having Marianne to talk to, and called herself petty. It irritated her

to see the glow of lovemaking on Marianne's face. And she called

herself spiteful.

But with all that aside, Emma couldn't make herself comfortable with

Marianne's romance. He was a gorgeous, exciting, and talented man.

There was no denying that, especially as she studied the drying

prints. She had agreed, with Marianne's urging, to photograph

Blackpool. He had been a perfect gentleman, Emma remembered. At ease,

amusing, flattering-in the platonic manner suited to her roommate's

lover.

Lover. With a wistful little sigh, Emma frowned at the prints. Perhaps

that was the crux of it. She and Marianne had shared everything -every

thought, every deed, every dream, for over ten years. This was

something they couldn't share, and Marianne's bubbling happiness was a

rub-a constant reminder of something Emma had never experienced.

That was something to be ashamed of, she thought. She could justify her

feelings day in and day out. Blackpool was too smooth, he was too

experienced, he was too fond of clubs and women. His eyes were too dark

when they rested on her-and too c.o.c.ky when they rested on Marianne. But

the truth was, she was desperately envious of Marianne.

It didn't matter that she didn't like him, Emma told herself. It didn't

matter that Johnno didn't like him and continually made snide comments

about Blackpool's penchant for leather pants and silver chains. What

mattered was that Marianne was in love.

She switched on the light, arching her back. Spending the best part of

the day developing had given her a ravenous appet.i.te. She hoped Runyun

and the contact she'd made at Rolling Stone would approve of the shots

she'd taken of Devastation in the recording studio.

She was scrounging in the refrigerator for something more interesting

than molding bologna when she heard the elevator open. "I hope you

bought supplies," she called out. "We're getting down to science

projects in here."

"Sorry."

Emma whipped around at Blackpool's voice. "I thought you were

Marianne."

"No. She gave me a key." He smiled easily, holding it up before tucking

it into his jeans. "I'd have stopped by the deli if I'd known I'd find

a hungry woman."

"Marianne's at cla.s.s." Emma checked her watch. "She should be back

soon."

"I've got time." He swung into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder.

Emma shifted away automatically. "Pathetic," he decided, but helped

himself to the imported beer Mariannd kept stocked for him. There was a

bra.s.s opener screwed into the wall. He popped the top, then studied

her.

She'd scooped her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way

while she worked. At his scrutiny, she became aware that her jeans were

too tight and her T-shirt too big. She dragged at it as it slipped off

one shoulder.

"I'm sorry I can't offer you anything else."