“I want you to marry me.”

Kieran recoiled as she spoke. There was no other word for it. He even took a step backward, as if she’d hit him.

“Marry you?”

“Yes. You don’t need to look so stunned. That’s frequently what people do in situations like this.”

“But—” He undid the top button of his shirt, as though he suddenly wasn’t able to get enough air into his lungs. “Those people have relationships. They know each other well, have a history, have plans for a future. They’re usually in—”

“In love.” Her voice cracked, and she tightened her throat to avoid breaking down. “I know. It’s awkward. I wish being in love were a requirement for making babies, but apparently it isn’t. Apparently even people who have an utterly meaningless one-night encounter can still end up pregnant.”

Dear Reader,

If you’re human, it’s impossible to escape being labeled. From the moment the nurses tape your name on your hospital bassinet, you’ve got one—and as life goes on, you'll accumulate more and more. Good child, bad child, smart one, lazy one. Coward, prom king, egghead, jock.

The problem is that labels never fit quite right. Jocks read books; eggheads run marathons. The “good child” stumbles, and the “bad child” helps him up. Each individual is an ever-changing kaleidoscope of often-contradictory traits.

For the sons of Anderson McClintock, an arrogant millionaire with an explosive temper, five ex-wives and a Shenandoah Valley town he called his own, the labels came early in life. And they’ve been almost impossible to shake. Kieran, the Saint. Bryce, the Sinner. And Tyler, the Stranger. Bryce and Tyler got out early, wanting only to escape the eccentric little town of Heyday, their tangled heritage and the smothering labels. Only St. Kieran remained to befriend his difficult father, and to become the struggling town’s official hero.

But sooner or later something always comes along and knocks the halo off the hero. For Kieran, that something is Claire Strickland. Claire may be the only person in Heyday who knows the truth about Kieran—the only person who knows there’s a little bit of sinner in the heart of every saint. Welcome to Heyday—and to the heroes who unexpectedly find love, forgiveness and family here. I hope you enjoy your stay!

Warmly,

Kathleen O'Brien

P.S. I love to hear from readers! Write me at P.O. Box 947633, Maitland, FL, 32794-7633. Or visit my Web site at

KathleenOBrien.net.

The Saint
Kathleen O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

CLAIRE HAD ALREADY WARNED Steve six times that he was going to be late, so she bit back the seventh as she heard him come shuffling down the stairs, yawning and scratching his bare chest.

“Morning,” she said, stifling an answering yawn herself. She hated football practice mornings. Five-thirty was just too darn early for human beings to be awake, much less bashing each other around on the football field. The sky outside her kitchen window was still black. She couldn’t even see the apple tree, which was no more than ten feet away.

“Mmlng,” Steve mumbled pleasantly as he entered the kitchen, squinting against the bright overhead light. She wasn’t sure he’d had any sleep at all last night. She’d heard him still up at three, talking on the telephone to Michelle, his new girlfriend. He’d sounded so stupid and sweet she hadn’t had the heart to break it up.

But he’d pay for it today. He wasn’t naturally an early riser. Left to his own devices, like most teenagers, he’d sleep till midafternoon. She yawned again. Once, back when they were kids, they had both loved to sleep late. But she hadn’t had that luxury in years. Not since their mother died.

As Steve slouched into the kitchen, she pulled out his chair, which he promptly used to stash his heavy backpack. He always ate standing up. Even very sleepy seventeen-year-old boys were too full of energy to sit. She felt sorry for his teachers.

“The pancakes are getting cold.” That was really the seventh warning, of course, but it sounded better than “damn it, Steve, step on it, for heaven’s sake,” which was what she wanted to say.

Or did she? Setting a glass of milk on the table, she took a deep breath and tried to find her perspective. Maybe she was just nagging because she was exhausted and resented getting up an hour early to see him off to football practice.

Or maybe she was a little bitter because he still walked and talked and slept like a kid, while she could hardly remember what that kind of freedom felt like.

But that wasn’t fair. Allowing Steve to finish out a normal childhood had been her choice. And besides, she didn’t care if he was late for football practice, anyhow. In fact, if he got booted off the team altogether, it would suit her just fine.

That, however, was about as likely as snow in July. The Heyday High School Fighting Zebras were one win away from the state championship, and Coach McClintock would never risk losing his star quarterback now. Steve could probably show up late, doze off during push-ups and make paper airplanes out of the playbook without causing his coach to bat an eye.

And the little rascal knew it, too. She watched him pull a grungy T-shirt over his head, his curly brown hair emerging from the neckline even more tousled than before, if that was possible. Aware of her disapproving scrutiny, he grinned and ran his fingers through it.

“Sorry, officer,” he said. “I didn’t know the hair police would be here. I left my comb upstairs.”

He was waking up, she saw. And, as usual, waking up sassy. He was so damn cute, that was his problem. She reached out and yanked the curl that dangled farthest down his broad forehead.

“Ouch,” he said. But he didn’t mean it.

Standing close to him like this, she realized he was wearing a ton of cologne. He smelled as if he’d bathed in the stuff. It seemed odd, given that he was headed out to run around in the mud, until she remembered that Michelle sometimes stopped by the football field to sneak in a few quick kisses before practice.

“The pancakes,” she repeated slowly, as if he didn’t speak good English, “are getting cold.”

“Yum.” Steve grabbed the top one off the stack and, holding it in his big fist, munched on it as if it were a piece of dry toast. “I love cold pancakes.”

She turned back to the stove, hiding her smile. He probably did. He loved everything. He’d probably eat the box the pancake mix had come in, which was a good thing, because she hadn’t ever learned to cook very well.

“So did you finish your English paper?”

The silence that followed her question was ominous. She could hear Steve chewing earnestly, and when she looked, he was studying the front page of the newspaper as if he held a doctorate in foreign affairs.

“Oh, Steve, no. No. Don’t tell me you didn’t write your paper. You promised that if I let you stay out—”

“I wrote it.” He gave her a look. “I did. I wrote it.” He grabbed another pancake. “I just didn’t print it. I’m out of ink.”

She managed, once again, to hold back her exasperated response. She had to be careful. She didn’t want to become the enemy here. The two of them had always been close, even before their mother died. After the accident, they’d become even closer, a tight team, as if they understood it was just the two of them now, two of them against the whole world.

Lately, though, Steve had seemed to be pulling back. Rebelling, even—just a little. He spent more time at football practice than he did at home. Coach Kieran McClintock seemed to have become his new hero, the one he confided in. Which was fine with Claire, really it was.

Except that she wished football didn’t take so much of his time. He was going to need a scholarship to get into college. Coach McClintock seemed to think he could get one for football, but was that realistic? Coming from a tiny nowhere-town like Heyday?

“Claire? Don’t give me that look. It’s okay about the English paper. Mrs. Keene said all the football players could turn it in on Monday. Full credit.”

“She gave an extension to the football players? Just the football players?” Claire knew how unpopular that would be with the other teachers…and perhaps the other students, as well. If the principal heard about it…

“Well, yeah. She knows we’ve been practicing every minute.” He gaped at his watch in open-mouthed horror. “Oh my God, look how late it is!”

Too bad he hadn’t joined the drama club instead, she thought. He could have used some pointers about overacting.

“Steve. I’m serious. You can’t let her give special deals to the players. If you can’t get your work done on time, you shouldn’t be playing football in the first place.”

He groaned as he hoisted his backpack over his broad shoulder. “God, don’t start. We do this every morning. It’s like Chinese water torture. I told Coach you’re on me about this every friggin’ day, like grass on dirt.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

That stung, and she couldn’t help reacting. She wondered what other domestic complaints he shared with Kieran McClintock. The stingy allowance, which was all she could afford. The crummy dinners, which were all she could manage. The nagging, the criticizing, the clinging. “And what did he say?”

Steve paused. “Well,” he said slowly. “He said he felt really sorry for me. He said it must be tough to have such a nasty old shrew in the house.”

Like a fool, she fell for it. “What? That takes a lot of—”

She was so tense she hardly noticed the sparkle in Steve’s hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” he went on, gathering steam. “He said, boy, your sister sure is an ugly old bag, isn’t she? I don’t know how you stand it. He said the night he took you out on a date he almost couldn’t eat, just looking at your ugly mug across the table.”

“Steve.” She sighed. He was joking, of course. He had been ribbing her about that dinner for days. “He didn’t take me out on a date. We just went to dinner and—”

“Yeah, right. And I guess you haven’t had a huge crush on him since you were about fifteen years old, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But it was pointless to deny it. When she’d been fifteen, and Steve was ten, he’d found her diary. Kieran’s name had been on every page, surrounded by hearts and exclamation points. And always the same plaintive question, Why won’t he notice me?

Steve had made himself insufferable for weeks, swanning around, his hand to his forehead like Sarah Bernhardt, wailing, “Why won’t he notice me?” It hadn’t stopped until Claire had found an F on a math test under his bed and threatened to tell their mother.

“That was ages ago,” she explained calmly. “Besides, all the girls in Heyday have crushes on Kieran McClintock when they’re fifteen. It’s in the bylaws, I think.”

Steve arched one eyebrow, but, because he had matured a tiny bit since he was ten, he let it go. Claire was relieved. She didn’t quite know yet herself what was going on between her and Kieran. She wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone else, even Steve.

“So what about the astronomy test? Are you ready for that at least? Did you study?”

“Yeah.” He wolfed down one last pancake. “Sorta.”

“Stevie.” She folded her arms and blocked the doorway. The astronomy test wasn’t until Monday, but… She suddenly dreaded being alone. When Steve was here, she didn’t have time to brood, but when he left, the house always seemed dark and lonely.

“I’m late, Claire.”

“Can you still name the seven important moons of Saturn?”

He cocked his head and grinned. “No, but I can still name the Seven Psycho Dwarfs of the Eerie Alternate Universe. Mopey, Sleazy, Frumpy, Weepy, Queazy and Dork.”

“Great.” That list was from seventh grade. “Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone is going to be asking you those on a test. And besides, that’s only six.”

He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up, moving her away from the door. “Oh, yeah?” He kissed her on the cheek and yanked open the door before she could stop him. “I guess I forgot to mention Bitchy.”

