Clee began to put the pictures away and Nicky helped him. At one moment he stopped and said, "You know, Nick, I can write the captions,

I'm used to doing that, but what this book needs is some really great text up front. An introduction. I've been thinking . . . well, you're one of the best writers I know. Would you be interested in doing it, in collaborating with me?"

She was taken aback by his suggestion, and her surprise was apparent.

"Why, I don't know," she said hesitantly.

"Who better than you, Nick? You were there, you witnessed it all, and you felt it as acutely as I did. You'd bring the right emotions to the writing. The text must back up the pictures.

Please say yes."

"Well, all right. Yes."

"Hey, that's wonderful!" He wanted to hug her but restrained himself.

Instead he said, "We'll make a terrific team!"

Nicky walked over to the coffee table, picked up her glass and raised it to him. "I think we ought to drink to that."

Clee found his glass and clinked it against hers. "So--here's to our collaboration!"

"To our collaboration!" she repeated, and they both took a sip.

"These need freshening up," Clee announced, walking over to the chest where he had put the champagne and bucket of ice.

Then he said, "Shall we have a swim before dinner?"

"Why not?" Nicky was now smiling.

Lying on her back, she floated toward him in the water.

"Oh, Clee, it's so lovely here!" she called out. "I thought it would be warm like water in a bathtub, but it isn't, it's perfect."

"The breeze is cooling everything off," he said.

Nicky made no response and floated closer to the end of the pool where

Clee was catching his breath after several fast laps.

Suddenly she flipped over and swam toward him.

Clinging to the side of the pool with one hand, she pushed her wet hair back with the other and laughed softly, as if to herself, shaking her head at the same time.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking how odd it is that we sometimes forget that the simplest things in life can be so wonderful--the best things of all."

"I know exactly what you mean," he said and glanced around the garden.

Just before they left the house to come outside for a swim, he had turned on the small spotlights hidden in the foliage, and the shrubs and trees and flowers were now highlighted by circles of pale silver light. Thanks to his sister's remarkable talent, the lights had been strategically placed and there was nothing artificial about the effect she had created. The garden looked as natural as it did during the day, and, to Clee, infinitely more beautiful after sunset.

Overhead the sky had turned color yet again, the mauve and amethyst had deepened to marine blue and a heavy twilight was descending. A peaceful hush had settled over the garden, and the only sounds were the rustling of the trees in the copse, the faint slap of the water as it lapped against the sides of the pool. The air was clear, and much cooler, and sweet with the fragrance of honeysuckle and frangipani, which grew close to the old stone wall running down one side of the garden.

Clee breathed deeply and looked at Nicky. "What could be better than being in this glorious spot--the two of us here together, enjoying each other's company."

"Nothing could, it's pure heaven," Nicky said, "and it's been such a wonderful weekend, Clee. I've enjoyed every minute of it.

And this is a perfect end to an especially lovely day."

"It's not the end yet," he said, looking at her carefully, "we still have the evening ahead of us--" He glanced at his watch.

"It's only nine-thirty. We can stay up as late as we wish, since we don't have to be awake early in the morning. Neither of us has a deadline to meet, you know."

"Thank God," she replied with a light laugh. "I must admit, it has been nice to have a vacation. My first in two and a half years, I might add. Thanks for inviting me, and thank you for coming down for the weekend. It's been--well, simply wonderful, Clee. You're so good to me, such a wonderful friend."

She touched his arm resting along the edge of the pool, and he caught hold of her hand, held it tightly. Then before he could stop himself he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

At first he met resistance, then she hesitantly responded, her body slackening and her mouth becoming soft under his. But abruptly she pulled away and stared long and hard at him.

He could not read her expression, it baffled him. He said rapidly, taking her hand again, "Don't pull away, Nicky. Since Beijing you've become very special to me. Look, it's different now. I don't know exactly what to say."

She made no comment to this, freeing her hand, she swam away toward the far end of the pool.

He followed her, and, getting out of the pool, went to where she stood near the chaises under the trees.

Her head was turned away from him and she was shivering in the light breeze.

He reached for one of the large beach towels on a chaise and wrapped her in it. "You're cold," he said. "Nicky."

She swung her head finally and looked directly at him, but still she did not speak.

They stood motionless, staring at each other, their eyes locked in an intense gaze that neither of them was able to break.

It seemed to Clee that her bright blue eyes were impaling his, and inwardly he flinched, yet he could not look away. And oh God, how he wanted her. He wanted to take her in his arms, to make love to her.

He understood something else, he wanted to possess her completely, and be possessed by her. And yet he was unable to make a move in her direction, was momentarily paralyzed, his breath felt strangled in his throat.

She spoke first, at last breaking the silence. She said, "Clee .

. . Oh, Clee . . . " And then she paused as though she were afraid to finish her thought.

Long afterward he would remember the inflection in her voice quite precisely, would recall the way she had said his name at that exact moment, for it was the inflection that had told him everything.

Longing had been implicit in her tone.

"Nicky darling," he said in a voice thickened by desire, and he moved swiftly toward her, even as she rushed forward into his arms.

He wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, in time with his own. He kissed her deeply, passionately, almost roughly, the way he wanted to kiss her, and she responded with ardor, her lips pliable, yielding, as he moved his tongue against them. Instantly they parted slightly, and he slid his tongue inside her mouth, and their tongues touched, lay still, touched again.

Her hands were on the nape of his neck and in his hair, then moved onto his shoulders and his back. He loved the feel of her fingers, so strong and supple, on his skin. Pulling her even closer, he slid his hands down her back, molding her body to his body, fitting her into him.

Nicky pressed herself closer, as filled with desire for Clee as he was for her. She was dizzy, her legs were weak, and her whole body trembled as she leaned against him, clinging to him. Clee was tremendously aroused. He brought his mouth to the hollow in her neck, kissed it tenderly, slipped the beach towel off her shoulder, let his mouth linger there, covering her with tender kisses.

Eventually he relaxed his hold on her, took her face between his hands and looked down into her eyes. In the dusky light he saw a look of intense yearning reflected on her face, longing for him.

He knew then that she felt the same as he did, and this inflamed him more.

Taking her by the hand, he led her to the chaise. Gently he eased her down onto it and then sat on the edge. Leaning over her, he covered her mouth with his, all the while fumbling with the towel and then the top of her bikini. Suddenly the fastening on the back came loose and he pulled the top away so that her breasts broke free. Cupping them between his hands, he kissed first one and then the other.

"Clee ." Immediately he stopped what he was doing and looked at her.

"Nicky?"

"I'm afraid," she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear it.

"Of me?"

"No ."

"Of yourself?" he asked, speaking as softly as she had, and reaching out he gently touched her cheek with his fingertips.

"I'm afraid of--of--of making love. It's been so long," she whispered. "It'll be all right." As he spoke he took her in his arms. "Trust me," he said against her hair. "Trust me."

Releasing her, Clee stood up and offered her both his hands.

Taking hold of them, she looked up at him questioningly as he pulled her to her feet.

"Over there," he said, and he nodded toward the copse.

Clee spread the towels on the grass and they slipped out of their swimsuits and lay down together under the trees. Nicky was shaking inside, filled with desire for him, but a desire tinged with fear--fear of disappointing him, of failing him, she realized that now. She wished she were not so tense, and she endeavored to relax her taut body. She turned her head to look at him, touching his face with one hand, her eyes focused on his.

Clee smiled, again hoping to put her at ease. It was the same lopsided boyish smile he had smiled at her the first time they had met, in the bar of the Commodore in West Beirut, and one she knew so well by now, but tonight it tugged at her heart. A rush of desire for him rose up in her. A curious thought struck her.

Had she been emotionally involved with Clee for the past two years without knowing it? Was he the reason no other man had interested her in all that time?

Clee was pushing himself up on one elbow, bending over her body, fondling her breasts. He brought his mouth to one of them, kissing the nipple, and instantly it came erect under his lips.

He moved his mouth to the other one, kissing it in exactly the same way. A small moan came from deep in Nicky's throat, and she put her arms loosely around him, her fingers slowly trailing down over his shoulder blades until they came to rest in the small of his back.

After a few seconds Clee raised his head, kissed her passionately on the lips, devouring her with his mouth and his tongue, and all the while he continued to caress her breasts. Eventually his hands wandered down onto her flat stomach and her thighs, touching and stroking her silky skin until the tension in her dissipated.

Soon her body was limp, pliable to his touch. He moved his own body so that his head rested on her stomach, and he kissed it as his hands fluttered down onto her inner thighs. Lightly, gently, his fingers caressed, explored, probed, until she opened herself up to his hands and his mouth as a flower opens under warming sunlight. As he savored the velvet texture of her he was consumed by a raging desire. It took all his self-control not to take her immediately.

Nicky looked down at Clee and put her hands on his shoulders, she closed her eyes again, luxuriating in the feel of his strong yet sensitive hands on her body. Her senses were reeling. They had tumbled into each other's arms so unexpectedly, so suddenly she was still shaken. And yet she knew their coming together was right, she felt this deep within herself. He was arousing her fully now, bringing her to the edge of ecstasy, his tongue and his fingers centered on the core of her. Overwhelmed by their mutual sensuality, the erotic feelings he engendered in her, she gave herself up to him completely.

She was transported, floating, as he continued to touch and kiss her.

And he did so with such sureness and expertise, he might have been making love to her in this way for aeons.

He moved her legs, pushing her knees into a bent position, and then, slipping his hands under her buttocks, brought his mouth to her again, touching her so lightly she could scarcely feel it. An exquisite sensation shot through her and she began to quiver.

"Oh, Clee, don't stop, please don't stop," she whispered.

Looking up, he bent over her again and his mouth and hands went on loving her with sensitivity and delicacy, and consummate skill.

Clee was so inflamed by Nicky's mounting excitement he thought he would explode, and he ached to be inside her with every fiber of his being.

But she had made it clear to him that she had been celibate for a long time, and he wanted to give her pleasure, to ensure she was totally relaxed and ready for him by bringing her to fulfillment first.

She cried his name again, and her quivering increased, and she gripped his shoulders harder. Her desire for him was acting as an extraordinary aphrodisiac, and he had to bring her to a climax quickly now so that he could take her to him, possess her finally and give himself to her.

The very moment her quivering reached a deep spasm he lifted himself onto her and went into her with a power and force that made both of them gasp.

Nicky clung to him, wrapping her legs around his back, and cried out,

"Clee, oh Clee, oh my God," and he brought his mouth down hard on hers and they began to move in unison, instantly finding their own rhythm.

Their passion mounted. He moved against her harder, more urgently, thrust himself deeper inside her, and Nicky was as unrestrained as he, her body arching up to his. And she cleaved to him.

Suddenly Clee stopped abruptly, pushed himself up on his hands and gazed down at her.

Nicky opened her eyes, and returned his gaze. Her look was questioning.

"You're beautiful, Nicky."

"Oh, Clee . . ."

He held her with his eyes, staring deeply into hers, and just as they had been mesmerized by each other a short while earlier, so they were again. Their eyes locked, held fast, they looked deeper and deeper, as if peering into each other's heart and mind and soul.

Clee thought, This isn't only sexual desire, though God knows it's stronger with her than I've ever known it to be with anyone else. I love her. That's what this is all about. I love Nicky.

I've loved her since Beijing.

As Nicky looked up into Clee's dark and brilliant eyes, her scrutiny fixed, intense and probing, Nicky began to understanding something, she had been waiting for him to come to her as a lover for months, even though she had not realized it until this moment. With a little spurt of surprise, she thought, I'm free of Charles at last. Perhaps I'll be able to love again--perhaps I'll fall in love with Cleeland Donovan.

Clee began to move again, slowly at first, loving her with his eyes.

She opened her arms to him, and he devoured her mouth and tongue with his own once more, and she moved against him, picked up his rhythm. He increased his speed, and so did she, matching him all the way.

A sudden intense heat flooded up from her thighs to suffuse her whole being, and she clung to him tighter, her hands digging into his shoulders, his name on her lips. Clee felt her warmth enveloping him, and he plunged deeper into her, moving faster and faster. He murmured,

"Come to me, my love, become part of me."

And she did, and as he flowed into her they were truly joined, became one.

He called her name, heard her shouting his, and they soared upward together, higher and higher, until he was weightless and floating in a bright blue sky the color of her eyes. Floating into infinity, holding her in his arms as if to never let her go.

He never would. She was his love. His only love. There had never been anyone like her before, there would never be again. She was meant for him, just as he was meant for her, just as this was meant to be.

He opened his eyes at last and looked down at her.

In this bosky corner of the garden the light was dim. But several small spotlights were hidden in the leafy bower above their heads, and so he could see her face. It was flushed and filled with happiness.

Her eyes were wide, and very, very blue as they looked back at him unblinkingly, and he noticed they held an expression he had never seen in them before. Was it adoration?

Did she feel the same way he did? She had to--this joining had not been onesided.

"Nicky," he began, but before he could say another word she reached up and put her fingertips on his mouth.

"Don't say anything, Clee."

"But, Nicky, I--" "Sssh," she said and pulled his face down to hers.

She kissed him softly, wrapped her arms around him and held him close to her. And she felt a little more at peace with herself--for the first time since Charles Devereaux had vacated her life.

Eh, voila, mademoiselle! Your American picnic," Clee said, placing the large wooden tray on the coffee table in the middle of the library.

With a wry smile, he added, "I'm afraid this was the best I could do."

Nicky jumped up off the sofa, went over to the low table and sat down on the large cushions Clee had arranged on the floor earlier. She scanned the food he had prepared and began to laugh.

"Oh, Clee, how marvelous! You've managed to find some of my real favorites. Chunky peanut butter, Skippy, no less. I love that brand.

And grape jelly to go with it. Tuna-salad sandwiches, and bacon, lettuce and tomato on rye. Pickled cucumbers. Hellmann's mayonnaise.

Where did you get all this? Especially the rye bread?"

Clee's mouth twitched with laughter. "The rye came out of the freezer earlier this evening. My sisters bring it when they come to stay.

They also bring loads of other American things for me, stuff I can't always find in France. Amelie puts some of it in the freezer, such as the rye bread and the bags of bagels, and the rest goes in the pantry.

Now"--he picked up a can of Diet Coke, pulled the tab, and went on--"how about one of these to wash it all down?"

"I'd love it, and come and sit over here with me," she said, patting the cushion next to her.

"I will in a minute. Let me put the video in first." Stepping over to the bookcase, he continued, "Which movie did you choose in the end?"

"It's called Somewhere I'll Find you with Clark Gable and Lana Turner playing foreign correspondents who . . . get involved with each other on a foreign assignment."

"Aha!" he exclaimed. A wide grin spread across his face. "How appropriate. I couldn't have chosen better myself."

The minute the film started rolling, Clee sat down on the cushions, leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose, then picked up a tuna-salad sandwich and settled back to watch.

They laughed a lot during the film. It had been made in 1942 and was somewhat unrealistic. It had a sweetness, an innocence about it, and this made it seem dated to the two tough news veterans accustomed to difficult, often harrowing foreign assignments.

"Hey, Nick, this is really sappy," Clee muttered at one moment, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"I know. A lot of old movies are."

"Not Casablanca, that's held up pretty well."

"You're right, but occasionally this one does have a ring of truth to it, especially when Gable's on the screen." The legendary star was Nicky's favorite, and a few seconds later, when Gable said, "I don't print anything until I've heard it twice and seen it three times," Nicky said, "That's going to be my motto from now on!"

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in mock horror.

"Wait a minute," Nicky said swiftly, "you've got to admit Gable plays a terrific newspaperman, with just the right amount of dash and panache.

And he is gorgeous."

"True, true." Clee turned her face to his and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "And so are you," he said softly.

When the movie was over, Clee began stacking the plates and glasses on the tray. "Do you want to watch another film, or shall we go downstairs and have coffee on the terrace?"

"Coffee on the terrace sounds great," Nicky answered, and followed him out.

They sat at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to brew, and as Clee peeled an apple and offered pieces to her he said, "I'm coming to New York around the middle of July. I have to go to Washington to photograph the president and Mrs. Bush for Life.

After that I'll be in New York for them until early August. Is there any chance of working on the book together then, do you think?"

"Yes, of course, I'd love to, and I know I'll be there, providing a war doesn't break out somewhere--" "In which case," Clee interjected, "we'll be covering it together."

Nicky nodded, "I guess so. Anyway, Arch and I will be working on another special during July and August, so I'll probably be writing the script and doing the preparation. But that doesn't prevent me from starting on the book. Do you have a title yet?"

"No, I don't, and any and all suggestions will be gratefully accepted.

That coffee smells great, let's get some and go outside."

