, too, needed; anticipating his pleasure at seeing Morgan after so long; anticipating, in the most feminine ways, being with him again. It wasn’t that Morgan suddenly didn’t exist, that he shriveled in some imaginary way, that he was any less pleasant company, less good-looking, less fun to be with…but he was lesser, somehow. It was the weary man standing in the doorway, unmoving as she approached, for whom she felt an automatic, unstoppable surge of love.

  She bounced up on tiptoe and curled her arms around his neck…yet the greeting kiss somehow ended differently than she had intended. Kyle’s lips were cool and his eyes unreadable above hers, though for one instant his grip on her shoulders was so possessively tight that it hurt. He was looking past her, toward Morgan… Her smile suddenly froze on her face. She didn’t try to understand his reaction; she was too busy handling her own. Not long ago he had welcomed her touch, openly courted her affectionate nature…

  She buried the flicker of hurt. Two glasses of wine had muted that unnameable fear that he was tiring of her, that he no longer loved her. Pride insisted that she play it as normal. As she wanted it to be. She kept an arm around Kyle’s narrow waist as they walked back up to the kitchen, reminding herself that he’d told her once she could not have looked sexier in that dress, and he had always loved her barefoot…

  “Looks as if we won’t be needing this,” Kyle said dryly as he extricated himself from her embrace and set the McDonald’s bag on the counter. “And it looks as if you two have been entertaining yourselves while I’ve been gone. Morgan-” The handshake was quick and automatic, Kyle’s blue eyes bearing down on Morgan’s brown ones with a strange deliberateness. “I’ve been expecting you, for some unknown reason. Actually, long before this. How’ve you been?”

  “In trouble, regularly. You?”

  “Morgan brought the steaks,” Erica explained, feeling a sudden niggling worry that Kyle might have seen the fancy dinner and her dressy attire as efforts on her part to please Morgan. She appreciated the gesture of the McDonald’s takeout supper more than she would have caviar; it was an acknowledgment that they were both sharing twelve-hour workdays. The worry passed. Morgan was Kyle’s closest friend; Kyle could not possibly misunderstand. “You’re just in time,” she said brightly.

  Morgan went out of his way to be entertaining throughout dinner. The wine flowed freely and the steaks were delicious; Erica and Kyle alternately praised and teased the chef. They were all more relaxed by the end of the meal. Erica mellowed as Kyle seemed to, feeling a glow of warmth inside every time her husband laughed at Morgan’s deliberate and sometimes outrageous wit. It was the first genuine laughter she had seen in him in an age, and she noticed, too, as they rose from the dinner table, that the weariness and tension had left his features.

  “I wish to hell you’d get tired of her,” Morgan complained lazily to Kyle as he drew his arm around Erica’s shoulders in a hug, urging her down the steps to the living room. “And if I haven’t told you recently,” he added to Erica, unvarnished deviltry in his brown eyes, “I’ll give up the whole bit-wine, women and song-the day you divorce him.”

  He meant Kyle to hear his comment. Morgan’s nonsense was nothing new to either of them. “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” Erica assured him dryly. “If I weren’t attracted to men with blue eyes-”

  “Thanks,” Morgan complained. “It’s not as though I offer marriage every day of the week, and to be rejected because of-”

  “You used to offer once a month, Morgan.” She pressed an affectionate kiss on his cheek to apologize for extricating herself from his hold. Banter was an integral method of communication for Morgan, and Erica expected it of him; yet for some reason the way he had held her, hip-to-hip, had grated in an unfamiliar manner. There was something so deliberate, so calculated about it. Not for the first time, she thought, remembering an earlier impression that Morgan wore his sexuality like a fashionable coat, bright in color to draw attention and a walking advertisement for the luxury of the fabric. He really couldn’t help it.

  Morgan nestled down in an easy chair with a contented sigh, surveying first Erica and then Kyle, who had followed just behind them. “You haven’t said a word,” he accused Kyle casually. “I take it you don’t mind if I steal Erica away from you? You don’t deserve her, you know.”

  Kyle stretched in the opposite chair, propping his long legs on an ottoman. His head rolled back as if the meal had depleted his last vestiges of energy, and he laced his fingers behind his neck. “Don’t carry your kidding too far, okay, Morgan?” he said mildly. “I’d hate to have to worry about taking you seriously one of these da
ys.”