She laughed as she watched him go. “Stevie,” she said one more time.

He paused by the door of his ratty old Mustang, which he’d bought and restored with money from mowing lawns. God knew she couldn’t have afforded to buy him one.

He looked like the Cheshire cat in the darkness. All she could see was his smile. But it was a very cute smile. It made her smile just to see it.

“What?”

She hesitated. They never told each other to drive carefully. It was a strange but deeply entrenched superstition between them. They’d never known their father very well—he left the family before Steve was even born. Then, three years ago their mother had been struck by a drunk driver who drove his car up onto the sidewalk. So now it was the just two of them. And they never said “drive carefully.” It was simply understood.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just love you, dork.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, she should have been on her way to work, but she was making a detour to the high-school football field. She had found a new ink cartridge and printed Steve’s term paper out. She wanted him to have it when he got to English.

Half a mile from the field, traffic ground to a halt—something that almost never happened in the little town of Heyday, which had a population of somewhere between five and six thousand, depending on whether the local college was in session.

But Poplar Hill was a narrow, two-lane, tree-lined road, and the high-school rush hour had just begun. She growled under her breath and then yawned again. God, she was so tired she didn’t even have the energy to be properly annoyed.

Drumming the steering wheel, she craned her neck, but she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t have time for this. She hadn’t had a spare minute in the past three years. College and work, handling the house and raising her little brother… At only twenty-two, she was so tired she felt about fifty.

She couldn’t be late today. She was in her first year of teaching seventh grade at Heyday Middle School, and she had a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t a football player, so she was expected to be on time and fully prepared.

Darn it, she should never have printed out Steve’s paper. All the parenting books, which she’d devoured in secret as soon as she’d realized she was going to have to take over the job, said you should let your kids suffer the consequences of their own mistakes.

But Steve was such a good kid, really. And hadn’t he suffered enough already? No one should be an orphan at fourteen.

So maybe she overindulged him. Or maybe not. Oh, heck, she didn’t have a clue what was right. Maybe even real parents struggled to find the proper balance.

She eyed the area, wondering where she might be able to wriggle her car into a U-turn. The ground was soggy on the easements from last night’s pre-winter rain, and the pines were still dripping wet.

It always rained in Heyday in November. Probably someone had skidded on the slick pavement and kissed fenders with the car in front of them.

But why such a snarl-up? A few people—parents, high-schoolers, even teachers—had exited their cars and were walking forward to see if they could get a look at the problem. Claire didn’t have time for gawking. She rolled down her window. Maybe she could persuade the guy in front to inch his car forward so she could get free.

Oh, good. It was Doug Metzler from the bank. He’d be eager to help her. He knew that if she lost her new job she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage—and his bank held the note.

“Doug,” she called. “Do you mind moving up a little? I can’t get out.”

The balding, middle-aged man whipped around as if she’d shot him. He stared at her, a strange, blank expression on his normally pleasant face.

“Claire!” He put both hands up toward his cheeks, and they froze there. “Oh my God.” He began looking around, as if he needed help. “Oh my God.”

She had time for only a couple of half thoughts. Was Doug drunk? Crazy? Had she caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing? But even in those confused fractions of seconds, her subconscious must have registered something more sinister, because instinctively she began to climb out of her car.

“What’s the matter, Doug?”

The man didn’t speak. She’d just barely set both feet on the soggy ground when Officer Bill Johnson appeared.

“Claire,” the policeman said. His face was gray, and, unless she was imagining it, his voice shook. “Claire, don’t go up there.”

She tilted her head, confused. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “Why? What’s going on?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Doug Metzler was still frozen in place. A few others had joined him. They were all staring at Claire. Something sick and liquid began to boil in her stomach, like the beginnings of an internal earthquake.

“What’s going on?” She gripped the door, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking just like Officer Johnson’s voice. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the line of cars. Was that a blue flashing light? Was that larger vehicle an ambulance?

She looked back at the young policeman. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Steve,” Officer Johnson said, and this time his voice did break. “Claire. It’s…it’s Steve.”

No. No. That was ridiculous. This had nothing to do with Steve. Steve was at football practice, tossing that little brown ball high into the blue morning air for some other teenage boy to catch. Yes, Steve was safe at football practice, boyish and muddy and sweaty.

And happy. Steve was always happy.

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” the policeman said. “You see he… Steve…”

Claire felt her mind going limp, balking like a child, refusing to be led to whatever terrible place he was trying to take her. Bill Johnson was so young, she thought. Just a kid. What did he know? He was no more than four years older than Steve himself.

He tried again. “It… Steve must have been going very… It was an accident, a terrible accident.”

She frowned. Look at him, he was close to tears. He looked so distressed, so completely undone. She wondered if she should put her arm around him. But she discovered to her horror that she couldn’t move her arm. How odd. It was like sleepwalking. She couldn’t feel any part of her body.

And when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. Hollow and slow, like something recorded at the wrong speed. “What do you mean an accident? What do you mean it’s Steve?”

“I guess it was just too dark.” Officer Johnson’s face was suddenly running with tears that gleamed in the rising sun. “I guess he was going too fast. I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry. I guess he hit a tree.”

“Hit a—”

But the legs she couldn’t feel decided right then to fold up under her like wet paper. She slid down, still holding on to the open car door. The muddy ground was cool and dark as she met it.

She lost track of time, just a little, like a clock with an unreliable battery. When her heart began to tick again, she was surprised to hear Kieran McClintock’s voice, very close to her.

“Claire,” he said. “Claire, are you all right?”

She realized she was in his arms. She looked up at him.

“He said Steve had an accident,” she whispered, as if she needed to keep the news a secret. As if making the information public would make it true. “Can you take me to him? I’m not sure I can walk, but I have to get there. Steve needs me.”

Kieran’s face worried her. Anguish was written all over his handsome features, turning his clear blue eyes to hot, shadowed volcano beds. Turning his rugged jaw to jagged steel, his full, wide mouth to a razor line of bloodless white.

“Claire, sweetheart, Steve never made it to practice. He had an accident.”

Strange, she thought, that a mouth so fierce, so twisted with pain, could speak in such gentle tones. His arms tightened around her. “It was very bad. He didn’t make it, Claire. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

He shut his eyes, and it was a relief not to have to look into their tortured depths.

“Yes, he said. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Steve’s dead.”

Dead…

Not playing football, not laughing, not running, not even breathing.

Dead.

She shut her eyes, too, as the knife blade of the word sank deep into her chest. She felt her heart’s blood gush everywhere, she tasted the metallic hot ice of the cruel steel, and then, thank God, the terrible black universe began to disappear again.

My little brother is dead.

She wasn’t sure whether she spoke that sentence or merely thought it. But she heard herself say the next one.

And you killed him.

CHAPTER TWO

Two years later

KIERAN MCCLINTOCK RUBBED the stinging red spot just above his swim trunks where the latest water balloon had landed and wondered if his reflexes might be getting a little slow. That made eight hits already, and it wasn’t even noon. He couldn’t seem to duck, dodge or jump out of the way fast enough.

The darn things hurt, too. High-school boys really threw some heat these days. He scowled at the one who had just nailed him in the gut.

“Ingrate,” he called as the boy chuckled and scooted away.

“Golly, Coach, I’ll bet that smarts.” Suddenly a female voice purred in his ear, and a soft female hand rested over his. “Need any help with that?”

“Hi, Linda.” Kieran didn’t need to look up to know whose hand it was. No one but Linda Tremel would dream of rubbing the football coach’s wet, naked stomach in public. He moved her fingers away. “Thanks, but I’ll live.”

Linda pouted, but otherwise she took the rejection in stride. She was quite used to being rejected by Kieran—she was his neighbor. Since her divorce, she’d been programmed to bait her hooks automatically whenever she saw any man. She didn’t really expect him to bite.

She adjusted her large straw sun hat to a prettier angle and surveyed the chaos in front of them, where Heyday High’s annual Junior-Senior Send-off was in full swing. About a hundred students and their families were slip-sliding on water toys, hobbling in three-legged races and gnawing on cold fried chicken legs and deviled eggs.

She sighed and fanned herself with her paper napkin. Summer had come in swinging this year. The temperature was already in the nineties.

“I’d take off my cover-up, but I’m not sure these hormonal young boys could control themselves,” she said. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got every female under fifty salivating over your six-pack, stud. Think you should toss a shirt on and put them out of their misery?”

Kieran didn’t respond. Linda always talked like that. In fact, she never talked about anything but sex. Kieran suspected that might mean she wasn’t really all that interested in it. Protesting too much, as they said.

Besides, he saw a couple of his best players huddled over by the ice chest, and he could imagine what they were plotting. The next water balloon was probably going to be filled with Gatorade. He could only hope they had one of the other teachers in mind for this one.

All the faculty, right up to the principal, were here today. Even the school volunteers had showed up—like Linda. The Send-off was the highlight of the school year. Each May, just before the start of final exams, the junior class hosted a water party for the outgoing seniors. It had been a Heyday tradition for at least fifty years.

Heyday was big on tradition. Kieran’s father, who had, until his death less than two months ago, owned most of Heyday, had always said that tradition was what the little town had instead of culture, prominence, wealth or wisdom.

“So, I hear you’ve got another superstar coming along next season, Coach. You know the one.” Linda tilted her head. “What’s his name? Nice muscles. Bedroom eyes.”

“Bedroom eyes?” Kieran looked at her. “I have no idea who you’re talking about, but you’d better watch it, Linda. These boys are underage.”

“Well, he does have sexy eyes.” She grinned from under the wide brim of her hat. “I can’t help noticing, can I? Oh, what is his name? The boy everyone is saying could be the new Steve Strickland. Eddie-something.”

“Eddie Mackey?” Kieran wondered where Linda had heard about Eddie. “He’s good, but he’s not on the team yet. He’s not sure he wants to play.”

“Oh, you can talk him into it. You can talk anybody into anything. Steve Strickland didn’t want to play at first, either, and look how good he turned out to be.”

Kieran tossed his empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin. “Of course Steve wanted to play,” he said. He hoped he didn’t sound defensive. “Where did you hear that he didn’t want to play?”