They sat on the terrace together, not talking, enjoying the peace and beauty of their surroundings. It was well past midnight. The great arch of the sky was like inky black velvet scattered with tiny crystal beads, and there was a full moon. The breeze ruffled the trees and wafted the scent of honeysuckle toward them.

Clee and Nicky had long understood that conversation was not always necessary, and the silence between them tonight was as companionable as it usually was. Though their relationship had changed radically--and irrevocably--in the space of only a few hours they were completely at ease with each other. Perhaps more than ever, in fact.

Taking her hand at one moment, Clee said in the quietest voice, "We're good together, Nicky, and good for each other. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," she responded and leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling comfortable, protected with him.

Clee put his arm around her, held her close, and he could not help wondering what would happen to them, where tonight would lead. He had no idea. All he knew for certain was that he had saved her life in Beijing and in so doing had fallen in love with her. Or perhaps he had loved her for a long time before that but had only realized it when he had almost lost her. But no matter-tonight he had become her lover and that was good enough for him right now.

For her part, Nicky was marveling at the way they had come together so naturally--and marveling at herself as well. She had not made love to a man since Charles Devereaux had ended their relationship. During the past two years she had built up so many barriers, Clee had made them all come tumbling down. She was glad she had been with Clee. He had made everything seem so easy and simple, and he had aroused such passion in her she had amazed herself. She smiled in the darkness.

Clee had made her feel like a woman again.

Much later, when they were in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher, Clee said, "How long are you staying here with me, Nicky?"

She shrugged lightly, and said, "As long as you'll have me."

"All this week, then," he replied, looking pleased.

"Oh, Clee, I forgot for a minute--I've got to be back in Manhattan a week from tonight, in order to go to work at the network on Monday morning."

"Oh." He looked crushed, but instantly brightened and said, "Tell you what, we'll fly to Paris on Thursday night. You can stay with me at my apartment, and I'll put you on the Concorde on Sunday morning. Does that idea appeal to you?"

"Yes, it does."

"And you certainly appeal to me." Putting down the plate he was holding and walking over to her, he took her in his arms. "I don't know whether it's occurred to you yet, but you and I have wasted a lot of time."

"Two years, if you want to be exact."

"I aim to make up for it."

"You do?"

"You bet." Clee covered her mouth with his for a long voluptuous kiss, and then he took her hand in his and led her upstairs to his bedroom.

I Holding hands, theywalked slowly down the cours Mirabeau, the main avenue in the ancient university town of Air-enProvence.

Nicky glanced around, and she could not help thinking that this was one of the most beautiful boulevards she had ever seen. Long and wide, it had four rows of tall, stately plane trees running down the middle of it, the branches of which intertwined overhead to form an immense, elongated arch. Nicky felt as though she and Clee were walking down a pale green tunnel made entirely of leaves. It seemed endless, since it stretched a good five hundred yards or so, and placed at intervals down the center between the trees were three nineteenth-century fountains that sprayed arcs of crystal-clear water up into the diffused morning sunlight. The sunny side of the cours was lined with sprawling cafes, standing in the shade on the other side were handsome and ancient buildings, many of them private residences.

"Clee, it's extraordinary, and so lovely," Nicky exclaimed, turning to him, her face a picture of delight.

"Isn't it just. I knew you'd be impressed, everyone is. And in my opinion this is the most beautiful main street in any city anywhere in the world. There's a certain elegance about it--the interplay of the architecture, the trees, the fountains, and the way the space has been so brilliantly arranged, and it's always at its best in the spring and summer." He paused, gave her a smile and said, "Now, let's pick a cafe and have coffee, before we plunge into the old town behind the cours so that you can visit some of the local ateliers."

"You don't really have to come shopping with me," she said quickly.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to browse around a bookstore while I pick up a few gifts."

"Nope, I'm coming with you." He tightened his grip on her hand and glanced down at her, the boyish smile playing around his mouth. "I'm not letting you out of my sight for the next three days. I've got to make the most of you, honeybunch."

Nicky laughed. "I haven't heard that term of endearment for years. My mother used to call me honeybunch when I was little."

"Isn't that odd, so did mine," Clee said, and led her toward a lively-looking cafe close to the Fontaine de la Rotonde, the huge fountain that dominated the western entrance to the boulevard.

Although the cafe terrace was full of attractive young people, pretty girls and handsome young men who were obviously university students, there were several empty tables. A couple of these were close to the windows in the shade of an awning and slightly removed from the busy sidewalk.

Scanning the area, Clee chose one of the tables near the cafe's windows, and as they sat down he said, "We can cool offhere and watch the world go by at the same time. I love French cafes, they're so convivial, yet they can also be quite private in a certain way."

Taking off his sunglasses, he drew close to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. "See what I mean?"

"Yes." She smiled, looking into his eyes.

A waiter was with them almost immediately and Clee ordered cafe' all lait for them both, and once they were alone again he relaxed in his chair and turned to face her. I like most of the titles you wrote down for me last night, but my favorite is Children of the Beijing

Spring."

I'd love to use that for our book, Nick."

"I'm flattered!" Her pleasure was evident, and she added, "It happens to be my favorite, too."

He leaned across the table and kissed her on the lips again. "Now that we have a title, we're in business, babe."

"With those superb photographs you took, you were always in business,

Clee. No question about that, and my text is of secondary importance.

After all, it is a picture book."

"True. On the other hand, the introduction is pretty damned important--not only to underscore my pictures but to explain China, the politics, the events leading up to the Tiananmen demonstrations, and the massacre. Few people understand how it all came about."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, and on the plane on Sunday I'll make some notes. I think I'll have a bit of reading to do before I start writing the introduction. Incidentally, I've been thinking--" She broke off as the waiter arrived with the coffee.

"Merci, " she and Clee said almost in unison, and then she went on,

"What I started to say is that I've been thinking about our working arrangements, and it occurred to me that you might like to spend a couple of weekends in New Milford, at my parents' place, when you're in

New York later this month. A few years ago my father built a studio across the lawn from the main house, and I think it's a terrific place to work. We could really spread out there--you know, arrange the pictures consecutively, and in an orderly fashion, even do a pagination. We could leave everything laid out there on card tables, no one would touch it during the week."

"It sounds great, but what about your parents? Don't they use the studio to write in?"

Nicky shook her head and began to laugh. "When Dad built the studio it was actually for my mother, his gift to her. He thought she would enjoy working there. It's airy, spacious, quiet and very peaceful."

"And didn't she?"

"No. I think perhaps it was too peaceful, if you want to know the truth. She loved it for only about a month. Then she moved back into the house, into the small room that opens off their bedroom.

She told Dad she felt more comfortable writing in a room she'd been using for years. That's true I'm sure, but knowing my mother, she also likes being in the house, in the center of all of that swirling activity. I suppose it is lonely enough writing long, complicated books without being isolated across the garden, away from my father, the housekeeper, the telephones and a busy household."

"Doesn't your father use the studio?"

"Not very often. I suspect he likes being close to my mother, and also in the middle of all that activity just as much as she does.

So he pushes his pen, or rather his word processor, in the library, which is where he has always written his column--that way, he's close to the kitchen, can pop in for a cup of tea or coffee and chat with Annie, the housekeeper, or Bert, the gardener. Anyway, the point is we could easily set up shop there, if you want to."

"Will your parents mind?"

"Of course not! Anyway, since meeting you in Paris last year they've been rather taken with you."

"Is their daughter?"

Nicky took offher sunglasses and gave him a long penetrating look. She asked, somewhat coyly, "Is their daughter what?"

"Taken with me?"

"Oh, yes."

"She'd better be."

"She is--definitely--absolutely--taken with Cleeland Donovan ." Clee bent closer to her across the zinc-topped table and took her hand in his. "These last few days have been so wonderful, Nick.

It's never been quite like this before, for me. There's something I want to say--about you and me--the way I feel about you, darling, and--" "Please don't say anything, Clee," she interrupted, her voice as low as his had been. "Please, not now, not yet." She gently extricated her hand and sat back in her chair, looking solemn.

"But why not?" he asked, perplexed.

Nicky was silent for a moment, then said, "I want this, want us, to go slowly.... I don't want you--No, I don't want either of us to say anything now that we might regret--that we might change our minds about later. I want you to be really sure before you say anything at all to me. And I want to be sure, too. Sure about what I really feel for you."

"But I am sure," he began and stopped, understanding that she was afraid of commitments because of the fiasco of her engagement. "I see what you mean, Nicky, and you're right, of course you are. I know how much Charles Devereaux hurt you." The words slipped out before he could stop them. He could have bitten off his tongue, and he stared at her in confusion, appalled at himself.

ReM K She gaped at him, her face drained of its vivacity. Instantly it became terribly still, and closed. She did not say a word, merely glanced away.

Clee reached for her hand again, held her fingers tightly in his, wondering how to make amends. He was a clumsy fool and he had obviously upset her. She did not have to utter one word for him to recognize that. He had read it on her face the very second he had spoken.

"Look at me, Nick."

Gradually she turned her head, brought her gaze to meet his.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "really sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned his name."

"It's all right," Nicky replied after a few seconds and forced herself to smile. "Honestly, it is. I just don't like to talk about him.

Whenever I do, unpleasant memories inevitably get stirred up. Anyway, talking about him serves no purpose. He was the past. I prefer to think of the future."

"I couldn't agree more." He took a deep breath, wanting this awkward moment to pass as quickly as possible.

"Clee, you look upset. Please don't be. It was only natural for you to mention Charles. After all, we were engaged."

"I'm pretty dumb though, at times."

"I don't think you are." The dark expression that had been clouding her lovely eyes disappeared, and she smiled at him, then picked up her cup and took a sip. "The coffee's gone cold," she remarked evenly.

"Shall we order two more hot ones?"

Clee nodded, motioned to the waiter and gave the order. Then he said to her, "You told me you wanted to get your mother some Provencal fabric. I know just the right shop in the old town.

They'll even send it back to the States for you."

"Wonderful." Nicky began to tell him about the gifts she wanted to buy andfor whom, and much to his relief her voice sounded normal again, and he relaxed.

A short while later they left the cafe, wandered offinto the old town situated behind the cours Mirabeau. They walked through the tiny, narrow streets, stopping to look in the windows of the smart new boutiques as well as the much older establishments selling liqueurs, cheeses, local produce, crafts and fanciful Provencal creations.

Clee took her into the atelier Fouque, where santons were made.

These little figures of local peasants, created from clay or dough and beautifully painted in bright colors, were amazingly lifelike, and Nicky purchased a whole collection of them for her father. After Clee had introduced her to Paul Fouque, one of the great masters of santon making, they stood and watched him at work for fifteen minutes before heading to the confectionery to buy calissons. This locally made almond-paste sweet was Amelie's favorite, according to Clee, and Nicky wanted to give her a box of it, along with the silk scarf she had bought for her the day before, when Clee had taken her to Saint-Remy.

A short while later they walked down to the Souleiado shop. Here Nicky selected several bolts of beautiful fabrics in the colorful traditional patterns of Provence, and arranged for these to be shipped to her mother in New York. Then she picked out several address books covered in similar fabrics for girlfriends, and these she took with her, as well as various aprons and other small items.

They continued to meander through the cobbled streets, stepping into all kinds of little shops, sometimes merely to look around and savor the atmosphere. In one shop, Nicky made a few purchases of lavender essence, bags of lavender, and bags of Herbes de Provence.

When the herbs were being wrapped, she turned to Clee and grinned.

"You do know I can buy all of this stuff in New York, don't you? At Bloomingdale's, actually. And exactly the same products, too. But it's not quite the same as bringing it from here."

"No, it isn't," he agreed, accepting the shopping bag from the proprietor and guiding her out of the shop. "Come on, I want to show you the place d'Albertas, it's very quaint, and then we'd better be getting back to the farm for lunch."

"Oh God, not another meal," she groaned, and grimaced through her laughter.

Holding her arm, Clee led her toward the ancient square.

"Speaking of meals, I told Amelie to make a very light lunch, just a green salad, cold chicken and fruit. I'm taking you somewhere very special for dinner tonight."

"Where?" She looked at him quickly.

"It's quite a famous restaurant, people go there from all over the world, and it's elegant. So if you didn't bring a dress, Nicky, we'd better go and buy one now. There are several chic boutiques around here."

"It's all right, Clee, I packed a couple of silk dresses. And my pearls, just in case. So you can take me anywhere."

Clee's bedroom was shady and pleasant, the bright afternoon sunlight outside blocked by the wooden shutters, the warm air cooled by the ceiling fan.

They were lying close together on the bed, bodies touching, resting now after their frantic lovemaking. Clee had brought her here after lunch, to rest, he had said, but within minutes the inevitable had happened.

Clee had started to kiss her and touch her, and she had responded ardently, as always instantly on fire whenever she felt his hands on her in that particular way. They had undressed each other, and once they were naked he had taken her to him swiftly, and once more their wild ecstasy had begun.

It now struck Nicky how odd it was that they had known each other for two years and had never in that time thought of making love.

But in the last few days they hadn't been able to get enough of each other, were unable to keep their hands off each other when they were alone.

Nicky moved her head slightly on the pillow to look at him. Clee was stretched out on his back, as she was. His eyes were closed, his thick dark lashes resting lightly on his bronzed cheeks. He took the sun well, had acquired a tan since he had been at the farm. His whole body was a golden brown, except for the white triangle below his stomach that had been covered by his swimming trunks.

In repose his face had a sweet gentleness to it, and his mouth, so wide and generous, was endearing. She had a sudden impulse to reach out and touch his mouth, but refrained, not wishing to awaken him.

Cleeland Donovan. She said his name to herself. He was a lovely man, a decent man, who did not have one bad bone in his body. He was honest and just and kind and fair. And so very trustworthy.

Her mother had a phrase for people who were genuinely admirable.

True-blue, she called them. Cleeland Donovan was definitely true-blue.

He was her closest and dearest friend and she had loved him like a brother right from the beginning of their friendship. But now he was her lover. They were sexually involved with each other, and obviously well on the way to becoming emotionally entangled.

Perhaps they already were. She wasn't sure what would happen, what would become of them, how long they would be together in this way. But she did know she could trust him implicitly. With her life, as he had proved in Beijing. He was that type of man, courageous and dependable and strong. She felt safe with Clee.

She always had, right from the beginning. He gave her a sense of being cared for, of being completely protected.

Clee opened his eyes quite suddenly and caught her studying him.

He reached for her and, pulling her into his arms, nuzzled his face in her neck. He whispered against her ear, "You had such a pensive look on your face when I opened my eyes--what were you thinking about?"

"You, actually."

"Ah, I see. And what were you thinking about me?"

"I decided you were--true-blue. That's what my mother calls people she admires."

She felt him smile against her neck.

He said, "Is that a roundabout way of telling me you admire me?"

Not waiting for her answer, he added, "I wish you felt something more than admiration."

"I do," she protested, "I feel a lot of things--" She broke off, pulled away and looked into his dark brown eyes, which were dancing with mischief. "Oh, you! You!" she cried, putting her hand against his chest, making a weak attempt to push him away.

"You were trying to trap me into saying something I may later regret.

" "Who, me? Never." He grinned at her, and brought her back into the circle of his arms. Stroking her hair gently, he then began to smooth his hands down over her back, and found her mouth with his, devoured it, and ever so slowly he began to make love to her.

Instantly Nicky was aflame, hungry for him even though they had made love only a couple of hours ago. She ached to feel the hardness of him inside her, ached to be joined to him, to be part of him.

As if he could read her mind, he was suddenly on top of her, bracing his hands on either side of her body, pushing himself up above her, looking down into her face.

She reached up to touch him, let her fingers trace a delicate line across his mouth, her eyes focused on his, and intently so.

He returned her glaze unblinkingly, and entered her with that same force he had used the first night they had made love in the garden, and it brought a cry of surprise and pain to her lips. He paid no attention, worked against her harder and harder, and the pain eased and she was opening up to him, flowing to him. She wrapped her arms and legs around his body, binding him to her, her skin against his skin, her breath mingling with his breath.

Clee kissed her hard, almost with violence, and then unexpectedly he arched back and away from her, groaning as if in anguish. "I love you, Nicky," he cried. "I love you." She felt him flowing into her as she had flowed into him only a split second before, and at this moment she thought, And I am falling in love with you. But she was unable to say this, and so remained silent, holding him close when he collapsed against her and buried his face in her hair. lee paused in the doorway of the library and leaned against the doorjamb, staring at Nicky.

"Hi," she said, smiling, and walked toward him.

The dress she wore had a round neck and no sleeves, it was cut loose and full, and fell in folds from ruching on the shoulders.

