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  “The writer happens to be incredibly attractive, in that carelessly rugged sort of way that no one can pull off unless he’s born with it. A marvelous change of pace,” she added with a wicked gleam, “from English barons. He’s tall and bronzed with black hair that’s just a bit too long and always disheveled. It makes a woman itch to get her fingers into it. Best, he has those dark eyes that say ‘go to hell’ so eloquently. He’s an arrogant devil.” Her sigh was pure feminine approval. “Arrogant men are irresistible, don’t you think?”

  Autumn murmured something while she tried to block out the suspicions Julia’s words were forming. It had to be someone else, she thought frantically. Anyone else.

  “And, of course, Lucas McLean’s talent deserves a bit of arrogance.”

  The color drained from Autumn’s face and left it stiff. Waves of almost forgotten pain washed over her. How could it hurt so much after all this time? She had built the wall so carefully, so laboriously—how could it crumble into dust at the sound of a name? She wondered, dully, what sadistic quirk of fate had brought Lucas McLean back to torment her.

  “Why, darling, what’s the matter?”

  Julia’s voice, mixed with concern and curiosity, penetrated. As if coming up for air, Autumn shook her head. “Nothing.” She shook her head again and swallowed. “It was just a surprise to hear that Lucas McLean is here.” Drawing a deep breath, she met Julia’s eyes. “I knew him . . . a long time ago.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  And she did see, Autumn noted, very well. Sympathy warred with speculation in both her face and voice. Autumn shrugged, determined to treat it lightly.

  “I doubt he remembers me.” Part of her prayed with fervor it was true, while another prayed at cross-purposes. Would he forget? she wondered. Could he?

  “Autumn, darling, yours is a face no man is likely to forget.” Through a mist of smoke, Julia studied her. “You were very young when you fell in love with him?”

  “Yes.” Autumn was trying, painfully, to rebuild her protective wall and wasn’t surprised by the question. “Too young, too naive.” She managed a brittle smile and for the first time in six months accepted a cigarette. “But I learn quickly.”

  “It seems the next few days might prove interesting, after all.”

  “Yes.” Autumn’s agreement lacked enthusiasm. “So it does.” She needed time to be alone, to steady herself. “I have to take my bags up,” she said as she rose.

  While Autumn stretched her slender arms toward the ceiling, Julia smiled. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Nodding, Autumn gathered up her camera case and purse and left the room.

  In the hall, she struggled with her suitcases, camera and purse before beginning the task of transporting them up the stairs. Throughout the slow trek up the stairs, Autumn relieved tension by muttering and swearing. Lucas McLean, she thought and banged a suitcase against her shin. She nearly convinced herself that her ill humor was a result of the bruise she’d just given herself. Out of breath and patience, she reached the hallway outside her room and dumped everything on the floor with an angry thud.

  “Hello, Cat. No bellboy?”

  The voice—and the ridiculous nickname—knocked a few of her freshly mortared bricks loose. After a brief hesitation, Autumn turned to him. The pain wouldn’t show on her face. She’d learned that much. But the pain was there, surprisingly real and physical. It reminded her of the day her brother had swung a baseball bat into her stomach when she had been twelve. I’m not twelve now, she reminded herself. She met Lucas’s arrogant smile with one of her own.

  “Hello, Lucas. I heard you were here. The Pine View Inn is bursting with celebrities.”

  He was the same, she noted. Dark and lean and male. There was a ruggedness about him, accented by rough black brows and craggy, demanding features that couldn’t be called handsome. Oh, no, that was much too tame a word for Lucas McLean. Arousing, irresistible. Fatal. Those words suited him better.

  His eyes were nearly as black as his hair. They kept secrets easily. He carried himself well, with a negligent grace that was natural rather than studied. His not-so-subtle masculine power drifted with him as he ambled closer and studied her.

  It was then that Autumn noticed how hellishly tired he looked. There were shadows under his eyes. He needed a shave. The creases in his cheeks were deeper than she remembered—and she remembered very well.