“I don’t remember…” Linda chewed on her lower lip. “Oh, that’s right. It was his sister who didn’t want him to play. That’s what I heard. They say Claire hated the idea of Steve playing football. I never understood why. Was she afraid he’d get hurt or something?”

That was stupid, even for Linda. Instantly, she realized her mistake and drew in a deep breath. “I mean—you know. In a game. Like getting tackled or something. Naturally, no one could have imagined he’d end up—”

“No.” Kieran popped open another drink and downed half of it in one gulp. It really was hot out here. “No one could have imagined that.”

“Where is she now, do you know?”

Kieran squinted into the sunlight, trying to see if the people barbecuing hot dogs needed any help. “Who?”

“Claire. Do you know if she’s still in Richmond?”

“No.”

Linda flicked him with her napkin. “Be specific,” she said. “Do you mean no, she’s not in Richmond, or no, you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“You haven’t seen her since—”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s still angry? Do you think she still blames you for—”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll bet she doesn’t.” Linda unbuttoned her top two buttons, exposing as much cleavage as possible, and began fanning herself again. “I mean, how could she? It didn’t make any sense to start with. I mean, you didn’t force the kid to drive seventy miles an hour down Poplar Hill, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

According to Claire, though, that was just a cop-out. He had put too much pressure on the players, she’d said, her voice filled with tears and fury. He had expected them to do the impossible, and, because they had loved him, they’d tried to deliver.

At least that’s what she told him the night she called and asked him not to come to the funeral.

“See? You didn’t have a thing to do with it. Claire Strickland just went a little crazy, that’s all. She wasn’t thinking straight, and she needed someone to blame.”

Kieran did not want to have this conversation. Especially not with Linda Tremel, who didn’t have an ounce of imagination. She could never understand how, when Kieran had held Claire in his arms and told her Steve was dead, it had been like holding a ghost. She had seemed completely empty, as insubstantial as smoke. He had thought, for a minute, that she might just float away forever.

He scanned the crowd, desperately seeking a savior. But being with Linda Tremel was like acquiring leprosy—even your best friends wouldn’t venture near enough to save you.

Finally he caught Principal Winston Vogler’s eye. The elderly man was too softhearted to resist a plea for help. Kieran felt a little guilty as Winston came over, smiling politely at Linda. But only a little.

“Hey there, Ms. Tremel. Howdy, Coach.” Principal Vogler patted Kieran on the back and gave Linda a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a terrific day for the Send-off, don’t you think? The weather always cooperates with Heyday High.”

Linda opened another button. Winston was almost seventy years old—he’d been a contemporary of Kieran’s father—but he was a male, and that apparently was Linda’s only requirement.

“Well,” she drawled, borrowing Kieran’s Gatorade and rubbing its cool plastic sides against her collarbone, “it’s pretty hot.”

Kieran couldn’t help cringing for her. She hadn’t been like this before Austin Tremel divorced her last year. Back when she had first landed Austin, the rich boy from the right side of the tracks who was supposed to make all her dreams come true, she had spent every moment trying to be worthy of him. Trying to remake herself into the perfect lawyer’s wife.

It must have hurt pretty bad when he dumped her. She’d spent the past year trying to prove to herself that she was desirable. Austin had a new lover—had probably acquired her long before the divorce—so Linda obviously wasn’t going to be happy until she had one, as well. Or two, or three. However many it took to show Austin she didn’t miss him.

Winston was watching the three-legged zebra race, which involved bags painted with black and white stripes. “Do you think,” he asked suddenly, “that any of these kids even know why they’re called the Fighting Zebras at Heyday High?”

“Heck, no,” Linda said.

Kieran knew that was probably true. Many of Heyday’s younger citizens had no idea that the city got its name because a trainer for a little nomadic circus got drunk one night and left the animal cages unlocked.

They didn’t know about the zebras, which, once having escaped, had eluded capture for days, then weeks…and then forever. Long after the monkeys and the lion had been recovered, long after the circus owner had decided to cut his losses and move on, the clever zebras remained at large.

For months, people reported sightings of zebras galloping in the woods, zebras strolling in the park, zebras grazing along the highway. But the two animals danced in and out, taunting their would-be captors, and eventually the fairy tale of freedom caught the public eye.

Newspapers as far away as D.C. wrote stories. “Zebras Have a Heyday,” the first story proclaimed. And the little town of Moresville, tired of being “Boresville,” saw its chance to reinvent itself. On the Fourth of July, nineteen hundred and three, the mayor had gleefully knocked down his gavel on a five-to-one vote, and Heyday was born.

Every Fourth of July since, the city had sponsored its Ringmaster Parade. Most people didn’t ask why. They merely accepted that the city would elect a Ringmaster and Ringmistress, just as they accepted that the Big Top Diner had a roof like a circus tent, and that the bartenders at the Black and White Lounge wore striped tuxedos topped with zebra ears on a headband and springs.

“So.” Winston shifted from one foot to the other and was apparently having trouble deciding where to look. Linda Tremel’s rather large chest seemed to take up too much of his field of vision. “So, Kieran, what time do you head for Richmond in the morning?”

Oh, hell.

Kieran could feel the curiosity emanating from Linda. But what could he do? If he told the truth, that he was going to spend the weekend in Richmond, she’d be giddy with speculation. If he evaded or lied, it would look suspicious.

And it wasn’t suspicious. That he should be heading for a conference in the city where Claire Strickland now lived was a minor coincidence, yes. But Richmond was a big city. Probably two thousand people went there every day without running into Claire Strickland, either deliberately or accidentally. He’d just be number two thousand and one.

“Actually, I’m leaving tonight,” he said as blandly as possible. “The conference starts early in the morning.”

“You’re going to Richmond?” Linda had begun to smile. “Richmond?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m speaking at a coaching conference. I’ll just be there overnight.”

“Are you planning to—”

“No.”

She chuckled. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I do. And the answer is no. It’s purely a working trip. I won’t be making any social calls while I’m in town.”

Winston looked confused. “But you’ll have the evening free, Kieran,” he said. “You know that time’s your own to do whatever you want. Social calls are fine.”

Kieran laughed. This was becoming the conversational equivalent of gum on your shoe. “Linda’s joking, Win. I don’t want to make any social calls.”

Linda grinned. “Yes, but if you do—”

“I won’t.”

“Okay, fine. But if you do.” She winked at him. “Give her a kiss for me. Anything beyond a kiss, well, then you’re on your—”

Kieran groaned and turned away, which meant he was in the perfect position to glimpse the incoming missile just in the nick of time.

He called out the standard warning. “Heads up!”

Winston, who was seasoned in the ways of mischievous high-school boys, sidestepped instantly. Unfortunately, Linda, who wasn’t, stood there looking confused.

“What—?” She frowned.

A pop, a splat, a splash. And suddenly her lacy white cover-up was splattered from neck to knee with sticky orange liquid. She looked down, horrified.

Somehow Kieran managed not to laugh. He didn’t even smile. He actually tried to feel sympathetic. He didn’t allow himself to believe it had been fate, intervening to spare him any more of Linda’s lip-licking curiosity.

But it had been a lucky shot, hadn’t it?

Principal Vogler, on the other hand, was furious. A courtly man himself, he obviously found pegging a woman with a water balloon to be an outrage. He reached out and snagged the nearest teenage boy, a kid with dark hair and deep blue eyes. “Bedroom” eyes, in fact.

“Come here, young man,” Winston bellowed.

He didn’t wait for the poor kid to say a word. He dragged him by the collar and forced him to face Linda.

“Ms. Tremel, this is Mr. Eddie Mackey. I believe he has something he’d like to say to you.”

THERE MUST BE A LINE from Hamlet for a moment like this. Claire studied her sedate navy-and-white spectator pumps and considered the issue. How about the one that said a person could “smile and smile and be a villain?”

It seemed apt enough. Mrs. Gillian Straine, the principal of the Haversham Girls’ Academy, never stopped smiling. It was how she wooed the best parents, the best girls, the best alums, the best college recruiters. But after almost two years teaching seventh grade here at HGA, Claire had learned how sharp the steel was that lay behind that smile.

Today the metal was in full, lethal force as Mrs. Straine sat at her huge mahogany desk, in her magnificent wood-paneled office, and read a letter of complaint that had just arrived. The letter stated that Miss Claire Strickland was teaching the girls from texts of questionable morality.

The letter was apparently very long—or else Mrs. Straine was a very slow reader. Claire adjusted her modest navy skirt and tried not to be nervous. But Mrs. Straine’s smile was so tight right now her lips had almost disappeared. Not a good sign.

Maybe the better quote was “To be or not to be.” To be or not to be fired.

Finally Mrs. Straine looked up. “This is very troubling,” she said softly. She said everything softly. It forced other people to be perfectly quiet, and to lean in slightly, in a deferential pose, in order to catch her words.

“Is it true, Miss Strickland? You have unilaterally decided to teach Hamlet to your seventh graders?”

“Not the entire play,” Claire said. “Just some of the famous speeches. It’s part of a larger unit on Shakespeare.”

Mrs. Straine took off her reading glasses and tapped them against the letter. “It says here you’ve been telling the children there are such things as ghosts. It says you’ve told them about fratricide and suicide.” She shook her head. “They even accuse you of using the I word.”

Claire frowned. The I word? What on earth was the I word? Insanity? Iago? No, that was Othello.

Iambic pentameter?

Mrs. Straine closed her eyes, apparently grieved that Claire was forcing her to utter it.

“Incest,” she whispered.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

“I didn’t call it incest,” Claire said. “Shakespeare did. Or rather Hamlet did. It’s just a small part of the overall story. You see, Hamlet’s mother marries his uncle—”

“I know what happens in Hamlet, Miss Strickland.”

Claire leaned back in her chair. “Of course you do. I’m sorry.” She’d swallowed her pride in this job so often she’d almost gotten used to the bitter taste. “Then of course you know it isn’t incest with the same connotations we might have today.”

“I don’t believe any of that word’s connotations are socially acceptable,” Mrs. Straine said. She was sitting up so straight her back wasn’t touching the chair. “I honestly would have thought you understood that vocabulary like that has no place in an HGA classroom.”

