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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

The first time Wes Edwards laid eyes on Claire Sutherland he knew she was out of his league.

But he wouldn't let a little detail like that stop him.

It was a blue, sunny afternoon of swaying palms and wafting orange blossom scents. Children stomped on the pristine acreage of the Beverly Hills estate, playing shuffleboard or darts, fishing in the ponds, tossing balls or dunking their favorite celebrities. The Kid's Carnival, a charity event raising money for the Sutherland Foundation for Cancer Research was in full swing.

Under the cool shade of an oak, bright balloons and streamers hanging from the branches, Claire held court. Her crown was a single rose above her ear, a bloom of crimson against her blond hair. Her jewels were her eyes, sapphire blue, deep set, striking against her pale brows and porcelain white skin. Her royal dress was jeans and a T-shirt, the same as worn by her powerful court standing next to her, all joking and laughing with the free, easy assurance old money brought.

But Claire's smile was neither free nor easy. She stood beside her brother and friends, but apart, her thoughts clearly her own, inaccessible, inscrutable. Her gaze, having settled politely on each for a time, drifted from them to the children gathered in a circle on the lawn.

It was then that those remarkable eyes made contact with Wes, and he could not move for the anticipation shooting through him. She smiled at him, a shy gesture that curled her mouth and put a glow upon her striking features. Wes felt his stomach tighten. He wanted her to tilt her head, flick her hair, give any little movement to show she was attracted to him. The chase could begin. But, instead she turned her attention back to her elite group, Wes a seemingly forgotten thing.

"May I have your autograph, Mr. Edwards?"

Wes tore his gaze from Claire and saw a ten-year-old girl holding out an autograph book. On her scalp were mists of soft, down-like hair. Her face was bloated by chemotherapy. He smiled but his heart ached suspecting what she went through with her cancer therapy. "Sure thing."

"You're my favorite actor but my mother says that you don't have much dialogue in your movies because you're not too smart and don't speak English very well."

Her bluntness caught him so off-guard he laughed out right. But the remark hurt. Deeply. It was the kind of quip said frequently by producers and directors who refused to give him the substantial roles he craved. He wanted audiences to see him as more than a muscular hunk who seduced the heroine and karate chopped his way to saving the world.

"Oh she did, did she?" Wes knelt down on large legs made all the more powerful by years of martial arts training. "What is your name?"

"Mary Beth."

"Well, Mary Beth, tell your mother that I try very hard to soften my French accent. And tell her that to prove I am smart, I'm writing my own movie about a little boy named Daniel who goes through the same treatments you do."

"Are you still going to get the bad guy?"

He brushed his fingers softly along her cheek. "You can count on it."

She cuddled his autograph next to her heart. "Why don't you write about a little girl -- like me?"

"I can have a little girl like you in my story. A little girl who goes to a camp like the one Claire Sutherland runs."

Wes stole a moment to look beyond the circus tent where Claire chatted with her family, a wave of heat washing over him. She was the sexiest woman here today. Her faded blue jeans caressed her hips like a lover's hand. Her plain white T-shirt pressed erotically against the swell of her breasts. Such articles of clothing should be outlawed except on a moonlit night when a man like himself could watch a woman like Claire slip them off, revealing a bare, silken body waiting for his touch.

Wes raked an unsteady hand through his hair. He hadn't expected to feel this way for the woman he needed to approach about backing Daniel's Story.

"Claire's camp is in two weeks," said Mary Beth. "Are you going to be there, too?"

He looked back at Mary Beth. "If everything goes the way I want it to, I'll be seeing quite a lot of Claire."

***

"Claire is the best of the Sutherlands. She has taken the pledge to serve our country in the most unselfish way, by donating her time and money to better the lives of children afflicted with cancer. My husband, who couldn't be here today because of his duties as U.S. Ambassador to Great Britain, and I are the proudest parents on the planet."

Maria Sutherland, a trim, tiny woman smiled with practiced precision at the at the video photographer while Claire, standing beside her, cringed secretly.

Claire, the unselfish one. Claire, the saint. She felt like a sanctified icon, the Mother Teresa of the Sutherland family, neatly packed and marketed for the public.

She should be accustomed to the publicity by now, she mused. It had been her image since she was twelve years old and was diagnosed with bone cancer. Most of America grew up reading about the heartbreaking, triumphant battle of the little blond Sutherland girl who beat the disease and then donated her life to helping others.

The reporter turned her microphone next to Frank Sutherland, her brother, who stood beside her. Unlike Claire, he basked in the limelight, beaming a smile that could reach a satellite without the benefit of a transmitter.

"Is it true that Claire is going to campaign for you during your re-election bid, Senator?" the reporter asked.

Frank turned his left profile toward the camera because photographers had told him that he looked thirty instead of forty when he did so. "Claire is an integral part of my team. I'm in the senate today in no small part because of her contributions. There's not a day that goes by she doesn't help her family or people she doesn't even know."

Claire smiled, hiding the ache in her back, the pain in her legs for standing hours without relief. She had been up since dawn tackling last minute problems facing

The carnival, organizing volunteers, speaking to the media.

Allowing herself a small diversion, she peered across the lawn to the children shooting hoops, wishing for the freedom to play along with them instead of stand through this series of interviews. These kids didn't think of her as Claire, the saint. To them she was a friend who understood.

In each of these children she saw something of herself at their ages. Beneath their startlingly pale, drawn faces were sparkling, eager eyes wanting one thing - to be normal.

Claire felt an echo of pain and lowered her chin. She had spent her life wanting to be accepted, to be the same as other kids. Like those limping over the lawn today, she had yearned to know the freedom of running sure-footed along the athletic field. She had longed for days without needles and chemo and surgeries, days in the California sun where the reality of hospital rooms and sickness was far removed.

Forcing her mind back to the interview she swept her eyes past the courts, spotting one particular figure - a stranger - and her gaze locked.

Lithe, powerful, he moved across the basketball court as gracefully as a dancer across the stage. But dribbling and lay-ups weren't part of his repertoire. For his audience of awed youngsters, his swift hands chopped through the air as he leapt, his muscular thighs kicked out to the to the side in a beautifully executed martial arts maneuver.

He had to be Wes Edwards, Claire thought. He was the only karate champion she had invited today and the only celebrity she hadn't met personally.

Great P.R for him, she thought, looking around for the reporters immortalizing him for their entertainment shows. Surprisingly, though, she saw none, and the fact didn't seem to phase Wes. He played on, throwing a knobby-kneed girl onto his shoulders, running her up to the basket to shoot a hoop.

It stirred in Claire just then, an emotion so unexpected, it caught her off-guard. This man wasn't laughing with the kids for the sake of his own publicity as so many of the other celebrities did. He wasn't acting out a part tailored by a press agent. He genuinely enjoyed the children.

She found herself staring, losing the thread of the dialogue between Frank and the reporter, caught by the pure exultation Wes wore like a merit badge.

Throwing the ball up high he spun 360 degrees, tipped the ball on the edge of his shoe and kicked it several feet to land square in the basketball hoop.

Claire did something crazy, ten. She belly-laughed hard and loud enough to stop Frank in mid-sentence.

