"I have a reservation," Able told the maitre d'. "The name is Clark Able."

The maitre d' gave him the once-over. "Yeah, buddy, and I'm Carole Lombard."

"No, really, I called. I reserved a table for six-thirty."

"Get lost," the maitre d' hissed.

Adam stepped forward. "How's it going, Claude?"

The maitre d' looked up and smiled broadly. "Mr. Bryant! How good to see you!" He glanced quickly to the book for Adam's name then nervously toward the crowded dining room. "We didn't know you were coming. If you'll wait one moment we will find a table for you."

"I'm with Mr. Able here," Adam said. "Just show us to his table."

The maitre d' stared at Able. "Of course," he said. "Right this way."

"You know, Claude," Adam said as he sat down, "Mr. Able is my new columnist and he'll be dining here often. Right now, I think he'd like a martini. You know how I like mine."

"Right away, Mr. Bryant."

"Extra dry for me, Claude," Able said.

Able leaned back in his chair, his eyes traveling around the room. It was an elegant masculine place. The few women were bright spots of color in a sea of blue and gray suits. Able recognized only some of the faces -- Mayor George Christopher, golf pro Ken Venturi and Jimmy Stewart, who was in town to film an Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k movie called Vertigo. Able knew instinctively that the faces he didn't recognize were among the city's most powerful men.

"Don't worry," Adam said, as if reading his mind. "Pretty soon, you will know who all these people are, what they do, what they're hiding, and who they sleep with."

"Is that going to be my job, dishing dirt?" Able asked. He looked Adam in the eye. "I'm not another Sandy Francisco."

Adam took a drink, studying Able. "If I thought that, I wouldn't have brought you here. I want you to write a column about the people and this city, Able. For lack of a more graceful term, call it a gossip column. I know that you've lived here all your life, so I know you know this town."

"Yes sir," Able said. "I know this city and I love it."

Adam nodded. "But I want more than gossip. I want a column that's witty, l.u.s.tful and even a bit bawdy. And it must have a very large heart. I want it to be as fresh and biting as stepping out into a morning fog." Adam paused. "I want it to be about this city. Do you understand?"

Able smiled slowly. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. If you can do that for me, I promise I can do a lot for you." He picked up his gla.s.s. "To your future."

During the next two hours, they discussed the column and the Times. As they were leaving, Able noticed a mural on the wall. It was a panoramic photograph of San Francisco taken in the late 1800s.

"What a strange photo," Able said. "Look at the streets. They're deserted, like a ghost town."

Adam stared at the mural but said nothing. They exited the restaurant into a heavy fog and walked slowly up the block toward the Mark Hopkins. The baritone foghorns played a doleful duet with the chimes from nearby Grace Cathedral. Just outside the courtyard of the hotel, Adam paused, staring at the entrance. A foursome of teenagers, dressed in rented tuxedos and pastel prom dresses, spilled out of a taxi. One boy paused to pick up the corsage that his date had dropped. He gently pinned it to the bodice of her white gown, and they fled giggling into the hotel lobby. Adam watched them until they were out of sight.

Able waited, pulling up his collar against the chill.

"Ghosts," Adam said softly. "There are always a lot of ghosts up here on this hill."

After a moment, he turned to Able. "I think I'll walk for a while," he said. "Good night, Able."

He started down the hill and was soon lost in the fog.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

Kellen set the needle down on the record and the bedroom filled up with the sound of Puccini.

"What is this?" Stephen asked.

"'Madame b.u.t.terfly,'" Kellen said, sitting down on the bed next to Stephen. "My father would kill me if he knew I took it from his study. Do you like it?"

"Yes, very much."

She leaned back on the pillows, raising her arms to prop up her head. "This is the love duet," she said. "It's very sad. Tres triste, tres romantique..."

Stephen hid his smile. "I thought you liked Elvis."

"Sometimes. But not always."

They were quiet, listening to the music. Kellen glanced over at Stephen. He had been in the bedroom dozens of times yet now he was nervous, as if he expected someone to come bursting through the door. Kellen thought of telling him that he had nothing to worry about; no one was home. She had made sure of that before she invited him to her room tonight. It was part of the plan she had launched a month ago after Stephen had kissed her in the park.

Since that day she had sensed a change in Stephen. He looked at her differently now, no longer as just a friend. Now he looked at her just like those other boys at school did. She had always ignored the boys. She had wanted to wait for Stephen to notice her.

She had been waiting for a long time. She had waited while her friends started dating, waited while they went steady. And when they gathered in her bedroom to smoke cigarettes and talk about boys, she listened when they talked knowingly about s.e.x.

