mounted the stage and accepted the award, his award, by hurling a

Waterford cracker barrel. The exquisite gla.s.s shattered, raining down

like ice.

"Have you done one thing, one b.l.o.o.d.y thing to help me? Everything I've

done for you, making you feel important, making you believe that I

wanted you. Putting romance into your dull, prim little life."

Tired of breaking gla.s.s, he swooped down to pull her up by what was left

of her dress. "Did you really believe that I didn't know who you were

that first day?" He shook her, but she remained limp, hardly focusing on

his face. She was beyond fear now. Beyond hope. She watched his eyes,

tawny and dark, narrow into slits. And there was hate in them.

"You were such a fool, Emma, stuttering and blushing. I nearly laughed

out loud. Then I married you, for Christ's sake. And all I expected

was that you'd help me move up. But have you once asked your father to

push a few b.u.t.tons for me? No."

She didn't answer. Silence was the only weapon she had left.

Disgusted, he dropped her to the floor again. Though her vision was

blurred, she watched him pace through the chaos of the room she'd tried

to make a home.

"You'd better start thinking. You'd better start to figure out a way to

make all this time I've spent on you pay off."

Emma let her eyes close again. She didn't weep. It was too late for

weeping. But she did begin to plan.

Her first real hope of escape came when she heard that Luke had died.

"He was my friend, Drew."

"He was a tucking queer." He was trying out chords on the grand piano he

had bought with his wife's money.

"He was a friend," she repeated, struggling to keep her voice from

trembling. "I have to go to the funeral."

"You don't have to go anywhere." He glanced up, smiled at her. "You

belong right here with me, not at some f.a.g's death march."

She hated him then. It amazed her that she could feel it. It had been

so long since she'd felt anything. Strange, that a tragedy would make

her finally accept what a waste her marriage was. She would divorce

him. She opened her mouth, then saw his long, slim fingers run over the

keys. Slim they were, but strong as steel. She'd begged for a divorce

once before, and he'd nearly choked her.

It would do no good to make him angry. But she did have a weapon.

"Drew, it's public knowledge that he was my friend. He was a friend of

Johnno's and Dad's and everyone. If I don't go, the press is going to

start by saying that I ignored him because he died ofAIDS. It won't

look good for you, especially now that you're doing that benefit with

Dad."

He pounded on the chords. If the b.i.t.c.h didn't stop nagging, he was

going to have to shut her up. "I don't give a flying f.u.c.k what the

press says. I'm not going to a funeral for a freak."

She held on to her temper. It was vital. She kept her voice soft and

soothing. "I understand how you feel, Drew. A man like you, so

virile." She almost choked on the word. "But the benefit is going to be

televised here, and in Europe. It's the biggest thing since Live Aid.