I pull my shirt off and throw it on the floor, then shove my boxers down.

"Oh." Liv peers at the screen, her voice husky. "Very nice, professor. I so wish I could touch you. I wish I could taste you."

My erection pulses at the thought of her sliding her tongue over my chest and stomach before she takes my cock into her hot mouth. I move my hand up and down my shaft, pressure boiling through me like steam.

"Now take off your bra," I tell her.

She unhooks the front clasp, displaying her full breasts topped with hard nipples. Just the sight of them, the knowledge of how soft they are, almost makes me come. I rub my thumb over the head of my aching prick.

"Wait, I can't see you." Liv looks at the screen again, moving her hands up to her breasts. "Adjust your camera. You know how much I love watching you touch yourself."

I shift the laptop. Liv draws in a breath, her lips parting.

"Oh, God, Dean," she murmurs. "That's so hot."

"Move back." I can't take my eyes off her as she massages her breasts and plucks at her nipples.

She scoots back a little so I can see more of her, then she slides one hand down to her pussy. A visible shudder goes through her. She leans her head against the back of the chair and lets out a soft moan that goes straight to my blood.

"I want to watch you come," she whispers, her gaze on the screen. "I wish you were here, wish I could wrap my fingers around your cock, take you in deep..."

My heart pounds. I work my hand faster, pressure flooding me. The sight of her all spread out in my office chair, one hand between her legs and the other playing with her breasts, fills me with urgency.

"Oh, Dean, I'm so... so ready." Liv's breathing intensifies. Her pale skin is flushed, her eyes filled with arousal. She bites down on her lower lip, the way she always does when she's getting close.

I wish more than ever that I could feel her warm breath, taste her lips, push my cock into her sweet, hot pussy...

"I want to touch you again," Liv murmurs, her chest heaving with the force of her breath. "I want you on me, in me... I want you again, Dean, it's been too long... I'm ready for you... for us..."

Her throaty voice, the way she's starting to writhe in the chair, is enough to bring me to full boil. She lets out a cry, her body trembling with vibrations. I watch her as she rides out the wave, her words fading into pants and moans.

I stroke my cock faster, and then the tightness in my groin explodes into blinding pleasure, jets of semen pooling onto my stomach. Liv leans closer to the camera to look at me, her eyes dark with lust and lingering pleasure.

"You are so damn sexy," she whispers.

"It's all for you." I rub my cock until the sensations ease, not taking my eyes off my wife. I swear I can almost taste her heat, smell her arousal.

Liv pushes up from the chair and presses a kiss close to the camera. I smile and put my finger against her puckered lips, wishing I could feel them, feel her.

A stab of irritation hits me suddenly that there's an ocean between us, that we're on different continents, that she's there and I'm here.

Liv moves back from the camera. Her pretty face fills the screen, all brown eyes, thick lashes, that luscious mouth.

"I love you," she says. "Call me tomorrow?"

"Right at ten."

We exchange goodbyes, and I go to clean up. I get dressed, organize my work for the day, and put file folders in my backpack.

Before leaving, I draw a quick picture and scan it into an email: TO: The Queen Bee FR: The Frog Prince I press the send button, then pull on my jacket and head out into the dawn.

CHAPTER THREE.

Olivia y husband doesn't just love me. He knows how to love me. He knows what I need and when I need it, sometimes even better than I do. He knows how to unfold all the tight, rough parts of me and smooth them out with one glide of his hand. He knows how to prove that he-and only he-understands every crevice of my soul. He knows how to remind me that I am forever safe within his heart.

And all of this has never been more apparent to me than it is now, as Dean continues wooing me under the precepts of his own version of courtly love.

I know. Could not be more dorky. And yet, after all we've been through, for us it is also intensely personal and beautiful.

Over the next week, Dean sends me emails at least three times a day with poems and quotes: TO: Olivia West (aka exalted mistress) FR: Dean West (aka lowly servant) Miss you.

Want to kiss you.

(for the record, Mrs. West, I wrote this one myself) He attaches Internet pictures of smiling cartoon hearts and fluffy, big-eyed animals snuggling with each other. These adorable images are often followed by notes about the archeological discovery of a post-medieval building north of the transept wall or the aboveground structural analysis of a church.

Our messages never fail to make me smile, and the warm feeling lasts all day as I run errands, take walks along the lake pathways, and work at the library, bookstore, and museum.

One morning almost three weeks after his departure, I return home for lunch, taking a few letters and bills from the mailbox. There's a small box outside our apartment door with a printed label reading: Mrs. Olivia West.

I go inside and open the package, which contains a slender gold ring with a ruby embedded in the band. The accompanying note instructs me to wear the ring on the little finger of my left hand with the stone turned toward my palm, symbolic of our intense, secret love.

I glance at the clock and calculate that it's about nine p.m. in Tuscany. Picking up the phone, I dial Dean's cell number. He answers on the second ring.

"Good one, professor," I say.

"You like it?" He sounds pleased.

"I love it. Thank you."

"Are you wearing it?"

"Just like you told me to." I spread out my hand to admire the gold band. "It fits perfectly. How did you know the size of my little finger?"

"I know exactly how you fit into things and what fits into you."

Warmth floods my chest at the faint huskiness of his voice. "Oh."

He gives a muffled laugh. "Gotta be at a review meeting in five minutes. I'll call you later tonight."

"Tease."

"Just trying to prove my adoration for my lady."

"You proved that years ago."

And every day since.

After we hang up, I enjoy the warm fuzzies for a few minutes before I gather the mail I'd left on the foyer table.

