father."

The new tangent took Craig a little by surprise. "I wondered since you aren't exactly following in your mother's footsteps."

She smiled. "Exactly. I took after Daddy in every way that counted. We have the same sharp tongue, the same cheek bones...and the same wandering eye."

"Your father fooled around?"

"Just a little. Every other weekend or so, I suspect."

"Ah."

"But even so, he didn't like to see those same traits in his daughter. It seemed the more I was like him, the less he approved of me. And then one night, just after I'd broken up with yet another starving musician with no money and less talent, he went into a tirade about how I would get into trouble someday if I didn't settle down with a nice guy, and make a decent home for my kids." She looked at him and her smile was ironic. "As it happens Sloan's name came up. Sloan seemed perfect to my dad. He was rich and smart. At that point he'd been managing the stores for a while. He seemed responsible, and ambitious. He had proven himself to be a good friend, and he and Bree obviously couldn't make a go of it. So why didn't I settle down with him?"

Craig grimaced. "He fed into your fantasy."

"Uh-huh. I had almost gotten past Sloan, but then he said that, and..." She sighed. "And then of course he died a few weeks later."

"Shit." Craig swallowed, almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway. "Uh, how?"

"In a lover's bed, of course. He was on a buying trip, and just like always, he had a woman in every port. He had a massive post-fuck heart attack. His lover went out for a minute, and when she came back to the hotel room..." She shrugged. "It seemed fitting."

"And you're still trying to please him," added Craig.

She leaned back in the sand. "I know it's crazy. I know it. Daddy is dead, and Sloan was never right for me. But knowing it, and knowing it, are two different things. I'm nothing like my mother, or my brother. Daddy was the only one of the family I really connected with. And then he died and..." Her voice trailed away.

"Believe it or not I understand. I loved my grandmother. I fit with her like I never fit with anybody else in my family. I think in a way, everything I write-at least a little of it-is for her."

"At least that's something constructive," she said bitterly. "I, on the other hand, just keep systematically destroying my relationships in honor of my father's memory. I've tried to get on with my life. God knows, I've tried. I've gone through so many men I've lost count. But the thing is, I always look for the witty, outgoing, Type 'A' risk-takers. They almost always have dark hair, and drive flashy cars. Some of them have artistic flares, and they all love to dance."

"Sloan clones," said Craig wryly.

She chuckled. "Yeah. I guess. But the problem was..." She seemed to struggle for the right words. "They came close, but not quite close enough. Just like with the dress, only the first would do. I wanted the original."

"And now he's back."

Apparently she saw no need to restate the obvious. She said nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to burrow out a custom-fit hole in the sand. "Bree and Troy seem to

believe the ruse. I mean, about Sloan and me."

"Of course. They're trusting people by nature. And they couldn't see any reason why he would possibly

want to lie about something like that."

"Don't you wonder?"

"Not really. I'm blinded by my obsession, I guess. Something happened back then that he doesn't want

us to know about, and I can respect that. Maybe I understand a bit better about secrets. I can leave it alone." She shrugged. "They couldn't. Especially Bree. She would dig until she found the answer, and he knows that."

"When did you first suspect he was lying?" "That night at the party. I danced with him, and his reactions gave him away." "Ah." He grinned. "I guess us guys are pretty lousy at reining that thing in." "You won't hear me complaining." She tossed him a sidelong glance, her eyes flashing. Craig cleared his throat. "Well, at least Sloan can't lay all the blame at my feet when his folly comes to light."

"Oooh...I've never heard the word 'folly' used in a regular conversation before. I do love the way youtalk." "Apparently, not enough." "Craig..." "Forget it." Damn! He hadn't intended to say that, but it had slipped out in a vulnerable moment of intimate sharing. "Maybe we should get back."

"Why?"

He shrugged, suddenly feeling more exposed than if he were standing center stage at The Roxy,

buck-naked.

"I guess I should apologize," she said after a few more waves had marked the seconds.

"You don't have to."

"Good, because I don't really want to."

He chuckled in spite of himself. "Did you ever win the Miss Congeniality award? Because if you did you

must have bribed someone for it." "Don't you want to know why I don't want to?" He sensed something in her voice. He turned to face her and realized belatedly that she had shifted a little closer to him on the sand. "Why?"

"Because even though I had ulterior motives when I...did that, when we were in the middle of it..." To his amazement she blushed. He licked his lips, and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly thick. "You mean when I was touching you?" "Yeah. When you were touching me. And looking at me." Her voice slipped into a range that tingled in his groin. "And kissing me. I...well, I didn't hate it like I thought I would." The mood evaporated. "Gee, thanks." She snagged his hand. "No. That came out wrong. I meant that I was afraid that it would feel...wrong, somehow. Just like it always has before. But it didn't." Her hand stroked up his arm, and a legion of goose bumps trailed after it. "It occurs to me, Mr. Sternberg, that you are about as far from a Sloan-clone as I can get. You're Jewish, blond, reserved. I think you're a little unsure of yourself. I know you can throw out insults with the best of them, but I bet you use your wit to cover your shyness. You wear loafers instead of high-tops, for chrissake." She considered him thoughtfully. "And I bet you drive a Ford."

"Chrysler."

"See?"

"But I'm a writer. Like him."

"I'm sure you're very creative, but I bet you do all the nitty-gritty stuff. You know, the spell-checks and

the proofreading and I bet you make sure he doesn't go off on crazy plotline tangents." Her fingers had strayed to his chest.

