drugs. Just as he'd had no idea, until he had slipped into her, there

on the floor with the candles guttering in their own wax, that it was

her first encounter with s.e.x.

She'd wept a little. Instead of making him feel guilty, her tears had

brought out feelings of protectiveness. He'd fallen completely, and

somehow poetically, in love. That had been more than a year ago, but he

had never been with another woman during that time. Whenever the

temptation came strongly, he would see Bev's face.

The marriage had been for her, and the child, his child, she carried.

He didn't believe in marriage, the foolishness of a contract on love,

but he didn't feel trapped. For the first time since his miserable

childhood, he had something more than music to comfort and excite him.

I love you more than anything.

No, he couldn't say that to her with the ease and honesty she could say

it to him. He probably would never be able to say that to her. But he

did love, and where he loved, he was loyal.

"Come on, my lad." Barely rousing him, Johnno dragged Brian to his feet.

"It's bed for you."

"Bev's coming, Johnno."

Brow lifted, Johnno glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of bodies.

"So's everyone else."

"She'll meet us in New York." With a half-laugh, Brian slung a rubbery

arm around Johnno's neck. "We're going to New York, Johnno. New

tucking York. Because we're the best."

"That's dandy, isn't it?" Grunting only a little, Johnno dumped Brian on

the bed. "Sleep it off, Bri. We've got to go through the whole b.l.o.o.d.y

business again tomorrow."

"Got to wake Pete," Brian mumbled as Johnno pulled off his shoes.

"Pa.s.sport for Emma. Tickets. I have to do the right thing by her."

"You will." Weaving a little, courtesy of the Jim Beam, Johnno studied

his newly purchased Swiss watch. He didn't imagine Pete was going to

appreciate being awakened, but he staggered off to do the deed.

ON HER FIRST transatlantic flight, Emma traveled first cla.s.s. And was

miserably sick. She could not, as Bev periodically urged her, look out

at the pretty clouds or page through any of the colorful picture books

Bev had stuffed into her carry-on bag. Even empty, Emma's stomach

pitched and rolled. She was vaguely aware of Bev's helpless little hand

pats and the stewardess's soothing voice.

It didn't matter that she had a new outfit with a short, bright red

skirt and a flowered fussy blouse. It didn't matter that she'd been

promised a ride to the top of the Empire State Building. The nausea was

so unrelenting that it no longer mattered that she was going to see her

father.

By the time the plane banked over JFK airport, she was too weak to

stand. Frazzled, Bev carried her through the gate. After clearing

customs, she nearly gave way to tears when she spotted Pete.

In his impeccable Savile Row suit, he took a long look at the pastyfaced

child and the edgy woman. "Rough trip?"

Instead of tears, Bev found laughter bursting through. "Oh no. It was

a delight from start to finish. Where's Brian?"