then poured a gla.s.s of Perrier for herself.

His smile seemed easier when she sat on the ottoman across from him.

"I've always liked this place." He pointed to the mural Marianne had

painted on the plaster. "Where is she?"

"In Paris." She glanced at her watch. "Or nearly. She's going to spend

a year studying there."

He shifted his gaze to the photographs that lined a nearby wall. "I saw

your photo study of Baryshnikoy."

"The greatest thrill of my life. I was stunned when Runyun let me have

the a.s.signment."

"And the alb.u.m cover." He drank, and felt every drop of the brandy slide

down his throat.

"Wait until you see the new one." She kept her voice light and easy, but

there was concern in her eyes as they skimmed over Luke. "It should hit

the stands by the end of the week. Of course, the music's not bad,

either."

Emma saw his fingers whiten on the stern of the gla.s.s. "How is Johnno?"

"He's fine. I think they've talked him into doing a cameo on Miami Vice

... I'm sure he'll get in touch if he comes down your way."

"Yeah." He drank again. "He's not in town."

"No, he's in London." The opera singer began soaring over scales.

"They're prepping for the tour. I'm going along. In fact, I'm flying

out day after tomorrow."

"You're going to see him?"

"Yes, in a couple of days. There's an enormous amount of work to be

done before we start. Luke, what is it?"

He shook his head. Carefully, he set the cognac aside, then reached

inside his jacket. Taking out a plain white envelope, he handed it to

Emma. "Would you give this to him for me?"

"Of course."

"As soon as you see him."

"Yes, if you like." She started to set it on the table, but caught the

look in his eye. "I'll just put it in my suitcase." She left him

sitting there, looking dully out of the windows. He was standing when

she returned, holding the empty wine gla.s.s in both hands. She started

to speak, then he swayed. The gla.s.s shattered on the floor before she

caught him. She had braced for his weight. The brittle fragility of

his body shocked her more than the paller.

"Sit. Come on, sit down. You're ill." She knelt on the cushion beside

him, stroking his hair as he wearily closed his eyes. "I think you've

got a fever. Let me take you to a doctor."

"No." He let his head fall back. His eyes were bright with fury when

they met hers. "I've been to a doctor. A whole tucking fleet of

doctors."

"You need to eat," she said firmly. "You look as though you haven't

eaten in a week. Let me fix-"

"Emma." He caught her hand. She knew. He could see by her face that

she already knew, but refused to believe. He'd spent quite a while

refusing to believe himself. "I'm dying." It sounded easy, almost

peaceful. "It'S AIDS."