Claire tried one more time. “But this is Hamlet, Mrs. Straine. This is Shakespeare. Hamlet is taught in classrooms all over the world every day, and—”

Mrs. Straine waved her hand. “We do not judge ourselves by everyone else, Miss Strickland,” she said. “At HGA, the standards are far higher.”

Higher than Shakespeare?

“I’m afraid we must insist that our teachers meet those standards. Every teacher, every day.”

So was this it? Was this where Claire would be told to take her copy of Hamlet and go home? She realized suddenly that she didn’t care very much. Since Steve died, she hadn’t cared about much of anything. But she tried to look earnestly concerned. She did have to earn a living, and HGA at least had the virtue of paying well and recruiting bright, well-behaved students.

“However,” Mrs. Straine went on, “I don’t think we need to overreact. Overall, your performance since coming to HGA has been exemplary. I think it will be adequate merely to place you on probation.”

“Probation?”

Mrs. Straine folded up the letter and placed it in a file marked Strickland, Claire. “Yes. It should not be construed as punitive. It’s merely precautionary. I’ll be keeping a close eye on your work. I’ll need to see your lesson plans daily, of course. After six months, we’ll review the matter and see where we stand.”

Claire understood she’d been dismissed. She stood and nodded—though she drew the line at thanking Mrs. Straine for her tolerance. She looked at the other woman—at her high, tight, extremely sophisticated French braid, her severe Armani suit, her Tiffany-set diamond wedding ring—and she wondered whether there really was no Mr. Straine, as the other teachers sometimes suggested.

It was possible. Claire’s own mother had pretended she was a “Mrs.,” and she undoubtedly wasn’t the only woman who did. Mrs. Straine’s reasons would be different, of course. She wouldn’t be trying to protect her two illegitimate children. But whatever the reason, living a lie took its toll.

As she left the school, Claire thought how much nicer it would be if she could go home and tell Steve about all this. What fun they’d have parodying Mrs. Straine’s Victorian syntax and ridiculous whisper. If Steve were there, this would seem hilarious in no time. They’d laugh away any sting, and then they’d sit around and think up absurd new meanings for the school’s initials. She could almost hear him now. Humongous Growling Amazons. Hippos Gathering Acorns. Hot Greasy Aardvarks.

But Steve wasn’t there, of course. Her half-furnished apartment would be empty when she finally got home later tonight. She had a meeting after school, which she would go through like a robot. Then she’d stop by the grocery store, and then drive to the apartment.

When she got in, she’d ignore the five or six messages on her machine—it was easier to ignore an invitation than to turn it down, and the result was the same in the end. She’d read a little. And then, as soon as she possibly could, she’d go to sleep.

To sleep. Perchance to dream. Yes, Hamlet knew where the real dangers lay. Claire still dreamed about Steve at least once a week. They were cruel dreams—the kind that woke you up with your heart in your throat. In the dreams, she always drove down Poplar Hill one second too late. Steve always died in her arms while Kieran McClintock stood over them and smiled.

But that night her meeting ran long and it was after ten before she got home. All in all, it had been an exhausting day. Maybe she’d be too tired to dream.

She pulled into the complex parking lot, gathered her books and papers and purse and groceries and made her way to her second-floor apartment.

And, there, on her elegantly lit landing, she came face-to-face with a man she had thought she’d never see again.

The smiling man of her terrible dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

KIERAN WAS SHOCKED by how different Claire looked. How much older.

He hadn’t seen her in two years, but still…

Part of it was her hair. She had beautiful hair, a deep, shiny brown. She used to wear it almost to her waist. When she taught, she just whisked it up into a casual twist that always had adorable bits and pieces escaping from it. Now it was cut in a sleek, chin-length bob that fit like a helmet.

And her outfit. It was the pencil-thin uniform of a corporate lady-shark. What had happened to the flowing cotton jumpers and soft pastel T-shirts?

But most of all, it was her face. Even in the worst days of her first grief, she hadn’t looked this tight and closed-in. Her brown eyes, round, large and long-lashed, had always reminded him of some gentle woodland creature.

Not any more. Now she just looked tired and strangely distant. She didn’t even seem interested enough to be shocked to see him standing on her front porch.

“Kieran,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

That was a damn good question, actually. What the hell was he doing here? Back in his hotel room, he’d told himself a thousand times to quit being such a fool, put down his car keys, order room service, raid the minibar, turn on the television, anything. But none of it had stopped him.

“I’m in town for a conference.”

She shifted her packages so that she could see him better over the groceries, but she kept her fist tightly closed around her keys. She seemed to have no intention of opening that door.

“Not here in Richmond,” she said. “I meant here. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to say hello.” Was that true? Actually, he had no clear idea why he had come. He’d just opened the telephone book, found her name and found himself getting a map from his laptop. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

She shifted again, her keys clinking against a glass bottle, or maybe a can. “I’m doing fine.”

No, you’re not, he wanted to say. Any fool could tell she was lost. But he didn’t have the right to say anything like that. Hell, he didn’t even have the right to be standing here.

One date. That was all they’d ever had. One night when he’d sat across from her, eating salmon and salad and some stupid little bonbon dessert, and quietly going wild with wanting her.

One night—compared to Steve’s death, for which she had always blamed him. No, he’d say he had pretty damn few rights in this situation.

“I just—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I thought maybe we could talk for a while. Maybe I could take you out for coffee. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. I just got into town. Are you hungry?”

She looked at him with those shallow eyes. “We don’t really have anything to talk about, Kieran. We don’t have anything in common except Steve. And I don’t talk about Steve.”

You don’t? Oh, Claire…that’s not healthy. But of course he didn’t say that, either. He just looked at her sober face in the silvery light from the carriage lamp and wished he could go back two years and start over. God, the things he’d do differently!

“It’s been two years, Claire. Isn’t it time to let old—” But her face warned him to stop, so he did. “All right, then, how about if I promise we won’t talk about Steve?”

Her fingers must have clenched a little. The brown paper bag made a brief crinkling noise. “What topics would be left, then? Politics? The weather?”

“I could tell you about Heyday. It’s grown since you left. They’ve put in a new multiplex movie theater. Stadium seating. Four whole screens. The kids all want jobs there.” She wasn’t interested, but he kept going, determined to hit on something. “The bookstore expanded. And they put in a new traffic light.”

“Did they really. Where?”

Oh, hell. He hesitated just a second too long, as he recognized his mistake. She was smart. She knew what the hesitation meant.

“Where?”

He took a deep breath. “On Poplar Hill.”

“So much for that topic.” She turned away firmly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Kieran. I appreciate the effort you made to come. But I really think it’s better if we just say good-night.”

She fumbled with her key, trying to insert it into the lock.

“Claire.” He touched her shoulder, and she twitched away quickly. Too quickly. The oranges on the top of her grocery bag began to teeter. She shifted them, reaching out with her other hand to try to balance things, but at that very moment the door swung open, and she lurched forward.

Fruit and fresh vegetables spilled everywhere, and a box of spinach spaghetti hit the landing with enough force to split open. Thin green straws hopped and tumbled crazily, covering the concrete and bouncing down the stairs.

He caught the bag as it fell, just in time to save the sparkling water.

She knelt immediately and began scooping up bits of broccoli. “I’ll get it,” she said. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

He crouched beside her. “Let me help.”

For a minute he thought she was going to refuse. For a minute, she thought so, too. He could read it in her eyes. But obviously even she could see how impossibly rude that would be. She blinked, brushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded.

“Thanks,” she said. She dumped a handful of little green florets into the bag and began scooping up some more.

It took several minutes, but finally they had it all, down to the last strand of green spaghetti. She went in first. She left the door open behind her, so he assumed she wouldn’t call the police if he followed her in.

It was a beautiful apartment. Had she just recently moved in? The living room had high ceilings and an elegant coffee-colored molding; a brand-new, thick, champagne-beige carpet; and almost no furniture. One chair with a throw blanket across its arm, one small coffee table and a bookcase with a stereo on top—that was it. No sofa, no lamp, no stack of unopened mail on the foyer table. No tail-wagging puppy, no roommate, no—

No anything.

“It’s a nice place,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

“A couple of years. Since I left Heyday.” She had gone straight to the kitchen. He heard the growling sound of the garbage disposal churning up broccoli—and discouraging any further conversation.

Two years? He stood in the doorway and looked around incredulously. She’d lived in this apartment for two years, and she had yet to hang a picture? She had never bought a television?

He moved through the big, hollow room and entered the kitchen. It looked a little more lived-in. The small breakfast bay had two chairs, and the table was covered in books and papers. He had heard she was still teaching. This must be where she created her lesson plans and did her grading.

He handed her his collection of ruined food and watched as she fed it to the disposal. “Thanks,” she said again. But she didn’t quite look at him. She didn’t quite meet his eyes.

When she was finished, she washed her hands carefully; dried them on a blue towel, which she refolded neatly on its bar; and then turned to him.

“So. You said you were hungry. I’m a terrible cook, but I have a few frozen dinners. Would you like me to heat one up for you?”

“That would be very nice,” he said. He wasn’t sure what had made her decide to let him stay. Maybe she was too tired to go on arguing with him. Maybe she’d decided it was easier to feed him and then send him on his way.

Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to change her mind. “How about if I set the table?”

She turned and smiled a little. “The table’s a terrible mess. Sometimes I eat in the living room. But there’s only one chair. I’m not exactly set up for entertaining.”

It almost took the years away, that smile. He felt something relax inside. Perhaps the real Claire was still alive inside that uptight iron maiden. He hoped so. He wasn’t sure why that mattered so much, but it did.

“No problem,” he said. “Just tell me where everything is, and I’ll improvise.”

She pointed out the cabinets and drawers that held all the flatware and dishes. Then she rummaged a minute in the freezer and emerged holding two red-and-white cartons.

“I’ve got vegetable lasagna and vegetable lasagna,” she said. She raised one eyebrow. “Your choice.”

He smiled. “Vegetable lasagna sounds good.”

