and red stripes on the floor as a throw rug-and as a sop to Conroy.

Vertical blinds let in slashes of sunlight.

"I'd imagined you in one of those slick condos near the beach. Oh,

Marianne's Legs." Delighted, she walked over to the print he'd hung over

the couch.

"I picked that up the night of your show."

Emma glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifted. "Why?"

"Why did I buy it?" Thoughtful, Michael tucked his thumbs in his

pockets. "I liked it. If you want me to start talking shadows and

texture, forget it. The fact is, it's a great pair of legs, shot with a

great deal of wit."

"I like your opinion a lot more than a discussion on texture." She

turned back, smiling. It had taken them hours to set this shot. Not

that it had been so difficult really. They just hadn't been able to

agree on the shoes.

It showed Marianne's legs, crossed elegantly at the knee, with a

ladylike flounce of hem sliding across them. They'd finally decided on

plain black Chucks for her feet.

"You didn't have to buy this. I know the outrageous price Runyun set. I

owed you at least a print."

"You gave me one once already."

She remembered the picture she'd taken of him with her father. "But I

wasn't a professional then."

"I imagine an early McAvoy would be worth a tidy sum if I ever wanted to

sell it." He felt her quick, instinctive jerk when he touched her arm.

Gun-shy, he thought automatically. It was natural enough for a woman to

be gun-shy right after the breakup of a marriage. "Let's go into the

kitchen. I was just getting started on dinner."

The dog followed them in, resting his head adoringly on Emma's foot when

she sat at the table. Michael poured wine in gla.s.ses he'd borrowed from

his neighbor. He turned on the radio, low. Emma recognized Nat King

Cole's creamy voice as she idly scratched Conroy's head with her other

foot.

"How long have you lived here?"

"Nearly four years." He was glad to have company in the kitchen, a

rarity for him unless he counted Conroy. He had fresh vegetables lined

up on the counter. Puzzling over them, Michael wished he'd asked his

neighbor for a recipe for tossed salad. He remembered to wash the

lettuce, then taking up the neighbor's carving knife, prepared to chop

it up.

"What are you doing?" Emma asked.

"Making salad." Because of the way she was looking at him, he paused

with the knife over the head of romaine. "Maybe you don't like salad."

"I'd rather eat a hot-fudge sundae, but I like it well enough." She rose

to inspect the vegetables. She counted four fat tomatoes, slightly

underripe, a half-dozen peppers of every color and description, leeks,

mushrooms, a gourd of some kind, a full head of cauliflower, and a bunch

of carrots. "There's certainly enough of everything," she decided.

"I always make a lot," he improvised. "Conroy's a fiend for salad."

"I see." Emma smiled then took the knife from him and set it aside. "Why