"I don't like him," Trisha announced flatly.

"Trisha." Their mother's voice was reproving. "Jimmy Ray Turnbull is the best handler and groom we've ever had. I don't think you could find anyone more knowledgeable or conscientious in the care of the horses."

"I don't care. There's something about him I don't like," Trisha insisted while Rob carefully kept silent. "Every time I see him, he's wearing those same khaki workclothes. And I'll bet he wears that slouch hat all the time because he doesn't have any hair on the top of his head. What really gets me is the way he goes around all the time with that weak smile and that pipe drooping out of the corner of his mouth. He never lights it."

"I'd fire him if he did," Luz stated. "Smoking around the stable is dangerous." She shook her head in a gesture of mild confusion. "I don't see how you could dislike such a kind, gentle man."

"I don't know. He's just too quiet." Trisha placed condemning stress on the final word.

"Maybe people like you have talked him to death," Rob suggested, some of his apprehension fading.

"I guess he reminds me of Ashley Wilkes," Trisha decided. "I always thought he was such an insipid character."

"You have made your opinion of the man very clear, Trisha, so I suggest you drop the subject," Luz warned. "Now, since Jimmy Ray is here to take care of the horses, why don't you two shower and change and have dinner with the rest of the family at the restaurant?"

"Count me out," Trisha said. "A bunch of us are thinking of trying out that new health-food restaurant."

"A bunch of us. A bunch of what? Bananas?" Luz demanded icily.

"The usual crowd-Jenny Fields, Carol Wentworth, and the rest." She was irritated at being questioned, and she didn't try to hide it.

"And where are you going afterward?"

"I don't know." A smile unexpectedly widened her lips, the kind Rob never trusted. "I was thinking it might be fun to crash Chet Martin's party tonight, but don't worry, Luz. I wouldn't want the Martins to acquire a reputation for giving fun parties. We'll probably come back to the club and dance or play tennis."

"What time will you be home?"

"Ten or eleven." Trisha shrugged.

"You be home by eleven o'clock," Luz ordered, then turned to him. "What about you, Rob? Shall we expect you for dinner?"

"I'd rather not. I couldn't stand the thought of people coming up to me all evening to say how sorry they are that we lost the game."

She contained her disappointment that neither would be joining the family for dinner. "All right. See you two later."

"Come on." Rob urged his sister into action as their mother walked away. "Let's get the rest of the horses and this equipment back to the trailer."

"I'll bring the horses." Trisha looped the reins over the neck of the spotted horse and moved to its side. "Give me a leg up, Rob."

Stirred by agitation, Rob crossed to the horse and cupped a hand for her foot to step in, then boosted her onto the animal's wide back. After she had settled into position, she looked down at him with troubled eyes. "Be honest, Rob. Do you like Jimmy Ray?"

He couldn't hold her look. "As long as he does the job he's paid to do, it isn't essential that I like him."

"I suppose not." But she didn't appear satisfied, and Rob wondered if she had any concrete reasons for her dislike.

CHAPTER III.

Outside the roomy stall, the winter sky darkened early. All was quiet in the stable. The only sounds were the odd stamp of a horse and the rustle of hay. Rob stood at the head of the steel-gray horse, tied by two lead ropes fastened to opposite sides of the lighted stall. His hand absently rubbed its forelock while he watched the tan figure crouched beside the horse's front legs. The faded brown hat blocked the man's face from his view, so Rob couldn't watch his expression while he conducted the tactile examination of the swelling in the pony's leg.

After interminable minutes had pa.s.sed, Rob could stand the waiting no longer. "Does it look serious?"

The man rocked back on his heels. "No." Teeth clenched to hold the pipestem m.u.f.fled the answer. Unhurried, Jimmy Ray pushed himself upright and took the dead pipe out of his mouth to offer a more complete answer. "The legs are filled up some from running on the hard ground. I've got a paste I can smear on them. Stony'll be fine." His voice had a low and soothing pitch to it, almost hypnotic in its softness. The loose-fitting clothes gave the impression of a tall, spare man, but Jimmy Ray Turnbull was shorter than Rob and wider in the shoulders.

"Good." Rob concentrated on the dark, gunmetal-gray forehead with its wide set eyes and tried to ignore the fine tension that wired his nerves when the handler glanced at him. He knew what was in those soft, knowing eyes.

"You're feelin' bad about losin' that game, aren't ya?" Jimmy Ray held the pipe close to his mouth, ready to clamp it between his teeth the minute he finished talking. "It's got you down pretty low, hasn't it?"