Silence. Her mother's steely disapproval penetrated her. Frank gaped in astonishment.

"I'm sorry," Claire muttered. What was wrong with her? She had never blown an interview before.

"Is there something about your brother's health care reform that strikes you as funny?" asked the reporter, her microphone in Claire's face.

Silently, Claire pleaded with Frank for help.

"Thanks Sis," he teased, rescuing her. "That's the same reaction I get from Republicans."

Claire held her breath.

The reporter laughed.

The tension eased.

"Claire's right to remind us that laughter is what this day is all about," Frank went on, winking at his sister. "This is a fun day for the kids. Let's not talk politics. Let's enjoy the afternoon. How about we finish this up later?"

Her eye already on an A-list star fresh from the tennis courts, the reporter grinned. "I wish just once you Sutherlands gave me a scandal, some crack in the myth you're as perfect as a family can get. Alas, I can hope." She signaled to her cameraman. "I think we have a good sound bite. Thank you so much for your time Senator Sutherland, Mrs. Sutherland, Ms. Sutherland."

Handshakes. Nods. With her cameraman in tow the reporter blitzed towards the tennis courts, and Mrs. Sutherland turned an angry eye to Claire.

"These interviews are not laughing matters."

Claire stilled, tensed, and faced her mother. "I'm sorry."

"I need you in top form. The Governor arrives later today and you know how

much he respects your work. Heaven knows he won't give Frank the time of day but if you explain about Frank's health care plan, he might listen."

So much for the Sutherland myth of family perfection. More and more Claire

wished her mother treated her like a daughter rather than as a political liaison. But then again, saints were so good for bringing opposing parties together on important issues. "I'll do what I can."

Mrs. Sutherland swept an assessing eye over her daughter as if gauging whether

Claire would be up to the task. An elegant woman, Maria would have been beautiful if any spark of life lit her dark eyes or tenderness softened her tight mouth.

"I haven't checked on the activities in the circus tent for a while," Claire said.

Seemingly satisfied that her daughter understood her duties, Maria nodded. "Do

what you have to."

Backing away, Claire gestured apologetically to her brother. "Sorry, Frank."

"You okay, Claire?" he asked.

She didn't stop. She needed breathing space, redemption. Her mind fully on her responsibilities again, she barreled toward the circus tent at full speed.

What had gotten into her to laugh out loud at a critical stage in an interview?

She'd look like a fool, made the family look like fools. If she hadn't been so engrossed in Wes Edwards she would have paid more attention. He was just so gorgeous to watch, so thoroughly refreshing, so wonderfully, enticingly male.

Smack!

Claire didn't know what hit her. She only knew she bounced back from

something rock solid, started stumbling toward the ground. And then strong arms caught her and held her in an embrace she never wanted to let go.

"Are you alright?"

That voice. That accent. Claire felt the French timbre ripple through her veins. Focusing her gaze, she stared into crystalline blue eyes - soothing, compassionate, and a little amused.

"No one can say I don't bowl women over."

Recognition flashed in Claire's mind. "It's you."

"It is?"

"Yes you. The karate basketball player."

Thick eyebrows raised.

"You're Wes Edwards," Claire managed. Only then did she realize he still held her tightly, his warm smooth skin brushing against hers, his rock hard muscles supporting her weight.

Embarrassed, she planted her feet firmly on the ground, tugged gently at his arm

to drop away.

"You're sure you're okay?" he asked softly.

Nodding, she lifted her eyes to him, and time stilled. No man, not even Richard, her fiance of a long, long time ago ever looked at her the way Wes did now. The way a man did who saw a woman he thought beautiful, a woman he wanted down to her soul.

A veil as opaque as midnight slipped over Claire's features. It wasn't a conscious act. It was a defense mechanism so deeply rooted it was instantaneous.

Smoothing her hair and jeans to give her hands something to do, she stepped back, breaking the physical contact. "I'm fine. Really. Thank you."

He held out his hand. "Let's start over. Wes Edwards. Please to meet you, Claire Sutherland."

Claire looked at his hand like a foreign thing, as reluctant to accept it now as she was to let go of it a moment before. Avoiding his eyes, she shook it. "Pleased to meet you, too. I'm glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world."

He dropped his hand from hers and buried it in jean's pocket, drawing her attention unwillingly to his flat stomach, his rock hard thighs.

"These kids," he went on wistfully, "are amazing."

His eyes roamed over the youthful faces and she ventured a longer glance at him, feeling like a twelve-year-old kid stealing a lick of cotton candy. He was handsome though not in the classic sense. On skin which had the clear, bronzed, healthy hue of an athlete's was an intriguingly imperfect face. His nose was too blunt, crooked a little to the right; his left eyebrow was bisected by the white of a scar. She wondered what caused it. An accident on a movie set? Or did he get it before he came to Hollywood?

He turned back to her then, his gaze warming her like sunshine on a cold day. "I know your brother quite well."

Claire donned a reserved smile. He's mentioned that. How did you two meet?"

"In D.C. last summer. I was filming A Day For Heroes and being the snoop that he

is, Frank invited himself to the set."

"I heard about that movie. Wasn't it about an FBI agent who foils a plot to

assassinate the President?"

Wes threw her a gaze that made her knees wobble. "Heard about it? You didn't

see it?"

She lowered her eyelids immediately. He got to her too easily.

His eyes snapping, he leaned toward her. "You're in good company. My mother

refuses to see any movies with a hint of violence in them. In call her up in France and tell her I've just signed an incredible film deal and all she talks about is how her grapes are growing. She wants me to come back and tend the family vineyard."

"What part of France are you from?" Claire asked. Another stab at reserve but cracks chinked away at her armor.

"Actually, I was born in Chicago. My father died when I was seven, and my mom

moved my brother and me back to her native France, to the Burgundy region."

Claire flicked her gaze over Wes's features, wondering what he looked like as a small boy. He must have been an adorable, cuddly, affectionate youth, the kind a mother would love to spoil. "Seven is a young age to have to face the death of a parent."

She saw an indefinable something in his face, an emotion that brought her in to

linger with him. For a moment it was just the two of them in a realm that had nothing to do with reality.

"Yes, it was," Wes said. "But one good thing came of it."

"What?"

"My father told me stories of America. I vowed one day to come back. And here I am-with you."

In a blink of an eye, Claire's expression turned guarded. She liked him too much.

This was happening too fast. She looked away. "You're next up for the basketball game," she said stiffly. "You're certainly warmed up."

Wes glanced at the busy courts, his jaw muscle clenching as if in frustration. And then he turned back to her. "I've heard you have quite a hook shot. Why not join me?"

Claire felt fear grip her insides and twist. A game alone with Wes? Defending against him? Touching him? "You're not serious?"

His voice was low, edged with challenge. "Of course I am."

To anyone else she might have said yes. Even with the cameras catching her limping, lumbering, awkward strides. She had accepted her disability long ago, had gained enough self-respect not to swallow the placebo of inactivity.

