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The moon was high in the night sky. The man walked slowly up through the woods along a path he saw only dimly. No matter, he had climbed that same hill many times within the past several months. His feet knew it even though he couldn't see it well. Coming to his favorite spot, he sat on the flat surface of a cold rock, just where a break in the leafless trees gave him a fine view of the moon and its silver reflection on the ocean waters far below.

As he sat, he began to speak as if his listener were right beside him. In a way, for sixteen years she had been, but for the past six, he could never be certain that she heard him.

"Simone, I have to tell you about someone, someone I believe is the only woman other than you I can care for. In many ways, I already do. I like the way she looks. She has sleek black hair that hangs like a bell around a tiny, delicate face, and jet-black eyes that flare with light when she's annoyed." He paused, smiled to himself, and then went on. "Where I'm concerned, unfortunately, she's mostly annoyed, yet I love to see her eyes flash anyway. She moves like a skater, gliding. I could watch her for hours. Someday I want to dance with her. Whenever I have an opportunity to be close to her, the scent of her makes me dizzy. Her voice ... she has the most beautiful speaking voice, like a fine-tuned instrument playing a melody. Her name is Sharon, Simone, and she has two children, a ten-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl. Our family would have been exactly the same if the world hadn't caved in on us when it did. I met her son Jason first, and then I met Sharon. And though she doesn't like me or want to know me, I think she is simply doing what I did for so many of those years after I lost you. She's running, because she's afraid to love again. She will, though. I recognize the way she looks at me, half fascinated, half afraid, and angry with me for making her feel that way. Probably angry with me simply for making her feel.

"Don't think that this means I intend to forget you or Jean- Pierre or the little one who might have been our daughter. You will all live on in my heart forever. But six years is too long for a man to be alone without a family, without a love. I'll play one more song for you, the one I played on our wedding night." His voice fell to a whisper. "It will be my final good-bye to you, Simone. It's time for me to move on again, not to another town, another country, but into a future. Right here."

For a moment the man sat there, his head bowed, then he stood and resumed walking as he put his old, worn harmonica to his mouth and began playing softly. As he walked aimlessly across the top of a nearly treeless hill, he played louder, hoping the song was winging its way upward to where his dead wife and children might hear it and rejoice with him in his newfound hope for tomorrow.

Yet it was from far below that an answer came in the form of a female voice crying, "Help! Help! We're down here! Help!"

As he heard that faint voice, Marc Duval froze where he stood. "Where are you?" he shouted, and when the woman replied that they were in a cavern nearly under his feet, he knew. His heart swelled, and a smile grew broad across his thickly bearded face. "Are you Jeanie Leslie?" he called, and when the answer came back, he breathed a silent thank- you to Simone for giving him this chance, for surely she had been the one to lead him this way, offering him her blessing to go on and live his life.

Because how could Sharon Leslie possibly resist him now? He had found her sister, who had been missing and feared dead for the past fifteen days!

* * *

"Jason Murcady!" Sharon stood, hands on her hips, glaring down at her ten-year-old son. She spoke angrily but quietly; she didn't want her guests to know that the sister of the bride was furious with one of her children. "When I said that you and Roxanne could each invite one friend to Aunt Jeanie and Uncle Max's wedding, I did not mean that man! I meant one of your school friends, and you know it! It was so you could have someone special of your own age to talk to among all these adults."

"But Mom, Marc is special. And I did tell you I was inviting him."

"You know as well as I do that when you said Marc, I assumed you meant Mark Simpson. That's twice you've pulled that one on me, Jason. It won't happen again. I'm onto you now."

"But Mom--"

"But nothing! You know how I feel about Marc Duval. "

"Why don't you like him, Mom?"

Sharon hesitated, biting the inside of her lip. She couldn't tell her son that she found the way Marc Duval looked at her distinctly unsettling, or that her own response to those looks was just as disturbing. "Jason, I can't explain it. It's just ... just something I can't explain, but it's true. I wish he wasn't here."