Something snapped inside. "I don't want anything!" Rob lashed out, and the gray horse reacted to the sudden anger and fear in the atmosphere, snorting and pulling back on the ropes.

"Never said you did," Jimmy Ray replied calmly and laid a soothing hand on the horse's neck, transferring his attention to the animal to settle it down.

Rob swung away from the horse and leaned on the manger, tightly gripping the board. He struggled with his own weaknesses, the rawness of want and the conflict with his conscience. Yet he'd known all along this would happen, expected it ... wanted it. He sc.r.a.ped a hand through his hair and turned slowly back to the man.

"How much?" The starkness in his voice matched his expression.

"How much you want?" Jimmy Ray placidly chewed on his pipestem.

Agitated, Rob dropped his glance to the straw-covered stable floor. "Just one. That's all."

Jimmy Ray gave the horse one last pat on its sleek neck. "You just wait here. I'll be back with somethin' to fix you up." The lazily drawled words seemed to be directed to both the gray Thoroughbred and Rob.

At a pace neither hurried nor slow, Jimmy Ray left the stall and turned in the direction of the equipment room. More on edge than before, Rob waited, listening for returning footsteps and resisting the urge to pace. He wished a thousand times he hadn't asked for the stuff, but when he heard Jimmy Ray coming back, he turned eagerly.

As he entered the stall, the overhead bulb threw its light on the container filled with some pasty substance he carried in one hand. Rob's glance immediately darted to the other one.

"Here." The hand lifted, and Rob quickly reached to take the sealed packet of white powder.

"How much?" He fingered the plastic-wrapped cocaine, reminding himself that he didn't have to have the drug. It wasn't a habit with him. In his whole life, he'd taken it only maybe a half-dozen times. He wasn't like some of the guys at school who were tooting the stuff nearly all the time.

"On the house." Jimmy Ray crouched down beside the horse and dipped his long fingers into the white goo in the metal container.

"I'll pay." Rob wasn't sure whether he insisted out of pride or a need to a.s.sert his independence.

"Suit yourself," he said through teeth biting down on the pipe's mouthpiece. "Be twenty."

Rob dug into his pocket and pulled out a bill, then let the folded money fall to the floor. Jimmy Ray never physically took the cash. Rob paused uncertainly, waiting for the handler to pick it up, but he ignored it. Clutching the packet more tightly in his hand, Rob hesitated, then bolted from the stall.

On either side of the road, separate driveways led to ranch-style estates ranging from five to twenty acres in size, most of them complete with barns, paddocks, swimming pools, and tennis courts to complement the mansion-sized homes. Here in the exclusive community of West Palm Beach, located a comfortable distance north of Miami and Fort Lauderdale on the Atlantic, such s.p.a.cious and luxurious estates were standard for the international set.

As Drew turned the car onto the cobblestoned lane, the Mercedes's headlamps swept the long circular drive, illuminating the lush tropical plantings around it. The foliage of palms, tamarind, and flowering shrubs partially concealed the white-stuccoed walls and red-tiled roofs of the two-story Spanish-style home. Beyond were the stables, pasture, and a stick-and-ball practice field on the fifteen-acre tract. Drew stopped the car in front of the two long steps that led to the impressively carved entrance door.

"I'll put the car in the garage and join you inside," he said to Luz. When she stepped out of the brown car he drove away.

The outside light for the recessed entry came on as Luz approached the door, pa.s.sing the tall clay urns that flanked the low steps. Emma Sanderson opened the door to admit her. The plump fifty-year-old woman managed the Thomas home, supervising the household help and the groundskeepers, and serving as a social secretary for Luz as well. With her ready smile and pleasant ways, she was hardly a martinet, but neither did she tolerate any nonsense. Widowed, she lived in the house, occupying the maid's quarters at the end of the broad galleria on the main floor.

"Good evening, Emma." Luz paused inside the entrance hall, which was dominated by the heavy oak stairs leading to the second floor. The upstairs was devoted entirely to the master suite. The other three family bedrooms were located at either end of the first-floor galleria. "Have Rob and Trisha come home yet?" She glanced in the direction of their rooms.

"Rob is here, but Trisha isn't in yet."

Her watch showed her daughter still had an hour before her appointed curfew. "Thanks, Emma." She moved toward the stairs. "Good night."

"Good night."

The master suite included two bedrooms, connected by a common sitting room with French doors that opened onto a private deck. Luz went directly to her capacious room, done in cream and muted greens and furnished in French Provincial. An artfully designed window of antique stained gla.s.s adorned the wall above the large bed, but the black night outside obscured its brilliant color. As she entered the dressing room to change into a lounging robe, Luz heard Drew coming up the stairs. Absently, she listened to his footsteps while she waited for the sound of Trisha's car pulling into the driveway. She was conscious that Drew entered his own room.