But Wes Edwards was an entirely different matter. She had seen that sparkle before in men who thought she was as wholesome as she portrayed for these events. But when they saw the woman behind the public façade, the woman who had lost half her leg to bone cancer, who had a fleshy stump below her left knee instead of a shapely, sexy calf and ankle, they quickly lost their interest.

She had no doubt that Wes Edwards fit into the same mold. He was an actor, incredibly handsome, the entire world and women at his feet. Physical perfection was his stock and trade. He may believe she was something special because he wasn't one of those who read or heard about her handicap. Her did not know her and that, she determined from experience, was the best way to leave it.

"I'm the hostess of this event," she said calmly, politely, sternly. "I have to make sure the carnival runs smoothly. I can't afford to take time out for a game."

Wes stepped closer to her. "I wasn't suggesting a one-on-one. Chose your team."

Temptation nipped at her. For one instant in time she forgot who she was and that she could not allow anything to happen between them. For this one brief, spectacular moment she felt as if her body were beautiful, as if she were the enticing, alluring woman he thought she was. They could play one game; he might ask her out . . .

And then reality intruded.

"I don't have the time."

"I see." He crooked his mouth in a lop-sided grin. "If I can't entice you with a game for the sake of fun, how about for the benefit of your cancer foundation? Are you a gambler, Claire?"

"What do you mean?"

"If your team wins I'll donate $50,000 to your charity."

Claire's eyes opened wide. "And what if your team wins?"

He hesitated, took a breath. "You read something for me."

He was one surprise after another, Claire thought. "Read something for you?"

"A story I'd like to develop into a script. It's about a boy who's been diagnosed with cancer. I'd like to get your opinion on it."

If he said he was giving up martial arts for ballet she couldn't have been more surprised. "That's quite a departure for you, isn't it?"

"You mean because all my movies have been karate flicks where I kill at least twenty bad guys every ten minutes?"

Claire nodded.

"That's exactly why I want to pursue the script. There's more to life than karate fights. This script means everything to me."

He had guts. She gave him that. Never mind that this wasn't the time or place to pitch a script. "Why do you need me? I'm not a writer or a producer."

"Because . . . maybe I'm not as sure about it as I'd like to be. It is different for me. I'll be way out on a limb. If you liked the story, I'd feel more confident that I was on the right track."

Claire smiled, actually a little flattered over the idea. Hollywood. A script. Who wouldn't be tempted? Then she chuckled, picturing the horror on her mother's face. Mom, I'm changing careers. I'm going Hollywood. After a bout of CPR, her mother, gasping, would mutter, `Never! It's sop beneath a Sutherland.'

Misreading the twinkle in her eyes, Wes stepped closer.

Claire froze.

His gaze slid over her baby soft complexion. Raising his arm, his touch consciously intimate, he swept back an errant strand of her hair. "We could talk about it over dinner tonight. Just the two of us. Candlelight. Music."

His gaze, his body, his nearness catapulted her emotions into a violent confusion that was as exciting as it was frightening. Every sense in her body cried out for her to say yes. She wanted to. It shocked her how much she wanted to go out with him.

And then she realized what a dangerous man Wes was. He made her wish for things that were impossible.

With pitiless self-discipline she crawled back into the safe, selfless world of a handicapped charity fundraiser. Claire, the saint. The title fit so well. The kids here today needed her to organize the carnival. Her mother needed her tonight to convince the governor to back Frank's health care proposals. Later, she needed to plan for her Camp Sunrays.

But what did she, Claire Sutherland, a woman, need?

She erased the thought and leveled her gaze at Wes. "No, Mr. Edwards. Thank you for the wager. But I'm not in the script reading business."

"Mr. Edwards," Claire's secretary said firmly, "Ms. Sutherland is in a meeting and can't come to the phone."

"This is the third time I've called today," Wes said in frustration. He knew a put off when he heard one. Claire had obviously instructed her secretary not to put through his calls.

"She will return your call as soon as she's able."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Thank you, Mr. Edwards."

Click. Wes stared at the receiver. That third rejection didn't do a whole lot for his morale. It wasn't what he would call a real ego booster.

Pushing himself away from his desk, he strode across his office to the window, leaning one shoulder against the oak casing that framed the view of Universal Studios backlot sound stages, now bustling with trams from the studio tour.

Damn, Claire did to him what no other woman did. Even now he could feel that response, the same way he'd felt it when her eyes, those magnificent sapphire eyes, turned to cobalt fire when he asked her out.

She felt it, too. He was sure of it. Then why didn't she act on it? Was she playing hard to get? Or were her standards so high few men, if any, could live up to them?

Wes's own insecurities about his upbringing gnawed at him. He wasn't from a wealthy family. He had paid his own way through college but it was certainly no ivy league university. Claire went to Princeton. Maybe she only dated men from the right families with the right connections, men who fought on the floors of congress for world peace and health.

Wasn't she engaged at one time? He seemed to remember reading something about her and a doctor breaking up on the eve of their wedding. The thought didn't add to his optimism. Maybe she still carried the torch for the guy.

This was crazy, he told himself. Claire was pure stubborn. She had a concrete wall built around her a mile thick.

And he wanted to be the one to break it down.

His door opened and his agent, Trask Petersen, ambled into the room. His most trusted advisor since Wes came to Hollywood almost ten years before, Trask was the only person who could barge into Wes's office, day or night, without the benefit of an announcement from Wes's secretary.

Charging over the plush beige carpet, the burly man headed right to a small, built in refrigerator, holding up a script in his hand. "The sequel to A Man With a Secret," he announced.

"Hello to you, too, Trask," Wes said, grinning. He had seen that gleam in his agent's eye before and knew that it spelled big budget, high action and formula adventure. It was the same gleam Trask had when he presented Wes the original A Man With A Secret script, the first Wes Edwards movie to break that magical $100 million dollar mark at the box office.

Opening the refrigerator, Trask frowned at the bottled water, assorted fruits and juices. "Haven't you ever heard of junk food?" With mock indignation, he slammed the door shut. "Bob Maxwell at Vista wants to start production as soon as you finish The Chase."

Wes held up his palm. "Mind if I read the script first?"

"You'll love it. It's got more of everything. More action, more special effects."

"And story?"

"It's got a semblance of a story." Trask dropped his large frame into one of Wes's leather chairs. "What's important is it's the perfect script to launch negotiations on the production deal you want. The head haunchos here at Universal are nervous they're going to lose you after you finish The Chase. They may offer you another project just to keep you from going over to Vista."

Wes turned to the view outside, to the sound stages, one right after another one, each looking like bland army barracks. Who would guess that at a place so outwardly devoid of aesthetics magic was created?

Magic. He still felt it, the same way he did as a kid dreaming about making movies. The aura was there for him everyday when he drove to the studio and reminded himself he was the luckiest guy on earth.

"Do you know why I got into films?" Wes asked. Sinking back into the soft chair, Trask shook his head. "Not for the stardom or the money," Wes answered. "And certainly not to be remembered for my 360 degree spinning kick. I got into movies to create good stories. Somehow that goal has gotten lost and I want it back. I want to take time off and develop Daniel's Story."

Trask shook his head. "You switch gears in your career with this Daniel's Story and it'll be disastrous."

