point to the next? He could have told her that

once she reached the finish line the glory was only momentary. But she

wouldn't have listened.

A teenager. Sweet Jesus, how had she come to be a teenager? And how

had he come to be a thirty-three-year-old icon?

At thirteen it had all seemed very simple to him. His goals had been

perfectly defined. To get out of the slums, to play his music, to be

someone. He'd accomplished all of that. So where was the thrill? He

picked up his gla.s.s and drank deeply. Where the h.e.l.l was the thrill?

He watched Emma dive under a wave then come up, sleek as an otter, on

the other side. He wished she wouldn't swim out so far. It was so much

easier to worry when he could see her. The months when she was tucked

away in school, he never worried. She was a good student, well

mannered, quietly obedient. Then the holidays would come, and she would

pop back into his life. That much more grownup, that much more

beautiful. He would see that look in her eyes, that dark, determined

look he recognized as his own. It frightened him.

"G.o.d, what energy." Johnno dropped down beside him. "She doesn't slow

down much, does she?"

"No. We getting old, Johnno?"

"s.h.i.t." Johnno adjusted his panama and tried a sip of Brian's rum. "Rock

stars don't get old, son. They play Vegas." Grimacing, he screwed the

gla.s.s back into the sand. "We ain't there yet." He settled back on his

elbows. "Of course, we ain't Shaun Ca.s.sidy, either."

"Thank Christ."

"Keep that up and you'll never get your picture in 7?ger Beat. " They

sat in silence a moment, listening to the whoosh of the waves. Johnno

was glad he'd come. The quiet of the private villa and beach was the

perfect contrast to the crowded rush of New York, or the rainy spring in

London. The villa behind them was three stories, with terraces jutting

out over the sea-high walls and hedges on three sides and the white

curve of beach on the fourth. The pretty pastel stones glinted in the

sunlight, and there was the scent of water and hot flowers everywhere.

Yes, he was glad he'd come, not just because of the sunshine, but

because of the time it had given him, the quiet time, with Brian and

with Emma. The time he knew would come all too quickly to an end.

"Pete rang up a little while ago."

Brian watched Emma stand in thigh-high water, lift her face to the sun.

Her skin had warmed-not tanned, he thought, not browned, but warmed. The

color of apricots. He worried about how soon some hungry young boy

would want a taste. "And?"

"Things are set for next month. We can start recording."

"And Stevie?"

"They're going to put him on some kind of outpatient program. He's a

registered junkie now." Johnno shrugged. "Methadone program. If you

can't get drugs from the street, you get them from the government.

Anyhow, he'll be ready. Will you?"

Brian picked up his gla.s.s, drained it. The rum had been heated by the

sun and ran mellow down his throat. "I've been ready."

"Glad to hear it. You don't intend to take a punch at P.M., do you?"