Lifting her troubled gaze from her son's rebellious face, Sharon transferred it across the room to the man who stood talking, laughing, gesturing, looking to all the world as if he belonged in her living room, when the fact of the matter was he belonged in no one's living room. The man was a drifter, without visible means of support. He lived in a battered old camper, for heavens sake, a battered old camper parked not ten feet from the wall of her patio. Every time she saw him, her hackles rose, in spite of what he had done for her family. Now, she watched as he put an arm around her soon-to-be brother-in-law's shoulder and laughed at something Max said, then leaned over and ducked under the brim of the incredible hat worn by Freda Coin, Max's research assistant. Marc Duval kissed the elderly woman's cheek and said something that raised a laugh from the crowd around him.

Dammit, he fit in all too well! Normally clad in tight jeans and flannel shirts with his bushy beard and overlong hair every-which-way, this afternoon he was dressed in a dark suit that she was certain was cashmere, and a pale pink shirt with a burgundy and dark blue striped pure silk tie. He'd had his beard trimmed and his hair cut, but it was still longer than she thought fashionable. Only on him it looked good.

She found herself furious that he'd cleaned up so nicely. She would have preferred he remain the drifter she knew him to be and drift away on the next outgoing tide.

Then, as if sensing her stare, he turned his head toward her. With a smile, he broke free of the group and crossed the room, moving in her direction, she thought with whimsy that angered her even further, like a well-dressed mountain lion. Her heart hammered high in her chest as Marc Duval approached, his topaz eyes fixed on her face. He was giving her that ... look again, that hungry, seeking look that she knew she was responding to with one of her own, as hard as she tried to stop it.

"Hi, Jase," he said, giving her son a quick squeeze, never taking his gaze from Sharon's face. He smiled at her. "Ms. Leslie. It was good of you to invite me," he said, and extended his hand.

She had to take it. Politeness dictated that she do so. His hand was huge and engulfed her own, making her feel hot and bothered, the way Marc Duval always made her feel whenever he came into the library where she worked, or she saw him in the supermarket or the post office or the backyard of the Harding place over her patio wall.

She snatched her hand free and locked it with her other one behind her back as she struggled against the tumultuous feelings he aroused in her.

"Not at all, Mr. Duval," she said stiffly. "I'm sure if Jason hadn't asked that you be given an invitation, my sister would have. We are all very grateful to you for having found her and Max."

Liar, he said silently, trying hard not to laugh. He knew she was grateful that her sister was safe, but he also knew that she wished it had been anybody but he who had been instrumental in finding her.

But it was Christmas Eve and her sister's wedding day. And she had invited him. Surely she had to feel some form of human kindness toward him? If she did, it was hardly reflected in the cool smile with which she introduced him to a couple who had just arrived. As she stood chatting with the others, he watched her unobtrusively, the changing expressions, her quick smile, her laughing eyes. From the moment he'd first seen her from his camper next door, he'd been captivated. But she'd never stood still long enough for him to have a chance to introduce himself. In fact, it had soon become obvious that she avoided her patio whenever he was in residence next door. He'd met her kids and had come to like them very quickly, as he did most children. But their beautiful mother had remained intriguingly elusive.

Now, as the conversation ebbed and flowed without the necessity of his adding to it beyond an interested nod or smile, he remembered that first time he'd spoken to her, and how her instant animosity had set him back on his heels. She knows! How in hell does she know? The knowledge and the question had slammed into him with immediate and shocking impact. Yet, it seemed impossible that his past had followed him so far. He'd changed his name, changed his appearance, stopped practicing his profession, even moved across the country. He'd been shattered to think the only woman he'd shown an interest in since losing Simone knew his terrible story and loathed him in spite of the findings of the court.

Later he'd realized that she didn't know, that the name Marc Duval meant nothing more to her than the name Sharon Murcady had to him. He'd assumed she had the same surname as her children, but when he called her by it, her obsidian eyes had flared, and she'd said stiffly, "Leslie. My name is Sharon Leslie."