  “You look like yesterday.” He grabbed a handful of her hair as he fastened his eyes on hers. She wondered how she could have ever thought herself over him. No woman ever got over Lucas. Sheer determination kept her eyes level.

  “You,” she countered as she opened her door, “look like hell. You need some sleep.”

  Lucas leaned on the doorjamb before she could drag her cases inside and slam the door. “Having trouble with one of my characters,” he said smoothly. “She’s a tall, willowy creature with chestnut hair that ripples down her back. Narrow hipped, with legs that go right up to her waist.”

  Bracing herself, Autumn turned back and stared at him. Carefully, she erased any expression from her face.

  “She has a child’s mouth,” he continued, dropping his glance to hers a moment. “And a small nose, somewhat at odds with high, elegant cheekbones. Her skin is ivory with touches of warmth just under the surface. Her eyes are long lidded and ridiculously lashed—green that melts into amber, like a cat’s.”

  Without comment, she listened to his description of herself. She gave him a bored, disinterested look he would never have seen on her face three years before. “Is she the murderer or the corpse?” It pleased Autumn to see his brows lift in surprise before they drew together in a frown.

  “I’ll send you a copy when it’s done.” He searched her face, then a shutter came down, leaving his expression unreadable. That, too, she noted, hadn’t changed.

  “You do that.” After giving her cases a superhuman tug, jettisoning them into her room, Autumn rested against the door. Her smile had no feeling. “You’ll have to excuse me, Lucas, I’ve had a long drive and want a bath.”

  She closed the door firmly and with finality, in his face.

  Autumn’s movements then became brisk. There was unpacking to do and a bath to draw and a dress to choose for dinner. Those things would give her time to recover before she allowed herself to think, to feel. When she slipped into lingerie and stockings, her nerves were steadier. The worst of it had been weathered. Surely, she mused, the first meeting, the first exchange of words were the most difficult. She had seen him. She had spoken to him. She had survived. Success made her bold. For the first time in nearly two years, Autumn allowed herself to remember.

  She had been so much in love. Her assignment had been an ordinary one—a picture layout of mystery novelist Lucas McLean. The result had been six months of incredible joy followed by unspeakable hurt.

  He had overwhelmed her. She’d never met anyone like him. She knew now that there was no one else like him. He was a law unto himself. He had been brilliant, compelling, selfish and moody. After the first shock of learning he was interested in her, Autumn had floated along on a cloud of wonder and admiration. And love.

  His arrogance, as Julia had said, was irresistible. His phone calls at three in the morning had been treasured. The last time she had been held in his arms, experiencing the wild demands of his mouth, had been as exciting as the first. She had tumbled into his bed like a ripe peach, giving up her innocence with the freedom that comes with blind, trusting love.

  She remembered he’d never said the words she wanted to hear. She’d told herself she had no need for them—words weren’t important. There were unexpected boxes of roses, surprise picnics on the beach with wine in paper cups and lovemaking that was both intense and all consuming. What did she need with words? When the end had come it had been swift—but far from painless.

  Autumn put his distraction, his moodiness down to trouble with the novel he was working on. It didn’t occur to her that he’d been
bored. It was her habit to fix dinner on Wednesdays at his home. It was a small, private evening, one she prized above all others. Her arrival was so natural to her, so routine, that when she entered his living room and found him dressed in dinner clothes, she only thought he had decided to add a more formal atmosphere to their quiet dinner.

  “Why, Cat, what are you doing here?” The unexpected words were spoken so easily, she merely stared. “Ah, it’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” There was a slight annoyance in his tone, as though he had forgotten a dentist appointment. “I completely forgot. I’m afraid I’ve made other plans.”

  “Other plans?” she echoed. Comprehension was still a long way off.

  “I should have phoned you and saved you the trip. Sorry, Cat, I’m just leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “I’m going out.” He moved across the room and stared at her. She shivered. No one’s eyes could be as warm—or as cold—as Lucas McLean’s. “Don’t be difficult, Autumn, I don’t want to hurt you any more than is necessary.”

