Kyla leaned back so heavily he had to spread his legs and brace himself. She reached her arms around him, looped her thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

"Better shut the door," he muttered.

He had to move his duffel bag to close the door, and found he was so tense he could hardly bend over. He heard the French door open. Kyla stepped onto the narrow balcony. Don't look at her, don't see the shadow of her legs through her skirt. He opened the box and pulled out the bronze statue, scattering balled newspaper.

Why are you delaying? a voice whispered.She gave the signal. She's ready.

He hunted for a place to put the statue. Not the bedside table. Too small. He deposited it on the luggage rack.

"That's it?" Kyla asked.

Walking across the room, his toe hurt, and he decided to get rid of the new boots. He sat down on the bed, sighed with relief as he freed his foot, lifted his head to find his nose pointed straight at blue fabric printed with dark blue flowers. Hillocks of flowers. The backless dress had given no suggestion of a bra.

"T. J. Whitaker, do we have something to talk about?" she asked, her mouth so close to his face he could not draw a breath without it being her breath, too.

"Not...not that I know of."

She pulled up her skirt, straddled him, her whole weight on his legs. From the corner of his eye he saw a white spot on the rug, turned his head just enough to determine that the maid had not left trash behind. Kyla's panties.

Kyla's fingers worked expertly at his belt buckle, the b.u.t.ton of his jeans, the zipper. "I am frantic," she whispered, a determined whisper with just enough tremolo to rouse his fever. He got a hand under her skirt, higher and higher, until it spread on her stomach. Swollen and hot. She embraced his erection.

"Look in my pocket," she said. He dug through the rumpled folds of the skirt and found the foil packet.

"I think," she said as she helped him with the condom, "you should have bought large."

"I didn't know. It seemed rather vain."

No vanity at all in the press of her weight, and their quick combining. She cried out his name, half strangled, as if shaken by an earthquake. The power of her o.r.g.a.s.m rippled on his full length, his loins surged wildly. He tumbled in free-fall, fear and hope mingled. Kyla's solid flesh softened the impact. He heard himself babbling, without being quite aware of what he was saying. Had he called her "Jenny?" No, the phrase he repeated over and over was more surprising: "Marry me, Ky. Be my wife."

Her hand closed his mouth. He kissed the damp palm.

"Sitting next to you all day, I got so hot I came, bingo! The moment you got inside me."

"Then you'll marry me?"

A long pause. She collapsed on his chest, and he felt her rapid breathing. "It's a bit too early in our acquaintance, don't you think?"

"I don't want to think, I want to feel. You're right for me. I'm right for you."

"It's called geographically unsuitable. Three hundred and fifty miles, Whit."

"We'll think of something."

"We'll think of something before we discuss marriage, not after. You wouldn't want me to turn into a Moira Chase, all alone on the streets of San Francisco."

"If you ever again mention that woman's name when we're in a position like this -- " He made a mocking gesture toward her throat. She giggled; he groaned at the pleasure of it, at the startling renewal of his erection when he was just recovering from climax.

"Dinner?" she asked. "Before round two?" Had she felt him stir?

"Stay on top of me for a few minutes." The thought of leaving her warmth caused pain. She wriggled her hips to secure the fading connection, sighed, and relaxed against him until the parting came naturally.

They showered together, she put on a demure blouse and a skirt that was really full pants, a garment he could not get his hand under. He manfully stuffed himself back into his jeans. It was as uncomfortable as thrusting his sore toe into the new boots. Fortunate that the restaurant was just downstairs. She walked ahead of him on the narrow stairs. No room to embrace and kiss until the dim landing.

"How did you meet Rod and Judith?" she asked.

"We started college the same year. Rod and Judith are twins."

Kyla said nothing as they descended the second flight. Another pause on the landing. "Did they look alike?"

"Not really. Judith was always bigger than Rod, from the time they were babies.

She grew to six feet; he stopped at five-eleven. She mothered him, took care of him. First day at college she walked him from cla.s.s to cla.s.s, so he wouldn't get lost." Kyla paused on the final step, he leaned out far enough to see her face, and found her entranced.

"This is part of the original building," he said, "built in 1859. It was here when Mark Twain came to Virginia City, and he probably got drunk in this very place. Want to join him in the bar for a before dinner drink?"

"If you'd..." She hesitated "But you'd rather not?" he said.

"I'm high already," she whispered.

"So am I." Everything right between them "Any deep meaning in Rod leaving you the Remington?" she asked after they had been seated and were studying the menu.

"I can't imagine what it might be. There's a compartment in the base, where he hid his cash." He did not want to mention the photo. Did not want to think of it tonight.

"Nothing but cash?" she asked. "He might have left something he intended for you to see. A clue."

"The picture of Moira was with the money, the picture I burned," he said after a long silence. "There's no way Rod could leave a clue to his death, because Rod didn't know he was dying, let alone what was killing him. A man twenty-six years old doesn't say, 'I've got a fever, this is my last week, my last day, my last minute.'"

She frowned, but it was a frown of agreement.

"No more of this," he said. "I'm tired of wandering in Rod's shadow. Tonight's for us. I've never dared order the ostrich. Want to try?"

"Eating an animal I stare at in zoos seems...unseemly."

He caught the flicker of her eyes to her right. "Quit looking at the price column. Tonight's a celebration."

"Beef Wellington for two," she said, choosing the most expensive entree. Her mouth twitched as she watched for his reaction.

"Beef Wellington it is. And it's not the most expensive thing on the menu. You didn't look up top and see the Beluga Caviar."

"You want caviar?" she asked.

"No, eating something that could turn into a fish...well, to a fisherman that's heresy."

"You're a fisherman?"