They had slept separately for years now, their sleeping habits incompatible. Drew was a light sleeper and Luz was a restless, fitful one, often up at the crack of dawn. During the early years of their marriage, they had put up with the disharmony, but gradually the need for rest took precedence over s.e.x, or more precisely, the quick availability of it. After more than twenty years, it was to be expected that urgent pa.s.sion would fade, but that didn't signal the end of love, as far as Luz was concerned. So now, they each had their own bedroom with separate bath and dressing room tailored to their own individual wants; Drew's contained exercise equipment and sauna, while her delicate ivory-and-amber bath had Sherle Wagner fixtures and a spa tub.

Luz tied the belt on her red satin Givenchy kimono trimmed in black piping and a zigzag pattern of black lace insets around the full sleeves. Then she sat down at the vanity in the dressing room, its mirror outlined with bare light bulbs. After she had pulled her hair back, she secured it with a clip and began creaming the makeup from her face.

From the sitting room, Drew's voice called, "What about a drink?"

"Please," she answered somewhat absently, not bothering to request a brandy, since that was what she usually had if she drank this late in the evening. The methodical action of wiping the cream from her face seemed to encourage a pensive mood.

Drew walked into the room as she removed the last of the cleanser. "What are you thinking about?" He set a snifter of brandy on the table beside her and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. "You look far away."

"The children." She smiled ruefully. "Although I guess it isn't fair to call them children anymore. They are almost adults."

"That's true." He sipped at his Scotch, one hand tucked in the pocket of his blue smoking jacket. "Where are they, by the way?"

"Rob's home, in his room, I expect. Trisha's still out-who knows where." Luz shrugged and idly picked up the brandy gla.s.s, gently swirling it in her hands. "Do you remember when they were always running into our rooms, so anxious to tell us everything they'd done they couldn't wait? When did they stop doing that?"

"About the time they started doing things they didn't think we should know about," he answered wryly.

"They don't really need us anymore, Drew," Luz realized. "They have their own friends, their own lives that have nothing to do with us. I'm beginning to feel superfluous. Like today, when neither of them wanted to have dinner with the family because they had made their own plans. Or Trisha. She informed me that she invited someone to the party on Sat.u.r.day. She didn't even have the courtesy to ask if it was all right."

"I'm afraid I was guilty of that, too," Drew reminded her. "I intended to mention to you that I'd taken one of the party invitations from your desk so I could give it to Miss Baines, but it slipped my mind until she said something about it this afternoon. I thought it would be a good way for her to get acquainted socially with some friends who are also clients. Thanks for not letting on that you didn't know about the invitation. I hope you didn't mind."

"Not at all." She didn't fully understand his reasoning, since the young woman had just recently joined his staff and therefore occupied a very junior position. She couldn't recall Drew's doing this with others, but she accepted his judgment.

"What did you think of her?"

"She is a young and beautiful woman." Luz felt oddly reluctant to voice her impression, and searched for the right noncommittal words. "She seemed friendly and warm. Obviously she's intelligent or she would never have pa.s.sed the bar."

"Poor Phil certainly hasn't gotten anywhere with her," Drew chuckled, looking pleased. "And it isn't for the lack of trying."

"I noticed she was paying a lot of attention to you." Almost exclusively so, she remembered.

"I am the boss," he reminded her modestly, but he preened slightly. Luz supposed it was flattering to have a young, beautiful woman pay attention to him.

"I don't think that was the only reason. You are a very good-looking man, Drew." She played to his vanity, not unkindly.

He glanced admiringly at his reflection in the lighted mirror. "Not bad for fifty."

"Not bad at all." Smiling, Luz stood up and kissed him on the cheek, but he seemed unmoved by the display of affection as he continued to look at his image.

"Of course, that also makes me old enough to be her father." The regret in his voice made Luz uneasy, especially when he turned away from her. "She's like a breath of fresh air in the office. You wouldn't believe what a change she's made in the short time she's been with us. People are smiling and laughing. The entire atmosphere has improved."

"That's wonderful," she murmured, watching the animation in his expression as he talked about the Baines woman.