  Feeling the tears of realization rush out, she shook her head and fought against acceptance. The tears sent him into a fury.

  “Stop it! I haven’t the time to deal with weeping. Just pack it in. Chalk it up to experience. God knows you need it.”

  Swearing, he stomped away to light a cigarette. She had stood there, weeping without sound.

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Autumn.” The calm, rigid voice was more frightening to her than his anger. At least anger was an emotion. “When something’s over, you forget it and move on.” He turned back with a shrug. “That’s life.”

  “You don’t want me anymore?” She stood meekly, like a dog who waits to feel the lash again. Her vision was too clouded with tears to see his expression. For a moment, he was silent.

  “Don’t worry, Cat,” he answered in a careless, brutal voice. “Others will.”

  She turned and fled. It had taken over a year before he had stopped being the first thing in her mind every morning.

  But she had survived, she reminded herself. She slipped into a vivid green dress. And I’ll keep right on surviving. She knew she was basically the same person who had fallen in love with Lucas, but now she had a more polished veneer. Innocence was gone, and it would take more than Lucas McLean to make a fool of her again. She tossed her head, satisfied with the memory of her reception to him. That had given him a bit of a surprise. No, Autumn Gallegher was no one’s fool any longer.

  Her thoughts drifted to her aunt’s odd assortment of guests. She wondered briefly why the rich and famous were gathering here instead of at some exclusive resort. Dismissing the thought with a shrug, she reminded herself it was dinnertime. Aunt Tabby had told her not to be late.

  Chapter 2

  It was a strange assortment to find clustered in the lounge of a remote Virginia inn: an award-winning writer, an actress, a producer, a wealthy California businessman, a successful cardiovascular surgeon and his wife, an art teacher who wore St. Laurent. Before Autumn’s bearings were complete, she found herself enveloped in them. Julia pounced on her possessively and began introductions. Obviously, Julia enjoyed her prior claim and the center-stage position it gave her. Whatever embarrassment Autumn might have felt at being thrust into the limelight was overridden by amusement at the accuracy of Julia’s earlier descriptions.

  Dr. Robert Spicer was indeed smoothly handsome. He was drifting toward fifty and bursting with health. He wore a casually expensive green cardigan with brown leather patches at the elbows. His wife, Jane, was also as Julia had described: unfortunately dumpy. The small smile she gave Autumn lasted about two seconds before her face slipped back into the dissatisfied grooves that were habitual. She cast dark, bad-tempered glances at her husband while he gave Julia the bulk of his attention.

  Watching them, Autumn could find little sympathy for Jane and no disapproval for Julia—no one disapproves of a flower for drawing bees. Julia’s attraction was just as natural, and just as potent.

  Helen Easterman was attractive in a slick, practiced fashion. The scarlet of her dress suited her, but struck a jarring note in the simply furnished lounge. Her face was perfectly made-up and reminded Autumn of a mask. As a photographer, she knew the tricks and secrets of cosmetics. Instinctively, Autumn avoided her.

  In contrast, Steve Anderson was all charm. Good looks, California style, as Julia had said. Autumn liked the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his careless chic. He wore chinos easily. From his bearing, she knew he would wear black tie with equal aplomb. If he chose a political career, she mused, he should make his way very well.

  Julia had offered no description of Jacques LeFarre. What Autumn knew of him came primarily from either the gossip magazines or his films. He was smaller than she had imagined, barely as tall as she, but with a wiry build. His features were strong and he wore his brown hair brushed back from his forehead where three worry lines had been etched. She liked the trim moustache over his mouth, and the way he lifted her hand to kiss it when they were introduced.

  “Well, Autumn,” Steve began with a smile. “I’m playing bartender in George’s absence. What can I fix you?”

  “Vodka Collins, easy on the vodka,” Lucas answered. Autumn gave up the idea of ignoring him.

  “Your memory’s improved,” she said coolly.

  “So’s your wardrobe.” He ran a finger down the collar of her dress. “I remember when it ran to jeans and old sweaters.”