Its color was a delphinium blue that exactly matched her marvelous eyes, and as she moved forward the light silk swirled around her like a cloud. The pearls encircling her throat in a choker and the matching studs on her ears looked unusually luminous against her tan, and with her golden skin, golden hair and brilliant eyes Clee thought there was a special kind of sheen about her tonight.

When she stood in front of him he saw, on closer inspection, that she had the inner glow of a woman who has recently been well and truly loved, and who has loved in return. There was a subtle sexuality about hen-a rosy bloom on her skin, a ripeness around her mouth, and a wise and knowing expression in her eyes.

It was an unmistakable look, and one that a man always recognizes.

"You look gorgeous, Nicky," he said, taking hold of her bare arm possessively, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

"You don't look so bad yourself," she responded, eyeing him appraisingly, noting the excellent cut of his cream sports jacket, the fineness of the cream voile shirt that set off his tan and dark coloring, the expensive wine silk tie, the well-tailored black linen slacks and highly polished black loafers. After giving him another admiring glance, she added, "Good enough to eat, in fact."

"We'll leave that for later," he quipped, breaking into a chuckle.

Moving her forward toward the landing, he went on, "We'd better be on our way. I had a tough time getting a table, and I don't want to lose it."

A few minutes later Clee was pulling his car out of the courtyard and rolling down the driveway.

Nicky asked him, "Where are we going? You've been so mysterious.

"Have I? I didn't mean to be." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then brought his gaze back to the road to concentrate on his driving. Then he explained, "We're going to Les Baux, a town not far from here, just beyond Saint-Remy. The restaurant is called L'Oustau de Baumaniere. It's a charming place and the food is excellent. And I know, before you say it again for the umpteenth time, you've had enough meals to last you a lifetime. But you don't have to eat very much, Nick, just a taste. And in any case, I really wanted to take you there because it's a unique spot, and besides, tonight's a celebration."

"What are we celebrating?" She turned to look at him, wedging herself in the corner of the seat, resting her shoulder against the car window.

"We're celebrating our book--which we now have a title for. And a few other things."

"Such as what?"

"I'll tell you later."

Clee turned on the tape player and the car was instantly flooded with Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. They drove in silence for a long while, listening to the music, and as usual they were at ease with each other whether they spoke or not.

But at one moment, as they were passing through Saint-Remy, Nicky suddenly said, "Les Baux rings a bell--I think my mother had several references to it in one of her books. But I can't remember ecactly why, or which book, for that matter."

"Les Baux is very old," Clee told her. "It's a feudal city that's been around for hundreds of years, and it sits on rocky outcroppings high above some of the deep valleys in this region.

It's mostly ruins now, a sort of ghost town in a sense. Still, it's quite imposing in its aerie, and it was famous in the Middle Ages, from the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries, when the Lords of Baux ruled the area. They were rather bloody and violent, ferocious men, rough, and yet they gave their patronage to the troubadours--" "Of course!"

Nicky exclaimed. "That's it! Troubadours. Now I remember. My mother wrote about Les Baux in her book on Eleanor of Aquitaine, when she touched on Eleanor's patronage of Bernard de Ventadour, one of the most famous troubadours of all. It was at Les Baux that respect for the lady and the ritual of worshiping her beauty began. The first troubadours started writing, singing and playing their lutes there."

"Exactly," Clee responded, "and the Baux fortress in its heyday and at the height of its great splendor was renowned for its Court of Love and chivalry toward women."

"I'm so glad we're going there, Clee. My mother will be fascinated to hear all about it when I get back to New York."

"I'm not planning to take you up to the fortress and the ruins tonight," Clee said quickly, glancing at her askance. "It's far too complicated, not to mention a strenuous climb. You'd never make it in those high heels."

Nicky laughed. "That's all right, I don't feel much like sightseeing, or climbing to great heights this evening."

Soon Clee was pulling up outside L'Oustau de Baumaniere, which was set under the white stone cliffs below the ancient town of Les Baux.

After parking the car, he ushered Nicky into the famous restaurant, where they were greeted pleasantly by the maltre d', who obviously knew Clee, and who suggested they have ar outside on the terrace.

Ten minutes later Clee lifted his flute of champagne, touched it to hers and said, "Here's to you, Nicky darling."

"And to you, Clee." She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, and after taking a sip of the cold sparkling wine, she said, "Now, tell me what else we're celebrating, as well as the book."

He reached for her hand resting on the table, and placed his over it.

"We're celebrating being alive, being together, being lucky enough to have lived our lives the way we've wanted to live them-at least so far.

And most important, we're celebrating being lovers as well as friends."

"Oh, Clee, those are lovely things to say and to celebrate, and we are lucky, aren't we. Most people have so little, really."

"Sadly, that's true."

"And thank you for bringing me here tonight." She looked around her again--the terrace was ablaze with flowers, the gardens were lushly green, the varied species of trees growing under the white stone cliffs were in full bloom. She said, "This is such a beautiful place, Clee...." Sitting back in her chair, she eyed him carefully. "And what with all its ancient symbolism to do with the troubadours and their songs of love, I'm beginning to think you're a romantic at heart, however much you might want to disguise that fact."

"I don't, at least not with you, and I think you're right, I am a bit of a romantic," he admitted, giving her a halfsmile. Suddenly he became more serious and he glanced down into his drink, looking reflective.

The change in him was almost imperceptible, but Nicky noticed it, and leaning forward she asked, "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not," he answered, shaking his head. He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes riveted on hers. "I said something to you this afternoon, and because it was said at the height of passion, you probably think that I didn't really mean it. But I did, and I do, and I'm going to say it again, even if you don't wish to hear it .... " There was a small pause . "I love you, Nicky." She stared at him.

Her eyes were huge in her face and glittering brilliantly. There was no question in her mind that Clee was speaking the truth, being sincere, he didn't know any other way to be. "Clee--" she began, and stopped.

"You don't have to say you love me, Nicky. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. We have plenty of time, you and I, to find out about that. One day you'll tell me how you feel about me--when you know yourself. In the meantime I just wanted to tellyou, here and now when we're not in bed, that I love you. I have for a long time, without realizing it."

Her lips parted and she looked as if she was about to speak.

Clee shook his head. "Not a word, Nicky, not now. It's not necessary," he said, his smile warm and loving.

"But I want to say something." She hesitated a moment before murmuring, "I have all kinds of feelings for you, Clee, not the least of which is my--my physical passion for you." She was on the verge of telling him that she thought she was falling in love with him, and then changed her mind. Instead, she said, "And I do love you, as my dearest friend...." Her sentence trailed off.

"I know you do." He squeezed her hand. "Don't look so worried .

" Nicky laughed. "I didn't realize I did." She sighed lightly.

"These past few days have been just--glorious, Clee, there's no other way of describing them." A wistful expression flitted across her face.

"I'm so sorry they're coming to an end."

"But they're not. You'll be with me tomorrow night in Paris, and on Friday and Saturday, before you leave for the States on Sunday." He stroked her arm lightly, traced little lines up and down with his fingertips. "Three whole days and nights, not counting this evening.

" Bending into her, he kissed the tip of her nose. "And I'm going to make love to you the entire time-circumstances and surroundings permitting."

T lhe interior of the restaurant was as eye-catching as the exterior.

An arched ceiling, stone walls and matching floor gave it a medieval feeling, as did the high-backed chairs covered in blue and-gold brocade velvet, the Provencal antiques made of dark wood and the lantern-style ceiling lamps. Pretty floral cloths covered the tables, each of which had its own three-branch silver candelabra and bowl of flowers, and there were other huge arrangements of colorful blooms scattered throughout.

Because Clee had ordered the dinner while they were sitting outside on the terrace drinking champagne, they were served their first course almost immediately. Nicky had selected melon, Clee one of the specialties of the house, ravioli with truffles and leeks, which he. insisted she try.

"Just one piece," he cajoled, "it's delicious. It'll melt in your mouth." Spearing a square of ravioli with his fork, he leaned over the table and fed it to her. He watched her eat it, his dark eyes full of love for her.

"It is wonderful," she said, and dug her spoon into the sweet and succulent Cavaillon melon, which Amelie kept insisting was the best in the whole of France. She decided Amelie was correct.

While they waited for their main course, Clee spoke about the book and the various sequences for the photographs that he had been planning since his return from Beijing. When he had explained everything to her, he leaned back and said, "Well, what do you think?"

"It sounds great, and anyway, you know best, Clee, you really do.

You've done these books before, whereas I'm just a novice-besides, I'm only writing the introduction."

"Don't say only' in that way, the words are just as important as the pictures."

"Not really. But it's nice of you to say so."

"I was thinking of dedicating the book to Yoyo, and to the memory of Mai. How do you feel about that?"

"Oh, Clee, what a good idea. By the way, I've been wanting to tell you, I'm feeling very positive about Yoyo and have been for the past few days. I feel sure he's going to make it."

"We've got to keep on believing that."

The wine waiter was suddenly at their table, pouring more of the white wine with which they had commenced their meal. "It is an excellent wine, is it not, Monsieur Donovan?" he said.

"Marvelous. And I've had this particular Puligny-Montrachet before.

In fact, you recommended it to me the last time I was here ."

"I believe I did," the wine waiter responded with a deferential smile.

"I hope you like this wine, Nicky," Clee said. "I ordered it because it has enough power to hold its own with the richestflavored food, and the daurade we both chose has a rich orange sauce. Also, the fish itself is flavored with herbs.

Anyway, I think this fruity Chardonnay goes well with it." Clee shifted in his chair, turned the bottle around and studied it for a cond. "This is a great label--Clos du Vieux Chateau, Laboure-Roi, and it comes from the world's capital of Chardonnay, the village in the Cote d'Or where no other type of grape is grown."

Nicky sat gaping at Clee, taken aback by this unexpected display of knowledge about wine. Finding her voice, she said, "I didn't know you were a connoisseur of wine."

"Good God, I'm not, In hardly an expert!" He looked across at her, and explained, "I just happen to like good wine, and since I live in France, I've made a point of knowing a bit about some of the best vineyards. After all, I can't always drink that plonk we make at the farm." He frowned. "What is it, Nick? You've got the queerest look on your face."

Nicky shivered slightly and a small nervous laugh escaped. "I had a funny sense of deja vu, as if I'd heard those exact words before, but of course I haven't."

"We've never discussed wine before."

No, but Charles always talked about wine, she thought, and she picked up her glass and took a sip of the Puligny-Montrachet. "It is good, Clee. Delicious."

At this moment the main course arrived, accompanied by several waiters.

It was served to them with quite a few elaborate flourishes. Nicky caught Clee's eye and winked at him, and he had to swallow the laughter rising in his throat.

When they were finally left alone to eat the fish, he grinned at her.

"That wink and the expression on your face said more to me than a thousand words ever could."

"Isn't that what I keep telling you?"

"And I don't recall disagreeing with you. How's the dauade, do you like it?"

"Yes, thank you, and it's one of my favorites. I often had it as a child when my parents brought me down to the South of France.

And fish isn't fattening."

"Will you stick around me if I promise to serve you only bread and water?" he said teasingly, but his eyes were serious.

Nicky noticed the expression in them and nodded. "I'll stick around, Clee--" Putting down his fork, he said, "What are you doing in September?"

"Why?"

"You told me the network owes you a lot of time off, and I thought that you might like to come back here in September. To the farm--to be with me. I plan to take a break then, and it's lovely here at that time of year. The July and August tourists have split, and it's peaceful."

"I'd love to come, if I've finished the script for my fall special. " "Try, " he said.

"I will. I'll work like a madwoman through the rest of July and August."

"Promise?"

"I do."

"Don't think I won't hold you to that, because I will." Clee brought his head closer to hers, and said, sotto voce, "I don't want you to turn around, but there's a woman over there who hasn't been able to take her eyes offyou since she sat down. I have a feeling she knows you."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because she looked at you several times, spoke to the man she is with, who eventually turned and glanced at you, very discreetly.

And in between her conversation with him and bites of food, she keeps looking at you."

"Perhaps she's seen me on television--perhaps she's a fan. Is she American?"

"I don't think so. She looks English to me. Very English, and so does the guy she's with. Okay, she's talking to a waiter, you can look now."

Nicky twisted in her chair and turned her head slightly. She saw the woman immediately, and her breath caught in her throat, she felt a tightening in her chest. She was about to turn back to Clee when the woman looked across the room.

Two pairs of blue eyes met and held.

The woman smiled then, her whole face lighting up with obvious pleasure.

Nicky smiled in return and lifted her hand in a small gesture of acknowledgment .

The woman spoke to her companion, who swung his head, then swiveled around in his chair and beamed at Nicky.

Nicky glanced at Clee and explained, "They're old friends, I must go and have a quick word with them. Please excuse me."

She got up and walked across the room, and Clee could not help wondering who they were. Nicky's voice had sounded odd, breathless, even strained. She's uptight all of a sudden, he decided, and he sat back in his chair, watching, filled with curiosity.

"Anne, how lovely to see you," Nicky said when she came up to the other table.

"And you, my darling," Anne responded, immediately rising, holding her close for a moment.

The man also got to his feet, and a second later he too was hugging Nicky. "You look wonderful my dear. more beautiful than ever, if I may say so."

"Oh Philip, thank you, you look pretty terrific yourself. And so do you, Anne. Please sit down, both of you, please." They did so, and Nicky leaned against the back of Anne's chair, bending slightly forward in order to speak to them. "You must think I'm very rude, Anne, I haven't been in touch for ages. I have no excuse, except that I've been traveling the world for my work."

"Darling, don't apologize, I understand perfectly. You lead a frightfully busy life. But I must admit, I have missed your phone calls--quite a lot, actually, Nicky.

However, I do realize you have another life to lead now." Anne gazed up into her face, smiling faintly. They exchanged a long look, full of understanding, then Anne said, "Who is that awfully attractive man you're with, Nicky?"

"An old friend--a colleague. Cleeland Donovan."

"The famous war photographer?" Philip asked.

"Yes," Nicky said.

"Brilliant chap. I have several of his books, and I recently saw some of the most remarkable pictures that he took in Beijing."

"In Pans Match, perhaps," Nicky said. "We were there together, covering the crackdown."

"Nasty business that. Very tragic outcome," Philip said.

"The bloodshed was unbelievable," Nicky told him, and turned to look at Anne. "Are you here on vacation?"

"Yes. We're staying with friends of Philip's at Tarascon, not far from Saint-Remy. Are you on holiday, too?"

Nicky nodded. "Clee has a farm between Saint-Remy and Air, a lovely old mas, and I've just spent a week there, resting. Clee came down for the weekend. We were both pretty done in after China."

"I can well imagine," Anne said. "I do wish you would come over to Tarascon with your friend, for lunch or dinner one day. Will you?"

"It's kind of you to invite us, Anne, but I'm afraid I have to be back in New York on Monday. I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow morning. " "What a pity, it would have been so nice to catch up--" Anne reached out and put her hand on Nicky's arm. "I've missed you."

"Oh, Anne, I know, I've missed you too, and it's all my fault.

I've been so . . . neglectful."

Anne smiled, but made no comment.

Philip volunteered, "Perhaps we can have coffee later?"

"We've almost finished dinner, Philip, and you and Anne are just starting." Her smile was rueful as she explained, "I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, to drive to Marseilles. I have an early plane to Paris."

"C'est domma,ge, " he said, sounding as disappointed as Anne had only a moment ago.

Nicky took her leave of them graciously and returned to the table.

"I'm sorry. That took longer than I expected."

"Who are they?"

"English friends."

"Is she related to you?"

"No. Why do you ask that?" Nicky's brows drew together in puzzlement.

"You look alike. Same blond hair, blue eyes, and there's even a facial resemblance."

"Oh, really?" Nicky said quickly, dismissing the idea.

"Are they here on vacation?"

Nicky nodded. "They're staying with friends in Tarascon."

"A lot of English people have homes down here these days, and smart

Parisians as well. Provence has become very popular. I hope it's not going to get taken over by the rich and the chic."

"I know what you mean," Nicky said. "That could really spoil it."

Clee expected Nicky to say more about her friends, but she made no further comment about them and merely sipped her wine in silence.

Eventually he said, "Would you like dessert? That's the one thing I didn't order when we were out on the terrace. Crepes are one of their specialties."

"No, thanks. Just coffee, Clee, please."

"I guess I'll have the same." Clee ordered for them both, and then sat studying Nicky for a few minutes. Without understanding what exactly it was, he knew there was now something different about her. On the surface her demeanor was the same as it had been all evening. Yet there had been a subtle, indefinable change in her.

Convinced that it had something to do with the English couple, he said, "The woman was very affectionate with you, Nicky. Obviously she's extremely fond of you."

