"Yes. He's a symphony conductor in this one."

Jack sat next to her and folded his arms behind his head. "And how about the one where he's a neo-n.a.z.i married to Ingrid and Cary Grant is the government agent?"

Marisa stared at him. "Notorious. I thought you hated old movies."

"I never said that. I said they were dated and corny but I've seen my share of them."

"Apparently."

"I'm a night owl. I do a lot of my writing late at night. If I get stuck I sometimes turn on the TV. That's when they're on, okay?"

"You would never be caught renting one, of course."

"Of course." He leaned forward to adjust the color k.n.o.b. "I guess this one hasn't been ,colorized,"' he said, when the picture remained black and white.

"Thank G.o.d. I saw the colorized version of Little Women and everything and everybody in it was sepia, like those daguerreotypes from the Civil War."

He chuckled.

"Who's this?" he inquired, as the screen featured a close-up.

"Paul Henreid."

"Looks familiar."

"Ingrid's husband in Casablanca," Marisa said dryly.

He snapped his fingers. "Right!"

Marisa shot him a sidelong glance as he settled back and fixed his gaze on the screen.

"What?" he said, looking at her.

"I thought you were enduring this for my sake."

"Well?"

"Don't look too much like you're enjoying yourself or I might get the wrong impression."

He reached out suddenly and yanked her into his lap.

"Forget Paul whatever his name is. He's dead. I'm right here and I'm alive."

"So I see."

He untied her blouse and eased the sleeves off her arms.

"What about the movie?" she asked.

"We'll just have to watch it another time," he replied, unb.u.t.toning her slacks.

The screen flickered in the background as they made love.

In the morning Marisa woke to find herself in Jack's bed, having no recollection of getting there. She slipped into a shirt she found lying on the dresser and padded downstairs barefoot, to find him scrambling eggs in the kitchen as the delicious smell of brewing coffee wafted around him.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he said, saluting her enthusiastically with a spatula.

"I thought you couldn't cook," she said, putting her arms around his waist from behind as he stood at the stove.

"This is the limit of my repertoire," he replied, leaning back into her embrace.

"How did I get upstairs last night?" she asked, opening the refrigerator to discover it stocked with new items.

"How do you think? I carried you."

"And when did you buy all this stuff?" she asked, removing a carton of cream from the refrigerator and putting it on the table.

"I got up early and went to the store."

"You must think I have a big appet.i.te," she said, laughing.

"I know you have a big appet.i.te, darlin'," he answered, grinning wickedly.

"Stop making fun of me. You started me on the path to destruction," Marisa replied.

Jack turned off the burner on the stove and carried the pan to the table. It was already set with dishes and cutlery, and a plate of toast sat in the middle of it.

Marisa selected a piece and bit into it.

"Not bad," she said optimistically.

"Liar. I burned it."

"Only slightly. I hate pale toast anyway."

"You won't get that around here, mine is always charred." He scooped the eggs onto her plate and then sat across from her, watching as she took a sample.

"Very good," she said brightly.

He took a bit himself.

"Not bad, if I do say so," he agreed, digging in with relish. "So, what are we going to do today?"

"Jack, I have to work."

"Come on, you can play hooky for one day."

"I don't think so," Marisa said. "I didn't come to Florida to socialize with you, Jackson, I came to represent a client."

"Socialize?" he said, raising his brows. "Is that what we've been doing?"

"If you're going to take a double meaning from everything I say, I'm going to stop talking to you."

"As long as you don't stop sleeping with me," he said, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

She kicked him under the table.

"Ow. You're on a break from court now. Can't whatever you have to do wait until tomorrow?"

Marisa hesitated, sorely tempted.

"You're a bad influence," she finally said.

"So I've been told," he replied.

"What about you? Don't you have writing to do?"

"It can wait."

"We're both going to wind up unemployed," Marisa said gloomily, munching toast.

Jack got up and took her hand, leading her out of her chair and into his arms.

"Let's use this time while we have the chance," he said against her hair. "It may be difficult for us to get together in the future."

Marisa felt a chill. What was he trying to say?

"We'll find a way, won't we?" she asked anxiously.

"Of course we will. But this interlude is a gift. Let's take advantage of it."

"All right," Marisa said, looking up at him.

"I have an idea."

"Somehow I thought you might."

"My friend who owns the boat also has a beach house."

"What is this guy, a millionaire?"

"He's well off, yeah."

"Why doesn't he keep his boat at the beach?"

"You can't dock a boat on the open ocean, it would get battered to pieces. Are you sure you live in Maine?"

"I forgot," she said sheepishly. "So what about the beach house? And I think I should warn you that despite your recent swimming escapades, the water here is a bit too chilly for me."

"So we won't swim. The view is beautiful. We'll walk on the beach, take a lunch along with us, okay?"

"Okay," Marisa said, ducking her head against his shoulder and clutching him tightly.

It was sunny when they left the house. Twenty minutes later it was overcast, and by the time they got to the beach it was pouring rain. They trudged through the wet sand and climbed up the exterior stairs to the deck, and then Jack unlocked the sliding gla.s.s doors. They bustled through them and turned glumly to watch the rivulets of water running down the gla.s.s, obscuring the sh.o.r.eline in a gray wash.

"So, this was a great idea, huh?" Jack said flatly, and Marisa laughed.

"I'm not a weatherman," he said, shrugging. "Sue me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Marisa flung herself on him and they both tumbled onto the suede couch to the left of the door.

"Who needs sunshine?" he said.

"Not us." They lay together and listened to the rain drumming on the roof of the A-frame house. "What does your friend do for a living?" Marisa asked. "This place reeks of money."

"Actually, he doesn't do much. I think he inherited most of it. His father invented something and it's kept them all in the chips for about fifty years."

"What did his father invent?"

"Some kind of aquarium cover."

Marisa sat up, staring down at him. "An aquarium cover?" she said incredulously.

"I'm serious. It allows the fish to breathe, or be fed through it, or something. Pet stores and zoos use it. I'm telling you, the thing was a big hit."

Marisa started to giggle, and then laughed out loud. "The house the fish feeder built," she said, gesturing to the walls.

"This ain't the half of it, honey. You haven't seen the family house in Jacksonville, the co-op in New York, or the flat in Paris."

"How did you meet this guy?"

"School," he said, offhandedly.

"Oh. The prep school where you didn't fit in too well."

"That's the one."

"And he befriended you."

"How do you know it wasn't the other way around?"

"Well, he would have felt secure in that environment, so it stands to reason he'd be the one sticking up for you. Am I right?"

"You know a lot about human nature, don't you?" he said, pulling her down next to him again.

Marisa shrugged, embarra.s.sed.