He remembered how his jaw had dropped. "Of course!" he'd said. "I knew when I first saw you on your patio that you looked familiar. I have one of your tapes, Ms. Leslie, one with your picture on it. It's wonderful. Music is one of my greatest pleasures in life."

"How nice for you," she'd said, and turned deliberately to the next customer in the library. He'd been forced to move on. Every attempt he'd made to get to know her, to develop some kind of relationship with her, had been met by the wall she'd erected between them. But this night he intended to knock that wall flat. Or at least kick down a brick or two. If only he could figure out how.

"You have a lovely home, Ms. Leslie," he said when the other people stepped away.

"Thank you." Her response was light, even though she wished with all her might that he, too, would go and talk to someone else.

"It's similar in design to mine, although somewhat larger," Marc said, watching the constantly changing expressions in her eyes. "I understand that our two properties used to be one and that mine was the guest house."

Her eyes flared. "Yours?" He was pretty proprietorial for a man who rented a bit of concrete on which to park his camper!

"I've bought the Harding place, you know." She was silent for several seconds, looking at him in frank dismay. Since old Dr. Harding had died, his widow had rented the place to summer visitors. She'd wondered why Mrs. Harding hadn't rented it to someone else, since Marc clearly wasn't using the house. Until recently, he hadn't even been there much, just enough to drive her up the wall and make Jason glow with happiness. When Duval was gone, the boy moped. When he was there, however, she lived on edge all the time. It was those damned discerning eyes of his that made her uncomfortable. He made something deep inside her itch unbearably, and she was sure he not only knew it but did it deliberately.

"No. I didn't know. I thought you'd be moving on again."

"And perhaps I will. I rented for a few months to see how I fit into the area before I committed myself, but I find I like it here. However, at least for the winter, I'm moving out of the camper and into the house. I thought I'd do that tomorrow."

"I hope you'll be very ... comfortable," she said in a tone that suggested she hoped the roof would cave in on him soon. She lifted her small chin upward and glanced toward the entry, where Max's brother Rolph had just opened the door. "You'll excuse me, I'm sure. I see the minister has arrived. I must go and greet him."

Head tilted high, she walked away, shining bell of hair swinging just above the shoulders of her gold velvet gown, the white of the dress's fur trim making her hair look even blacker. Marc sighed. She was so beautiful that it made him ache to look at her. One day, he promised himself, one day soon, the flashes of disdain in those obsidian eyes are going to turn to flames of passion. For me.

Jason returned just then, and he put an affectionate hand on the boy's neatly brushed hair. "Didn't you tell me you were going to be an usher? Maybe you could show me to my seat. It looks like there's a wedding about to take place."

"Are you two all ready?" Sharon asked as she poked her head into her sister's room. Her little daughter looked like a porcelain doll in her gold velvet gown that was a replica of her own dress. Sharon beamed at her, then stared at her sister who stood before the mirror, a look of consternation on her face.

"My hair!" Jeanie wailed, poking another pin into the French roll at the back of her head, tightening one of the antique combs at the sides.

"Your hair is beautiful," Sharon said, readjusting the little circlet of gold tinsel Jeanie had chosen for a headdress, claiming that she wouldn't wear a veil, that she was no blushing virgin and wanted to go to Max with her eyes wide open, her vision completely unobscured. "Now turn around and let me see you."

Jeanie turned slowly, showing off the heavy, creamy-white velvet gown. It had a low neckline trimmed with golden fur which circled up and over her shoulders, then followed the open vee down her back, revealing a smooth expanse of bare skin. It fell in elegant folds from its tightly fitted bodice to where the golden fur around the hem just brushed the tops of her shoes. "Is Max here?" Her voice shook. Her gray eyes looked slightly wild.

"Of course he's here, silly. Where did you think he might be, Timbuktu?"

"I'm scared, Sharon."