"I've been working three years straight without a break. I barely have time to get a costume fitting before I start The Chase. And these movies are all the same. They're strangling me, Trask. It's time to move to the next stage, to do serious drama, to direct."

He tore his eyes from the view outside and turned to his friend. "Daniel's Story is good. It can be a great story if..."

Trask rubbed the back of his neck as if his shirt were buttoned too tight. "If what?"

"I get some help on it. I'm trying to convince someone to collaborate with me."

"Who?"

"Claire Sutherland."

"Claire Sutherland?" Trask asked. "What can she do for you?"

Wes's mouth curved, just slightly, in a warm smile. "She runs the Sutherland Foundation for Cancer Research. She works around children with cancer."

"I know that but it hardly qualifies her to write a script."

"I want her involved," Wes said. "There's plenty she can add to the story."

Trask raised his thick eyebrows. "As your agent I must tell you this career move is dangerous. I've read your treatment on Daniel's Story. It is good. It does have potential. But audiences identify you with action. You come out with this melodramatic story and your fans will be confused. They'll be disappointed. You might not be able to regain the momentum you enjoy now."

Wes grinned at that. It was a sly, undaunted grin that showed he loved a good challenge. How many times, when he first came to Hollywood, had he heard that same advice? Every producer, every director, every person who could get him a job recited the same line - Forget it, kid. Go back to laying carpets. Your accent is too thick. You can't act. The competition is too severe.

The odds against his success were astronomical. But one thing kept him knocking on agent's doors, kept him attending auditions, kept him going on after all the rejections -- he needed to be involved in films the way a person needed air to breath. It was a driving force, one he could never give up.

It struck him that Claire created the same compelling need in him. He didn't know why, had never felt like this with another living soul. She touched him deep in the core of his being, stirred his blood the same way his need to express himself in film did.

The thought frightened him a little. The way he got his first roles was to wear down the resistance of directors until they relented and hired him. Somehow he doubted the same bulldog tenacity would work with Claire.

But the script for Daniel's Story could provide the link between them.

Turning to Trask, he asked, "Stop being my agent for a minute. As a friend how would you answer me?"

Trask looked at Wes pointedly as if gauging what his opinion would do to their relationship. "You're on top now, Wes. This isn't the time to change gears. I don't want you to make a move you'll regret. On the other hand, I don't want you to burn out, and as hard as you've been working, you could."

He stood up, slid his hands inside his pockets and eyed Wes. "I know how much Daniel's Story means to you. It would be therapy for you. Go ahead and write the script. I'll make sure it finds a home."

Wes didn't immediately move, didn't enfold his friend in a huge bear hug and gush …I love you, man, the way some people in Hollywood did when they got a break. He didn't need to. His eyes said it all. "I may just surprise you and make Daniel's Story an Oscar contender."

Trask chuckled. "If anyone could pull it off, it's you."

Not wasting another minute, Wes crossed over to his desk and retrieved a set of car keys.

"Where are you going?" Trask asked.

"To convince Claire to work with me."

Trask's eyes opened wide as if a light flashed in his mind. "Aren't Bob Maxwell at Vista and Claire Sutherland good friends?"

"Yes. Maxwell sits on the Sutherland Foundation Board of Directors."

"Great. Bob should be especially sensitive to a pitch about a child with cancer." The agent took his hands out of his pockets, gestured as if he were painting a vision in the air. "I can see it now. A three-picture deal. He lets you get creative behind the camera with Daniel's Story and you make him a ton of money with the sequel to A Man With A Secret. We'll figure out the third one later."

Wes cast a wry glance at his agent. "Daniel's Story comes first. I want to take time off to write it. I want to get my life back."

***

"Frank Sutherland is the man who will guarantee that every citizen has inexpensive health insurance," Claire said into the mirror of her office restroom. She visualized herself standing at the podium of the San Francisco Press Club tonight, a towering photo of Frank behind her. But instead of Frank, the man in her imagination had sky blue eyes fringed with long lashes, a wound on his left eyebrow.

What was wrong with her?

She jerked the wide leather belt tighter around her tiny waist, closed her eyes. Concentrate.

"Wes Edwards is the man who will change the face of politics."

Claire's eyes shot open wide. This wasn't happening.

Wes again. For the last two nights he invaded her sleep in erotic dreams. During the day his image swam with her in the pool, strolled with her in her garden and now he usurped Frank's place in her speech. This had to stop.

Maybe she should have accepted his dinner invitation, she thought, smoothing out her long skirt. Nothing like stretches of awkward silence between two people with nothing in common to show how idiotic an infatuation was.

The problem was she didn't really believe there would be any awkward silence. She already knew she and Wes had a lot in common.

The speech ebbing to the back of her mind, she took a long, hard, objective look at herself in the mirror. She lifted her ankle length blue gauze skirt until she uncovered the entire length of her artificial limb. Taking off her beige knee high boot she felt the tight silicone liner above her knee. Moving her fingers lower she felt the socket connection and lower, the thin carbon fiber composite of the rod shaped prosthesis which joined, at its tip, to the module, her fake foot.

The artificial limb was an embarrassing thing to her family. A symbol of weakness. On most days Claire counted it as no more than a nuisance. So many other things -- her work, her brother's campaign -- took precedence.

But today, when she thought of what a man like Wes Edwards would think running his own hand over the metallic looking structure, her disability took on a much more significant meaning.

Would he be like the other men she had known? Handsome and wealthy men who thought she was pretty until they saw her handicap. How many begged off on a physical relationship? How many times had she heard: …I'm not ready for this. Let's just be friends.

And then Richard.

Dr. Richard Lake, researcher extraordinaire, confidant to a lonely, insecure woman. How she loved him. How beautiful he made her feel showing with warm and soft hands how sweet lovemaking could be. That was until she overheard him talking to her father one day. A marriage in exchange for an oncology research wing in Richard's honor. "A splendid arrangement," her father had said. "Claire should be grateful."

Well, she wasn't grateful. She was devastated. Even more so during the tabloid circus spawned after she broke off the engagement.

A Sutherland never looked back, she told herself. A Sutherland had no time for regrets or self-pity.

Shoving her boot back on, she lowered her skirt with a snap of her hand. Richard and her father were right. Her prosthesis was grotesque. It defined her.

It would define Wes Edward's image of her.

If Wes sparked back to life that part of her that cared about being with a man, she would take pains to extinguish the spark. She had to. She had no choice.

Stepping from the restroom, she grabbed a file on her desk and headed for her secretary, forcing her mind on her work. "Annette," she called, "come into my office and..."

She stopped in mid-step, her words trailing off once she saw the man standing in the reception area. It was as if the force of her thoughts conjured him up, materialized him before her very eyes. He was here. Wes Edwards was here.

But he was not the same man she saw at the carnival two days before. That man had smudges on his jeans, unruly hair flirting with his collar, a boyish mischief that banished all thoughts of work.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Claire gulped hard. The man facing her now was pure elegance. Her eyes took in the width of his muscular shoulders, the narrowness of his waist and hips. Powerful, commanding, Wes wore his success as stylishly as he did the double-breasted suit.

