six weeks away, and she was nervous as a cat. And angry, she admitted.

Angry because her husband showed no interest in her work. Angry because

he'd announced two hours before that he'd invited a few friends over.

A hundred and fifty people crowded the rooms. The music blasted. Over

the past month there had been more and more of these little

gettogethers. Her liquor bill had soared to five hundred dollars a

week. She didn't resent the money. No, it wasn't the money. It wasn't

even the time, not when it involved friends. But friends had swelled to

hangers-on, groupies. Last week, the apartment had been a wreck after

everyone had cleared out. The sofa had been stained with

brandy. Someone had put out a cigarette on her Oriental rug. But worse

than that, worse than the broken Baccarat vase or the missing Limoges

candy dish, were the drugs.

She'd found a group, people she'd never met, cheerfully snorting c.o.ke in

the guest room she hoped would soon be a nursery. Drew had promised it

would never happen again. "You're just p.i.s.sed because Marianne didn't

come."

Hadn't been invited, Emma corrected silently. "It's not that at all."

"Since she got back in town you've been spending more time with her over

at that loft than here, with me."

"Drew, I haven't even seen her for nearly two weeks. Between my work

and our social life I haven't had time."

"You've always got time to b.i.t.c.h, though."

She jerked back. Furious, she shoved his hand aside before he could

grab her again. "I'm going up to bed."

She pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the calls and laughter.

He caught her on the stairs. The bite of his fingers told her he was

every bit as angry as she.

"Let go of me," she said under her breath. "I don't think you want a

fight here, in front of your friends."

"Then we'll take it upstairs." He squeezed until she yelped, then

dragged her the rest of the way.

She was prepared for an argument. Indeed, she relished the thought of a

good screaming match. When she walked into the bedroom, she snapped.

They were using her antique mirror to cut the c.o.ke. Four of them bent

over her vanity table, giggling and snorting in the white powder. The

old perfume bottles she'd collected had been pushed aside. One lay

shattered on the floor.

"Get out."

Four heads popped up, and she was eyed with owlish grins.

"I said out. Get the h.e.l.l out of my room, get the h.e.l.l out of my

house."

Before Drew could stop her, she had grabbed the closest person, a man

about twice her weight, and had dragged him up.

"Hey, look, we'll share."

"Get out," she repeated, shoving him toward the door.

They moved quickly enough then, filing out. One of the women stopped

long enough to pat Drew's cheek. Emma slammed the door behind them and

rounded on her husband.

"I've had enough. I've had all I'm going to take, Drew. I want those