"And she absorbs things like a sponge. You saw the way she was at the polo match today, asking endless questions like a curious child. Now I know how a teacher feels when he has an apt pupil in his cla.s.s, eager to learn everything." He warmed to the subject, carried by his own enthusiasm. "Here's a young mind ready to mold. The challenge, the responsibility of it is incredibly stimulating. She keeps me on my toes all the time, arguing points of law and questioning contract clauses. It reminds me of my law-school days when it was all so exciting and new. I can hardly wait to go to the office in the mornings."

"That's wonderful." Luz wasn't conscious of repeating herself, and Drew didn't appear to notice either.

"I can't believe how reluctant I was to have a female attorney in the firm until I met her." A half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he stared into his drink gla.s.s. He seemed to catch himself in a musing reverie and briskly lifted his head, taking a deep breath. "Well ..." He exhaled in a long sigh. "I guess I'll turn in. I've got a heavy schedule at the office tomorrow."

As he turned in the direction of his own rooms, Luz frowned. "Drew?"

"What?" He paused.

"Aren't you going to kiss me good night?" she chided him with a weak laugh.

"Sorry." He stepped back to plant a short kiss on her upturned lips. "I guess my mind was elsewhere. Good night, dear."

"Good night." She knew precisely where his mind had been-on Claudia Baines.

After he'd gone, she sat back down on the cushioned bench, facing the mirror. She was jealous. It was such a new feeling, she didn't know how to cope. It was ridiculous. She had no cause. Granted, Drew was plainly captivated by the brunette, singing her praises and exclaiming over her like a little boy with a new toy, but it was a working relationship. She shouldn't feel that she had to compete with Claudia Baines for Drew's attention.

Luz studied her image in the mirror, remembering the brunette's smooth, youthful skin. She stretched her neck and ran her fingers down its long curve, wondering why she hadn't noticed those faint wrinkle lines before. When she leaned closer to the mirror, her gaze was caught by the creases fanning around her eyes, lines that deepened when she smiled. She opened the jar of moisturizing cream and dabbed some around her eyes, carefully pressing it in with her fingertips. She had never worried about growing old and silently pitied women who endured the excruciating pain of a facelift and the months of numbness afterward, all for the sake of looking younger. She was a mature, attractive woman, poised and confident-or so she'd always thought.

It wasn't fair. Inside, she didn't feel any older than Claudia Baines. And no one ever guessed her true age. Yet tonight, the children, Drew, and the lines in her neck had all combined to remind her she wasn't young anymore. When she hadn't been looking, time had caught up with her. Once she had said forty-two as blithely as she'd said twenty-four. But when she was twenty-four, she had thought forty-two was middle-aged. What a cruel word.

A predawn shower had washed the air clean. It gave a sparkling clarity to the practice field and sharpened the contrast between the high blue sky and rich green of the gra.s.s. Despite the rain, the footing was good, in large part because of the perforated pipes underground that drained off excess water or irrigated the field depending on the need.

Luz slow-cantered the dull-brown Thoroughbred toward the white ball sitting near midfield. Dressed in a bisque-colored turtleneck and tan riding slacks, she wore a polo helmet to protect her from a wild-hit ball. As she approached the plastic practice ball, she held her ready position until she was almost on it, then swung the cane mallet. She heard the clunk of contact and felt the vibration from the impact travel through her arm as she completed her follow-through. The white sphere arced through the air. Luz didn't give chase. Rob was coming from the opposite direction to practice a head-on shot. The brown horse snorted its boredom with this stick-and-ball work, preferring the h.e.l.l-bent-for-leather excitement of a game. She reined the horse in to watch her son position his galloping mount for the shot.

With the ball running toward him, the correct timing of his swing was essential. His arm came down in an arc, his stick an extension of it. The mallet head made contact with the ball and Rob pushed it sideways, the abrupt reversal of direction giving the ball a topspin. He turned his horse to go after the ball. Luz grimly shook her head when she noticed his pony was on the wrong lead, the stride of the outside leg overreaching the inside leg of the turn. Rob made no attempt to correct it. He knocked the ball to the middle of the field where she waited, then rode up to meet her.

"I think that's enough for one morning, Rob," she said as he swung his blowing horse alongside hers.

"Another hour," he stated.

"It's time to call it quits," Luz insisted. "You're making mental errors. That last cut up the field, your pony was on the wrong lead. That's an amateur's mistake, Rob."

He shifted in the saddle, putting his weight onto the stirrup irons. Leather groaned as he settled back onto the seat. "I must have been concentrating on the ball." He avoided her eyes.

"You've been pushing yourself hard all week. It's time to let up."

"Maybe you're right," he sighed.

"I know I am." She collected the Thoroughbred, making contact with its mouth, and squeezed her legs to urge it forward.