In one thorough sweep she saw that he missed nothing about her, either. Every strand of blond hair falling over her shoulders, every fine hollow and voluptuous flair of her figure brought a glint to his eyes and fire to her skin.

"Hello, Claire," he said softly, stepping toward her.

Her eyes locked onto his. "Wes."

"I hoped we could have a moment to talk, about the story."

His nearness made her knees quiver. "You don't give up, do you?"

"When I want something as much as I want your ... advice, no."

The sparks flew between them. She knew they each stared too long.

A polite cough. "Excuse me, Claire," Annette interrupted, "but you have a meeting with your campaign staff in less than an hour."

The moment shattered. Claire caught Annette's eye and knew her associate ran interference for her, giving her an excuse out of the meeting if needed.

Annette was like her mother hen, Claire thought fondly. But this was one situation she needed to face once and for all. She had had meetings with some of the most sought after men in the film industry. She had laughed and dined with men more handsome, men with Oscars and Tonys to their credit, men with the power to make or break careers. If she could handle those men in a business fashion, she could handle Wes. She wasn't going to run away from him any longer.

Ignoring the throbbing beat of her heart, Claire donned her most professional, reserved pose. "You win. Come inside to my office."

Giving her folder to Annette, Claire stepped against her secretary's desk, gesturing for Wes to go first. It was her personal rule to follow a guest into her office. She didn't care for anyone seeing her limp. "Hold my calls, Annette, please."

Annette nodded. "Yes, Claire."

Wes took two steps inside and waited for her. As she walked toward her desk, her shoulder barely brushed against his, the contact electrifying.

Wes set his briefcase on the floor, shoved his hands in his pant's pockets and looked everywhere but at Claire. "I'm glad Frank gave me directions. I had no idea your private office was here on your Malibu ranch. I thought your office was in Los Angeles."

"The main offices for the Sutherland Foundation are on Wilshire in Los Angeles."

"Wilshire is high rent, high visibility. I can see why you prefer it here." He wandered over to the fine cherry wood shelves against the wall, gazed at the momentos she had collected over her life. In a move she would only call brash, he picked up a Gold medal she won from the Junior Olympics and examined it.

"Make yourself at home," she quipped.

"I am." He read the inscription. "For swimming the 100-meter breast stroke. I'm impressed."

"That was a long time ago. I don't compete anymore."

He put the medal back, looked around some more. "I like it."

"What?"

"Your office."

"I can keep it, then?"

"I'd say so."

His mouth quivered at one edge, and she realized, incredibly, he was nervous. For some perverse reason the thought relaxed her. They were on even ground.

Breaking with her own tradition, she abandoned her refuge behind the imperious Queen Anne desk and ambled to its front. She didn't quite know what to expect from this meeting or from Wes. She only knew that presiding over it from behind her desk suddenly seemed too formal and stiff. "So, you spoke to Frank before you came over here?"

"We're in cahoots," he said. "He wanted me to tell you that if you don't help me on my story he'll send you campaigning to Bakersfield."

"I see," Claire chuckled. That sounded like Frank. Bakersfield was on the edge of a desert, and she wilted in hot weather. "Okay. Let me ask you this, do you want me to read your story as a representative of the Sutherland Foundation? Are you looking for grant money, an official endorsement from the Board of Directors?"

"Nothing like that. I want to work with you personally."

The air crackled as their gazes locked.

Her guard shot up. "You have a lot of nerve. You waltz into my office without an appointment just minutes before I'm going on a campaign trip for Frank. You want me to drop everything and..."

Wes started toward her, the magnetism between them mounting in strength with each step he took. He stopped so close she could see every bristly lash over his brilliant blue eyes, could smell his musky cologne.

"Claire, if I went by the rules I'd be back working at a carpet factory. I'll do whatever I have to within moral boundaries to get my story developed into a movie. If I have to draw upon my friendship with Frank, I will. As a favor to him, please listen to what I have to say."

A ghost of a grin flitted over her mouth, her physical reaction to him stretching to accommodate the more emotional one of admiration. He was refreshingly honest. This visit wasn't about a come-on. It was about a story. In all honesty, she was curious.

She raised her chin a notch. "I'll listen to your pitch if you accept the fact that there can only be one relationship between us. A business one."

"You mean no more candlelight dinner proposals?"

"Exactly."

He considered her for a moment. "I understand."

Did he? She wondered. She tried to read his eyes. Bright, beautifully expressive, they sparkled with ambition. She lowered her chin. Ambition she understood; she had a fair amount of herself. Very well, she thought. The ground rules had been laid. They would operate within the safe, established code of business etiquette she knew and respected. Here in her office, on her own turf, she was in control.

Easing off the desk she walked toward a soft leather sofa and chair nestled in an alcove. It was an informal niche, a homey section decorated with pictures of the children who attended her spring and summer camps. She sank down into the chair.

"Sit down," she said, tilting her head toward the sofa. "I don't have the time right now to read the treatment. Can you give me an overview?"

Briefcase in hand, Wes sat down on the sofa. With long fingers he unclasped the locks and retrieved a thin manuscript, setting it on the glass coffee table between them.

"It's called Daniel's Story. Daniel is fourteen when he's diagnosed..." The outline started simple but soon, as if the beat of the story made sitting impossible, Wes stood up, the office his stage, and played each of the characters himself.

Claire was wrapt, amazed at the impromptu performance, awed at how well he captured the inner struggles not only of a cancer victim but also of the caregiver who tries to help him. When he finished, she clapped. "It's beautiful, Wes."

"But?"

"I'm not a writer. I don't know what I can contribute."

He let out a frustrated sigh, then snapped his head away from her. Absently he examined the pictures of children on her wall as if planning a different, perhaps more aggressive strategy.

Claire followed his line of sight, her eyes drifting over the youthful faces smiling back at her from the frames. She did not remember all those who came into her life, some growing up with the blessed pronouncement they were cured. But she remembered the face of every one of those who died. She carried them with her as if their souls had entered hers, as if they had each given her something special, a moment of their time on earth.

Wes sat back down on the chair, the light of conviction gleaming in his expression. "Years ago I read a story written by a nineteen-year old woman who had had cancer. It was at a point in my life when I was very low, was very angry at the world for many reasons. I read the story and found hope. It was the story you wrote, Claire."

Claire stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. She sifted through the dusty, neglected memories of her illness. "That was ten years ago. It was only published in the Candlelighters Magazine."

"I know," Wes said softly. "The woman who wrote that story would not give up. She would not let anyone she knew with the disease give up. I want that same woman to share her ideas with me."

She was speechless. Wes's faith in her was a beacon drawing her in like a ship to a harbor on a cloudy, rainswept night. Heartrending experiences she thought long forgotten flashed into her mind. Stories of children she wanted to tell, emotions and lessons she wanted to share.

"Help me make Daniel's Story a celebration of children, Claire."

The plea tore at her soul. For herself, she would not partake in developing the story. The risks were too great. The attraction too palpable between them.

But for the children...

She gave a slight nod of her head. "Okay. I'll take the treatment of your story with me. I'll read it as soon as I can."