Her question reminded him how little they knew of each other. Strangers, actually. Except upstairs, less than an hour ago, he'd asked her to marry him.

"I fish every chance I get, once the snow melts around the High Sierra lakes.

Now explain to me, how much longer do you have in med school, and what comes after that?"

"You're serious!" Kyla said, suddenly alarmed. "About...about -- "

"Marriage. You're afraid to say the 'M' word."

"I'm not afraid, just practical. You asked me in an absurd moment. A man isn't in his right mind during o.r.g.a.s.m. Besides, 'Marry me' comes after 'I love you.'

And you haven't come close to falling in love with me."

"How do you know?" he muttered. Clear turbulence, a tornado invisible to all but himself, and in the midst of the turmoil a whisper, "I love you, Whit." Jenny.

He would never be allowed to forget, for the memory had no mercy.

The waitress saved him with the salads. She smiled, displayed a great phallic symbol at a suggestive angle. "Fresh ground pepper?" she asked.

"Plenty," Kyla said. She winked. Go easy on dinner, he warned himself. Heavy physical exercise was bad on a full stomach. Beef Wellington had been a bad choice. Should have ordered salmon or calamari.

"None for me," he said, mostly to get rid of the waitress. "Last night," he said when they were alone, "I wanted you beside me. I imagined you in my arms."

"I'm afraid I crashed to sleep the moment my head hit the pillow."

"You were up late," he said, excusing her lack of romantic longing. "Talking to Trace."

"Carl -- " she began. Whit wanted to kick himself. He had reminded her of hantavirus and death. "Carl had a secret he shared with Trace. Something he didn't want his parents to know."

"Hardly unusual for twelve-year-olds," Whit said.

"What did you keep secret from your parents?"

"Experimenting with cigarettes, snitching whiskey. My father's Scotch. Neither were long term secrets, because I found both disgusting. I concluded that as people aged they lost their taste buds, and that it made sense to reserve alcohol for those over twenty-one. Couldn't stand it earlier."

"s.e.x?" Kyla asked playfully.

"Not at twelve. Secret s.e.x came later." Good, she had swung the conversation back into its proper sphere. "Seventeen."

"High school sweetheart?"

"G.o.d! No! I was petrified that I'd get a girl pregnant. A cla.s.s trip to the capitol, and some of us boys sneaked off to a wh.o.r.ehouse. The woman was very nice, and I was embarra.s.sed as h.e.l.l." He stared at the platter and carving knife the waitress placed before him, pretending he was contemplating just how to attack the Wellington. He had never told Jenny of his first s.e.xual encounter.

Why could he mention it to Ky so casually? Confident that she would not condemn him.

Because you love Jenny. Your relationship with Kyla is purely physical.

But that seemed to put Ky in the same category as the wh.o.r.e. Which was not right. Not true.

I won't bring her to the house, Jenny. I won't have s.e.x with Ky in your house.

Chapter Eight.

"Okay, come clean," Glenda said. She grabbed the ropes of the swing, trapping Kyla.

"About what?" Kyla asked, trying for wide-eyed innocence.

"A woman takes an overnight trip with T. J. Whitaker, the most eligible bachelor in the county, not to mention one of the best looking. She comes home smug, looking like the cat with cream still dribbling off her lips -- "

"Oh, come on, Glenda! I didn't ask you about your wedding night."

"I'd tell you, but it wasn't pretty. We were so tired we went to sleep."

"Whit and I did not go to sleep. Hardly at all. I'm exhausted."

"That's obvious. Don't do this too often or you'll have bags under your eyes before you're thirty. Good?"

"Look up 'good' in a thesaurus, find the highest possible superlative, and you've described T. J. Whitaker in bed," Kyla said. She sighed.

Instead of being pleased, Glenda bit her lip. "Mark's delighted. He says Whit needs to fall overboard in love, so fast he doesn't know what hit him."

"Love's got nothing to do with it," Kyla said. "I met him Monday, today's Sat.u.r.day."

"I hope you're not wallowing in nonsensical myths, like love at first sight and meeting Mr. Right," Glenda said in her therapist voice, as if Kyla had not said a thing.

Mr. Right. Straddling him, with all of two minutes foreplay, she had been thrown onto a wild carnival ride before he got all the way in. Between nine and midnight they had explored, with a thoroughness that would do credit to the first astronaut on Mars.

"Whit should offer correspondence courses," Kyla said, grinning at her sister.

"Correspondence?" Glenda asked, mystified. "Oh! There's a letter for you."

Kyla welcomed the distraction, for twinges of super carnival started whenever she thought of Whit, which was almost constantly. A letter? No one at school knew where she had gone for her vacation. The folks knew, but they would simply pick up the phone. Glenda handed her an envelope with just her name. No address.

"This didn't come in the mail," Kyla said.

"Someone stuck in it in the mailbox. We do that around here, to save the postage on birthday cards and such."

A single, small piece of paper. Stop ranting about hantavirus, or I shall contact the dean of UCSF and charge you with a violation of medical ethics.

No signature. She turned the paper over. A prescription form. Augustus Chase, M.D. All pleasure vanished. Kyla felt she was suffocating, drowning, grasping for a rescuer. Glenda? Telling her sister her troubles made her fell like a little sister again.

Whit! He had said, on the way home, that he had to stop in town. Maybe she could still find him.

Whit drank the beer in small swallows, making it last until he could catch Dan for a private word. He hoped no one sat on the stool beside him. As it was, only a single s.p.a.ce separated him from three Penny Springs' men. To avoid meeting their suspicious stares, he picked up a glossy brochure stuck in the menu holder, where no menu stood because Dan served only steak and fried potatoes.