They didn’t talk while she put the microwave through its paces. His instincts told him not to rush things. They were doing fine, especially considering how long it had been since they’d seen each other, and how hostile their parting had been. But the truce felt fragile, and he didn’t want to test it.

When both boxes were warmed up, she moved to the breakfast table and began stacking papers, preparing to move them to the kitchen counter.

“That’s okay,” he said, touching the pile of papers. He avoided connecting with her hand. “I’ve got us set up in here.”

She looked up with a quizzical expression. “Where?”

“Come see,” he said. He led the way to the living room. He’d put the plates and utensils on the coffee table, but he’d solved the seating problem a little more creatively. While she’d been putting away the few groceries that survived, he had taken the throw and spread it across the carpet like a picnic blanket.

He thought it looked kind of nice. The only light in the room came from three brass sconces at intervals along the cream-colored walls, so it wasn’t terribly well illuminated. But it had a pleasant, picnic-under-the-stars feeling, and he hoped she’d go for it.

She hesitated, holding a little plastic tray of vegetable lasagna in each hand. He could feel her internal debate—was this too cozy? Was he trying to get too close?

Finally she held the food out to him. “If I’m going to sit on the floor, I’d better put on something more comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

And she meant it. When she returned, just a couple of minutes later, she was wearing a yellow cotton sundress, and she had brushed some of the stiffness out of her hair. Now that it was swinging more naturally, and shining in the light from the sconces, he realized that her haircut was actually quite sexy.

In fact, she looked beautiful.

She paused at the stereo. She turned it on—maybe feeling that awkward silences would be more easily covered up if they had some background music. A classical station was playing Chopin, and she made a small face, probably judging it to be too much like “mood” music. She punched a couple of preset buttons and found an oldies station that was playing some nice, low-key rock and roll.

“That okay?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

He was already cross-legged on the floor, with his pseudo-food in front of him, and as she dropped down beside him, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was the same perfume she’d always worn. He smiled, strangely relieved. It was as if Claire, the real Claire, was materializing before his eyes.

They each took a bite of their lukewarm lasagna. God, it was awful.

She grimaced. “Maybe if we open a bottle of wine, that would take the edge off this stuff. Someone gave me one as a moving-in present. I’m pretty sure it’s still in there.”

Two years ago? If the lack of a dining-room table hadn’t told him she didn’t socialize much, the two-year-old bottle of wine would have.

“Great,” he said. He didn’t care about the food, but he was definitely in favor of anything that might take the edge off this stilted conversation.

“I’ll get it.” As she climbed to her feet and headed into the kitchen, he watched her go, pleased to see how soft and feminine her sleeveless dress was, pleased that she still wore yellow, which used to be her favorite color.

Strange that he should remember that. He wasn’t usually the least bit interested in women’s clothes. Through the years, many of his girlfriends had complained that he simply never noticed, no matter how much money they spent. So why on earth should Claire’s wardrobe matter?

Suddenly, he felt a flash of insight. And he finally realized why, in spite of every urging of his own better judgment, he had searched out Claire Strickland’s address tonight.

It was purely selfish, really. He needed to assure himself that, all things considered, she was doing okay. That Steve’s death had not destroyed her.

He needed to get at least that one small load of guilt off his breaking back.

Kieran didn’t know whose fault Steve’s death really was—not in any absolute moral, philosophical, religious sense, anyhow. In the eyes of the law, of course, it had been Steve’s own fault. He had been speeding.

But why was he speeding? Because he didn’t want to disappoint Kieran. Because Kieran had made it clear that commitment to their team was the most important thing in the world.

Maybe, as Claire had thrown in his face that night, Steve had died trying to live up to Kieran’s impossible expectations.

He couldn’t bring Steve back. But perhaps, if he could see that Claire’s life hadn’t been lost that morning, too, his conscience would let up a little.

He leaned back against the wall, swallowed another bite of cardboard lasagna and waited. Wine was exactly what they needed. Maybe after a couple of glasses he just might find out how deeply under this mound of grief and repression the real Claire Strickland was actually buried.

WHILE KIERAN RINSED the dishes, Claire rested her head against the wall and decided that she definitely shouldn’t have opened the wine.

It wasn’t that she was drunk. She’d had only a couple of glasses, and, even as out of practice as she was, it would take more than that. No, the problem was that she had begun to feel relaxed. Somewhere during this weird picnic dinner, she had begun to enjoy herself, to enjoy Kieran’s company, to enjoy hearing about home and laughing at his stories.

When she reviewed how it had all started, out there on the porch, she wasn’t exactly sure how he had managed to insinuate himself into her apartment and turn the whole stilted evening into a living-room picnic, complete with music and liquor and laughter.

But that was Kieran McClintock for you. He was smooth like that. The woman didn’t exist who could tell him no when he wanted to hear yes. He was born charming, and he’d just gotten better at it as he got older.

Wait… That wasn’t quite right. She had put on the music, and she had unearthed the booze. Maybe she was putting the blame in the wrong place….

She’d done that before, hadn’t she? When she had told Kieran that he killed Steve…that hadn’t been completely true. Part of her still blamed him for his part in the accident—and always would. But part of her had finally accepted that there was plenty of blame to go around.

And that’s why opening the wine had been such a mistake. She owed him an apology, and it wasn’t going to be easy to say what she needed to say. It was two years overdue, and it was going to stick in her throat. Steve’s name always did.

And it was definitely going to spoil what had become a rather nice evening. She hadn’t had company in so long, she’d forgotten how pleasant it could be.

He came in from the kitchen now, holding an apple, a small knife and a paper plate. He sat down beside her, his back against the wall, too.

He hummed along with the old Beatles song on the radio. He never rushed into small talk. That was one of his most charming traits. He could let a silence rest easy in the room. Of course, when you were the gorgeous Kieran McClintock, beloved heir to the McClintock fortune, which included practically the entire town of Heyday, it probably wasn’t difficult to be relaxed and self-confident and let other people do the impressing.

“Kieran, there’s something I need to say,” she began.

He turned his head and smiled at her. “Okay,” he said.

Up close, even by this dim light, she was struck by how blue his eyes were. And how gorgeous. God, she had forgotten how handsome he was. When she’d first left Heyday, she’d drawn horns and evil, arched eyebrows on her mental image of him. Even after she admitted, much later, that he might not be the devil, her memory had been distorted.

Most of all, she’d forgotten his amazing charisma. She’d forgotten that he radiated power and masculinity and charm like a light. That was, of course, why teenage boys, fifteen-year-old girls, spinsters and old men and puppies followed him anywhere. The only people she’d ever met who didn’t like Kieran were the men whose girlfriends openly lusted after him.

Suddenly the wine seemed to rise straight to her brain. And, as the warmth from his shoulder pressed into hers, she felt the edgy fingers of sexual tension feather at her spine.

Oh, God. She should have known this would happen.

When she didn’t speak, he smiled easily and held out the apple he had been peeling.

“Want dessert? I washed it. It doesn’t seem too banged up, though it did do a Slinky down two flights of stairs.”

“Sure,” she said, though she knew she was just stalling. She didn’t want to talk about Steve, not tonight, not to Kieran. She felt all mixed up inside. It was nerve-wracking to hang here like this, caught between the building desire and the lingering bitterness.

He cut off a wedge of the apple and handed it to her. She chewed it slowly. It tasted sweeter than anything she’d had since she left Heyday. In fact, she thought, shutting her eyes, it tasted like Heyday itself. It tasted like her mom’s apple pies and candy apples at the Ringmaster Parade. It tasted like green trees and blue skies and sunshine that slanted slowly over long afternoons.

When she opened her eyes, Kieran smiled and handed her another. As she took it, their fingers touched briefly, both of them slick with apple juice, and warm. Something sharply sweet jolted through her. Kieran would taste like Heyday, too, she thought. His lips would taste like home.

Oh, dear God, she still wanted him. But why should that surprise her? She had always wanted him, ever since she was fifteen years old and didn’t even understand what wanting meant. Up until that very last, terrible day, she had always felt a little breathless at the sight of him.

And now here they were, after all that had happened, after two whole years apart. Everything had changed between them—and yet, in this most primitive way, nothing had changed at all.

Just then the radio station began playing a love song that had been all the rage five years ago. She knew that song. It was corny and lilting and unabashed in its emotion. She had secretly loved it, but Steve had thought it was hilarious. He had wandered through the house, making up alternate lyrics, each more nauseatingly saccharine than the last.

“Steve made such fun of this song,” she said. “I never had the nerve to admit how much I liked it.”

Kieran smiled. He didn’t even seem to notice that she had finally brought up Steve, although that was probably another example of how smooth he was.

“I bet Steve loved it, too,” he said. “Teenage boys do that a lot. They aren’t comfortable expressing emotion yet. Eventually they grow out of it.”

She looked at him, feeling the sadness come streaking through her. No, she thought, tightening her shoulders to resist the pain. Steve wouldn’t grow out of it. Steve would never get the chance to grow up.

Kieran’s face tightened, and she knew he could read her thoughts. Or maybe he had just recognized his own insensitive blunder.

He put out his hand and touched her face.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Oh, hell. I’m so sorry.”

She turned away. She looked down at her apple. She’d been holding this piece too long. It was starting to turn brown where her fingers pinched it.

“I think—I think maybe it’s time for you to go,” she said.

“Claire, don’t. Don’t close off again—”

But she had to. Didn’t he understand that? When she left herself open, open to wanting him, open to remembering Steve, then the pain came charging in, like an enemy rushing a breach in the defenses. She couldn’t endure it. It simply hurt too much.

She tried to climb to her feet, but he was so close. It was hard to get leverage without reaching out and touching him.

“Really,” she said. “It’s late—”

“Claire, talk to me. Please…tell me what you’re feeling.”

What she was feeling? She got to her feet somehow and stood staring down at him. She tried to find her earlier numb indifference, but it was gone. Something had stolen it. Kieran, with his blue eyes and his sexy smile and his knotted, inextricable ties to Steve, had stolen it, as he had stolen so many things in her life.

“What do you think I’m feeling? I’m hurting. Is that what you wanted me to say? I’ve lost everyone I ever loved, and it hurts. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He rose, too, but she shoved away from him and moved toward the radio. She flicked it off just before he reached her.

