ce a week to make sure I haven't succ.u.mbed to some lecherous French

comte. I only wish." When Emma didn't smile, she tilted her head. "You

think he'll disapprove?"

"I don't know." Restless, she moved her shoulders.

"Emma, if it's serious between you and Drew, he's going to find out

sooner or later."

"I know. I'm just hoping it'll be later."

IT WASN'T MUCH LATER.

Emma enjoyed the morning sun on the terrace of her room in Rome. Though

it was late for breakfast, she was still in her robe, her coffee growing

cold, as she checked over her current batch of prints. In the back of

her mind she was a.s.sessing them not only for Pete but for her own idea

for a book.

Smiling, she took out her favorite of Drew. She'd taken it in the leafy

shade of the Bois de Boulogne. Only moments after she'd taken the

picture, he'd kissed her. And told her he loved her.

He loved her. Closing her eyes, she reached her arms up to the sky. She

had hoped, and she had wished, but she'd had no idea how happy she could

be until he'd said the words. Now that he had, she could begin to dream

what it would be like to be with him always, to make love with him, to

be married to him, to make a home and raise a family.

She hadn't realized how badly she wanted that. A man who loved her, a

home of her own, children. They could be happy, so happy.

Who understood the life and problems of a musician more than a woman who

had been raised by one? She could comfort and support him in his work.

And he would do the same for her.

After the tour, she thought. After the tour they could begin to make

plans.

The knock on the door broke into her thoughts. She hoped it would be

Drew, come to share breakfast with her as he had once or twice. Her

smile of welcome faltered only slightly when she saw her father.

"Dad. I'm surprised to see you out of your room before noon."

"Maybe I'm too predictable." With a newspaper folded in his hand, he

stepped into the room. He glanced first at the bed, then at his

daughter. "Are you alone?"

"Yes." She studied him with a puzzled frown. "Why? Is something

wrong?"

"You tell me." He slapped the paper into her hand. She had to unfold

it, then turn it right side up. But the picture was clear enough. The

picture of her and Drew. It wasn't necessary to read Italian to get the

drift. They were locked in each other's arms, her face tilted up to

his, her eyes slumberous and dreamy as a woman's became when she'd been

kissed by her laver.

She couldn't tell where it had been taken. It didn't matter where. What

mattered was that someone had intruded on a very private moment, then

had splashed that intimacy in newsprint.

Emma tossed the paper across the room, then stalked to the balcony. She

needed air. "d.a.m.n them," she muttered, knocking her fist lightly

against the rail. "Why can't they leave us alone?"

"How long have you been seeing him, Emma?"