"Thank you," he uttered. His eyes rose to hers and she was lost. Glimpsing the world of his creation, she saw a place where passion backed beliefs, where strength marked character, where idealism still reigned. For a fleeting moment she wondered if it were a place that could survive the truth of her disability.

Wes was getting to her and she couldn't allow it. Blinking the emotion from her eyes, she stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry to have to boot you out the door but I do have a flight to catch." As if to emphasize her sudden urgency, she gestured toward a suitcase by the door.

A few blank seconds passed before Wes understood their meeting had ended. He was being dismissed. Gripping his briefcase, he stood up. "May I see you when you get back? Strictly business."

Her eyes settled only as high as the lapels on his suit. "Sure. I'll be back Friday afternoon."

"Dinner Friday night, then." He held out his hand. "Thank you again, Claire."

As her fingers closed tightly around his, she looked up at him and knew she was in trouble. It was his eyes, sky blue, lingering on her face in a candid gaze that spoke not of scripts or business, but of the two of them, of more than friendship. Striking her with the blunt edge of honesty, he opened himself up, touched her deeper than any stroke of skin against skin.

Embarrassment washed over her. She did not know what he saw that was so special. No man, with his gaze alone, made her feel more

special . . . or more lacking.

Chapter Three

The treatment of Daniel's Story was dynamite.

Snuggled under the covers of the king size bed in her San Francisco hotel suite, exhausted from meetings and receptions and dinners, Claire finally stole quiet minutes to finish reading it.

And then she cried. Not because the main character, Daniel, died in the end. Not because Daniel's parents became more compassionate and better human beings. It was because of one character, Daniel's best friend.

The tears were for something she never had, for a friend who stood by an ill child when no one else could cope. How had Wes thought up such a character? How could he have known how much she, Claire, had needed such a friend during her own illness?

Ripping a tissue from the bedside dispenser, she dabbed her eyes. What man, who wrote such a poignant story of friendship, could be anything other than honorable and compassionate? Through his written word he soothed a place deep in her heart, a lonely, needful place no other soul ever ventured. Even Richard. Even at their most intimate moments he never tried to understand her. He never made her feel one-tenth for him what she felt for Wes right now.

Claire Sutherland, you are a fool. Even if Wes is the man you think he is, he would never be happy with you.

The phone rang. Wiping her eyes, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Claire, how are you, dear?"

Claire pulled herself higher on the pillows. Alert. Tense. "Hello, Mother."

"You sound like you have a cold."

Claire eyed Wes's story. If she sounded stuffy it was because of the tears she just shed over a group of fictitious characters born out of Wes's imagination. She wondered if her mother would understand. "I'm fine."

"You need to take care of yourself. Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Good, because I just got off the phone with the Chairman of the San Francisco General Hospital and he promises he'll have the grant proposal finished by Friday. I told him you were in San Francisco and the two of you could have dinner Friday night."

The little echo of warmth Claire felt over her mother's concern died quickly. Granted Maria sat on the Board of Directors and was interested in the day to day management of the Foundation. But would there ever be a time she called just to chat? "Friday night?"

"I've arranged for you to stay over the extra night."

Claire glanced at Daniel's Story. Friday night. Dinner with Wes. She smiled, her mouth tilted at one corner, anticipation shooting through her. "I can't do that. I have a dinner scheduled in Malibu Friday night."

"Oh. Is it something else for the Foundation?"

Claire hesitated. She wanted her mother to know how affected she was by Wes and Daniel's Story. Like one friend sharing secrets in the middle of the night with another, she wanted to share this with her mother. "Not exactly. I'm having dinner with Wes Edwards."

"Wes Edwards ... why is that name familiar?"

"He was at the carnival." When that brought no response, Claire offered, "He's an actor, Frank's friend."

"Oh." A pause. "Oh, dear. I have heard about him."

Claire frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Why are you seeing him?"

"I'm collaborating with him on a script."

"Oh my God. Oh my God."

Claire rolled her eyes. So much for sharing secrets with her mother. Claire wondered if she could give CPR through the phone. "It's no big deal, Mother. I'm just helping him out, giving him some ideas. It's strictly business."

"Business? What will it do for Frank or the Foundation?"

Claire had no good answer. "It's important to me."

"This sounds more personal than business. Why would he approach you of all people? Unless he wants money."

"Money has never come up."

"Not yet, you mean. Claire, be realistic. What else could he want?"

Claire sank deep in her bed, suddenly weary, exhausted. What indeed?

"If he is a legitimate businessman, he'll be amenable to rescheduling," Maria said, oblivious to the effect she had on her daughter. "When the Foundation gives the San Francisco General Hospital the research grant, it'll go a long way toward convincing the Chairman to back Frank's health care policies." When Claire didn't answer, Maria added, "I just got off the phone with your father. He knows that if the Chairman comes through with support, it's because of you."

Frederick Sutherland. More of a legend to Claire than an actual father. Duty to her family pulled at her like a gripping undertow. This was reality. This was her life. Wes was a dream. "Okay, Mother. I'll stay over Friday."

***

Wes leaned against his green Jaguar, watching Claire's fire engine red Miata twist and turn over the winding canyon road to the beach, to him. Not for the first time he wondered why she cancelled their date at the restaurant Friday night and then chose to discuss Daniel's Story on a weekend during a stroll along the shore. She didn't want any place public, she had said on the phone. He didn't know whether he should be encouraged or demoralized.

Her sports car whisked into the parking space next to him. The dimming sunlight slanted through her windshield, casting sultry shades on the angles of her face, shadowing her in mystery. Something inside him stirred. He pushed himself away from his Jag, shoved his hands in his jean's pockets, more nervous than he usually was in her presence.

Everything was different now. Damn, he was different. He had given a piece of himself to her in the form of Daniel's Story. She had accepted it and in doing so knew more about him than people who had known him for years. He felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life.

She opened her car door, swung out her legs. "Hello."

"Hello," he said.

Primed for business was the first thought that flashed in his mind. Her fine blond hair was piled on top of her head in a tight bun. A dull gray pantsuit, a shapeless stretch of material, hid everything feminine about her.

Accepting his hand, she rose from the small sports car. She may have worn subdued clothing, Wes thought, but there was still something sexy as hell about her. She had a presence, a poise and elegance that went deeper than her dress. No article of clothing could mask the way she held her head, the posture of her back, the gentle sway of her hips. She could have worn a cardboard box and he still would have been turned on. "Did you just come from a meeting?" he asked curiously.

She dropped his hand. "Camp Sunrays starts in a week and it's always a zoo beforehand."

"Oh," he said, wondering if there was something wrong with his brain. Was he supposed to take that as a yes?

Wes flitted his eyes over her face. There was something else different about her. Then he had it. She wasn't wearing one ounce of make-up. The realization startled him.

He had been told by various women over the years that they spent hours in front of their mirrors primping and preening themselves for him. He had been flattered anyone went to so much trouble.

The damn thing was he liked Claire better without it. Her blond lashes and brows seemed almost transparent against her pale skin. Her eyes, those fathomless blue eyes, splashed the only color onto her face, making the emotion crossing her cheeks more striking, more telling.