"Yes, she is."

"Who are they? I mean, what are their names?"

"Philip and Anne."

"What does he do?"

"He's in Whitehall. You know, with the British Foreign Office. He has some important job, but I don't know exactly what it is."

"How do you know them?" he probed.

"Through my parents, I met them through my parents. My father's known Philip for a number of years. But why are you so interested in them, Clee?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure, except that you and she have a look of each other, and she was very loving with you. And when you were talking to her I noticed that you appeared to care, and quite deeply, for her."

"I do, in my own way."

The coffee was served, and the wine waiter came back and asked if they wished to have cognac or any other after-dinner drink. Nicky shook her head.

"No, thank you," Clee said.

Once they were alone, Nicky leaned into Clee. "I haven't told you about my fall special," she said. "I decided to call it Decade of Destruction,' a title Arch wasn't completely sold on, to tell you the truth. But I'm going to fight like hell for it. It's perfect for my show."

"What's the subject?" Clee asked, intrigued. "As if I didn't know.

The last few years of wars and uprisings and revolutions, right?"

"More or less. That's how I'm starting it, but I'm leading right into the nineties, and, in a way, sort of forecasting what's to come--that's the decade I'm referring to--1990 to the year 2000. The decade of destruction."

"Why doesn't Arch like the title?"

"He does, actually, but he thinks the network will balk, that they'll say it's too depressing."

"That figures. Still, you're a big number, and surely your opinion carries some weight."

"Only some. About this much," she said, measuring a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger. "You don't know networks."

"I thought you were going to do a special about the child soldiers, the kids we've seen fighting in Cambodia, Iran and all over the world," Clee said. "The little kids toting guns for their governments."

"I am, but that's for next spring."

They talked for a while about the two programs she was planning, and Clee decided that perhaps after all he had imagined the change in her.

She looked and sounded perfectly normal to him now.

A short while later, when they were leaving, Nicky had no alternative but to stop at the English couple's table, and she introduced Clee.

"Anne, I'd like you to meet Clee, and Clee, this is Anne."

He shook hands with the Englishwoman and she smiled up into his face, he thought she was one of the loveliest-looking women he had ever seen.

He also realized that she did not resemble Nicky facially--they simply had the same blond coloring.

"And, Philip, this is Clee," Nicky went on, and Clee let go of Anne's hand in order to greet her husband.

"We're so sorry you can't come over to see us in Tarascon," Anne said.

"But perhaps we'll meet again one day."

"I hope so," Clee replied.

"Keep up the good work," Philip said to him. "I'm a great admirer of yours--of your extraordinary photography."

"Thank you," Clee said. He was about to suggest they meet on the terrace a little later for an after-dinner drink when Nicky took hold of his arm, gripped it tightly and edged away.

"It's been lovely to see you both, but we really must go," she said to

Anne and Philip. "I'm afraid I still have to pack."

"Of course," Anne said. "And bon voya,ge, darling."

As they walked to the car, Clee remarked, "She's a really beautiful woman, but her resemblance to you is negligible. By the way, you didn't tell me their name, I mean their surname."

There was a silence.

Finally Nicky said, "They're not married. He's called Philip Rawlings

."

"And Anne?"

Nicky cleared her throat. "She's Anne Devereaux--Lady Anne Devereaux

.

" Clee stopped and swung to face her. "Is she related to Charles?" he asked, surprise reverberating in his voice.

"Yes."

"His sister?"

"No. His mother."

"But she's so young-looking!"

"She's fifty-eight. She had Charles when she was only eighteen .

" "Her husband, where's he?"

"He's dead. He has been for years."

"So Philip is her boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"She cares for you a lot, Nick, but then I've already said that."

"Yes," Nicky responded softly. "She thought of me as the daughter she'd never had."

Clee said nothing. He unlocked the car door and helped Nicky in.

As they drove off in the direction of Saint-Remy he decided not to ask any more questions about Anne Devereaux. He knew that Nicky was touchy about Charles, and he did not want to make her uncomfortable. Nicky hardly spoke on the drive back to the farm. She appeared to be far away.

Clee stole surreptitious glances at her from time to time, and he noticed how rigidly set her face had become. Even in profile this was quite apparent. Eventually he put a tape in the player in the dashboard and concentrated on his driving. He made himself relax and was soon lost in his thoughts.

After a while Nicky leaned her head against the car window and closed her eyes. Clee was not sure whether she was dozing or merely feigning sleep. His heart sank. The evening that had begun so wonderfully, so auspiciously, had suddenly fizzled out. He realized that he was vaguely angry, not just distressed, and he was aware that this was because of the change in Nicky, or rather what had wrought it. She had been reminded of the past tonight, and in the strongest possible way.

He cursed Charles Devereaux under his breath. That man seemed to have an uncanny way of coming back to haunt Nicky--and now, indirectly, him. this is one of the best scripts you've ever written, Nick," Arch said, handing it to her across his desk.

"I'm glad you like it," Nicky replied, looking pleased as she took it from him. "But let's not forget that I had some help from Ellen, Sam and Wilma, not to mention you. It was a team effort."

Arch shook his head. "No, it wasn't. Basically, it's all yours.

It's definitely got your inimitable stamp on it, and you were in cracking form when you wrote this."

"Thanks," she said, smiling at him.

"Incidentally, we're coming up with some great footage to go with the script," Arch volunteered. "Stuff we found in the archives, as you said we would. The show's going to be a prizewinner, Nick, very powerful." He leaned forward intently. "Listen, I've made a couple of changes, only minor ones, if you wouldn't mind looking them over now.

They're on pages six, twenty, and forty-one ." Nicky read the changes he had made, as well as his explanatory notes in the margin of each page. Then she looked up and nodded quickly. "You've really strengthened some of my points. Thanks, Arch. And the changes are fine, I think this does it--let's go with this script. There's nothing else to add."

"You're right, and since you approve, I'll get the script out to retype immediately."

Handing it back to him, Nicky remarked, "I suppose you've spoken to our venerable president of news again--about the title?"

"I sure have, and Larry's with us. He agrees Decade of Destruction' is a great title, and appropriate, and he's pushing it through, so don't worry. In any case, you know Larry's never been one to shy away from doom and gloom. In fact, he thinks viewers are fascinated by catastrophes, and I'm inclined to agree with him."

"So we're all set to go?" Nicky asked. "Is that what you're saying?"

"You betcha! I also got an okay from Larry for your other special--the one about the gun-toting kids. Have you had any thoughts about titles yet?"

"My working title is Innocents with Guns." What do you think?"

"Not bad, Nicky, not bad at all." Arch leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. After a moment he gave her a long, steady look.

Nicky said, "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Nothing's wrong--on the contrary, everything's right. Larry wants to move you in another direction next year, Nick, and he's going to talk to you about it."

"What kind of direction?" she asked sharply, suddenly wary.

"He wants you to do some different stuff, maybe just a fraction lighter than--" "Hey, wait a minute," she cut in peremptorily. "I've always covered hard news, politics and wars! What are you trying to tell me?

That he wants to pull me off my assignment as chief war correspondent for the network?"

"No, no, I'm not saying that at all. Just hold your horses and listen.

Don't get so excited, okay?"

"Okay. Shoot. I'm all ears."

"Larry's talking about your specials, that's all. He thought that after Decade,' which he plans to air in November, and the special on the kids with guns, which he's programming for next year, that you yourself might want a bit of a change. He was thinking of a series of interviews with world leaders--the president, Mrs. Thatcher, Gorbachev.

So, how do you feel about it?"

"Not sure, and I'll tell Larry that when we have our meeting."

She shrugged. "But it could be interesting, I suppose."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic."

"Don't be misled by my tone, Arch, I'm interested. Very interested, as a matter of fact. But you know me well enough to realize that I've got to have an angle, come up with a strong point of view, for my specials.

They can't be wishy-washy. And I'm not averse to change. On the contrary. Actually, I like innovations."

"I know that, and so does Larry, and in any case, he's looking to you, and to me, to come up with some suggestions." He flashed her a wide grin. "You can even interview movie stars, if you want." Nicky shook her head, though she was also grinning. "No, thanks.

I'm not going to try to compete with Barbara Walters. She's the best at that, and we all know it."

"Barbara also interviews political leaders, Nick, and she does a really good mix of celebrities at times. It might be worth thinking about that type of show. Let's not forget that her specials get very big ratings. And I mean big."

"I told you, she's the best. And I certainly don't want to be second best. I'll stick to my formula. Anyway, I prefer to come up with some ideas of my own." She sat back in the chair and sighed lightly. "To tell you the honest truth, Arch, a change might be what I need. I felt a bit exhausted after Beijing. Sort of burnt out."

"I know you did, and you looked it, Nicky. But I guess it was burnout time for all of us in June." There was a little pause before he said, "You're looking great now. I guess Provence did you a world of good--a7u being with Clee, of course."

"It was great," Nicky replied, her voice instantly lighter, happier.

"And he's great."

"Do I hear the sound of wedding bells?"

"Oh, Arch!"

"Hey, Nick, it's me you're talking to. Arch Leverson. I've known Cleeland Donovan a long time, and I can assure you that he's crazy about you. Hell, honey, it's written all over his face.

When we had dinner at Twenty-one' last week I knew he had it bad for you." He gave her a penetrating look. "I guess I find it hard to believe that you don't feel the same way he does."

There was a moment's hesitation on her part. "I do care for Clee," she admitted finally, sounding suddenly shy. "But that doesn't necessarily mean there's going to be a wedding." All of a sudden she walked over to the window and stood staring out, a faraway look settling on her face.

It was a beautiful Wednesday morning in the middle of August.

Nicky gazed at a sky that was an intense, vivid blue without a single cloud. The skyscrapers of Manhattan shimmered in the brilliant sunlight, and she could not help thinking how extraordinary the city looked from up here on the forty-ninth floor of the American Television Network building. There's no city like it in the whole world, she thought, and she knew that wherever she lived she would always be a New Yorker at heart. She had been born here, had lived here for the biggest part of her life. It was her city. Just as Paris was her city in its own special way, she had such happy memories of her years spent there as a child.

It would be no hardship for her to live there again....

Turning around, Nicky leaned against the wide window ledge and gazed across at Arch. Taking a deep breath, she said in a cool and careful voice, "Are you worried about me marrying Clee and moving to Paris, Arch?"

"Hell, no, Nicky, how could you possibly think a thing like that?" he asked, his voice rising several octaves in indignation.

"Because if you are, don't forget that I have a binding contract with this network, and I would never attempt to break it. Never.

Nor would my agent let me." Without pausing, she plunged on, "And in any case, whatever happens in my personal life, I have every intention of continuing my career. I love my work. It's a very big part of my life, and it always has been. I've been a broadcast journalist since I left college, as you well know, and it's in my blood. I wouldn't be myself without it."

Arch pushed back his chair and rose, his expression was serious.

Slowly he walked over to her and took hold of her by the shoulders, saying, "I don't care about this network or your contract. I only care about you, and about what happens to you. I want you to be happy, Nicky, and if Clee's the right guy for you, and if you think you can make a decent life with him, then I say go for it, grab it. Listen, honey, life's all too brief and difficult and painful, so if you have a chance of making it work with a good guy, then for God's sake do it .

Don't think about anything, or anybody, only yourself." Nicky hugged Arch to her, touched by his concern for her. Then, pulling away from him, she smiled up into his face.

"Thanks for that, Arch. Your affection for me means such a lot, and I appreciate the moral support you've always given me, that you're giving me now." Clearing her throat, she added, "And he is a good guy, isn't he?"

"And then some, Nicky, there's no man I know who is a better man than Cleeland Donovan. As my mother would say, he's a real nensch.

" Holding his arm, she led him over to the sofa, where they sat down together.

Nicky said, after a moment, "I must admit, I have been worrying a bit.

I mean worrying about how I would work it out--my career and Clee and living in Paris, if we ever did decide to get married.

Mind you, let me hasten to add, he hasn't proposed to me."

"Give him half a chance and he will."

"I'm not as certain as you are about that, Arch. Clee has always been reluctant about settling down, and for several good reasons.

He--" "I know the reasons," Arch interjected a trifle impatiently, "he's told me often enough. He doesn't want to expose a wife and family to grief and pain, should he get himself killed in the line of duty, and he doesn't want to give up the challenge, excitement and danger of being a war photographer. Isn't that what you were going to say?"

"Yes." Arch began to laugh. "That was all very easy for Clee to say before you came into his life--at least, before you became his lover.

Because, in my opinion, he'd never really been head over heels in love before. But he is with you, Nick," Arch pointed out. "Take my word for it. He loves you very deeply. I know this because I know the man so well. And I'll tell you something else-Clee would turn his life upside down for you."

Nicky had listened carefully and now she bit her lip. "Oh, I don't know...." She let the sentence trail off. A second later she exclaimed, "In any case, Clee thinks of himself as a bachelor at heart!

You know, in the same way Robert Capa was."

"It's often struck me in the past that Clee has patterned his life on Bob Capa's, but I'm not so certain of that anymore," Arch answered.

"Oh sure, Capa's been his idol since he was a kid, and he's always striven to be as great a photographer as Capa, especially on a battlefield. But I think that's where the identification stops, deep down inside himself."

"Maybe ."

"Listen, Nick, Clee's coming from a different place than Capa was, this is a different time, a different world we live in today, and we're talking about a different man. I truly believe Clee will marry, but only someone he considers to be the right woman for him, the only woman, and in my opinion, that's you."

Nicky remained silent.

Arch said, "Tell me something, honey, what would you say and do, if he did ask you to marry him?"

"I'm not sure, and I'm being absolutely honest with you, Arch, I'm just not sure."

"If you're worrying about the network, don't. We can work it out.

You're contracted to make between two and four specials a year, and those you could easily plan from Paris, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter. If you think about it, that's what you've been doing all along--coming up with ideas for specials while covering the news.

So, all you would have to do, once the planning stage was over, would be to fly in here for two or three weeks, a month at the most, to do the taping, or the live broadcast, depending on the type of special it was."

"I know, Arch, I realize that. But I'm also this network's war correspondent. How could I possibly be based in Paris?"

"I'm not sure, I'd have to give some thought to that, work something out with you, your agent, Larry Anderson and Joe Speight. The network doesn't want to lose you, Nicky, I can assure you of that, so they'd be willing to be--well, accommodating, to say the least. Also, don't lose sight of the fact that ATN has a big Paris bureau, and I don't see why you couldn't work out of that bureau, operate from there, if you had to, Nicky."

"I guess it might be a viable proposition," she agreed.

"You and Clee could cover wars together, you know. You certainly have an advantage over most women in that respect-- Clee wouldn't have to give up that side of his career for you."

"That's true, yes. But do you know something, Arch? There are days when I wonder if I want to go on being a war correspondent for the rest of my life."

If Arch Leverson was startled by this statement, he did not show it.

He merely nodded, and said, "It gets to everybody one day.

You've certainly had you bellyful of wars and revolutions these past eight years or so. I also know that one day Clee will be turned off, too, even though he thinks otherwise right now.

Burnout is not uncommon when you've seen as much killing and death as we have. It's deadly. But"--he eyed her carefully--"keep your options open for the moment, and don't make any hasty decisions about your career."

"No, I won't . . . about anything."

"I'd like to ask you something." He raised a brow quizzically.

"Go ahead."

"I know you don't like to talk about Charles Devereaux, but if I remember correctly, you weren't planning to give up your career after you'd married him. Nor were you going to move to London.

So, how were you intending to swing it?"

"Charles was eventually going to open a branch of his wine-importing company here in New York, and he was going to live here most of the time, except when he had to travel to Europe to buy wines. And, of course, he planned to keep his office and the flat in London. We were going to straddle the Atlantic, so to speak."

"I see. I guess it's a bit different with Clee, because of his photo news agency. Although, come to think of it, he could start an Image office here in New York, couldn't he? Base himself here, perhaps?"

"Everything's possible," Nicky admitted, and then shrugged lightly.

"Maybe Clee doesn't want to do that."

Arch nodded. Several other questions were on the tip of his tongue, but he decided not to ask them at this time. They could wait.

Settling back in the corner of the sofa, he remarked, "Clee told me before he left for Paris that you're going to be spending September with him at the farm. I'm glad about that, honey.

You've not taken enough time off in the past few years."

Nicky reached for his hand and squeezed it. "Thanks for caring."

"I worry about you," he admitted with a wry smile. "A lot." Then he glanced at his watch, and exclaimed, "It's time for lunch!

I've booked a table at your favorite spot--the Four Seasons. So come on, let's get going. And on my way out I'll give the script to Hildy to be sent out for a retype."