  There was something in his tone… Erica could not look at him suddenly. From out of nowhere, a strange friction had stolen into the room, and now it crackled around both men.

  You’re crazy, she told herself as she poured them coffee and set the cups on the table between them. She excused herself and went back to the kitchen to clean up. She did the job quietly, with half an ear to the conversation just below. The subject was politics while she washed and dried the dishes, and solar energy by the time she’d cleaned the counters, watered the hanging plants and generally puttered about the kitchen.

  The friction had disappeared. They talked the way they had always talked, man to man, with a firm respect for each other and a wary sharing of perspective. Wary, because the two men were competitive as all hell, a fact that continually amused Erica. She could not imagine having a female friend with whom competition was the basis of the friendship; yet between the men it was fundamental.

  She leaned over the counter when the chores were done, idly watching the scene below. Morgan was stretched out with his arms behind his head and one knee crossed over the other, a foot tapping rhythmically in the air. Morgan didn’t know how to be still. When he talked, some part of his body talked as well. He was openly irritated when Kyle was right; Kyle was often right, and then Morgan’s foot went back and forth like a hand fan on a hot day.

  Kyle gave nothing away by such body language. His legs were stretched out, bare feet crossed at the ankles, the sleeves of his dark sweatshirt pushed up above his elbows revealing the thick dark hair that curled on his arms under the glow of the lamp. His face was in shadow; his jeans were stretched tight across his thighs. He was absolutely still except for his eyes, in which Erica saw a razor-sharp perception. He missed nothing. Kyle inhaled life, took everything in. Morgan picked up a single emotion at a time and lived it until the next one came along.

  The differences between the two men had always intrigued her, yet Erica sighed, feeling a wave of fatigue as the hour grew late. She and Kyle had both been up since six. She moved down the three steps to settle on the couch with a cup of coffee, doubting that it would effectively keep her awake. Morgan smiled at her, immediately changing the conversation as he rose to offer her a glass of kirsch.

  “I still haven’t figured out what you two are up to,” Morgan said to Kyle. “I knew you were coming back here after your father died and that it was going to take some time to take care of everything. I guess I just assumed that you meant to sell the place. Not…dig in here.”

  A moment passed before Kyle answered. For the first time, it occurred to Erica that Morgan had always been the one who was quick to confide, that Kyle had always been the one to bolster his friend in a crisis instead of the other way around. “I always did swear I’d never come back here,” he admitted finally, leaning his head back. “But before my father died, I promised him… Hell, Shane, it doesn’t matter.” He hesitated, masking a sudden brooding look as he stood up and turned away to pour himself a drink. “We’re back here, indefinitely. That’s all.”

  “But neither one of you can possibly want to settle in a town this small. I can’t imagine what Erica finds to do here. And, Kyle, I thought you never got on with your father. You used to talk about this woodworking business as if you thought it was the pits.”

  “I used to think that way,” Kyle agreed.

  “You wanted money even more than I did. To get on top where no one could ever touch you. Success…”

  “And I played that game for more than ten years.” Kyle suddenly smiled wryly. “You and I always thought exactly alike, Shane. Get out of our way, world, because we’re going up! You were in competition with your father, I was running from the life my father led. It doesn’t matter. Maybe everyone has to get out of the race at some point.”

  Morgan stared at him. “So you’re saying you just want a break, then. That I can understand. I thought you were talking about living here permanently.”

  Kyle said very quietly, “I don’t know.” Leave it, his tone of voice urged. Now.

  Erica sipped her kirsch, unsettled by Morgan’s probing. She knew nothing of a promise Kyle had made to his father, but she was acutely conscious that he had said nothing to Morgan about the debts Joel had left for them to pay off. More than that, she could see in Kyle the almost imperceptible change that seemed to come over him whenever someone mentioned his father. A slight stiffening of his shoulders, a chill replacing the warm and vibrant expression in his eyes… As though he were haunted by guilt, she thought, when that just couldn’t be. Kyle had been a wonderful son to Joel, generous and concerned. They had lived some distance apart, of course…

  “…covered with stain and her hands full of paint thinner!” Morgan was laughing.

  “I can’t keep her out of it.” Kyle’s brooding blue eyes flickered to hers. “You should see some of the projects she’s taken on.”

  “Now I’m beginning to get the picture,” Morgan said, grinning. “The lady’s the monkey wrench you hadn’t expected to find in the works, Kyle? Maybe it’s the image of raising kids in the country-”

  “I’m here,” Erica reminded them pleasantly.