Sharon gave her little sister, who stood six inches taller than she, a hug. "I know, baby, but it'll be all right the moment you come down those stairs and see Max. waiting for you. Then, you won't be scared ever again," she promised with deep conviction.

Jeanie stared at her. How could Sharon have such total faith that good things were bound to happen? She was a wonderful woman, this sister of hers. Bending, she kissed Sharon's cheek. "Thank you," she said. "I love you."

"I know, babe. Love you, too." Then, turning to her daughter, Sharon said, "Roxy, remember how we practiced it?" Quickly, she went through the steps of what was to happen, then, with a quick flick to straighten her daughter's already perfectly aligned dress, Sharon left, holding up the skirt of her own gown as she ran back down the hall. At the top of the stairs she paused, descending at a decorous pace.

She smiled at the assembled guests in her living room and concentrated on not meeting Marc Duvall's hot stare. As she took her stool by her harp, she spread her skirts around her and lifted her hands, feeling the golden bangles her sister had insisted she wear slide toward her elbow, tinkling as they went. Please, she prayed silently, let me do this right for Jeanie.

She began playing the "Wedding March," her fingers whispering over the strings, finding their way almost without her guidance.

Max stood rooted, watching his Christmas angel descend the stairs. Her hair was perfect, not a wisp out of place. Her little golden crown of tinsel glittered in the lights. Reaching behind him, he lifted her bridal bouquet and placed it in her arms. The gray satin of her eyes silvered over with tears for just an instant as she stared in awe at the huge armful of golden daffodils he had given her, then lifted her face to his with a smile that nearly stopped his heart. "Hi," she whispered, stepping from the last stair. "Have you been waiting long?"

He reached out and flicked free a few little kinks of hair so they sprang out and caught the light around her face. "Only forever," he said, and took her arm, linking it through his, seeing the gleam of a single gold bangle on her wrist. Something old. With a smile, he stepped forward with his bride, leading her to their welcome fate.

* * *

"It was a beautiful wedding, Sharon," Zinnie McKenzie, her sister's new mother-in-law said as she sat down, kicked off her shoes, and put her feet on the coffee table. Then, with a guilty start, she set them on the floor again.

"Oh, for heavens sake, go ahead," Sharon said, leaning back, kicking off her own shoes, and putting up her feet. "That's what coffee tables are for in my house." She took a long drink from her glass of soda water, sighed, and looked at the children's stockings she and Max's mother had just finished stuffing and hanging from the mantel. "I'm beat!"

"And so you should be. You did your sister proud," Zinnie congratulated her. "A Christmas Eve wedding was a lot of work, but you came through like a trouper. And I just know those two are going to be as happy as Harry and I have been all these years." She picked up her glass and sipped, looking at Sharon over the rim. "Now tell me, since you caught that whole whack of daffodils right smack in the face, who's the next groom in this family?"

Sharon loved the way she and her children had been automatically included in Jeanie's new family. What she didn't love was the way Zinnie's words brought a startling image to her mind, an image of a golden-haired, bearded man with shoulders no drifter should have. He had no more business infiltrating her secret thoughts than he did coming into her living room.

"Don't look to me for an answer," she said quickly, and forced a laugh. "My little sister threatened that she'd get me, even with her back turned, and if your friend Marian hadn't ducked when she did, I wouldn't have caught that bouquet. I'm beginning to suspect there was some kind of conspiracy."

"Oh, pooh! Marian's just as bad as you are. She ducked because she doesn't want to be the next bride either. Her family has lived next door to us since she was a toddler. She followed my boys everywhere. For a while she thought she was a little boy, I'm sure, and since she grew up, she's driven her mother to despair. There are literally dozens of men after her, but she can't see them for apples. Don't tell me you're the same. I understand you've been alone for three years now."

More than that. Much more, Sharon could have said but did not. Instead, for reasons she didn't understand but which she suspected had a lot to do with that mental image she couldn't quite dispel, she shrugged and said, "I am seeing someone, but it's still a very casual relationship. He's a banker. You'd have met him today, but he's away." She shocked herself with the lie. She doubted very much that she'd have invited Lorne Cantrell to the wedding even if he'd been in town. It just seemed ... expedient, somehow, to drag him into the conversation. He was the only man she'd dated for a long time.