“No,” he said. “I never wanted you to hurt.”

“Oh, that’s right. What was I thinking? You’d much prefer to hear that everything is fine, that I’m okay and you’re forgiven. In fact, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? That’s why you came. So that you can be forgiven, and you can get on with your life.”

She was right. She could see it in his face. He didn’t deny it. He just stared at her, looking exhausted and guilty as hell.

Somehow that drained all the fury right out of her. She went limp. “All right, then, you’re forgiven,” she said. “And I’m fine. Now please go home. Please.”

Her voice cracked, and she felt something warm, like blood, on her cheeks. She reached up and touched the liquid, but it was clear. It was tears—the first she’d cried since Steve’s funeral. She tried to choke them back. She didn’t want to do this. Not now, not ever. She lifted her chin and swallowed hard, but still they poured down her face.

Kieran stood in front of her, his face dark. “Don’t fight it,” he said. “It’s all right. You need to cry.”

He brushed the tears with his fingers. And then, very slowly, he kissed the damp places where they had been. She didn’t resist as he pulled her into his arms and bent his head close to hers. She could feel his heart pounding.

He was so strong, she thought. And she was not. Once, she had been…but now she was being helplessly drained by this flood of tears.

So she let herself rest against his chest. Just for a little while, she thought. Just until she borrowed enough strength to stand on her own again.

When he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his, when he bent his head and kissed her, she thought at first it was just another kind of comfort. His lips were tender, moving slowly, as if he hoped he might be able to stroke new life into her.

And it was comforting. His kiss was sweet and warm, and she had been right, he did taste of Heyday. He opened her lips gently and breathed the sweet air of home, the pure memory of Steve, of happiness, of innocence, of love, into her mouth.

With a soft groan, she accepted it all, grateful but passive, still helpless to resist or participate.

Somewhere, though, her body had already begun to answer him. A subtle heat in the small of her back. A warm, honeyed liquid trickling through her veins. It must have begun very deep, so deep that she wasn’t aware, because by the time it reached her conscious mind, her heart was racing, and she was on fire.

She caught her breath against the piercing pleasure.

Pulling away, she turned her face toward his neck, where she could feel his heart pounding, just as hers was. She moved her mouth against him, until he was wet with her tears, and skin slid easily on skin. His arms jerked and tightened, and the pulse throbbed harder against her lips.

He made a low noise in his throat, more vibration than sound.

“I want you, Claire,” he said, turning his face to capture her lips again. His breath was still sweet, but fiery now, an extension of the flames inside her. “I want you so much I can hardly see straight.”

“I know,” she said. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I know.”

His hands moved over her back, down to her hips. He pulled her closer. “I didn’t come for this, I swear I didn’t.” He cupped his hands around her buttocks and tilted her into him. “At least I don’t think I did. I honestly don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

And it didn’t. Little frozen bits of her body were melting, and the warm flood was carrying her away. She might have regrets tomorrow, but tonight she didn’t care.

After all she had lost, didn’t she deserve this? Didn’t Kieran owe her this? Didn’t he owe her one night when she didn’t have to feel so dreadfully alone?

And tomorrow?

But she shut the question out of her mind. No one should live for tomorrow. It might never come. It might fly away in the gray, speeding hour before dawn. And then it would be too late.

“Please,” she whispered, putting her lips against his throat. “Make love to me.”

He hesitated one last second. And then, with a low groan of surrender, he eased her down onto the tablecloth. He unbuttoned her yellow dress, and when she was naked and waiting, taking shallow breaths to hold the tension at a safe distance, he slowly removed his own clothes.

He was even more beautiful than she had imagined. His golden skin, his powerful proportions, his hot blue eyes devouring her and his silken blond hair dangling in his face…

No wonder everyone loved him. She could love him, too, if she let herself.

He skimmed his fingers down her body, from collarbone to hip. She shivered and shifted against the tablecloth hungrily.

He knelt over her, positioning himself carefully so that their bodies met at every possible point. He brought his mouth down and took the tip of her breast between his warm lips. Arching with something that was too lovely to be pain, too piercing to be joy, she threaded her fingers through his soft hair and said his name, his beautiful name that sounded a little like a cry.

He touched her then between her legs, touched her as if he already knew her, as if her body spoke to him in a secret language only he could hear. He went slowly. He listened as her muscles quivered, as her breath trembled and moaned and snagged on its own panting pace. And then, when he was sure he understood, his fingers stroked their complicated, fiery response.

She cried out and twisted, instinctively trying to escape the terrifying thrill of such a profound intimacy.

What about tomorrow? Something frightened inside kept crying out the question. What about tomorrow?

But there was no tomorrow.

“Kieran,” she cried, pulling at his hand. He understood—he moved quickly. He rose above her. He pressed himself into her, pushing softly at first, then harder….

“Claire?” His face was tense. He hadn’t expected that he would be the first. It clearly was an agony to hold back.

Tomorrow? But the word was only a shadow now.

“It’s all right,” she said. She dug her fingers into his hips and pulled him in, until the barriers broke and he filled her with a groan and a flash of searing pain.

He kissed her then, and the fiery, rhythmic sparkle began all over again. She opened, and he drove into her mouth just as he was driving into her body. And in that sweet, hot wetness, she realized she had been wrong.

Kieran McClintock’s lips didn’t taste like home.

They tasted like heaven.

And for one taste of heaven tonight, she’d gladly face hell tomorrow.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE HEYDAY HIGH SCHOOL Cheerleaders had picked the hottest June morning in Heyday history to hold their annual car wash. But at least Eddie Mackey had the consolation of knowing he wasn’t the only boy dumb enough to have crawled out of bed to help them.

All the guys were here. Joe and Carter and Jeff and Mark…and even Cullen, their star quarterback, who had said last night that if his girlfriend Jana thought he was gonna be her trained lapdog, she could by God kiss his cleats. Now he was on his knees, scrubbing hubcaps, the worst job of all. In fact, as far as Eddie could tell, the boys were doing every bit of the work. The cheerleaders were just bouncing around in their wet T-shirts and waving posters to pull in the cars.

What a bunch of suckers they all were. Eddie, who had been stretched out on the leather bench seat of Doug Metzler’s Cadillac, vacuuming linty bits of petrified French fries off the floor, finally got sick of the smell and rolled over with a sigh.

And found himself staring up at Binky Potter’s breasts.

Binky had leaned in to wipe down the Caddy’s windows, leaned right smack over him. Oh, man. She was the finest girl out here—and not just because she had the best body. She was pretty, too. All the guys were after her.

But she was his. She had been his girl for two whole months tomorrow.

He swallowed hard and decided it was all worth it—French fries, heat, sweat, stink, everything. Nothing on earth could have prevented him from being here today.

“Well, cowboy, what you looking at?”

Grinning, Binky leaned down an inch or two more, just close enough so that her necklace tickled his upper lip. He’d given her that necklace. It was a silver lariat—their little joke, because she always called him cowboy. Of course, he’d never been within spitting distance of a cow, and if anyone handed him a lariat he’d be more likely to hang himself with it than rope a steer, but so what? It sounded sexy as hell.

He caught the tip of the necklace between his teeth. “I’m looking at you, hot stuff,” he said, tasting the cold sting of silver against his tongue. “Wasn’t that what you had in mind?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy.” She pretended to try to pull away, but the lariat merely pressed lightly against his teeth, so he knew she didn’t mean it. A drop of sudsy water was making its slow path down the firm mound of her left breast. If he leaned forward, he could lick it off….

His jeans suddenly seemed to become a size smaller.

He lifted his chin. His nose grazed the wet edge of her shirt. But he couldn’t quite reach the drop of water.

Which, of course, was the story of his relationship with Binky. Close—so close. But then…nothing.

“Hey, Eddie, guess what? I was at Morrison’s the other day, and guess what I saw?”

Morrison’s was Heyday’s most expensive jeweler. Binky loved jewelry. And nothing fake, either. She liked the real stuff. Eddie’s jeans began to fit better as he thought of his empty wallet. He let go of the lariat.

“I don’t know. What?”

“The cutest little earrings. They match my necklace exactly. Little ropes that dangle. Little ropes for big, strong cowboys to tie things up with…” She leaned down and kissed his chin, which meant that the soft flesh of her breasts momentarily pressed warm against his chest. “Anything you’d like to lasso, cowboy?”

He felt so hot and tingling all over he could hardly think straight. Hell, yes, he’d like to lasso her. Of course, she’d said the same thing when she had first seen the necklace. Some small, clear part of his brain told him that if the necklace hadn’t secured her, the earrings weren’t going to.

But it would be worth a try. He still had $27.50 left from last week’s pay. If that wouldn’t cover the earrings, well…maybe he could get another lawn job. Mrs. Tremel had said something the other day about needing help.

“Hey, get your tongue out of her cleavage, Mackey. Mr. Metzler wants his car, and besides, Coach is watching.”

At the sound of Cullen’s voice, Binky jerked back. Eddie twisted into a sitting position, banging his elbow hard on the steering wheel. Coach McClintock was cool, but even he wouldn’t stand for Binky draping herself all over him like a human blanket.

“Hi, Coach,” Binky said, twisting her lariat around her index finger and smiling so that every one of her dimples was showing. “Don’t be mad at Eddie, Coach. It was my fault he took so long on the car.” She tossed her blond ponytail. “I distracted him.”

Coach McClintock laughed and turned back to Mr. Metzler without a real answer. Eddie growled and, putting his hands behind Binky’s bare knees, tugged her toward him.

“Stop flirting with him,” he said. “You’ve got a boyfriend, remember? Besides, he’s too old for you.”

Binky ruffled his hair with her pink-tipped fingers, but she was still staring at Coach. “Yeah,” she sighed. “But he’s just so hot, you know?”

Cullen, who had come over to work on Metzler’s tires, picked up the hose and, putting his finger over the nozzle, aimed it in Binky’s direction. “Down, girl,” he said.

Binky squealed and dodged the spray gracefully. It fell short, and lay on the hot, dirty pavement, shining in little oily rainbows. You could almost smell the steam coming up around it. Binky stuck out her tongue at Cullen, blew a kiss to Eddie, then headed over to chat with her friends.