  “The lady’s loyal. But then, in the first throes of idealism people are always filled with enthusiasm,” Kyle continued to Morgan.

  “I beg your pardon-”

  But Morgan was staring deliberately at Kyle. “That will last until she misses her spring trip to Paris to buy clothes. The swimming pool in the backyard, the country club. Everything she grew up to expect. You can’t give it to her here, can you, Kyle?”

  Kyle finished his drink, looking at Morgan, not bothering to answer. Erica felt a knot twist in the pit of her stomach. Morgan’s tone was light; he couldn’t possibly know what a knife wound he had just inflicted on Kyle.

  “Morgan,” she said flatly, “I have never in my life gone to Paris to buy clothes.”

  “No,” Kyle agreed quietly, “it was New York you and your mother went to for your shopping sprees. Twice a year.” He stood up and stretched. “Maybe it’s time we all called it a night. Morgan, you’re going to be here through the morning?”

  Morgan shook his head, standing, too. “I’ve got to get back pretty early. This stopover was stolen time as it was.”

  The two men talked a few minutes longer, while Erica got up to take the glasses to the kitchen, then fetched linens to make the couch up as a bed for Morgan. Her stomach was still tied up in knots. The two of them always played the old men-against-the-women war when the trio was together; usually it amused her. It didn’t tonight. They both made it sound as though she valued material things above all else. In the past, she knew they had been very important to her, and yes, occasionally she missed the freedom to buy a steak instead of hamburger or to have fresh strawberries out of season. She was no saint. But she didn’t miss those biannual shopping expeditions, or the swank house in Florida, or Beluga caviar. And her new life offered certain riches she had never had before-the thrill of building something together, a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in her own work, the pleasure of being an active participant in their marriage, in their…life. It was an opportunity to share a life as they never had before.

  If Kyle wanted her there. But ever since they moved, he had fought every single thing she tried to do to help him. For Erica, it was like discovering a rainbow that disappeared every time she came close. She saw the chance to achieve a real depth that had been missing in their marriage before; yet each time she went in search of it, Kyle-her Kyle-disappeared, walled up inside himself.

  She finished making up the couch. The two men had collapsed in their chairs again, and were once more discussing solar energy. Wearily, she sat on the carpet beside Kyle, leaning her head back against his knee. She was frankly dead on her feet, but she was not going to bed without him. No way. The stiff posture of pride he’d erected as a barrier between them made her ache with the desire to bridge the gap.

  She heard none of their conversation.
Absently, Kyle’s fingers were playing with her silky hair as he continued talking, lifting and smoothing the tresses with gentle fingertips. His touch was so soft it brought a quiver inside, a sensual desire to lean her head back even farther and bare her throat for him. Was she perhaps too sensitive to his every mood, making a mountain out of the molehill of his recent indifference? But that sensitivity was a gift as well, when Kyle’s slightest touch could evoke such an incredible languid sensuality from deep within her.

  “If nothing else, you could generate power for a hot-water system that way. I was reading…”

  “Your wife always did have eyes too big for her face when she was tired, Kyle,” Morgan interrupted abruptly. “I think Erica’s about to fall asleep against your leg. Maybe it is time we called it a night.”

  Erica raised her head, startled at the tone of his voice. Morgan was staring at her with a strange expression-displeasure, something tight and controlled in the set of his jaw. She felt an odd kind of embarrassment, as if she were a teenager caught by a parent in some intimacy, when of course there was nothing like that. She glanced back at Kyle, who was viewing Morgan with narrowed eyes, his face too much in shadow for her to discern his exact expression. Kyle’s hand suddenly tightened possessively on her shoulder, and then he urged her to her feet with a pat on the back. “Up we go.”

  “I made up the couch,” Erica started to tell Morgan, “but if you need anything…”

  “You ought to know I can take care of myself after all this time,” he chided, but there was no playfulness in his voice, no warmth, and she sensed that his eyes followed the two of them as they made their way up the winding stairs. Erica felt the hardness of his gaze, almost as if it were a hex. But that, of course, was ridiculous, a wild fancy brought on by exhaustion…and fear.

  Chapter 3

  The carpeted spiral staircase that led to the loft, with its wrought-iron banister, never failed to give Erica the illusion of climbing to another world. Which it was, when she reached the top.