"You're fond of this man?"

Sharon shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "Yes. I guess so. I mean, of course. He's very ... nice. He's kind, gentle, and well bred." Then she frowned. It sounded as if she were discussing a dog she'd seen for sale. "Why do you ask?"

Zinnie smiled. "Your face doesn't exactly light up when you speak of him. So I wondered."

"Maybe it's not that kind of relationship. Yet."

"Of course." Zinnie patted her hand. "But tell me more about him. If you had to describe him in a word, how would you do it?"

She looked at Zinnie. What an odd question. After a moment's thought, she said, "I guess I'd say quiet."

Zinnie shook her head, her salt-and-pepper hair dancing around her face. "Quiet? Funny, I'd have thought at your age you'd be looking for 'exciting,' rather than 'quiet.'"

"My age? I'm thirty-seven, Zinnie. I've been married." Her face took on a pensive, unhappy cast. "I've had 'excitement.' "

"Thirty-seven is still very young, my dear, but it's your business, of course. Now tell me, who is that utterly gorgeous golden panther of a man whom Jason kept in tow all evening? The one who followed you with his eyes."

Sharon pulled a wry face. Trust Zinnie to spot the way the man looked at her. "His name is Marc Duval."

"Oh!" Zinnie's bright blue eyes sparkled. "Yes. Of course. He's the one who found Jeanie and Max in that cave. I remember meeting him the day they were rescued, and naturally we wrote him a thank-you letter. But that day he'd been dressed in grimy jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with a hunting vest over it. He certainly didn't look like he did tonight, all sophisticated elegance--suave, debonair, perfect manners, and that delicious little hint of a French accent! He's a honey, all right. Charm right up to his beautiful eyes. They're more golden than brown. Did you notice?"

Did I notice? Only every time I've seen him. Only far too much! But Sharon was saved from having to answer as Zinnie went on:

"Where's he from? What do you know about him?"

"Not much, but what I do know I don't like. He moved onto the grounds of the old Harding place next door last summer and lives in a disreputable camper, which he parked right next to my patio wall. You must have seen it out there. Naturally, we met, or at least developed a nodding acquaintance. I didn't learn his name until he came into the library one day to borrow some books. He has Jase completely captivated and begging me for guitar lessons now. Lessons from the great Duval, of course," she added, her tone making it clear just how she felt about the situation.

Zinnie raised her brows. "Well? That's a problem?"

Sharon sighed. "I don't want Jason to have anything to do with" ----she nearly said "him," but changed it at the last moment-- "music. I want him to be just a normal, happy little boy. I do not want him to grow up to be a musician. And Marc Duval keeps encouraging him. Why, that man is the reason Jason, and then Jeanie and Max, got lost in the first place," she added indignantly.

"Every night the man plays one instrument or another; his harmonica, guitar, flute, whatever, and Jason loves to hear him. When he told me he was spending the night with a friend, what he intended to do instead was sneak onto the porch swing to listen to him play. So he lied to me about where he was going and to make it look good went off down the trail and spotted that rabbit. The rest is history."

She sighed unhappily. "It's my fault, I know. For his first seven years, Jason was exposed to music daily. He misses it. He even told me so, but I didn't want to hear him."

She sighed again, and there was almost a sob in her voice. "I don't want to hear Marc Duval's music either, but I do. It was awful in the summer. I couldn't sit outside because he was always playing something. . And now ... Oh, heavens! I almost forgot! He told me he's bought the house and is moving in. And I've been hoping he'd be moving on!"

Zinnie touched Sharon's hand. "So why don't you play for Jason if he wants to hear music so badly?" she asked gently. "It doesn't mean he has to grow up to be a musician. But how can it hurt for him to have an appreciation of it? And you're good, Sharon. Incredible. Today, you created a kind of magic with that harp of yours I've rarely heard. Your 'Ode to Joy' at the end of the ceremony moved me to tears."