They both rose.

Nicky said, "I'll give it to her, Arch. I've got to go back to my office to get my bag and some other stuff." She picked up the script from his desk and said, "Ifyou don't need me this afternoon for further discussions on the special, I'm going to take the rest of the day off."

"I'm glad to hear it, you work far too hard."

"So my parents keep telling me," she responded and grinned at him.

"Very conveniently they forget that they set an example for me years ago, and are still setting it, in fact."

"Speaking of your parents, I hear on the ranevine that they're as crazy about Clee as he is about you."

"Grapevine! What grapevine? Surely you mean Clee told you." Arch laughed.

Nicky said, "But yes, it's true, they all got on very well when we were up in Connecticut working on the picture book. They think he's--well, wonderful."

Arch laughed again and said, "I told you once and I'll say it again, Clee is everybody's favorite, folks just love him."

"You don't have to tell the. My parents haven't stopped raving about him." Nicky hurried over to the door. "I'll pick up my things, and alert Annette that I'm not coming back after lunch, then I'll meet you at the elevators. Okay?"

"Okay, see you in five."

After lunch at the Four Seasons, Nicky went shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. Here she bought several pairs of cotton pants, a selection of cotton shirts and three summer dresses, items she needed for her vacation in Provence in September.

Then she walked across town slowly, heading back to her apartment, which was located on Sutton Place, overlooking the East River and part of downtown Manhattan.

It was a stifling hot afternoon, somewhere around 100 degrees, and even though she was wearing a lightweight cotton suit she soon felt damp and sticky. She was glad when she finally arrived at her building and stepped inside the cool, dim lobby.

After picking up her mail, she took the elevator to the top floor, where she had a large and airy penthouse. Gertrude, her maid, who came every day whether Nicky was in town or not, had closed all the blinds at the windows and turned up the air-conditioning before leaving for the day. In consequence, the apartment was beautifully cool and shady, and it was a relief to Nicky to be inside after tramping through the boiling hot streets of Manhattan.

Nicky dumped the Bergdorf shopping bags on the floor of her bedroom with its sea-green walls, matching carpet and French country furnishings, and went back through the hall to the kitchen. She took out a bottle of carbonated water from the refrigerator, poured a glass, drank some of it thirstily and carried it back to the bedroom.

Shedding her smart little summer Trigere, she hung the black-and-white suit in the large walk-in closet, then slipped on one of the loose cotton caftans she had bought on a trip to Morocco some years before.

Several minutes later Nicky was seated behind her desk in her book-lined library-den. This had a magnificent view of the river, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, and the other soaring skyscrapers that stretched from midtown down to the twin towers on the tip of Manhattan Island.

Taking a long swallow of the water, she glanced at the carriage clock on the English Victorian desk, and was surprised to see that it was almost six o'clock. The folder in front of her was marked Childf en of the Beiin,g Srin,g, she opened it and glanced at the first few pages of her introduction to Clee's book. Annette, her secretary, had sent it to him by courier several days ago, and he had phoned her very early this morning from Paris to tell her that it was perfect, that he loved it. Nicky was delighted he had been so pleased, and that he had not minded the length. It was only fifty pages of typescript, and Clee had said she had told everything succinctly but movingly. "I'd rather have it short and brilliant than long and boring," he had said before hanging up.

Nicky now put the folder away in one of the deep drawers of the desk, and began to sort through her mail, which she had brought in with her from the bedroom. There was nothing of consequence--a few bills, postcards from several friends away on summer vacations, and a letter from her lawyer about Nickwell, her own production company. But not even this was of any great importance, so she put the mail in the black lacquer Japanese tray on her desk to be dealt with another day.

On her way back to the kitchen, carrying the empty glass, she paused in the doorway of the living room, looking at it with a keen and critical eye. There was no question that it was beautiful, nobody could deny that. It was large, with a huge picture window that also looked downtown, and was furnished with English antique pieces and decorated throughout in light colors.

Primarily she had used varying shades of peach and apricot, pale greens and blues, and it was a room that was especially effective at night, warm and mellow and inviting.

Nicky loved her apartment floating high in the sky. Light-filled, airy and cheerful, it was a joy to be in, whatever the time of day or night, and whatever the weather was like outside. It was sunny and lighthearted when the weather was good, it was highly dramatic in a thunderstorm or blizzard. After dark it became part of the fairyland that was Manhattan when the lights came on and glittered brilliantly outside the apartment's many windows.

Her parents had persuaded her to buy the apartment four years ago, and she was glad that she had. It was a real home, and something of a refuge for her between her travels and foreign assignments.

In the kitchen, which was white and blue, sleek and modern and convenient, Nicky poured herself another glass of water and returned to the library.

Flopping down on the sofa, she propped her feet on the coffee table and focused her thoughts on Clee and their affair, ruminating on everything that Arch had said in the office and, later, over lunch.

Of course, he had made it sound easy, but in her opinion he had oversimplified the situation. She still wasn't so sure she could handle Clee, marriage, living in Paris and her career in American television, which necessitated her being here in New York part of the time, at least.

Oh, yes, you can, a small voice inside her head told her.

Maybe I can at that, she thought, and laughed out loud. Like most other modern young women, she wanted it all. And then some. Was that possible?

Also, if she and Clee did marry, he might want to have a child.

Did she? Some days, the answer was yes. Others, it was no, and most especially when she reflected about the horrors she reported on, and on a daily basis. Who would want to bring a child into a terrible world like this? Only a madwoman, surely?

Her mother, the historian, kept saying that the world had always been a pretty lousy place--since time immemorial, in fact.

"You mustn't, indeed you can't have these attitudes," her mother had recently said to her. "If over the centuries everyone had thought as you do and decided not to procreate because of the evil and horror in the world, then the human race today would be extinct." Well, there was no denying her mother was a wise woman.

Still . . .

Nicky let these thoughts go, sighing heavily. Leaning her head against the chintz cushions on the sofa, she closed her eyes and drifted with her complex reflections about her life.

In a sense, what it finally boiled down to was her feelings for Clee.

She was emotionally involved with him, and her physical passion for him knew no bounds. But was she really in love with him? And sufficiently enough to make a life with him? Forever? l Might she not be merely infatuated? She wasn't sure. Anyway, although he had twice told her he loved her, once in bed and once at the restaurant at Les Baux, he had not said those words to her again.

Furthermore, he had never ever mentioned marriage. And did she want to marry Clee? I just don't know, she answered herself.

Nicky sat up and opened her eyes, feeling suddenly irritated with herself. Why was she so ambivalent? She had no answer, at least not exactly. However, she was fully aware of the importance of her career.

It was her lifeblood, in all truth. Was that at the root of it? Was that the stumbling block? The fact was, Clee lived in Paris and liked living there, and obviously did not want to return to the States to take up residence. She lived in New York and needed to, because the network was here and she was a big number in American television.

Maybe that is the reason I'm so uncertain, she finally admitted, and grimaced wryly to herself.

She obviously wasn't prepared to jeopardize her brilliant career.

A few minutes later Nicky automatically glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to seven and time to put ATN on, to catch the evening news on her own network with anchorman Mike Fowler, to whom she was close.

She stepped over to the bookshelves, where the large television set was housed, turned it on and went back to the sofa.

The initial coverage was the local New York news, and Nicky paid scant attention to this. She picked up Time magazine from the coffee table, flipped the pages to the section on the press and began to read, listening with only half an ear.

A short while later, at the sound of the familiar music, the splendid, rather grand theme that heralded ATN's nightly national and international news, Nicky lifted her head.

There sat Mike looking as wonderful and as reassuring as he always did.

Like Peter Jennings of ABC, Mike was extremely good-looking and glamorous, but also a superb journalist. Peter and Mike were two of the best in the business as far as she was concerned. First-rate reporters who got the point, were informative and reasonable, and for those reasons they took all the ratings.

Only vaguely listening to Mike giving the headlines of the world news, she continued to read the Time piece, and went on reading it as he gave more in-depth details of the national news.

But when she heard the voice of her channel's Rome correspondent, Tony Johnson, Nicky looked up, suddenly more attentive.

She listened carefully as he told of a shooting incident at a political rally outside Rome. Several people had been hit when a gunman had gone berserk and fired a machine gun into the crowd.

Tony said there was speculation that the incident had really been an assassination attempt by the opposition party.

As the camera moved away from Tony, and slowly panned around, it lingered for a moment on a group to the left of the speakers' platform, then settled briefly on a face in the crowd.

Suddenly Nicky sat bolt upright, and stared in shock at a face on the screen. "Charles!" she said. "It's Charles!" But how could it be?

Charles Devereaux was dead.

Charles Devereaux had killed himself two and a half years ago, just a few weeks before their wedding. How could he be in Rome, larger than life? No, it can't be Charles, Nicky thought. Charles had drowned off the English coast.

It was true, however, that his body had never been found.

Suddenly Nicky knew, yes, it was he. Charles Devereaux was alive.

But how could that be? Why had he disappeared from her life? And what was she going, to do about it, if anything? l _ I PART THREE. the house where Anne Devereaux lived was old, very old, a venerable place of historical significance as well as of singular beauty.

Pullenbrook was its name, and it stood on a low plateau of parkland in a dell beneath the rolling hills of the South Downs.

Cradled deep in the heart of the Sussex countryside, it was unusually secluded for a great house of its kind. Because it was hidden in the folds of the pastoral land, the tips of its chimneys became visible only at the very last moment of approaching it. Then, unexpectedly, the manor could be seen through the lush green foliage of the high trees that fringed the edge of the park, and the view never failed to take one's breath away.

Built in 1565 by an ancestor of Anne's, it was a Tudor house of exceptional distinction, typical of the Elizabethan period, with its gray stone walls, half-timbered gables, soaring leaded windows, square-cut bays and many tall chimneys. Clustered around the main house were the outbuildings, the stables, a small church and two walled gardens, flaring out on either side and running along the front facade was the lovely park where fallow deer grazed as they had for centuries.

A house of unchanging appearance, it had remained much the same since it was built by one Sir Edmund Clifford, a magnate and warrior knight in service to Elizabeth Tudor, the queen of England. The lands of Pullen were granted to Sir Edmund by the queen in gratitude for services rendered to the Crown, later she showered him with more royal favors when she elevated him to the peerage by creating him Earl Clifford of Allendale, and giving him Castle Allendale and additional lands in Sussex.

Edmund, his eldest son, Thomas--who became the second earl--and his subsequent descendants divided their time between the manor and the castle. But by the end of the seventeenth century the Cliffords were residing permanently at the castle, which had grown in size and magnificence over the years, and in consequence the manor house was used only part of the year. However, it had always been kept in good repair and its outer structure and interiors were unimpaired over the centuries.

Fortunately, because the Clifford family lived mostly at Castle Allendale for the next few hundred years, Pullenbrook had been saved from certain and perhaps excessive modernization, and so it had retained its purity of architecture and Tudor character.

It was Anne's grandfather, the ninth earl named for the first, who preferred to live at the manor rather than at the great castle, and thus, in 1910, Pullenbrook once again became the main residence of the Cliffords. His son, Julian, the tenth earl and Anne's father, followed this tradition and resided at the manor house until his death.

Anne Clifford Devereaux's entire life had been spent at Pullenbrook.

She was born there on April 26, 1931. As the daughter of an earl she had the honorary title of lady, a title that was retained even after marriage. She was raised in the ancient house, married from it in 1948, and three years later she had returned to live there as a young widow with a small son. At this time in her life she had needed to be in the bosom of her family, rather than alone in the grand London town house her late husband, Henry Devereaux, had left her.

When her brother, Geoffrey, had inherited the Clifford earldom, estates and lands, after their father's death in 1955, he had chosen to make Castle Allendale his home. And understanding how much his sister cared for the manor in West Sussex, he had suggested she continue to live there for as long as she wished, and whether or not she remarried.

Thirty-four years later she was still in residence, cha^telaine of the house for her brother. To say that Anne loved Pullenbrook was something of an understatement. In a sense, she revered it, and much of her life revolved around it, because it gave her constant succor and comfort. She felt safe and protected within its familiar walls, and derived much pleasure from its ancient and stately beauty, its timelessness, the continuity of family line and history it represented.

There were times when she wondered what she would have done without the house, for it had seen her through many hours of unhappiness--sadness, loneliness and heartache, grief, sorrow and illness. Its very existence over so many centuries seemed to reassure her that she too could, indeed would, survive.

Now on this Saturday morning in August Anne came into the Great Hall, her step light, her high heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. Carrying a bowl of roses, she stood poised in the doorway, marveling at the hall's peaceful beauty, as she so frequently did. It never failed to cast a spell over her.

Thousands of dust motes rose up in the shafts of trembling light that slanted in through the leaded windows, but otherwise there was no motion whatsoever in the room. It was all stillness, filled with bright sunlight that burnished the ancient wood pieces, gave them a mellow glow and brought into focus the old paintings of her ancestors by such master portraitists as Lely, Gainsborough and Romney.

A fleeting smile crossed her face. Every aspect of the house gave her immense pleasure, but this room in particular was a special favorite.

Moving toward the long refectory table, Anne placed the roses in the center of it, stepping back, she eyed them critically. The head gardener had picked the flowers earlier that morning and they were beautiful. In various shades of pink, they looked perfect in the silver bowl engraved with the family crest that gleamed against the ripe old wood of the table. The roses were full blown, and several petals suddenly fell off. She was about to pick them up, but changed her mind--she left them lying where they were, thinking how natural they looked next to the silver bowl.

Anne went back through the heavy carved-wood door leading into the private quarters of the house, which were not open to the public.

The flower room, where she had been working, was off to one side, across a small stone-flagged foyer, and Anne went in, lifted the last vase of flowers from the old deal worktable and took it down the corridor to the drawing room. This was a wonderfully spacious room with a series of soaring leaded windows set in a square-cut bay, a huge stone fireplace and a high coffered ceiling. The room had been decorated mostly in shades of green, such as celadon, which were repeated in various upholstery fabrics and in the Aubusson carpet on the floor, some of the greens were so pale they were almost a silvery gray. Fine Georgian antiques and paintings graced the room, which, like the Great Hall, had an air of timelessness and tranquillity about it.

After placing the tall crystal vase of white roses on an antique fruitwood table in the center of the room, Anne hurried out to the small parlor she used as an office. Cozy and comfortable, this seemed full of sunshine because of its yellow walls, a raspberry-colored carpet stretched across the floor, and a loveseat covered in a raspberry-and-white striped fabric was placed in front of the fireplace. The most important piece of furniture in the room was the Georgian walnut desk where Anne now sat going through the morning mail.

After reading it all, she picked up the menus she had written out for Pilar, the cook, and glanced at them again. Then she looked over the list of things to do, which she had scribbled the night before, and systematically began to check off those chores she had already accomplished.

At this moment a shadow fell across the doorway, and lifting her head, she smiled warmly when she saw Philip Rawlings standng there.

"Am I disturbing you, Anne?"

"No, darling, not at all. I've just been checking my list, and I'm happy to tell you that I've done everything I had to do. I'm now as free as a bird--and all yours."

"Well, I'm certainly glad to hear that," he said and sauntered into the room. A slender man of medium height, with intelligent gray eyes in a pleasantly attractive, somewhat boyish face, Philip looked much younger than his fifty-six years, despite the silver wings in his dark hair.

This morning he wore a wine-colored paisley-patterned cravat with an open-necked pale blue shirt, dark gray slacks and a gray-checked sports jacket, and his appearance was more like that of a country squire than an important member of the British Foreign Office.

"I thought we might have a stroll before lunch," Philip went on, smiling.

"And why not? Actually, I'd rather like it," Anne said. "I was going to come looking for you, to suggest the very same thing.

So, come along, let's go to the coat room, where I'll change these shoes, put on a pair of flats, and then we can stroll up Sweetheart Hill. That's a pleasant walk, and not too long, either."

"Splendid," Philip said.

Anne glanced at her watch as she rose, and went on, "We have about an hour. Plenty of time for the walk and a drink before lunch. Inez is going to serve Pilar's cheese soufffle promptly at one. She's making it especially for you, you know."

Philip put his arm around Anne's shoulders as they walked out into the corridor together. "The problem in this house is that you all spoil me," he murmured genially, kissing her cheek.

Anne looked at him and began to laugh. "You're worth spoiling, my darling," she said, her pretty eyes mirroring the love and affection in his.

Sweetheart Hill rose behind the house, and it was an extraordinary vantage point with spectacular views of the countryside for miles around.