There's an official-looking envelope addressed to me at the bottom of the stack. The return address is Sinclair and Watson Law Offices, based in Phoenix, Arizona.

My stomach tightens. Maggie Hamilton's father is a lawyer, but he's based in Chicago. I can't think of any reason a lawyer in Arizona would want to contact me.

I tear open the envelope and unfold a piece of paper imprinted with the law office's letterhead.

Dear Mrs. West, I am writing to formally notify you of the recent death of Mrs. Elizabeth Winter and my role as the executor of her estate. You are named as a beneficiary in her will and trust. Under the terms of the document, the will and trust are now irrevocable, and we are required to distribute assets accordingly.

All debts have been paid, and you are entitled to receive the sum of fifty thousand ($50,000.00) dollars which Mrs. Winter bequeathed to you as part of the distribution of her estate...

The words blur in front of my eyes. For an instant, I can't make sense of them, can't process the name Mrs. Elizabeth Winter.

I take a breath and keep reading the letter, which informs me that as soon as I supply my social security number and sign the enclosed forms, I'll receive a check for fifty thousand dollars via certified courier.

I drop the letter onto the table. I want to think this is a scam or a bad joke. But the name Mrs. Elizabeth Winter is embedded in my memories.

My mother's mother.

My grandmother, whom I saw once from a distance when I was seven years old. A woman I never spoke to, never even knew. I grab the phone and dial my aunt Stella's number in Castleford. Stella is my father's sister and-before Dean-my only family outside of my mother.

Trying to keep my voice from shaking, I ask her if she knows anything about Elizabeth Winter.

"A lawyer called a few weeks ago to ask if I knew your address," Stella says. "He didn't tell me anything except that she'd died. I had no contact with her, of course."

"Did my mother ever talk to you about her?" I ask. "Or even mention her?"

"No. I didn't even know your grandmother was still alive."

Neither did I.

I thank Stella and tell her I'll call her again soon. I start to dial Dean's number, then stop. I need time to figure this out first. Instead, I call the lawyer's number.

"Yes, Mrs. Winter named you as a beneficiary of her estate," Mr. Thomas Sinclair explains. "I'm sorry to tell you that she died of cancer in January. She'd finalized her will and trust last year, after her doctors told her that her illness was no longer treatable."

I swallow past a sudden tightness in my throat. "I'm... did she ever try to contact me?"

"I don't know, Mrs. West. I had to track down your married name and address, though, which leads me to believe that Mrs. Winter didn't know you were married or where you live."

"Was Elizabeth Winter in touch with my mother? Crystal Winter?"

"I don't know that either. I did write a letter to Crystal Winter informing her of Mrs. Winter's death."

"You have my mother's address?"

"I had the letter sent to her last known address. Would you like a copy of Mrs. Winter's will and trust? All beneficiaries are entitled to a copy."

"No, that's not necessary."

"I'll have your check processed and sent as soon as I receive the signed forms."

I thank him and slowly put the phone down. I reread the letter. Fifty thousand dollars, from the grandmother I never knew. The woman I saw once.

My mother was twenty-four when she took me from my father. Tall and slender, she wore long skirts and costume jewelry. She had delicate features, blue eyes, pale skin, and thick, wheat-colored hair that spilled like a waterfall down her back.

When we left Indiana behind, she drove a circuitous route west, as if Los Angeles were a magnet pulling her through a maze. She drove fast, without a seatbelt, windows rolled all the way down. The wind pulled at her hair. Her round sunglasses concealed her eyes. Her mouth was pearly pink and shiny.

Until a few hours prior, we'd been living in a two-bedroom apartment with my father. He and my mother had had a huge fight-yelling, sounds of things crashing, crying. I'd hidden in my bedroom, underneath the covers.

My mother woke me when it was still dark and told me to pack my suitcase, the one with the wheels and pink flowers. She dragged her own big, black suitcase from her room. I'd packed my stuffed animals and two hairbands before she returned.

"Not those," she snapped. "Clothes, Liv. Underwear. Hurry."

Her car was an old Chevrolet with vinyl bench seats. She hefted our suitcases into the trunk, told me to get in the backseat, and tossed a quilt over me. Then she got in the car and started to drive.

Hours passed. We ate fast food. Listened to Madonna, Duran Duran, Neneh Cherry. I don't remember a lot of the places I lived with my mother, but I remember the first place we stopped was a huge, two-story house at the end of tree-lined cul-de-sac.

I had no idea where we were. My mother told me to wait in the car, then she walked up the driveway to the front door and rang the bell.

The sun was high by then, burning a hole in the sky. I got to my knees and peered out the window. A tall, elegant-looking woman with sleek blond hair answered the door. She stared at my mother, then shook her head.

My mother put her hand on the door like she wanted to stop it from closing. They seemed to be arguing. My mother gestured to the car.

The woman looked toward me. I don't know if she saw me. She shook her head again. Closed the door so hard I heard the snap from inside the car.

My mother stood there for a second, then spun on her heel and stalked back down the driveway. I could tell by her tight expression, the way she slammed the car door, that she was really mad.

"Bitch," she muttered. The tires squealed.

I buried myself under the quilt. Madonna's voice drifted through the car.

Feels like home.

Home.

I can't even remember how long it took me to realize the blonde woman was my grandmother.

Dean calls at our usual time tonight. He listens as I read him the letter, the words sounding dusty and dry. There's a knot in my chest. My brain can't stop shuffling through old, unpleasant memories. Part of me thinks I should be ecstatic-who wouldn't want to receive an inheritance of this magnitude?-but instead I feel numb.

"What should I do?" I ask Dean.

"Be grateful," he suggests.

"Why do you think she put me in her will?"