Eddie watched her go with mixed emotions. He could get more done if she weren’t within touching distance. On the other hand, he wasn’t that crazy about being alone with Cullen. The other boy had said something earlier about needing a favor. Eddie had a pretty good idea what kind of favor it was.

“So, Mackey. I was wondering.” Cullen didn’t look up. He stared hard at the tire he was washing and talked out of the corner of his mouth. He’d probably seen some gangsters talk that way on television. Cullen was a genius with the football, but his brains didn’t work all that well off the field.

Eddie ducked his head and fiddled with the vacuum hose, trying to wind it back around its canister. He didn’t say anything. If only someone would come up right now and interrupt them, God, what a break that would be. But Coach McClintock and Mr. Metzler seemed deep in conversation, and everyone else was working on cars.

“I was wondering,” Cullen started again. “You know, about English. About the paper.”

“What paper?”

Cullen finally looked up. He had a strong-boned face, and when he was irritated he looked mean. “What paper? You trying to be funny? Don’t get the roles mixed up here, Mackey. I’m the funny guy. You’re the smart guy. Remember?”

Eddie hesitated. Cullen was big, handsome and athletic, and he had the world’s most extensive repertoire of sarcastic put-downs—which he loved to use on geeks who weren’t cool enough to be on the football team, like Eddie.

Eddie felt like telling Cullen that Coach McClintock wanted Eddie on the team next year. That might shut him up a little. But Eddie wasn’t sure yet whether he was going to say yes, so he forced himself to stay silent.

Everybody liked Cullen, though, or at least pretended to. His dad owned the local imported car dealership, and that meant he had a fancy house, a fancy car, a gorgeous girlfriend and the coolest clothes. The only thing he didn’t have was a passing grade in English.

“Tennyson,” Cullen said with a grin, as soon as he realized Eddie wasn’t going to attempt a comeback. “Five hundred words. Not too perfect, don’t want Mrs. G to smell a rat, right?” He laughed. “A C paper, that’s all. Do I get a discount for a C paper, Mackey? I should. You can write a C paper in your sleep.”

“I don’t know, Cullen. I’m pretty slammed right now. I’m mowing about a hundred yards and—”

“I already flunked English once, Mackey. I don’t intend to flunk it again.” Cullen’s face hardened and became all jutting bone. “What is it? You want me to pay extra? Because it’s summer school? Getting kind of greedy, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want you to pay extra.” Eddie wiped his hands on his jeans. He cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, I really wasn’t planning to do any more of that. Papers, I mean.”

“Say what?” Cullen stood, and his big, beefy body blocked the sun. “You’re not writing any more papers? Hey, man, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just saying I think it’s time to stop. I mean, it’s cheating, and sooner or later we’re going to get caught, and—”

Cullen bent over, putting his face so close to Eddie’s the threat was unmistakable. “Listen, Mackey. If you want to suddenly get religious about all this, you do it after summer term is over, understand? Sure it’s cheating, but you’re in it up to your big red ears already, and you’re not pulling out until I’ve passed English.”

Eddie stood up, too. He didn’t like being threatened. He wasn’t as big as Cullen, but he worked out, and besides, he was smarter. He liked his chances against the big oaf any day. “Watch your tone, Cullen, because I don’t take orders from—”

But maybe Cullen wasn’t as dense as Eddie thought. His face changed suddenly, as if he’d realized there might be a better way to handle this.

He lifted his big hands and rested them on Eddie’s shoulders. His fake smile was somehow more unsettling than his scowl had been.

“Hey, sorry, man,” he said in a hearty tone. “I didn’t mean to come on too strong. It’s just that I like you. And I know Binky does, too. I mean, we’d all hate it if you weren’t part of the group, you know? We’d miss you, man.”

Eddie opened his mouth. But nothing came out. This wasn’t an empty threat. Cullen Overton had more social power in his meaty little finger than Eddie Mackey had in his whole body. If Cullen decided Eddie was Out, then he was so Out he might as well live on Mars. And Binky Potter would be draping herself over some other guy by the end of next week.

Cullen’s small green eyes were bright with triumph. He patted Eddie’s shoulder a little too hard. “So it’s a deal. Tell you what. I’ll pay double, you know, because it’s summer. And you’ll write me a seriously C-type Tennyson paper. Thanks, man.”

He began to walk away. But then he turned around with one last, fake smile so big his white teeth glinted in the sun. “Oh, and Jeff said he might need one, too. I’ll tell him to get with you soon, so you have plenty of time, okay?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Eddie sat back down on Mr. Metzler’s front seat. He was tired suddenly. The party hadn’t wound down last night until about two in the morning, and they’d had to be out here by seven. He still had three lawns to mow this afternoon. Maybe being booted into social outer space wouldn’t be so bad, really. At least then he could get some sleep.

But Binky… He heard her laughing with her friends. She had a sweet laugh, throaty and mellow, not shrill and sarcastic like the other girls. She might be a little greedy about jewelry, but he believed there was something special about her. Something worth fighting for.

Fighting for, maybe. But was she worth cheating for?

He wiped his hand over his eyes, and when he opened them again he saw that Coach McClintock was walking over to him. Oh, great. Eddie was sure he was going to get a lecture for taking so long with the Caddy, but to his surprise Coach just leaned one hip against the front fender and seemed to be admiring the sparkling windows.

“Nice job,” Coach said casually.

“Thanks.” Eddie hoped his voice didn’t sound as pooped as he felt. He didn’t want to sound indifferent. He cared what Coach thought of him. A lot.

“I hope the girls appreciate how hard you guys are working to buy them new uniforms,” Coach said. “Think they’ll come out and wash cars when the football team needs new helmets?”

Eddie cast another look toward Binky and her friends. One of the girls was trying to make some complicated braid thing out of Binky’s long blond hair, and the others watched breathlessly, as if it were brain surgery.

“Yeah, right,” he said. He looked at Coach, and the two of them smiled in perfect harmony on the subject of girls. Well, at least these girls. They were definitely not the future astronauts and Nobel Prize winners of the world. They were born to be pretty and pampered—and pointless. Like really expensive, slightly dangerous pets.

He suddenly wondered why he was killing himself trying to raise money to buy one of his own. He couldn’t really imagine wanting a pet for a wife.

But damn it, he was seventeen. He didn’t want any kind of wife. He wanted to get laid, just like everybody else.

“So how are things, Eddie? Everything going okay?”

Eddie looked up at Coach. His tone was weird. Did he sense something? Did he know something? Had he overheard what Cullen had said?

“Things seem fine.” Eddie chose his words with care. “We’re getting a lot of cars.”

Coach gazed at him with a quiet, oddly gentle expression. “I don’t mean the car wash. I mean you. You seem a little down. Everything okay?”

God, if he only knew! Nothing was okay.

For one insane minute, Eddie thought he was going to blurt out the whole sleazy truth. Thought he might say that he was selling his soul for a chance to get into Binky Potter’s pants. That he had finally found a way to run with the big boys, and it was damn near killing him. That he was tired and trapped and sick of the whole thing.

But how could Coach help? Coach had been born one of the big boys. He practically owned Heyday, as his father had before him. He had no idea what it felt like to be on the outside, straining to get in.

Besides, he was so damn straitlaced. Everyone around here called him the Saint. He’d never allow the paper-selling thing to go on—and he’d never let Eddie get away unpunished.

“Eddie?”

Eddie hesitated, still unsure. Yes, telling Coach would be suicide, but at least it would be over. The temptation was almost irresistible. It would be a relief if someone like Coach could just force him to stop, since he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself.

But in the end he didn’t have the courage. He didn’t have the nerve to see Coach’s face when he realized Eddie was a scumball. He didn’t want Coach to withdraw his offer to bring Eddie onto the team.

And he definitely didn’t have the guts to give up the hope that someday Binky Potter would say yes. Maybe even tonight. They had a movie date at eight, and if he didn’t get started mowing those lawns soon he’d be late. When they went to the movies, she liked to tease him, sucking slick popcorn butter from his fingers one by one till he nearly died.

No way could he give that up.

“Eddie?” Coach’s voice was tighter now. Really concerned. “You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What could be wrong?” Eddie stood up again and tossed Coach a smile as fake as anything Cullen Overton had ever produced. “Life’s sweet, man. Sweet.”

KIERAN WAS DOG TIRED, and he would have given anything he owned to be able to take a long hot shower, order a sloppy pizza, open a freezing cold beer and spend the evening in front of the TV.

Instead, he had to dress up in a penguin suit and go next door to Aurora York’s house, where he would spend three hours pretending he gave a damn who was elected Heyday’s next parade Ringmaster and Ringmistress. Even worse, he might well be nominated himself, which would mean he’d have to pretend to be delighted.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure he had “delighted” left in his bag of tricks tonight. It had been a very long day.

He did take the shower. That wasn’t optional, not after standing in the sun all morning helping teenagers wash cars. And he got the beer, too. That wasn’t optional, either, not after having spent the entire afternoon listening to the Heyday Historical Society bitch about Larry Millegrew, a newly arrived artist who had dared to paint his house orange.

Kieran didn’t know how he’d stopped himself from laughing. When had this town become so darn snooty? Pretty ironic for a town that got its jump-start because of a drunken circus animal trainer to begin having apoplexy at the sight of an orange house. “Gray and white,” Dolly Jenkins had kept repeating at today’s meeting, sounding weak with shock. “Gray and white. Anything else is just vulgar!”

But what did they want Kieran to do about it, anyhow? He had inherited a lot of the property around here, but his dad’s estate wasn’t even probated yet, and besides, this wasn’t feudal England. He couldn’t exactly throw Mr. Millegrew in the dungeon and commandeer his absurd orange house.

Kieran tossed his towel on the bed and, still yearning for the pizza he couldn’t have, he reluctantly began to assemble his tux. He hated parties. This must be one of the ways in which he took after his mother, who everyone said had been a quiet, unassuming woman. She’d died when Kieran was born, so he knew her only as a wispy, smiling face in a small watercolor painting on the living-room wall.