Several hundred years before, in 1644, during the ill-fated reign of Charles I, one of Anne's female ancestors had climbed the hill every day for months. Lady Rosemary Clifford had hoped and prayed to see her sweetheart returning from the Battle of Marston Moor, during the bloody Civil War that had racked England at that time.

A stone bench had been built on top of the hill for Lady Rosemary so that she could sit and watch and wait in comfort. She had waited in vain, as it turned out. Her Royalist sweetheart, Lord Colin Greville, had been killed by the Roundheads--Cromwell's men--and had never returned to claim her as his bride. Eventually she had recovered from her sorrow and had married some other young nobleman, but the place where she had so devotedly waited had been known as Sweetheart Hill ever after.

Anne and Philip now sat on that bench, enjoying the mild air, the splendid views of the great Tudor house and the surrounding country on this glittering summer's day.

"You're glad Nicky is coming for the weekend, aren't you?" Philip said, breaking the silence that had settled between them after their climb up the hill.

Anne turned her face to his, and nodded quickly, her blue eyes lighting up. "Oh yes, very happy, Philip. I've missed her terribly-- but then you know that. I can't wait to spend these few days with her. Nicky has always been unusually special to me."

"I know, and I'm delighted she phoned from London, and that she more or less invited herself down here." He smiled at Anne and remarked, "Actually, I have to admit I'm looking forward to seeing her myself.

There's no one quite like Nicky Wells."

"Wasn't it lucky we went to Tarascon?" Anne did not wait for an answer, but hurried on, "And to think that we almost didn't go to stay with the Norells."

"Not only that, if we'd listened to them we wouldn't have gone to Les Baux for dinner that evening. Remember how they kept telling us it was a tourist trap in the summer months?"

"Yes. But it was meant to be--that we ran into Nicky the way we did."

Philip did not say anything. He put his arm around her and brought her closer to him, and after a moment he said softly against her hair, "There is something else that is meant to be, Anne."

She swung her head to look at him, her eyes questioning.

"Marry me, Anne. Please."

"Oh, Philip," she began, and was about to reject him, but her voice faltered as she looked into his face. There was such an earnest plea in his eyes, and his expression was so loving, she felt her breath catching in her throat. As far as she was concerned, there was no one who could hold a candle to Philip Rawlings. He was a man of great kindness and generosity, and he had been inordinately loyal and a source of great strength to her over many years. He had asked her several times to marry him during the past six or seven years, and always she had refused.

Now, suddenly, she realized how cruel she had been, and was continuing to be to this truly good man who cared so much about her and her well-being.

She took a deep breath. "You simply want to make an honest woman of me, that's what this is all about, isn't it?" she said, adopting a light tone, one echoing with gaiety, and she laughed.

He shook his head very slowly and emphatically. "No, that's not it at all, Anne. I don't care what the world thinks of me, or of you, or of us, or of the fact that we've been living together for years. I want to marry you because I love you very much indeed-and I thought you loved me in the same way."

"But I do! Oh, darling, you know I do! But marriage seems so . .

. well, to be honest, irrelevant at our age. As far as I'm concerned, we are married. What difference does a little bit of paper make in the long run?"

"It makes a lot of difference to me. You see, I want you to be my wife, and it's important to me that you bear my name, that we are .

.

. married." He began to laugh as lightly as she had a second before, even a bit self-deprecatingly, and added, "Having just said I don't care about the world, perhaps I really do, after all. Maybe I want the world to know that I belong to you, and that you belong to me. I believe I need us to be married, Anne.

We've been together an awfully long time, darling, and marriage seems to me to be the natural, logical and most wonderful culmination of our relationship."

Anne nodded, but found she was unable to say anything for a moment.

She averted her head and gazed out across the landscape, her eyes reflective. Everything Philip said was true, of course.

They had known each other for fifteen years, and had been deeply involved with each other for fourteen of those years. They had met in 1974, just after Philip had left his wife, and what had begun as a friendship had eventually developed into a full-blown affair of the heart. She had dropped the man she had been seeing at the time, and Philip had become her lover, and for them both it had been a relationship made in heaven. They were ideally suited to each other, temperamentally and sexually, and they had quickly bonded. Philip's divorce had taken four years, and by then they had settled into a perfectly happy, congenial and contented routine, seeing each other every weekend when Philip came down to Pullenbrook and during the week whenever she was up in London.

Philip's children, Vanessa and Timothy, had been quite young in the seventies, and he had not wanted to marry until they were older. She had not minded this, marriage had always been somewhat irrelevant to her, in the sense that her love for Philip existed without it, and would always exist, no matter what. The kind of deep and abiding love she felt for him did not need a marriage license to give it validity, make it stronger or more real.

Besides which, her first marriage had been such a mockery she had been quite cold about the idea of matrimony ever since.

Obviously, though, Philip needed marriage for them at this time in their lives. Hadn't he just said as much? If she truly loved him, and of course she did, then his happiness had to be important to her. And it was. Thinking about it, she realized there was no truly good reason why she should not marry him. Quite unexpectedly, she discovered she rather liked the prospect of being his wife, especially since it would give him such enormous pleasure.

Bringing her gaze to meet his, she said quietly, "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you, Philip. I will be happy and honored to marry you. As you said a moment ago, it's only right and proper that we get married at this particular time."

"Oh, darling, that makes me so very, very happy." He kissed her gently on the mouth, took her in his arms and held her very tightly. He had never loved a woman the way he loved Anne Devereaux--and there had been plenty of women in his life before he had met her. Anne had known such hurt and pain, and the only thing he wanted was to love and cherish her, protect and safeguard her all the days of his life and hers.

Finally releasing her, Philip said, "Let's set a date for our marriage here and now, before you change your mind. That way I can have my secretary send an announcement to The Times first thing on Monday morning."

"Never fear, I'm not going to change my mind," she responded, her face radiant, her eyes shining. "And I'll be glad to work on the announcement with you over the weekend. But let me think for a moment about the date.... I believe we should get married in December, Philip."

"But that's months away," he protested.

"After all these years of living in sin, surely a few more months don't matter!" Anne exclaimed, her ready laughter surfacing. "And I'm suggesting December for a very good reason--Geofjrrey. I would like my brother to give me away, and I know he's going to be abroad quite a lot between now and the end of November."

"Very well, darling, December it is."

"A Christmas wedding in the little church here at Pullenbrook will be very pretty--rather picturesque, actually, don't you think?"

"Indeed it will. Anne?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I do hope you're going to allow me to give you an engagement ring. " "What a lovely idea! And of course I am. Every girl likes to have a ring, Philip."

A huge smile spread across his face, and he reached into his pocket and brought out a small leather box. "I went to Asprey's earlier in the week, looking for a ring for you. You see, I was determined to propose this weekend, and equally, I was absolutely determined you would accept me this time. Anyway, I found this, and I hope you like it." As he finished speaking he handed her the box.

Anne lifted the lid and gasped when she saw the deep blue sapphire set within a circle of diamonds nestling in the velvet.

"Oh, Philip, it's simply beautiful."

"I selected this particular ring because I know how much you like antique jewelry," he explained. "Anyway, the color matches your lovely eyes, my darling."

"Thank you, Philip, for the ring--and for everything."

"Here, let me do that," he said, as she fumbled with the box, and took it away from her. As he slipped the sapphire on her finger, he added softly, "There, we are now properly engaged, and what more appropriate place to pledge our troth to each other than here on Sweetheart Hill."

Nicky had not been in this house for almost three years, and two days ago in New York, when she had made the decision to come to see Anne Devereaux, she had dreaded the thought of being within its walls once again.

But now that she was here at Pullenbrook most of her fears were evaporating. This was due in no small measure to Anne's warmth and her loving demeanor, as well as to Philip's avuncular kindness and his special brand of geniality.

When she had arrived from London an hour ago the two of them had greeted her with much affection, she knew this to be very genuine on their part, and it was an affection she fully reciprocated.

Instantly she had begun to relax because they made her feel so welcome and had put her completely at ease.

And then there was the house itself. The minute she had stepped over the threshold into the Great Hall she had felt its peacefulness most forcibly. This was something she had never quite forgotten, but she had resolutely pushed it to the back of her mind in recent years, and for the most obvious of reasons.

But there was no denying that there was a special kind of tranquillity within the boundaries of Pullenbrook, it was an almost palpable thing that enfolded itself around her, seemed literally to envelop her like a cloak. In fact, she now recalled what a soothing effect the old manor had had on her in the past, and she understood why Anne thought of it as her safe haven, why she never wanted to leave it--at least, not for very long.

Suddenly it struck Nicky that this ancient Tudor house had seen so much, witnessed so much over the centuries, that if its walls could talk they would reveal some incredible secrets.

She shivered involuntarily. What dark secrets about Charles Devereaux did this house hold? Was he alive, as she believed? And if so, why had he faked his own death?

She shivered again and pushed these disturbing thoughts away--for the moment, at any rate. She had come here to tell Anne that she had seen Charles on American television four days ago, and that she had good reason to think he was living in Rome. But now she realized this was not the right time to broach the subject. She would have to wait for a more opportune moment later this evening.

Nicky and Anne were sitting in the drawing room, and Anne was busy pouring tea. Nicky could not help thinking how exquisite this room was with its interplay of pale greens. They made a perfect backdrop for the mellow antiques and the fine paintings, most of them English landscapes, several of them priceless masterpieces by Constable and Turner. She had always marveled at Anne's extraordinary taste, her skill at decorating and the way she kept up this house, undoubtedly a gargantuan task for anyone.

Surreptitiously Nicky looked across at the fruitwood table in the center of the room. A vase of white roses stood in the middle of it and was surrounded by a collection of family photographs in silver frames. There were several of hen-alone, with her parents, with Anne and Philip in the gardens here at Pullenbrook and, of course, with

Charles. She swung her head to look at an end table next to the sofa near the fireplace. On this stood their engagement picture, taken by

Patrick Lichfield, which was framed in gold. Her gaze was riveted on it for several seconds and then she averted her eyes. But within seconds she managed to be calm, and totally in control of herself again.

"You're awfully quiet, Nicky darling," Anne remarked as she rose and brought her a cup of tea.

"Thanks," Nicky said, accepting it. "I didn't mean to be rude, sitting here like an idiot and gaping so avidly at everything, as if I'd never been here before. I was savoring the room, admiring it--I'd forgotten how beautiful it is--how beautiful the whole of Pullenbrook is, actually, Anne."

"You always did love this house," Anne murmured, looking down at her, a faint smile touching her mouth. "And in the same way I love it. At least, that is what I've believed for years now. You have a true feelin,g for Pullenbrook, and I realized this the first time you came here. I couldn't help noticing that you were-well, emotionally drawn to it. That's the best way for me to describe what I thought your reaction was to my home. And the house accepted you, welcomed you,

Nicky."

Anne went back to the sofa, continuing, "It doesn't always do that, you know. It can reject people." Quite suddenly she started to laugh a bit self-consciously. "Good Lord, that does sound bizarre, doesn't it?

You must think I've turned into a dotty old woman, talking in this strange way about a house."

"No, I don't. You're making perfect sense to me. Andyo, of all people, a dotty old lady! Never. Why, Anne, you're fantastic."

"Thank you for saying so." Anne leaned over the silver tea service on the table in front of her, and confided, "I was fifty-eight in April, but I must admit, I don't feel it, not one little bit. Anyway, getting back to what I was saying, I know you know what I mean about the house, the way it made you feel as though you belonged in it from the very first moment."

"And that feeling came rushing back today," Nicky told her quietly.

"And you know something else, I happen to think of houses as livin things. They do have atmospheres and vibrations, some good, some very bad. This place has good vibes to me."

Anne nodded. "We're an odd couple, you and I, Nicky. But then we've always understood each other extremely well." Anne took a sip oftea, and a second later exclaimed, "Oh dear, I've been so busy chattering to you about the house, I forgot to offer you a tea sandwich, or would you prefer sponge cake?"

"Nothing, thanks, Anne. I'm trying to watch my weight, especially after that fattening trip to France."

"Oh gosh, yes, I know exactly what you mean." Anne laughed.

At this moment Philip came back into the room, having been summoned to the phone a few minutes before. He said to them both, "Sorry I took so long," and then glanced at Anne. "It was Timothy, darling. He's just arrived in London. He sends his love, by the way."

Anne nodded and smiled up at him. "I'm glad he's safely back home."

Philip took the cup of tea Anne had just poured for him, and went and sat down on the chair next to Nicky. Turning to her, he explained, "My son's just started working as a journalist on the S?nday Times, and he's been in Leipzig. There's a lot going on there, all sorts of political situations on the bubble, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Yes, my friend Cleeland Donovan, whom you met in Les Baux, leaves for Germany tomorrow. He wants to photograph the Berlin Wall--while it's still standing, he says."

Philip looked at her alertly. "Does he think it's about to come down?"

"He's been saying it would for the past two years, but, of course, he was never certain exactly when--who could be certain of that? At one point he thought it would take another twenty or thirty years, perhaps even longer. But recently he's been muttering that the wall will be dismantled imminently."

"Has he now?" Philip put his cup and saucer on a nearby table and sat back in his chair, his attention still focused on Nicky.

"That's very interesting to know, especially since I happen to agree--as do a number of my colleagues, actually." Philip shook his head, and went on somewhat acerbically, "However, only six months ago, East Germany's President Erich Honecker vowed that the Berlin Wall would remain standing for another hundred years.

But I'm inclined to believe that that was an idle boast on his part."

"Or wishful thinking," Nicky volunteered. "And in any case, let's hope Honecker is wrong and Clee is right."

"I couldn't agree more," Philip murmured, and asked, "And is Cleeland going anywhere else in the Eastern bloc?"

"Yes, after Berlin he intends to roam around for a few days, and he wants to go to Leipzig, too. He plans to cover the demonstrations that keep erupting all over the place."

Philip nodded. "Those demonstrations are going to be on the increase, I think. And I have a strong suspicion we're going to see any number of Communist regimes come tumbling down this year.

" Nicky was thoughtful for a few seconds, and then she said slowly, with some deliberation, "Only the other day I told Arch Leverson that we're going to see the tectonic plates of history shifting under our feet in the not too distant future. There's going to be a lot of movement, a lot of changes, especially in the Iron Curtain countries."

"Very astute of you to say so, Nicky. You're right on the button," Philip exclaimed.

Nicky smiled at him, she was pleased to get his confirmation of her opinions on world affairs. After all, Philip Rawlings was an important man at the Foreign Office.

When they had spent time together in the past, Philip and Nicky had inevitably become embroiled in political discussions, and this afternoon was no exception. They went on chatting about the state of the world for the next ten minutes or so, until Philip finally cut short their conversation. Shaking his head, he said, "Here we go again, Nicky, boring poor Anne with all this dry stuff about politics and politicians, which she couldn't care less about. Sorry, darling," he apologized, and looked at Anne affectionately.

"But that's not true!" Anne spluttered. "I'm not bored. You seem to have forgotten that I grew up with politics, and that my father was quite a statesman in his day."

"I hadn't forgotten, but I do know that's not where your interests lie, not really." Philip pushed himselfup out of the chair and went to sit with Anne on the sofa. Taking her hand, he said, "And now, on to more important things--have you told Nicky our happy news?"

Anne said, "I haven't had a chance yet, and in any case I thought it would be much nicer if we told her together."

"Told me what?" Nicky looked from one to the other, filled with curiosity.

"Philip asked me to marry him today--" "For about the twentieth time," Philip cut in.

"And I accepted him," Anne added, her face radiant.

"Finally," Philip said. "Anne has finally agreed to become my wife and she's even set the date. We're going to have a Christmas wedding here in the little church at Pullenbrook."

"Oh, Anne, Philip, this is wonderful news!" Nicky exclaimed, jumping to her feet to offer congratulations.

Nicky sat in the window seat in her room, staring out across the formal gardens of Pullenbrook. But she was not really looking at them. Her gaze was turned inward.

How she wished now that she had not come down here today, that she had delayed her visit until Monday, as she had originally intended when she had set out from New York yesterday.

When she arrived in London last night, the first thing she had done, after she had checked into her hotel, was telephone Pullenbrook. Anne had been overjoyed to hear from her, and so soon after their chance meeting in France. They had chatted for a few minutes, and then she had more or less invited herself down for the weekend, telling Anne that she was in England for only a few days and would love to see her.

Anxiety had prompted her haste, she had a desperate need to talk to Anne. Who else was there in whom to confide her terrible suspicions about Charles?

But to her dismay she found she had walked into this house on a very special day in Anne Devereaux's life. How awful it would be if she ruined it by revealing to her that her only child, the son she had adored, might not have drowned after all, as they believed, but that he might have faked his own death. In doing so, she would be branding Charles dishonorable, duplicitous, a liar and a cheat--and a savagely cruel man who had caused his mother untold suffering and grief, as well as herself, Philip, his uncle Geoffrey, and everyone else who was close to him. Of course, he was all of those things if he was alive and living under a new identity. But she couldn't drop that bombshell tonight, as she had planned.