She was nervous. Wes could feel the tension emanating from her, as if now that they were so close, standing face to face as they were, that she wanted to send him a clear message. It dawned on him that her lack of primping was a substantial part of that message.

This was business. Only business.

Her fingers trembling, she reached into her purse and took out the copy of Daniel's Story. "Here's the treatment," she said, searching in her purse for something else. "I even brought paper and a pen to jot down any additional ideas."

Wes felt like saying to hell with all this formality. He felt like throwing her upon the hood of her Miata and kissing her so thoroughly any thoughts of Daniel's Story dropped right out of her head.

He didn't bother to hide his desire. His eyes drifted to her lips, lingering an eternity before lifting up again, telling her without words of the images keeping him awake at night -- his hands on her body, caressing her, tangling in her hair. His lips tracing her contours and hollows, his tongue tasting her sweetness, claiming her as his and his alone.

For a moment the sexual image coalesced between them, and he saw startled awareness widen her eyes. The air crackled between them, volatile, unpredictable.

She dropped her pen, swearing, the color in her face deepening.

Wes leaned down, picked up the pen and handed it back to her. Their fingers touched. He felt her shoulders tense, her body freeze; but her eyes gave her away. Under the dimming twilight her gaze riveted on his face with such sharp intensity he couldn't find his breath. Her eyes were luminous, a deeper blue than the deepest ocean. He saw hunger in her eyes, a woman's hunger, a woman's raw sexual awareness. And something else, pure and honest, that rocked him down to his bones.

Claire Sutherland wanted him. She read his story, gazed into his soul, and wanted him.

Something happened to him then. The perfection of a moment in time where everything important to him, every goal he strove for, every wish he had for his life amassed in tangible form in the woman standing before him. He never felt more connected to a woman as he did to her now. He never felt more sure that two futures were entwined, that two lives were inevitably to be joined.

And he also knew as sure as she stood before him with eyes so large and unsure, lips so fragile, quivering, that she was terribly frightened of something.

She accepted the pen and looked away, breaking the physical contact but not the emotional charge between them. She walked to the edge of the pavement a few feet away and stopped, looking out at the vast expanse of shoreline and blue water.

"I wrote down some ideas," she started, the ocean as her audience. "I'm not clear about one thing. What does Daniel's best friend, the man who helps him come to terms with his cancer, do for a living?" She turned back to Wes.

His eyes on her, he crossed the distance to her. "No business now, Claire."

"What do you mean?"

"We're going to be working closely together for quite a while. I'd like to know more about you."

Claire swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest. He wondered whether the gesture was prompted by the crisp ocean breeze or the undercurrent of emotion running between them. There was a familiarity now, a significance in every subtle look. In every gesture a story told. "There's nothing much to know about me," Claire said.

"I doubt that." He slid out of his tweed jacket and placed it gently over her shoulders, conscious, even though he was careful not to touch her, of the intimacy of the act.

He had to take it slow with her. She had her reasons for cautiously approaching a relationship with him and by her looks and attire, her constraint, she intended to keep as remote from him as possible.

If he didn't know better, he would almost believe she wasn't accustomed to being alone with a man. She was an enigma to him. She cut her teeth on public speaking, was articulate, passionate, even aggressive when addressing an audience. But the private Claire, the one he saw now, was as shy as a flower before the sunlight beckoned its petals to open.

"Thank you," she said, her slender fingers grasping the jacket lapels.

He wanted to touch her. Didn't dare touch her. "Walk with me, Claire." Stepping onto the sand, he looked at the ruddy sunset dancing off the waves. "You picked a beautiful spot. Do you come here often?"

"Every Sunday evening," she said, reluctance showing in her eyes. Keeping a safe distance she fell in step beside him, slow and leisurely. "I love the ocean. I do all my thinking here."

"What sort of thinking?"

"Decisions about the Foundation, work."

Personal decisions? He wondered. Did she think about old loves? Dr. Richard Lake, the man she almost married years ago but didn't. He wondered what happened between them.

"Tell me about Daniel's Story," she asked. "Why did you chose this subject as your first script?"

He recognized how she changed the subject from herself to him but he didn't push it. Daniel's Story was the link bringing them together. Perhaps it was best, in this burgeoning stage of their friendship, to center on it.

He debated how to answer her question. The story was such a personal thing to him. It was a part of his life, his child, conceived of his own experiences. He knew he would have to change that attitude to make it a viable script. Movies were a business. There was no room for sentimentality. But for now, the story was still his, a view of a world he once knew, a world he very much wanted Claire to know.

He gazed out at the ocean. The pounding surf echoed in his ears. "Daniel was my brother."

Claire stopped, astonished. "Your brother? I had no idea."

"Few people know. He died nine years ago of medulloblastoma. He was sixteen."

Claire stared at him. "I'm sorry. I've known many kids with brain cancer." Her eyes narrowed, understanding dawning. "You're the best friend in the story."

Touched by her perceptiveness, Wes nodded. "I didn't want to write an autobiography so instead of writing me as his brother, I wrote me as Daniel's best friend."

Awe filled her eyes. Pure, unreserved, startling. He shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed, like she was nominating him for an award he didn't deserve.

He started walking again, passing a few teens in black wet suits.

"In the story," he went on hastily, "I felt the character of the friend was more sympathetic than a brother would be. The friend put off his career in order to help Daniel for those two years. My thought was that the sacrifice was more powerful coming from a non-family member. In my mind it would be obvious, expected, for a brother to give up so much. What brother wouldn't?"

"No," Claire said forcefully. She grabbed his arm, stopping him in mid stride. "Knowing a family member has the disease doesn't imbue a person with sudden insight or compassion, or love."

Her lips thinned into a taut, sallow line. Her blue eyes, those rich blue eyes that could hold such ice or heat, glistened with a pain that pulled at his heart. "Is that the experience you had with cancer, Claire? Was your family that insensitive?"

"No. No," she answered a little too quickly. A mask fell about her face, shielding her emotions. She was too adroit at hiding her feelings, too quick to understand she revealed more than she wanted. "What I intended to say was that the aspect of family in your story, the ones who can't cope, is realistic. The character of Daniel's friend, an outsider, the only one who sees clearly what he needs, is a beautiful contrast."

She started walking again, her eyes pinned on the few feet of sand before her feet. "How did your mother handle Daniel's cancer?"

Again she turned the conversation from herself, Wes noticed. Her evasiveness intrigued him. He sensed there was more to it, something deeply rooted, firmly entrenched, steering her toward reticence. He didn't know whether he should push the topic or let it go. Finally, he decided on patience.

"My uncles took over the family vineyard while my mom moved Daniel and me to Los Angeles so he could get the best, most up-to-date medical attention. That was quite a sacrifice for her. She never cared for America too much."

"Your mother gave up everything," Claire whispered. "Her country, her life, her career. Was she bitter she had to do that?"

"No. What is a business compared to a child?"

Claire had a curious expression on her face, not altogether pleasant. "Indeed."

They continued walking, their shoes sinking into the cold sand.