Sharon gave Zinnie a quick smile. "You," she accused, "were in tears from the moment Roxy tripped and Harry picked her up. I think half the guests were afraid that you hated the thought of losing your son to my sister."

"Weddings always make me cry," said Zinnie. "But never one like that. It was the most beautiful and poignant ceremony I've witnessed, all the more so because the bride and groom are so lucky to be alive, and we are so lucky to have them." She stood, yawned, and stretched. She was ready for bed.

"Yes. I know."

"So be nice to your Mr. Duval. Remember, we do have him to thank."

"Yes," Sharon said, getting to her feet. "Good night, Zinnie. Sleep well."

Sharon paced around the house, still too keyed up to go to bed. In the darkened kitchen, she glanced out the window. Duvall's camper showed no lights. Often it did, far into the night, as if he slept as poorly as she did. She wished Zinnie hadn't left her thinking about the man. She knew what they all owed Marc Duval. She'd known it now for nearly two months, and it didn't make it any easier to deal with her jumbled feelings toward him.

She left the kitchen, hoping to leave the thoughts of him behind. The living room still smelled of the cigarettes some of the guests had smoked, and her harp stood there, calling, calling, begging her to come back to it.

"No!" she whispered, and grabbed a heavy jacket from a hook near the back door. As if the opening of her door had been a signal, the music came, soft and haunting and infinitely sad. Silent Night ... Holy Night. He played his harmonica quietly, but all was not calm, not in Sharon's heart. It pounded as she listened to the melancholy sounds. How could a carol of joy be played with such infinite sadness?

Suddenly, tears flooded her eyes and she felt them running cold down her face. She clenched her fists in her pockets, hunched her shoulders, and let the music wash over her, tear into her, cut her heart to ribbons.

"Don't!" she said harshly, and the music came to a discordant stop. "Oh, Lord, please stop it!" She realized that she was standing before Marc Duval and had no idea how she had gotten there. He had come to his feet, had shoved his harmonica into the pocket of his leather jacket, and was staring at her. "Don't!" she cried again, her voice breaking. "I can't bear it another minute! Just stop torturing me, Duval! Stop!"

Chapter Two

"What is it?" Marc demanded. "What's wrong, Sharon?" He'd never called her by her first name, except in the conversations he made up in his head. It felt so good, he said it again with all the tenderness she evoked in him. "Sharon ..." He reached out to touch one of the silver streaks tracking down her face. "Don't cry, little Sharon." Lord, but she was lovely by moonlight, even weeping, even angry she stirred his soul.

She gasped and flinched at his touch as if he had slapped her. Jumping back, she tripped on the edge of the concrete pad the camper sat on. She would have fallen, but he caught her around the waist and drew her hard against him.

Sharon trembled at the contact, holding herself stiffly, waiting for him to let her go. He did not, but instead lifted his hand again and wiped the tears from her cheek, making her heart pound at the feel of him against her, at the shocking eroticism of his rough, callused palm on her cheek. Unable to stop herself, she leaned into it just a little, turned her head a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact.

"Don't!" she said brokenly, her gaze pleading.

"Don't what? Don't touch your skin, even though your eyes beg me to do it? Don't play Christmas music because it makes you sad and lonely? I was feeling that way, too, Sharon." He paused, as if considering just what he should say. "We're both so alone! But if we were ... friends, then neither of us would have to feel that way again."

"Friends?" She tipped her head back and stared at him intently. "We can't be friends!"

He lifted his brows so they disappeared under the front of his moon-gilded hair. "Why not?"

Her voice trembled. "Because you won't leave me alone! You come to the library all the time and talk to me, make me-"

Make her what, she didn't say, but he could guess. He knew what she made him feel and was certain it was the same for her.