  “I grew up.” Her eyes were as steady and as measuring as his.

  “So I see.”

  “Ah, you have met before,” Jacques put in. “But this is fascinating. You are old friends?”

  “Old friends?” Lucas repeated before Autumn could speak. He studied her with infuriating amusement. “Would you say that was an accurate description, Cat?”

  “Cat?” Jacques frowned a moment. “Ah, the eyes, oui.” Pleased, he brushed his index finger over his moustache. “It suits. What do you think, chérie?” He turned to Julia, who seemed to be enjoying herself watching the unfolding scene. “She’s enchanting, and her voice is quite good.”

  “I’ve already warned Autumn about you,” Julia drawled, then gave Robert Spicer a glorious smile.

  “Ah, Julia,” Jacques said mildly, “how wicked of you.”

  “Autumn works the other side of the camera,” Lucas stated. Knowing his eyes had been on her the entire time, Autumn was grateful when Steve returned with her drink. “She’s a photographer.”

  “Again, I’m fascinated.” Autumn’s free hand was captured in Jacques’s. “Tell me why you are behind the camera instead of in front of it? Your hair alone would cause poets to run for their pens.”

  No woman was immune to flattery with a French accent, and Autumn smiled fully into his eyes. “I doubt I could stand still long enough to begin with.”

  “Photographers can be quite useful,” Helen Easterman stated suddenly. Lifting a hand, she patted her dark, sleek cap of hair. “A good, clear photograph is an invaluable tool . . . to an artist.”

  An awkward pause followed the statement. Tension entered the room, so out of place in the comfortable lounge with its chintz curtains that Autumn thought it must be her imagination. Helen smiled into the silence and sipped her drink. Her eyes swept over the others, inclusively, never centering on one.

  Autumn knew there was something here which isolated Helen and set her apart from the rest. Messages were being passed without words, though there was no way for Autumn to tell who was communicating what to whom. The mood changed swiftly as Julia engaged Robert Spicer in bright conversation. Jane Spicer’s habitual frown became more pronounced.

  The easy climate continued as they went in to dinner. Sitting between Jacques and Steve, Autumn was able to add to her education as she observed Julia flirting simultaneously with Lucas and Robert. She was, in Autumn’s opinion, magnificent. Even through the discomfort of seeing Lucas casually return the flirtation, she had to admire Julia’s talent. Her c
harm and beauty were insatiable. Jane ate in sullen silence.

  Dreary woman, Autumn mused, then wondered what her own reaction would be if it were her husband so enchanted. Action, she decided, not silence. I’d simply claw her eyes out. The image of dumpy Jane wrestling with the elegant Julia made her smile. Even as she enjoyed the notion, she looked up to find Lucas’s eyes on her.

  His brows were lifted at an angle she knew meant amusement. Autumn turned her attention to Jacques.

  “Do you find many differences in the movie industry here in America, Mr. LeFarre?”

  “You must call me Jacques.” His smile caused the tips of his moustache to rise. “There are differences, yes. I would say that Americans are more . . . adventurous than Europeans.”

  Autumn lifted her shoulders and smiled. “Maybe because we’re a mixture of nationalities. Not watered down. Just Americanized.”

  “Americanized.” Jacques tried out the word and approved it. His grin was younger than his smile, less urbane. “Yes, I would say I feel Americanized in California.”

  “Still, California’s only one aspect of the country,” Steve put in. “And I wouldn’t call L.A. or southern California particularly typical.” Autumn watched his eyes flick over her hair. His interest brought on a small flutter of response that pleased her. It proved that she was still a woman, open to a man—not just one man. “Have you ever been to California, Autumn?”

  “I lived there . . . once.” Her response to Steve, and the need to prove something to herself, urged her to turn her eyes to Lucas. Their gazes locked and held for one brief instant. “I relocated to New York three years ago.”

  “There was a family here from New York,” Steve went on. If he’d noticed the look that had passed, he gave no sign. Yes, a good politician, Autumn thought again. “They just checked out this morning. The woman was one of those robust types with energy