He was going his own way, and that way was straight to the top. Lifting

the gla.s.s, he toasted Emma's portrait. If his eager and naive little

wife could give him a couple of boosts, they'd all live happy.

But he would run the show.

He'd indulge her for a week or two here. And then they'd move uptown.

One of those big glitzy and expensive flats off Central Park. That would

do for a beginning. He didn't mind living part of the year in New York.

In fact, he thought New York would suit him just fine. Especially with

the contacts Emma had there.

Crossing to the stereo, he flipped through alb.u.ms until he found one

that suited him. Complete Devastation. It seemed only right, Drew

mused, that he give a nod to the old man. After all, if it hadn't been

for the tour, he wouldn't have been able to lure Emma backstage, pour on

the charm. Imagine her being stupid enough to believe he hadn't known

who she was, or what she could do for him.

With a shake of his head, he put the record on, and let the music rock

the room.

No, he wouldn't find it difficult to indulge her. Even though she was

lousy in bed-a severe disappointment-she was overeager to please. He'd

played her as cleverly as he played his six-string, from the moment he'd

set eyes on her. He intended for his ingenuity to pay off. In spades.

Before long, she would have mended fences with her father. The old man

had taken their marriage well enough, and had been generous in his

wedding gift of fifty thousand pounds. Made out in Emma's name, but

already deposited in a joint account.

There was still restraint between father and daughter. That would ease

up soon enough. Drew was sure of it. Being Brian McAvoy's

favored son-in-law was bound to have its rewards. In the meantime, he

had a very, very rich wife. A rich naive wife.

With a laugh, he strolled over to the window. What better mate for an

ambitious man? He only had to control his temper and impatience, keep

her happy, and then everything he wanted would fall in his lap.

THEY MOVED INTO an elegant two-story condo on the Upper West Side.

Because it seemed so important to Drew, she tried to ignore the fact

that they were living on the eleventh floor. She only really got dizzy

when she stood at the window and looked straight down. The phobia was

an annoyance to her. She had stood at the top of the Empire State

Building and felt exhilarated. Yet if she stood at a fourth-floor

window, her head spun and her stomach heaved.

Drew was right, she thought, wherj he told her she'd have to learn to

live with it.

In any case, Emma liked the high, coffered ceilings in the master

bedroom, the ornate Deco bal.u.s.trade that ran along the curving stairs,

the niches cut into the walls, and the maroon and white checkerboard

tiles in the foyer.

Emma called on Bev to decorate it, hoping her touch, and a few weeks of

her company, would make the move from the loft less painful. Emma had

to admit the condo was lovely, with its aerielike view of Central Park

and its wide, winding staircase. She satisfied her yen for antiques and

oddities by furnishing it with a mix of prissy Queen Anne and funky pop