What it was like to have a boy touch you. How he expected you to touch him. Their bold talk shocked and intrigued her. But she waited -- for Stephen.

She wanted him to be the first. And now, finally, the time had come. She turned toward him. He was looking at her. Then, he leaned over and kissed her, a tentative kiss. Then again, harder. His lips felt soft and good. She felt his fingers touch her neck then move down to the b.u.t.tons of her blouse. She was dizzy with expectation as she waited for him to touch her breast. When he did, she felt as if her skin were suddenly on fire.

He pressed his body against hers and she could feel his p.e.n.i.s hard against her thigh. She wondered what she was supposed to do. She thought back to what the other girls had said. Was she supposed to touch it? She did, tentatively, and he moaned and began to kiss her neck and b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Slowly, she became aware of the power she had. With just her touch she could excite him so much. She began to move her own body now against his, and he responded. His hand moved down and slipped under her skirt, moving up over her bare thigh.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back slightly.

"Kellen, I'm sorry --" He glanced at the closed door.

"No one's home," she whispered. "I want you to, Stephen. I always wanted you to be first."

He kissed her and as slowly as his eagerness would allow he undressed her and then himself. He was kneeling above her on the bed, staring at her.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered.

Beautiful? She had never thought she was beautiful. But something in the way he was looking at her made her feel very desirable. He lowered himself to her, trying to go slowly. She kept her eyes on his face and when he entered her there was a small sharp pain. She grimaced, and he stopped.

"Do it, Stephen," she whispered. "Do it."

The small pain gave way to a full one as he pushed against her and, an instant later she felt his body go rigid. Then he collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily.

After a moment, he slid to one side. His eyes were closed. When he opened them he saw her staring at him.

"Kellen, I'm sorry," he said softly. "It was too fast."

She raised her head to look at him.

"I couldn't help it," he said. "If only you knew how much I've wanted you. It'll be better next time, I promise."

She waited, hoping he would kiss her as he had before. The kissing had been so good. And she liked the feel of his body against hers. The rest had been...well, nothing special. She felt a sticky wetness and a dull ache between her legs. She brushed her lips slowly across Stephen's but he didn't respond. His eyes were closed.

It will get better, she thought.

The Puccini recording had ended, and the bedroom was quiet. She laid her head against Stephen's chest. She could hear his heart beat and the soft hiss of the phonograph needle stuck in its groove.

Just as Stephen had promised, it did get better. The part before, when he touched her and kissed her tenderly, was wonderful. And the part after, when he held her, made her feel loved and secure. Still, the actual s.e.x part, she thought, was really overrated, and she couldn't understand what her girlfriends thought was so great about it.

One of them had talked rapturously about having an o.r.g.a.s.m, how it made her feel like dying. That seemed strange, indeed. Kellen never felt anything like that. What she and Stephen did made her feel very much alive, certainly not like dying.

Kellen's bedroom was the only place they could be together. Stephen was living at home, getting adjusted to his new job at the Times. He was working on the city desk, on an early morning shift so he usually came over to the house about four and they would sneak upstairs and lock the bedroom door.

Kellen didn't worry about getting caught. Only the servants were home during the day, and Adam never returned home from the office before seven. But Ian's schedule was less predictable. Several times he had come home in the middle of the day when she and Stephen were there. Once, Ian had paused for several minutes outside Kellen's bedroom door. Kellen had waited, holding her breath.

"Why do you get so nervous about him?" Stephen asked after Ian had gone. "He doesn't know about us."

"He has a way of finding out things and using them against you," Kellen said. "When I was thirteen, he caught me smoking a cigarette and told Daddy. I got grounded."

"Kellen, stop worrying." Stephen ran his finger lightly across her breast, making her draw in her breath. "You're not a kid anymore."

The Ferrari roared into the driveway and screeched to a stop. The door popped open and Ian got out then froze. There was a foot-long gash in the black paint of the front fender.

The scratch had not been there that morning when he left the office. It had to have happened when he parked the car at Joyce's apartment. He was only there an hour, just enough time for a nice "nooner" -- or so he had antic.i.p.ated.

That b.i.t.c.h, he thought, gets me all hot then she tells me she has a manicure appointment. Ian ran his finger along the scratch, deciding suddenly he would drop Joyce. He was getting bored with her. He didn't care that her father owned the biggest bank in town. She wasn't that great in the sack and her t.i.ts were too small.