Her insights astounded him. He nodded dumbly.

"I can see right through you, Craig Sternberg. And right now I can see that you're more interested in me than you'd like to let on."

Well, it didn't take a psychic to see that. Despite his best efforts there was no way he could conceal his reaction from her. He only had one line of defense left, and, feeble though it might be, he fell back on it.

"Give me one good reason why I should trust you after what you did."

Her fingers stopped mid-caress. "Because I trusted you with things, and besides, you still owe me that secret."

"I could tell you now," he said through parched lips.

"That's all right. I'll take this instead." Her fingers had strayed to his waistband, but there they stopped and she let out a heavy sigh. "No. That's wrong. I don't want this to be a joke. I do like you, Craig. It doesn't make any sense to me, because up until now I've always dismissed guys like you with hardly a second glance. But somehow you're different. I want you to trust me and, I think, maybe that's a good sign." She touched his cheek. "I want you to believe me. And if I can't convince you, then I think I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

Maybe he could believe her. She definitely had a talent for trickery, but he could hardly cast stones. And at that moment he couldn't find any trace of deceit in her eyes. He decided it was worth the risk.

His fingers traced the same sensuous path they had followed the day before. "Would your daddy approve of me?"

"Probably not." She shuddered slightly. "I don't think he'd approve of my sleeping with a Jewish homosexual."

He smiled. "I can live with that. But if you ever compare me to Sloan, you're history." His fingers followed the line of her bikini, over the swell of her breast, and down to the 'V' clasp at the front.

"See, that's the beauty of it," she breathed as he unhooked the bikini bra and the tiny triangles fell away. "There really is no comparison."

He cupped her breast but apparently she had other ideas. She grabbed his wrist and guided it lower. He found the silky wedge of material and slipped his hand beneath it.

As he stroked and separated, his mouth homed in on hers. His lips cruised over the luscious delicacies that still tasted like the ice cream they'd had for dessert-sweet and rich and decadent.

"I've never done it outside before," he mumbled as they both fell back on the sand that had been cooled by the shade of the tree.

"I have a feeling I'm going to expose you to all kinds of new adventures." She had already begun working at his trunks.

"I think you're right," he groaned. He was gradually losing coherent thought, but he had one more thing he had to say. "By the way..."

"Mmm?"

"I hate dancing."

"That's okay," she murmured through a smoky smile. "So do I."

Chapter Eleven.

Sloan stepped across the threshold into another world.

Vance's office smelled of well-worn leather and spicy tobacco. Rich mahogany wainscoting lined the walls and a cherry wood desk sat in front of a wide bay window that looked out toward the bluff. A legion of books lined heavy oak shelves, alongside whimsical touches such as antique coffee grinders and oil lamps.

The wall opposite the bookshelf was dotted with an array of black and white photographs in pewter frames. Sloan felt himself drawn to them.

"So," said Vance as he hitched a leg over the corner of his desk. "You've homed in on my favorite collection in the world, bar none."

"God," breathed Sloan. "You're all so young."

"Yes. Believe it or not we were as young as you once."

Sloan stared at the photo at the top left corner of the display. Four young men, their faces beaming with stupid grins, stood below a brand spanking new sign that boasted "Lakeside Auction House" in polished brass lettering.

He felt Vance come up behind him. "That was taken the day before we held our Grand Opening Sale."

"How many years ago was it?" Sloan should remember, but at the moment the numbers eluded him.

"Oh, Sloan," chuckled Vance. "It shouldn't be too difficult to figure out, since we opened barely a year after all of you were born."

"Right. Thirty-two years. That's amazing in a throw-away society like ours."

"Yes. That's just it, isn't it?"

Sloan scanned the remaining pictures as Vance spoke. It was a photographic time line of all their lives. Pictures of him and the rest of the foursome as babies and teenagers mingled with photographs of their mothers lounging side by side on the beach.

"That's what we're all about," continued Vance. "We're trying to preserve, not throw away, and I think people value that. They cherish it in a world where we buy new cars every other year and don't mend socks anymore." Vance chuckled. "Hell, we even throw away spouses when they get a little worn around the edges."

Sloan turned away from the pictures. "You've done okay in that area." He sat down, and was swallowed up by the enormous leather wingback that faced the desk.

Vance came back and leaned against the desk again, facing him. "Yes. Lois and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary not very long ago. I regret that we're the only pair out of the group who beat the odds."

"Divorce didn't claim those marriages," said Sloan bitterly.

"No, of course not. I'm afraid that didn't come out very well." Vance clasped his hands tightly in front of him. "Things went so well for so long. Our investments paid off, and the House prospered. We all had good friends and healthy, happy children. We had made good lives for ourselves. We all thought we had Lady Luck eating out of our hands."

"And then everybody started dying."

"That's a rather stark way of putting it, but...yes."

Sloan shifted in his seat. "Dad told me once that the House was his idea. Was he just bragging, or was that right?"

A warm smile lit Vance's face. "No. It's true. The concept came from him. I, however, claim to have made it sing. Your father definitely enjoyed beautiful things, such as jewelry and fine art, but his passion was for the entrepreneurial process and the risks inherent in starting a new business. I was the one with the passion for the old and the precious. He also had another business to run, so the majority of the planning and implementing fell to me."