"And you, Wes? In the story Daniel's best friend is the one who ends up caring for him much of the time for two years. Is that what you did?"

He didn't want to answer. He wanted to know why she asked that question about his mother giving up her vineyard. He wondered about her family, and tried to think back about what he read. By all accounts, he recalled, the Sutherland family was the model of closeness during her illness. What prompted her to assume his mother would be bitter?

"Wes?" she asked gently.

He shrugged. "Mom had to work to pay the medical bills. She was with Daniel all she could be."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I didn't write the story to draw attention to my own actions. Daniel is the hero."

"Caring for a terminally ill patient takes a toll, Wes," she said softly. "What did you do when you weren't inserting IV tubes or holding Daniel's head while he vomited after his chemo treatments? I have a difficult time believing that as motivated and dedicated as you were to stay by your brother, you didn't try to help financially, too."

He pinned her with a long stare. Was she always so perceptive? "You are direct."

Curiosity sharpened her features. "You moved from France to Los Angeles. You were, what, twenty-one years old?"

"Twenty-two."

"Was that when you started acting?"

Catharsis. That's what he intended when he wrote the story. He wanted to understand why his life was so blessed while his own brother's was cursed. Her question ripped straight through to the heart of his own character, a character he had difficulty sometimes facing in the mirror.

"I got a TV commercial."

"Your first acting job."

"Yes."

"And you loved it. You decided to pursue acting?"

"Yes."

The blood red sky darkened to a dusky, consuming blue. The surfers toweled off. There was no moon. Only the stars, brilliant in their whiteness.

He motioned toward the sand to sit. Claire nodded and they rested on a bluff, their hips and knees and legs touching. His stomach tightened at their closeness. She was beginning to trust him.

"I always wanted to be in show business. Since I was a skinny kid with glasses that no one wanted on his soccer team."

He wanted to say more but didn't know how to phrase it. How could he tell her he wasn't the honorable hero he played in the movies? How could he admit to her that he was a greedy, insensitive bastard?

"What?" she prompted gently.

"I was driven by my ambition, Claire, so much so that I went to auditions while my brother was dying."

He stared at her probingly. The confession didn't seem to phase her.

"Wes, you had a right to your own life. You gave your brother everything you had. One of the problems facing caregivers is that they feel trapped. They become exhausted emotionally until they sometimes can't give anymore. You did the right thing by taking care of your own needs."

"The fact is I was selfish. My brother was dying and all I could think of was I had to take the opportunity while I could. I made more money in one commercial than my mother made in six months. I didn't even have lines. I took a shower, had lather gooped all over me. My brother was dying, tubes sticking in him. He was in pain. He couldn't even walk and there I was being doted upon, paid a fortune for doing nothing."

"You felt guilty that you were happy, successful."

He nodded, looking at her, needing to see the strength of her compassion. She, Claire Sutherland, who had suffered so much, didn't think any less of him for suffering so little.

"I sometimes still feel guilty," he said. "Daniel was a great kid. Before he got sick he was the actor in the family. He was in all the school plays. I was the older brother who knew enough martial arts to fight any bully who gave him a hard time. Daniel deserved to be the star of the family. I feel, sometimes, like I took his place. I stole the opportunity meant for him.

"God knows success didn't come easily. I didn't get another acting job for eight months. Daniel used to love to hear about my auditions. He didn't live to see my first movie role."

He saw tears in Claire's eyes. Bright and shining, they swam like the glistening stars in the night sky. He took her hand, gripped it tightly.

"I tell myself if only he had lived longer, gotten the disease later. If only I had made money sooner I could have helped him. I should have done more."

Claire's eyes drifted shut but beneath her eyelids, her tears glided down her cheeks. "Don't ever tell yourself that money would have made a difference in what you did for your brother." She opened her eyes, her gaze far away, misty, lost in a place Wes could not see. "He got the best medical care there was. He knew you loved him. Do you know how many people face their disease alone?

"You gave your brother the greatest gift a person can give to another. You gave him all of yourself." She looked directly at him. "You're an amazing person, Wes Edwards."

Something inside Wes twisted around a core of emotion so strong, it startled him. He knew there was a reason he was drawn to Claire. He knew, when he read her story in Candlelighters, she was a woman of rare courage and depth. He knew, the first time he saw her at the Kid's Carnival, he found the one person on earth strong and caring enough who he could tell everything to, be completely himself with.

He felt his self-respect returning, a part of him long sequestered in doubt groping toward freedom. "Are you always this giving, Claire? Do you always make people around you feel like their lives aren't as worthless as they thought they were?"

Emotion stained her tear-washed cheeks. Her golden lashes lowered. "You're anything but worthless, Wes."

Without remembering the promise he made to himself to go slow, he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek.

She sucked in her breath, her gaze becoming wary, unsure.

"Thank you for being a friend to me, Claire."

In a slow, unplanned movement, he cupped the back of her neck. It seemed so natural to touch her, to step beyond words and express through skin and sense what she meant to him.

At the base of her throat, he could see the quickening beat of her pulse. He tipped her head back until their mouths were a breath away from touching. In trancelike slow motion his fingers pulled out the pins imprisoning her hair, letting the long, fluid locks spill over her neck and shoulders.

She closed her eyes, her body trembling, her hands clutching the fabric of the jacket as if to still something too threatening to face.

"You're beautiful, Claire."

He tangled his fingers in her silken mane and then moved his thumb and traced the line of her tears. The wetness, so fresh on her delicate face, so pure in its grief, touched his very soul. He lowered his head the last breath and kissed her lips with slow, exquisite care.

Her mouth responded, tentatively at first, hesitantly tasting him, mesmerizing him with her softness. The tension in her muscles started to relax. Like a child learning her way she slid her fingers along his shirt, discovering the rippled strength of his muscles underneath, finally bringing them to rest on the warm skin of his neck.

The touch of her hand against his bare skin sent a leap of fire through him. Uncoiling the tight control he held over himself, he crushed her against him, his urgent lips parting hers, searching, teasing, delving deep inside her.

Losing her own hard fought restraint, she met his demand, a groan of pleasure rolling from her throat. Her body became supple and pliant in his arms. Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, pressing his face against hers, urging him on.

She was his wildest dream, changing before his eyes from the remote, enigmatic woman to this passionate creature, as turbulent as the pounding surf. He lowered her backward gently onto the sand, his body on top of hers. He moved his mouth against hers, his hands in her hair, on her neck, down her shoulders, swirling tantalizing heat with his thumbs and fingers. Tracing the ivory hollow of her throat in a slow, erotic dance, he moved one hand down her slim waist, down to her hips, down to her legs molding against his.

He felt her body grow stiff. Before he knew what was happening, she was pushing him away, her hand fierce on his chest, her body wriggling out from underneath his.

"Claire, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Wes. I can't do this."

"What did I do, did I hurt you?"

Her body quivering, she folded her arms tightly around her knees, her face twisted in a pain too deep to speak of. Confusion tightening his gut, he reached for her but she recoiled as if the touch that moments ago sent desire leaping through her veins now repulsed her.

Falling back upon the sand, he raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. This wasn't normal. Something was wrong. Very,

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