He went into the house, his foul mood rising as he thought about how badly the day had gone. It had begun with that scene with Stephen in the newsroom. A reporter had done a mildly critical story about a department store that the advertising director had been trying to lure into a long-term contract. Ian had taken it upon himself to chastise the reporter, and Stephen, who had just been promoted to an a.s.sistant city editor, had stepped in to defend the story.

Ian went up the staircase, tugging at his tie. He hated the way Stephen Hillman had ingratiated himself with Adam. He figured Adam had hired Stephen as a favor to Josh, but Stephen had, in less than a year, firmly entrenched himself in Adam's favor. Stephen has a real feel for the business, Adam had told Ian recently.

Stephen had also captivated Kellen. She had always worshiped him, but lately Ian sensed that it had developed into something beyond that. And Stephen's interest in Kellen seemed suddenly more than brotherly.

In his room, looking for the papers he had come home to get, Ian's thoughts turned to his mother. After the episode with Stephen he had gone back up to his office and found Lilith waiting for him. He had been surprised to see her. She had been in Europe for a year and had not called or written.

Lilith got quickly to the point of her visit. She needed money. She simply wasn't able, she explained, to live on the small income that her forty-nine percent interest in the Times provided.

Ian had heard Lilith's complaint before many times. Since the breakup of her second marriage to the Italian count, Lilith was constantly strapped for money. So she often asked Ian for loans. He gave her money, when he had it.

"Maybe you should just sell your share of the Times to Father," he told her once. "You know he'd buy it in a second."

"Listen to you," Lilith said. "By right that newspaper belongs to me. It was my father's. And it should be yours."

"It will be," Ian said, with an impatient sigh.

"The Times makes so much money, and he has all those other papers now," Lilith said. "I don't see why your father can't be more generous. How does he expect us to live?"

"I can't give you any money right now, Mother," he had said. "Maybe next month."

Ian found the papers he had come for and started out the door, now thinking about his own financial problems. Thanks to some gambling debts, the new car, and the South American vacation he had taken Joyce on last month, he didn't have much cash himself.

He thought about asking Adam for a raise, but he knew he wouldn't get it. The circulation drive in the suburbs didn't leave any fat in the budget right now.

Ian went down the hallway, thinking about money, his mother, Stephen, the scratch in the Ferrari, and Joyce, who had fondled him to arousal, glanced at her watch, and sent him on his way with a patronizing pat on the crotch. He decided suddenly to go to the club rather than back to the office. He had had enough of the d.a.m.n newspaper for one day.

Outside Kellen's room, he paused. The door was half-open, which was odd, considering she kept it locked lately. He pushed the door open and stood taking in every detail with intense curiosity.

He went over to the bed, which was a tangle of sheets and blankets.

Strange, Ian thought, the maid didn't make up the bed. He turned to the closet and opened the doors. It was filled with clothes of every kind and color...and with Kellen's smell. He slowly drew in a breath and idly fingered the hem of a white chiffon dress.

He went to the dressing table and stared down at the jumble of perfume and makeup bottles, cast-off jewelry, and snapshots of grinning girlfriends, which were lying in a snowfall of spilled white dusting powder. He picked up a schoolbook. American Journalism: A History 1690-1950. He tossed it on the floor.

He turned to the large bureau and stood in front of it for a moment. Then he opened the top drawer. The contents were an intriguing tangle of soft pale things. Edges of white lace, glimpses of pink silk, filigreed little straps and tiny rosette b.u.t.tons. Strange, mysterious things. And the scent... musky, sweet, and clean. He picked up a swatch of white. Silk panties, so soft beneath his fingertips. He brought them up to his nose. The scent was intoxicating.

Slowly, he put the panties back. He was about to close the drawer when something caught his eye, a blue plastic container, hidden under the lingerie. He pulled it out and popped it open.

He held up the round rubber device and grinned. "Why, little sister," he said, "you've been f.u.c.king around."

He put the diaphragm back in its case and stuck it back under the lingerie. He had just closed the drawer when Kellen appeared at the door.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing in here?" she said.

Ian shrugged. "Killing time."

She glanced at the bureau. "Get out," she said. "I don't allow anyone in my room."

"Oh, really?" Ian said, arching an eyebrow toward the rumpled bed. "Someone's been in here. Are you humping Stephen Hillman?"

Kellen's face went white. "None of your business."

Ian leaned against the bureau, smiling. "You know, Kellen, you don't have to be so secretive with me. I'm your brother. We should share things. You could tell me all about your boy problems."

Kellen tossed her purse and books on the bed. "I don't want to share anything with you," she said.

"Well, you don't have a choice. We share the same father. That should count for something."

"It doesn't."