He certainly didn’t take after his dad, who even at seventy had been all strong, primary colors, all great bold strokes in oil, like the portrait of him that hung above the fireplace mantel.

His dad could have handled Dolly Jenkins and Larry Millegrew with one hand, then tossed off tonight’s party like an after-dinner cognac. Old Anderson McClintock had loved people. He’d loved parties. He’d loved power games. And, as he had every day since his father died, Kieran wished the old devil were still alive to play them.

Kieran knew he was dragging his feet and probably running late, so he wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang.

It was probably Aurora. She had asked him to come over early to help with the lights. She’d be mad as hell to discover he wasn’t even dressed.

“Coming,” he called as he trotted down the stairs with his dress shirt still half in, half out of his trousers. His black tie dangled between his teeth as he tried to insert his cuff links.

“Sorry, Aurora,” he mumbled as he swung open the door. “But you’re just in time to tie my—”

But it wasn’t Aurora, who at seventy-five was still an imposing old lady. She would have stood about five-eleven, higher if you counted her heels and the feather plume she invariably wore in her hat.

This was someone younger, smaller—someone who stood back, out of the glare of the porch lamp, clearly far less sure of her welcome than Aurora had ever been in her life.

But who…?

The woman moved awkwardly, and the creamy light washed over her.

Kieran dropped his cuff link. It was Claire Strickland.

The little ebony square clattered out onto the porch, and Claire stooped stiffly to pick it up. Watching her, Kieran pulled his tie slowly from between his teeth. He tried to gather his thoughts, which were about as disorganized as darting minnows. But it was just such a shock. What was Claire Strickland doing showing up here, unannounced, on his doorstep?

The last time he had seen her was that strange, unforgettable night in Richmond. He’d thought of her—and of the sex, of course—almost every day since. But he hadn’t called. After they’d awakened in the echoing, predawn hours, she had asked him to leave. And she’d made it clear she did not want to hear from him ever again.

In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the party tuning up. Laughter, the strum of an electrified cello, the distant thud of car doors.

But here on the porch everything was silent. He felt a sudden flash of anxiety. Was she all right? He knew she wouldn’t have come here without a very serious reason, not after the way she had told him goodbye….

And why was she dressed in black, her face as somber as if she had just been to a funeral? Good God, had someone else in her life died? He hadn’t thought she had anyone else.

“Kieran, I’m… May I come in?”

“God, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He backed away from the door and let her enter. She stood there in the foyer, glancing around as if she’d never seen the inside of his house before. Which, he realized with surprise, she actually hadn’t. Their relationship—or whatever embryonic version of a relationship they’d been trying to develop when Steve’s death had shattered it to bits—had never progressed far enough for him to bring her here.

As she took it all in, her gaze held a strange combination of curiosity and apathy. It was as if she knew she should care what his house looked like, but she just didn’t.

He tried for a second to see it through her eyes. The big, classical Georgian mansion was pristine, thanks to his housekeeper. The only item out of place was his half-empty beer bottle. He didn’t have anything to feel ashamed about.

And yet, oddly, he did.

Perhaps it was just that the place was so ridiculously big. That he had so much when she had always had so little. He remembered the simple house she and Steve had shared. And that half-empty tomb she called home in Richmond.

“Claire, is everything all right? Why have you come? Do you need anything?”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were bottomless, and circled with thin, blue-shadowed skin. Her cheeks were pale, and for a moment he thought he saw her shudder. He put out his arm to steady her, but she backed away.

“Claire, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“No,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE HAD KNOWN, OF COURSE, that he’d be stunned—and upset, too, especially when he realized what she wanted to do about the pregnancy. She wasn’t a fool. She certainly hadn’t been expecting him to hug her and start passing out cigars.

But she could never have imagined the look of pure, unadulterated horror that fell over his features. It was as if someone had announced the end of the world.

Strange how painful it was to see. Her face burned as if she’d been slapped.

However, she had to pull herself together. She had intended to be strong and businesslike, presenting her facts and her demands unemotionally. She was furious with herself for suddenly coming across all weak and weepy. It must be the hormone fluctuations the doctor had warned her about.

And maybe it was also the confusion of entering this house, which had always been the symbol of unassailable power in Heyday. She’d felt uncomfortable even ringing the bell, like some unfortunate chambermaid come to tell the lord of the manor he’d done her wrong.

She’d always known Kieran was rich and important. Everyone in Heyday knew that. But knowing an abstract fact and seeing him here, dressed in a tuxedo, his handsome face and imposing physique so at home against the marble and the tapestries and the sheer impressive magnitude of his mansion, were two very different things.

She straightened her shoulders. Damn it, she wasn’t the chambermaid. And he wasn’t a lord. He wasn’t even the Saint everyone had always called him. He was just a guy who’d slept around once too often and gotten himself caught.

“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice cool. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I know it’s a shock, but—”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“It was for me, as well. But it’s true.” She let her fingers rest against the black purse that hung at her side. She realized they were trembling. “I brought documentation from the gynecologist, in case you—”

He squinted and put out his hand, as if to stop her, though he didn’t actually touch her arm. “For God’s sake, Claire. I don’t think you’re lying.”

“Okay. Well, then, I assume you’ll want some proof of paternity. I haven’t looked into that yet. I thought it likely you’d rather work with doctors, or laboratories, of your own choosing, to ensure an unbiased—”

He shook his head tightly. “If you say it’s mine, I believe you. It’s just that I had thought that we— I mean I did—”

“Yes, you did. But we both know that’s not exactly a one-hundred-percent guarantee. Again, if you have any uncertainty, I’m perfectly willing to let you establish—”

“No.” He was still holding his cuff link. He was opening and closing his fist over the thing compulsively. Other than that, he was so motionless he might have been one of the sculptures that stood at intervals along the walls of this formal foyer. “I told you, if you say this is my problem, I’ll accept that.”

Heat flashed through her. “You must have misunderstood me. I didn’t say this was your problem. I said this was your child.”

He flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just that—I need a little time to absorb…”

He raked his fingers through his hair, which seemed to be damp. He must have showered recently. And the tuxedo. Suddenly she realized she had interrupted preparations for something.

When she arrived, she had only half registered the men and women milling about next door, in front of Aurora York’s house. Now she could put two and two together. He was on his way to a party. She was probably making him late.

Well, too bad. She hardened her heart against his obvious bewildered distress. The arrival of a baby was going to change a lot of plans, for both of them. They were just going to have to get used to it.

And if he’d been planning to meet some woman over there, some glamorous Heyday socialite who was even now impatiently awaiting his arrival… Well, it was better that he learn about the baby before he let the dancing and the drinking and the flirting go too far.

“Yes, it might be good to take a little time to think,” she said. “Anyway, I can see that you’re busy. I’m staying in town, at the hotel, and we can talk more tomorrow. I just thought it was important to let you know as soon as possible.”

Before she lost her nerve and ran back to Richmond.

“But—are you all right?” He seemed to be waking up a bit. He looked at her with clear eyes for the first time since her announcement. He frowned, as if what he saw worried him. “You look tired. Are you well?”

“I’m fine. I have a little nausea sometimes, but that’s normal.”

“What about money? Do you need money?” He touched his shirt, then seemed to realize he wasn’t completely dressed. “My wallet is upstairs, but if you’ll—”

She lifted her chin. Money! Of course that was what he would think. People who owned things were always convinced the rest of the world wanted to take those things away.

“It’s not about money,” she said. “Don’t insult me, Kieran.”

He made a small sound and came toward her, holding out his hand. Then, for the first time since she’d arrived, he touched her. It wasn’t much, just his palm on her shoulder, but it sent waves of weakness through her torso, and it almost loosened the emotional dam she used to hold back her tears.

“Claire—”

She backed off. What was wrong with her? Why did the slightest touch turn her steel will to mush? She had reacted the same way when the gynecologist had patted her arm and told her everything was going to be fine.

Except for the night she and Kieran had made love, she had barely touched another human being in two years. She had thought she didn’t need it, thought she was too strong to need it. Obviously she’d been wrong. Apparently she was starving for it, as weak as a baby herself.

“I don’t want your money,” she repeated. “You can relax. I’m not here either as a beggar or a blackmailer.”

“God, of course you’re not,” he said roughly. “Damn it, Claire, the thought never crossed my mind. But it’s just that—if you won’t let me help you financially…”

She looked at him. This had seemed much easier when she rehearsed it in the car on the way here. It had seemed so simple, like a business deal where everyone paid a fair price for what they got. Crime and punishment, sin and penance, equally balanced. She had even imagined that he might suggest the obvious answer himself.

But now she saw how thoroughly she had deluded herself. St. Kieran McClintock was genuinely horrified, completely bewildered and had no idea what she wanted.

She took a deep breath.

“I want you to marry me,” she said.

He recoiled. There was no other word for it. He even took a step backward, as if she’d hit him.

“Marry you?”

“Yes. You don’t need to look so stunned. That’s frequently what people do in situations like this.”

“But—” He undid the top button of his suit, as though he suddenly weren’t able to get enough air into his lungs. “Those people are usually—they have relationships. Most people who end up in this situation know each other well, have a history, have plans for a future. They’re usually in—”

“In love.” Her voice cracked on the word, and she tightened her throat to avoid breaking down. “I know. It’s awkward. I wish being in love were a requirement for making babies, but apparently it isn’t. Apparently even people who have an utterly meaningless one-night encounter can still end up pregnant.”

“I—I put that wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are going to have a child. A real, living, breathing person is going to enter this world. I don’t want any stigma attached to his name. I want him to have a name.”

“Stigma?” He frowned. “That’s pretty old-fashioned thinking, isn’t it? I mean, in this day and age, do people really—”

“Yes. People really do.” She thought of Mrs. Straine, who everyone whispered had bought her own wedding ring and sent herself flowers on an imaginary anniversary. She thought of her own mother, who had invented a marriage, then invented a divorce and cried into her pillow at night.

“I work at a very old-fashioned parochial school. I teach middle-school girls, who are becoming sexually aware themselves. I’m already on probation there for the sin of teaching them Hamlet. That’s how repressed the environment is. Believe me, my principal would never allow an unmarried mother to be their teacher.”

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