Nicky leaned her head against the windowpane, turning things over in her mind. She might not even be able to tell Anne tomorrow either, she might well have to stay over until Monday and talk to her then. It was not that she was afraid to speak out, it was just that she didn't want to spoil Anne's weekend. It was going to be very difficult, keeping up a calm front, putting on a good face for the next few days. Still, she must conceal her nervousness and anxiety for Anne's sake. She was such a wonderful woman, so straightforward and honest, she deserved a little happiness at this stage in her life. No, she couldn't dump this on her at the moment, she had to let her have this chance to celebrate with Philip.

For another half hour Nicky sat on the window seat, mulling everything over in her mind. Then she let her eyes wander over the vast room.

Full of pale lavender tints, soft pinks and light grays, it was a feminine room with pretty watercolors on the walls and painted-wood pieces that were elegant and graceful.

With her usual tact and thoughtfulness, Anne had chosen a bedroom for her that she had never occupied before, in an effort perhaps to ease the burden of unhappy memories. But every corner of Pullenbrook held memories for hen-yet not all of them were bad.

In fact, some of them were positive and happy.

The four-poster with its lavender silk hangings and matching eiderdown looked inviting all of a sudden, so Nicky took off her shoes and lay down on it. She pulled the eiderdown over her, hoping to have a nap before getting ready for dinner, but her mind kept running.

Not unnaturally, Nicky was thinking of the last time she had been in this house--that particular visit had been heartbreaking, one of the saddest times in her life, and the memories of it were very bad indeed.

October 1986. A Saturday in the middle of the month. She had arrived at Pullenbrook in the morning. She and Anne had talked for hours, and had hardly noticed when Inez had brought the tea into the drawing room promptly at four o'clock, automatically observing that traditional British ritual. They had been far too devastated to care about the tea, and it had gone untouched.

Her own pain had begun the day before, when Philip had shown up in New York unexpectedly, ringing her doorbell just after ten o'clock. He had stepped off the early-morning British Concorde into a waiting limousine, and had ridden into Manhattan to break the bad news to her in person, at Anne's request, rather than doing so on the telephone from London.

Philip had not wasted any time. He had told her as gently as he could that Charles was believed to be dead, that he had apparently drowned off Beachy Head on the Sussex coast several days earlier. His pale-blue Jaguar had been found parked nearby, late on Wednesday afternoon. In it were his raincoat and a locked briefcase bearing his initials with a leather luggage tag on the handle. The name on the tag read Charles A. C. Devereaux, and, of course, the local police had known at once whom to contact, his mother, Lady Anne Devereaux of Pullenbrook Manor.

When the locks of the briefcase had been prised open by the police, in front of Anne, the only item they found inside had been a letter addressed to his mother. And that letter had told them everything they needed to know--Charles Devereaux had taken his own life. Everything had been spelled out precisely and explicitly, and he had made his intentions very clear. But there would have to be a police investigation, that was the law.

However, the police had agreed to keep the matter under wraps until Charles Devereaux's fiancee in New York had been informed.

Again, this had been one of Anne's requests, which the local police chief, Superintendent Willis, had said they would be willing to accede to, out of deference to her ladyship and her standing in the county.

Philip had recounted all this to her on that horrendous Friday, when her whole world had fallen apart with such abruptness and finality.

She had been shattered, and in shock, when she had phoned Arch at the network, and told him in a shaky voice that she had to fly to England immediately because Charles had committed suicide. She had been trembling so excessively, as the facts had truly begun to sink in, she had been unable to continue and had handed the phone to Philip.

Carefully he had given the pertinent details to Arch and promised to be in touch with more news as soon as possible.

Not long after this she had thrown a few clothes into a bag and packed her toilet articles and makeup, with the help of Gertrude, who had arrived to clean the apartment in the middle of it all.

And then, just before they set off for Kennedy Airport, Philip had attempted to reach her parents, who were staying at the Cipriani in Venice, but they had been out. Philip had left his name and the number at Pullenbrook, along with an urgent message for them to telephone Anne as soon as they could.

By one-thirty she and Philip were on board the French Concorde, taking off for Paris. Philip had pointed out that this was the easiest and fastest route to London. They would be flying for just under four hours, would spend the night in Paris and be on the first plane to London on Saturday.

She had wept for almost the entire journey across the Atlantic.

Philip had done his level best to console her, but with little success.

Yet, from time to time, she had had her moments of calm, during which they had asked each other the same question. Why?

Why had Charles done this terrible thing? There seemed to be no valid reason to either of them, and therefore no explanation.

Upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport they had taken rooms at one of the hotels, and on Saturday they had been on the seven o'clock flight to Heathrow. From there they had driven directly to Pullenbrook, where Anne, grief-stricken, still suffering from shock, was waiting for them.

Later that day Nicky had asked Anne if there had been any mention of her in Charles's letter. Anne had shaken her head sadly. Nicky had been stunned to hear this. Charles had killed himself without one last word to her. And she couldn't quite get over that.

Her parents had arrived from Venice via London on Sunday. They were full of compassion and concern for her, and they had both done their best to help her. But in the end it was she and Anne who had helped each other the most, had given each other the most sustenance and support.

She had stayed with Anne for several weeks, the two of them inseparable and moving between Pullenbrook and Anne's flat in Eaton Square. And during this difficult and painful time for them both, things had become crystal clear. Charles had been quite deliberate in everything he had done before his suicide. He had meticulously put all his affairs in order. His flat in Knightsbridge had been sold, the shares he held in his privately owned wine-importing company in London had been sold to his partner, his shares in the European end of the business had been bought by his Spanish partner. And, finally, he had made a new will a few weeks before his death. In it he had left everything to his mother.

Ever since then, for almost three years now, Nicky had asked herself why he had killed himself, and she had never been able to come up with an answer. At least, not one that was acceptable.

At one point, anger had replaced her initial grief, and this had troubled her. On several occasions, when she was in New York and not on foreign assignment, she had gone to see a psychiatrist, one who had been recommended by Arch. Her aim had been to understand the anger and to come to grips with it. The psychiatrist, Dr. Alvin Foxgrove, had patiently explained that most people who had been close to, or emotionally involved with, suicides inevitably experienced great anger, and that it was a perfectly normal reaction. This knowledge had helped her somewhat, especially since Dr. Foxgrove had told her that the anger would eventually go away. But in her case it had not fully evaporated. The awful truth was that there were times when the anger blazed again inside.

After a while, Nicky managed to pull her thoughts away from the past and concentrate on the present. It had always bothered her that there was no body, but then Charles had slipped into the English Channel and been washed away to sea. Or had he?

Her plan now was to find out exactly what had happened. After she had spoken to Anne she would return to London, and from there she intended to fly to the Continent. She was going to use her investigative skills as a journalist to solve the mystery of Charles Devereaux's death, to find out the truth about him.

An hour later, at about seven o'clock, having changed from her tailored safari suit into a navy silk dress and pearls, Nicky went downstairs for drinks before dinner. Neither Anne nor Philip was anywhere in sight when she looked inside the drawing room, but as she glanced toward the windows she spotted Anne outside. Nicky crossed the small foyer and went through the side door that led to the terrace. This ran along the back fac,made of the house, and faced Sweetheart Hill and the South Downs.

Anne half turned and looked over her shoulder at the sound of Nicky's step, and her face lit up with pleasure. "Ah, there you are, darling, I was just thinking about you, thinking how glad I am that you're here with us this weekend."

"It's wonderful to see you, Anne, to visit with you," Nicky responded, truly meaning what she said. Ever since running into Anne in France, she had felt guilty about the way she had neglected her, and had planned to stop off to see her en route to Paris and Provence in September. Then when Charles Devereaux's face had suddenly stared out at her from the television set the other night, she had suddenly had more reason than ever to come to Pullenbrook to talk to Anne. And so she had revised her plans and moved them up by two weeks.

Clearing her throat, Nicky said slowly, "I realize I've been rather unkind to you for the past year and a half by not being in touch, and I'm sorry for that, Anne. I've no excuse. Of course, it's true that I've been away on foreign assignment consistently, covering some pretty lousy wars and other disasters, but I'm not going to hide behind my work. I often do that, but I won't now, not with you. The truth is, it was easier not to see you. Easier for me."

"I know that," Anne replied softly. "And I understand perfectly.

Seeing me, whether here or in London, or even in New York, would have only prolonged your agony about Charles. Under the circumstances, I think it was wise of you to go on with your life the way you did. It enabled you to start afresh."

"Yes, that's true. But still, it was selfish of me." There was a little pause before Nicky ventured cautiously, "How . . . how did you manage to cope these past couple of years?"

"I had a great deal of support from Philip, and from my brother and his family. And the house helped me--" Anne broke off and shook her head.

"Oh dear, here I am, talking about the house in a strange way again.

What I meant, actually, is that I got involved with a project to do with the house, and that has kept me very busy. It's been quite absorbing, and I'm still working on it."

"What kind of project?" Nicky asked, curious.

"The library. I decided to impose order on chaos, and to have the thousands of books cataloged. There are some very rare ones, including some special first editions, and naturally I had to engage a professional to help me. Anyway, in the first few months I fell upon the diaries of the Cliffords, which had been kept by the women of the family over the centuries. I'd vaguely heard about them from my grandfather, but I'd never read them. Needless to say, I became fascinated with them. And at my worst moments I would suddenly pull myself up short and remind myself about those generations of Clifford women who had gone before me, who had been through so much themselves, lost so much and so many loved ones, husbands, sons, fathers, brothers . . . daughters and mothers and sisters. Just think about it--my ancestors lived through the invasion of the Spanish Armada, the Civil War, the Great Plague, and so much else--subsequent wars, extraordinary changes in England and family tragedies as well. Yet they went on stoically, and they survived. I suppose I simply refused to give in to my grief, or to feel sorry for myself, out of pride. You see, the Clifford women of the past set a great example for me."

Nicky nodded, and was about to ask her more about the diaries when Anne sighed heavily and glanced away. A look of such intense pain crossed her face, Nicky wanted to reach out to her and put her arms around her but refrained.

After a moment Anne said, "Losing a child is a terrible thing-one never expects that, you know, Nicky. You always believe that you'll die first, for that really is the proper order of things...." Her voice floated away on the heavy evening air.

Again, she stared off into the distance, and then, almost to herself, she finally murmured, "I have always believed that a child, that children, are the justification of life--that they make life worthwhile, worth living." Nicky found she could not speak. She acutely felt the other woman's overwhelming sadness, and her eyes filled with tears.

Swallowing hard, she impulsively took Anne's hand and held it tightly in hers.

When Anne finally turned her head to look into Nicky's face, a slight smile quavered on her lips. She said in the same quiet voice as before, "I was so pleased when I saw you with another man in Les Baux, Nicky. It lifted my heart, to tell you the truth. It meant you had recovered from Charles. I hope you won't think I'm prying too much when I ask whether it's serious or not?"

Nicky hesitated only momentarily before saying, "I'm not sure, I think it could be. Clee has told me he's in love with me."

"And what about you? How do you feel?"

"I've known Clee for two years, and he's my best friend, and very dear to me. But it's only in these past few weeks that we've become romantically involved, and nobody was more surprised than I when it happened. And yes, to answer your question, I think I'm falling in love with him."

"I'm so happy to hear that. There was certainly no doubt in my mind how Clee felt about you. It was obvious just from the way he looked at you." Anne squeezed her hand and then said, "Nicky, he adores you."

"But love isn't always enough to make a relationship work as a marriage, though. A lot of other things are tremendously important--if you're going to spend the rest of your life with someone ."

"That's very true," Anne agreed. "But you appeared to be comfortable with each other, obviously compatible, and, of course, you do share the same kind of work, so that must be quite a plus, surely." A blond brow was raised, and she looked at Nicky questioningly.

"It is. On the other hand, my career might present a few problems in the long run, and I--" "There's nothing in the world that can take the place of a good man," Anne interjected, and then she laughed quietly, as if to herself. "Who am I to talk? I've certainly kept a good man dangling on a string for years."

Leaning closer to Nicky, she added, "Take my advice, don't do what I did. Take the plunge. I only began to realize today that I should have married Philip years ago." She gave Nicky a piercing look, and in a much stronger voice she said, "You must reach out for life, Nicky.

Grab it with both hands. Live it to the fullest.

Because before you know it, years will have slipped away, and you'll be middle-aged, and then old, and it will be too late.

Far, far too late."

"After the age of thirty time does seem to pass very quickly.

I've begun to notice that recently."

"And there's another thing," Anne continued. "Don't sacrifice a good relationship, one that works well, because of your career.

You might end up being alone if you do. And believe me, Nicky, loneliness is the most terrifying thing. It's another kind of death, actually." Anne leaned her elbow on the balustrade and fixed her gaze on the South Downs. Watching her, Nicky thought she had never seen her looking lovelier than she did this evening. She wore a deep-rose-colored silk dress that enhanced her fine English complexion, a double strand of pearls and pearl earrings. In Nicky's opinion, Anne

Devereaux could easily pass for a woman in her mid-forties, aside from her beautiful blond hair and incomparable skin, she had a slender figure and beautiful legs with finely turned ankles.

Suddenly Anne straightened up and, looking at Nicky, said a little sadly with a rueful smile, "Oh, Nicky, I was such a stupid fool years ago. Fairly early on in my widowhood there was a man I loved, and I should have married him. He wanted me to do so, but there were certain obstacles. And so I rejected him, and in some ways I lived to regret it. And then about twenty years ago, when I was thirty-eight, another man came into my life. I cared for him deeply, as he did for me, but I rejected him as well, because of--Well, never mind why, that's not really important. In both instances I chose to be by myself, and as a result I had some pretty dreadful years of loneliness until I met

Philip."

"Do I hear my name?" Philip demanded in a jocular manner as he strolled out onto the terrace.

The two women turned around to face him, and Anne said, "Oh, hello, my darling. I was simply telling Nicky what a lot of lonely and very unhappy years I spent before you came into my life."

Philip seemed touched by her words, although he did not make any comment. He simply nodded, but when he came up he put his arm around her waist and held her close to him.

Anne's expression was affectionate as she glanced at him and said, "I was talking to Nicky about Cleeland Donovan, telling her how happy I am that she's involved with him. How happy we both are, actually."

"And relieved," Philip said, offering Nicky a warm smile. "We've been worried about you, my dear." Turning back to Anne, he went on, "I have champagne waiting in the drawing room. Shall we go inside?"

Anne nodded, smiling, and took his arm. "Yes, let's do that."

Much later, after the champagne had been consumed, the three of them sat around the circular table in the small family dining room, which Anne used for more intimate dinners. Inez served the light supper Pilar had prepared, and between the vichyssoise, the grilled sole and the summer pudding, Philip and Anne plied Nicky with questions about her work.

Nicky talked about her sojourn in Beijing, and recounted some of the things that had happened there. They seemed particularly moved when she told them about Yoyo and Mai, Mai's death and Yoyo's subsequent disappearance.

"Clee and I, and Arch and the crew, just hope and pray he's going to show up, and that he used the money we gave him to advantage," Nicky confided. "Clee thinks he'll make it to Hong Kong, and so do I."

"That's the most likely place," Philip remarked, nodding thoughtfully.

"And there is an underground operating between Beijing and Hong Kong, so I've been told. If Yoyo hasguanxi-that is, connechons--he might slip through."

"As my father would say, from your mouth to God's ears, Philip.

Yoyo's pretty smart, if anyone can get out, he can."

"How terribly tragic that the young woman was killed," Anne murmured.

"From the way you tell it, Nicky, the Chinese army sounds very harsh."

"They are brutal, murderous, and cruel beyond belief. Clee has much proof of that on film. He was able to take hundreds of photographs because they were so busy killing their own people, innocent people, they didn't have time to grab his camera. Mind you, the authorities smashed three of his other cameras in the days before the crackdown.

In spite of all that, he's created an amazing book about Tiananmen with those photographs, and I've written the introduction. It's called Children of the Beijing Spring,' and it'll make your hair stand on end when you see it.

I'll be sending you a copy when it's published next year."

"Thank you," Anne said.

"We watched a lot of the Kate Adie coverage of the student demonstrations on the BBC," Philip said. "And at the time, Anne and I were utterly appalled by the brutality, the bloodbath.

China has a very large black mark against it, and the world is already making its disapproval and abhorrence known. The PRC has been pretty shortsighted."

"Yes, its violation of human rights has been, and still is, horrendous," Nicky pointed out.

Philip nodded, and took a sip of the Pouilly-Fume. Giving Nicky a probing look, he changed the subject when he asked, "And why are you in England, Nicky? Holiday or business?"

"A bit of both," Nicky answered quickly, and she had to exercise the most enormous control not to blurt out something about Charles. "I'm hoping to do an in-depth interview with the prime minister," she improvised, and rushed on, "Next year, not now.

And Arch wanted me to start talking to a few people in advance.

You know, sort of get the lay of the land."

"So how can I be of assistance?" Philip asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know later. Right now I want to formulate my ideas for the special, think about it in visual terms as well as content." Nicky sat back, filled with relief that she had not said the wrong thing.

"Well, just give me a shout if you need my help," Philip said.

"You know I'll do anything I can."

"Thanks, Philip, I appreciate it. You're very kind."

"Shall we have coffee in the drawing room?" Anne said, pushing back her chair and rising.

Anne slipped her arm through Nicky's as they left the dining room and walked across the foyer. "Your work is very dangerous, Nicky, and you're quite intrepid--at least, so it seems to me. Aren't you ever afraid, darling?"

"Not when I'm actually reporting, only afterward," Nicky admitted.

"That's the way it is for Clee, and a lot of other journalists as well, Anne. I guess we're so concentrated, so busy doing our jobs during the action, we don't have time for fear."

Anne, I'd like to talk to you about something," Nicky said, hovering in the doorway of the library on Sunday morning. She had changed her mind after a sleepless night and wanted to talk to Anne now. She could not wait until Monday.

Anne stood next to a long mahogany table, picking up fallen rose petals, she looked across at Nicky, and with a little frown, she said, "You sound awfully serious. Is something wrong?"

"Yes, I think so," Nicky murmured as she came into the room. "Where's Philip?

I'd like him to hear what I have to say."

"Here I am," Philip said from the depths of a leather wing chair positioned at the other end of the room.

Nicky heard the rustle of newspaper before his head appeared around the side of the chair. He pushed himself to his feet, folded the paper and dropped it on the floor with the others piled up near the fender.

Anne deposited the handful of rose petals in an ashtray and joined Philip, who stood in front of the fireplace. The two exchanged glances, then sat down together on a Chesterfield sofa, Nicky seated herself on the identical one facing them.

Anne and Philip both focused their attention on her, and Anne said, "You look strange, Nicky. What is it?"

"Before I tell you, I'd like to explain something," Nicky began.

"After we ran into each other in Provence, I decided I wanted to come and see you--to make amends, really, for neglecting you-- and I'd planned to do so at the end of August, on my way to join Clee in Paris.

Then the other night, in New York, something happened that caused me to change my plans. I decided to come a couple of weeks earlier, because I needed to talk to you urgently, Anne. And to you, Philip."

"Please tell us what this is all about," Anne said.

Nicky took a deep breath and plunged in. "Four days ago, on Wednesday night, I was at home in my apartment watching the world nightly news on television. Our Rome correspondent was reporting a shooting incident at a political rally outside Rome--" "I read about that in Thursday's Daily Tele,gaph, " Philip cut in. "There was a suggestion that it might have been an assassination attempt--by a member of the opposition party. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, that's correct," Nicky answered. "But to continue, as Tony Johnson, our Rome correspondent, was finishing his report, the camera moved away from him and panned around the immediate area. It picked up a face in the crowd." Nicky leaned forward, clasping her hands together, and finished quietly but with some intensity, "It was Chales.

The face in the crowd was Charles's face."

Anne drew back, and stared at Nicky. She was so stunned she was unable to speak.

Philip exclaimed, "How could it possibly be Charles, Nicky?

Charles will have been dead for three years in October. We know he drowned offBeachy Head."

"But did he?" Nicky gave Philip a hard look. "There never was a body, and that has always troubled me, frankly." To her surprise, her voice was perfectly steady, and she continued calmly, "I don't blame you for being disbelieving, I couldn't believe it myself when I saw his face staring out at me from the television set. Nevertheless, I know it--"

"If you believe Charles is alive, then you must think he faked his own death," Anne interrupted, her voice rising, her sudden agitation showing. "Why would my son do such a thing?"

Nicky said, "I don't know, Anne."

"And how would he have done it?" Anne demanded.

"I've kind of figured that out--it would have been quite easy for him."

"It would?" Philip said, eyeing her with some curiosity. "Tell us how."

"Charles could have had an accomplice," Nicky said, returning Philip's direct gaze. "Someone who helped him to rig his death, then disappear afterward. That person, whether a man or a woman, could have done one of two things. He, or she, followed Charles to Beachy Head, Charles parked the Jaguar where it would be easy to find, and then his accomplice drove him back to London. From there, Charles would have had no problem leaving immediately for Europe, whether by plane or train, using a forged passport," Nicky pointed out. "Alternatively, the accomplice could have been waiting in a boat just off the coast, near Beachy Head. Charles could quite easily have swum out to the boat, been picked up and ferried across the English Channel to a French port."

"This sounds a bit farfetched to me!" Philip exclaimed. "As Anne just said, why on earth would Charles do such a thing?"

Nicky shook her head, then shrugged. "I've racked my brains, and I can't really come up with a good reason." She hesitated fractionally, and volunteered, "Well, that's not strictly true. I have thought of one."

"What is it?" Anne leaned forward alertly, her eyes riveted on

Nicky.

"That he wanted to start a new life," Nicky said.

"But that's ridiculous!" Anne cried. "He was in love with you, about to marry you, and to all intents and purposes, Charles was a happy man, with everything to look forward to."

"What you say is true," Nicky acknowledged, "but only on the surface."

It was her turn to give Anne a long, knowing look, then she said pointedly, after the briefest pause, "Because whether Charles killed himself, o did a disappearing act, he wasn't happy with his life. If he had been, he wouldn't have done either thing.

Therefore, we must assume that he was discontented with everything in his life, including me."

Anne looked as if she was about to say something, and then obviously had second thoughts. She pursed her lips, sat staring at Nicky in silence, twisting her hands in her lap nervously.

"Nicky does have a point there, darling." Philip turned to Anne and took her hands in his. "In fact, we agreed three years ago that Charles must have been excessively troubled and unhappy, even temporarily deranged perhaps, for him to take his own life."

Now Philip glanced across at Nicky, and announced in a very firm voice, " Which is what I believe he did. You know, my dear, it's often been said that we each have a double, someone who looks exactly like us, living somewhere in the world. Isn't it just possible you saw a man on television who resembled Charles very closely, but that's all?"

"Philip is right," Anne interjected. "He really is, Nicky darling. My son committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed--about something."

"I wish I could truly believe that."

"You really m?st, for your own good," Anne told her, and leaned forward again. Choosing her words carefully, she went on, "It's a well-known fact that young women who are widowed frequently feel guilty when they become involved with another man. Even though you weren't married to

Charles, you were about to be. Perhaps you feel guilty about Clee, and in believing Charles is now alive you're giving yourself a reason to break off with Clee. Isn't that a--" "No, Anne! It's nothing like that!" Nicky shot back fiercely.

"First of all, I don't feel guilty about my relationship with Clee.

Not at all. Secondly, it is not wishful thinking on my part-believing that I've seen Charles alive on television. I know what I saw. Or rather, who I saw."

"People who do disappearing acts and assume new identities have to be awfully devious by nature," Anne retorted. "My son wasn't like that.

Nor would Charles be cruel to me, or to you-- why, he loved us both."

Nicky fumbled with the flap of her handbag and brought out an envelope.

"On Wednesday night I was as stunned, shocked and disbelieving as you and Philip are now, Anne. But once I'd recovered my equilibrium, I raced down to my network, where I had one of the studio technicians rerun the Rome segment of the nightly world news. He froze the frame with Charles in it. In other words, he stopped the film at that juncture, so that I could study the man's face. Which I did, and very intently, I might add. And I took a photograph with my Polaroid. Then the technician also took a picture for me with his own camera, which he developed that night and gave to me the following morning. In the meantime, I went back home to my apartment, and I compared my Polaroid shot of the man in the network's film with a photograph of Charles."

Nicky opened the envelope and took out several photographs.

Handing one of them to Anne, she explained, "This is my Polaroid of the man who was on television. As you can see, he has darker hair than

Charles, and a mustache." She immediately passed a second photograph to Anne, continuing, "And this is Charles in the South of France the year of his--death, or disappearance.

What I did was darken his hair and give him a mustache, like the man on television. Look at the two pictures closely, Anne. I'm convinced they are one and the same man."

"Oh I don't know," Philip said somewhat dismissively after looking at the photographs Anne was holding in her hands. "Rather flimsy evidence, wouldn't you say?"

Anne was silent. She sat studying the pictures, her face thoughtful.

Nicky said, "Here is the other photograph, which the studio technician took for me. It's much larger than my Polaroid, and a bit clearer.

Surely the man in Rome is Charles--Charles with a slightly altered appearance. Look at it closely. There's no denying it, Anne."

"There is a resemblance," Anne admitted quietly, "but I'm still not convinced it's Charles. How could it be?"

"Why are you telling us this, Nicky? What do you want us to do about it?" Philip asked, sounding slightly put out, even irritated, all of a sudden.

"I'm not sure," Nicky confessed. "But I had nobody else to talk to except you and Anne. And after all, the two of you knew Charles best."

"I'm very concerned for you, my dear," Philip murmured, shaking his head sadly. "And I'm sure Anne is, too."

"I am," Anne concurred.

Philip went on, "It's obvious to me that this whole incident has truly upset you. Certainly you still seem to think that Charles is alive. I wish you wouldn't persist in this belief, Nicky, you're only going to make yourself ill if you do. Once and for all, let me say that I do not believe that Charles Devereaux is alive. And you don't, do you, Anne darling?"

"Absolutely not. Look here, Nicky," Anne said, adopting a loving tone, "Charles cannot be anything else but dead. Please take my word for it.

I'm his mother--I'd know instinctively, deep down within myself, if he was alive. You mustn't let Charles haunt you in this way, darling.

Please put him to rest again, for your own sake. And for Clee's. You have a new life to lead with him.

Charles is the past. Let him be the past."

Nicky looked from Anne to Philip, and she saw their sympathetic expressions, the anxiety reflected in their eyes. It suddenly dawned on her that they thought she was off-the-wall. Therefore there was nothing else she could say to them about Charles.

A long sigh escaped her. "I brought the photographs to you because I thought you would see what I see--I suppose I was looking for corroboration, and neither of you can give me that. I guess I understand . . . sort of . . ."

Anne rose and sat next to Nicky on the sofa. She took Nicky's hand, and her expression was a mixture of love and concern. After a little while Anne said slowly in a gentle voice, "Let's examine the character of the man for a minute. Charles was the kindest, most thoughtful person, and very loving. You know this from your own experience of him, without my having to tell you. And he had such immense integrity.

Good Lord, honor was his byword. Everyone who knew Charles said his word was his bond. He was a true gentleman in the best and most noble sense of that word, and he never did a shoddy thing in his life. That would have been quite alien to his nature."

Anne paused, and her light blue eyes filled with tears as she remembered her son, the qualities he had had and all the things he had stood for. "Charles was such a good man, Nicky, a decent man, and he didn't have a bad bone in his body. He certainly wasn't duplicitous, and he couldn't have dissembled if his life had depended on it. I bore him, brought him up, and I knew my son exceedingly well, especially as a single parent." Her voice began to tremble with emotion as she went on, "Nothin,g, no one, will ever be able to persuade me that Charles contrived his disappearance.

Very simply, I know he didn't. He couldn't have, not the Charles

Devereaux who was my son." Anne swallowed hard and blinked back her tears.

"Oh, Anne, the last thing I wanted was to cause you pain, please believe that," Nicky said with dismay at Anne's increasing distress.

"But I had to come and tell you. I suppose you think I'm crazy--" "No,

I don't," Anne replied in a shaky voice. "And I know Philip doesn't."

"Of course I don't!" Philip exclaimed, smiling at Nicky. "But I don't think Charles is alive either. The whole idea is quite farfetched,

Nicky, as I said before. Preposterous, in fact."

"But people have disappeared, and they have often done so most successfully," Nicky pointed out, still unable to let go. "There was

Lord Lucan, for instance, whose body has never been found.

Surely, you remember that case? For all we know, Lucan could be alive and well and living somewhere in the world. South

America. Bora

Bora. Darkest Africa. Under a new identity, of course ."

"I doubt it." Philip shook his head vehemently. "I'm positive Lucan is dead--that he drowned, as was generally believed at the time of his disappearance."

"What about that British Member of Parliament--John Stonehouse?

He did a very clever disappearing act in the seventies," Nicky was quick to add.

"Ah, but he was eventually found," Philip countered swiftly.

Anne said in a voice reverberating with sorrow, "Nicky, it is not

Charles in these photographs. Truly, it isn't. My son is dead."

Nicky went for a walk through the grounds of Pullenbrook on Sunday afternoon.

Earlier, she and Anne and Philip had struggled through lunch, the three of them carefully avoiding the subject of Charles. Only Philip had shown any interest at all in eating. She and Anne had picked at their food, and she had been glad to escape after the pudding, politely refusing coffee and then excusing herself.

She had felt the need to be alone. Now that she was outside in the sunlight she breathed a little easier, and she endeavored to shake off the tension that had held her in its grip for the past few hours.

Unexpectedly the past tugged at her, drew her toward the rose garden, so she swung around and began to walk in that direction.

When she arrived at the ancient wooden door set between the mellow stone walls, she turned the wrought-iron handle and pushed open the door. Six stone steps led down into the garden, and when she got to the bottom she stood marveling at the loveliness of the scene before her.

There were a number of gardens at Pullenbrook, but to Nicky this was the most beautiful of them all. Enclosed by high gray stone walls, the sunken rose garden was large but most effectively laid out, with different sections devoted to individual species of roses and other flowers.

Nicky knew from Anne that its intricate design dated back to the eighteenth century, including the parterres, those ornamental areas where flower beds and paths formed a distinctive pattern.

There was a small green lawn in the center of the garden, and this was bordered by shrub roses, the parterres were laid out on all four sides of the lawn, beyond the shrubs.

Rambling and climbing roses covered the ancient walls with a melange of pink and red, bleeding from palest blush to brightest crimson. Under the walls grew hybrid tea roses and floribunda, including cool white Iceberg roses, which Anne had surrounded with lavender. Beds of other old-fashioned plants were set in the parterres, as well as such herbs as hyssop, savory, thyme and rosemary, mingling with pinks, pansies, violas and cistus. The idea of combining herbs in among the roses and other flowers was very much in the manner of the Tudor and Stuart gardens of the past--at least, this was what Anne had told her once.

But quite aside from its beauty and fragrance, the rose garden held a very special meaning for Nicky. She had first met Charles here, and later it was in the garden that she had realized she was in love with him. Also, he had chosen to propose to her while they were strolling along its paths one evening.

Now Nicky moved forward, breathing in the heady scent of the roses, and was almost overcome by it today. Automatically she headed for the old wooden garden seat that stood in a bosky corner under the walls, shaded by a sycamore tree. Sitting down and leaning back, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift with her thoughts. But after only a short while she opened her eyes and looked up.

The sky was cloudless and that perfect blue Charles had always called the color of speedwells, which he had said exactly matched her eyes.

The scent of the roses was more intoxicating than ever, and somewhere nearby a bee buzzed and hummed as it danced in the balmy air. It had been on such a day as this that she had first encountered Charles Devereaux.

Innumerable memories assailed her. Four years fell away. It was suddenly that Friday afternoon in June of 1985 when Charles had walked into her life. She closed her eyes once more, reliving that day all over again, remembering . . . remembering . . .

A perfect rose, Nicky thouht. The most perfect rose I've seen in a long time. It was large, a pale pearly yellow, and it had opened fully, but was not yet overblown and fragile, ready to fall. She leaned forward, touched a velvet petal of the rose lightly with a f ngertip and breathed in its lovely scent.

It was then that she heard the crunch offootsteps on the path and turned. A man was strolling toward her, a young man, obviously in his thirties. As he drew closer, she saw that he was not much taller than she, about five foot eight in height, and slender and compact of build.

He was naturally fair in coing but she noticed how tanned he was, and his lght brown hair had been streaked blond by the sun. He was good-looking in a lean and hungry way, with high cheekbones, sharply chiseled, somewhat gaunt features and a thin aristocratic nose.

"Xou'reAndrew'sdauhter, "hesaid, staringatherwith intensity, not even bothering to conceal his curiosity and interest in her.

Thrusting out her hand, she nodded. "Nicky Wells."