"You won't stop playing your instruments outside my house," she went on, "and you are driving me to distraction! Music, music, music, all day long and half the night! It isn't fair! I just wish you had never come here! I wish you would go away! You have no right to disturb my life like this! You are-" She broke off abruptly, her eyes filling with terror as she struggled in his gentle hold, her breath rasping in and out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, sounding panic-stricken. "I ... Just let me go, Mr. Duval. I'll go home. I shouldn't have come. I'll just go inside, and I won't have to hear you play and--"

"Now I know," he said softly, interrupting her staccato speech. "Now I know why you dislike me so much."

His words quelled her panic, but she still needed her freedom from him, space in which to breathe. She placed her hands against the thick woolen sweater that covered his chest, thinking sourly that he might clean up nicely, but he sure didn't stay that way any longer than he had to. She pushed, but it was like shoving against a cliff. "I ... I never said I disliked you, Mr. Duval. Let me go now, please. I won't bother you again."

He didn't let her go, but slipped his other arm behind her, and leaned back against the metal wall of the camper. "You bother me all the time, Sharon Leslie, and you didn't have to tell me that you don't like me. It's there every time we meet, blazing from your eyes. It's the music, isn't it? It reminds you too much of what you gave up."

"No! Of course not! I never gave up anything! Or, if I did, I did it because I wanted to. Music nearly ruined my life, my children's lives. I don't want it anymore!"

"Do you hate all musicians because you're a failed one yourself?" He ignored her gasp of indignation and went on. "If that's the case, you have no need to hate me. I'm not a real musician. I'm only an amateur." If making her angry or indignant, even hurting her a little was the way through that wall, then he would take it. Inside, part of him rejoiced that she had come to him, even if only to beg him to stop torturing her with music.

He didn't yet understand how music could be a torture to her of all people, although he could see that it was. Since he'd come, he supposed, every time he had sat outside and played quietly to keep himself company, her suffering had grown stronger. Those tears had been genuine, her anguish deep and real. But why? And why had she stopped composing? Why had she stopped playing? The glory she had wrung from that harp earlier had enchanted him totally, filled him with wonder. She was so talented! He knew that in spite of what he had said, she was no failed musician, but what he needed to know was why she had given it up.

He didn't think she was likely to tell him then, so he gently eased his arms away from her, setting her free. "I'll stop playing where you can hear me if it bothers you so much, Sharon."

"I ... thank you. I apologize for my rudeness. I should have just gone inside and shut the door so I couldn't hear. It was wrong of me to come over here."

"You're welcome here anytime. As are your children."

"My children." Her eyes flew to his face, suddenly fiercely defiant and startlingly bright. "Just remember, Mr. Duval, that they are my children. I don't want you to offer Jason guitar lessons. I don't want you to encourage him to take an interest in music. I want him and Roxanne to grow up knowing that there are other things in life as important as music ... more important. Much more!"

"Nothing was more important to you for most of your life, Sharon. Why do you deny your son his enjoyment of it? If you don't want him to come to like my kind of music, why don't you give him yours, which is far superior?"

"Why don't you mind your own damned business!" she said, and then bit her lip and dropped her head, stepping back slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Duval. That was rude." She looked at him again, all defiance gone. "Listen, all I'm asking is that you leave my son alone. Please try to understand that he's at a very vulnerable stage of his development. He needs a man to look up to, and you're not the kind of man I want him to emulate."

He frowned. Did she know about him? He shook his head. How could she? No! There was simply no way! "Why not?" he asked, picking up the conversation.

"Well ... because you're a ... drifter. A wanderer. You've told Jason about all the places you've stayed, a few days here, a few weeks there, and now you're here. For a while."

"I've been here longer than anyplace else," he pointed out.

"And when spring comes, you'll be on your way again. I don't want him to come to ... rely on you."

"Would you deny your son friendship because he might not keep it forever? Is that why you deny yourself love?"

"What?" Her black eyes shone with deep lights as they opened wide and caught the moonlight. "What gives you the right to make such an assumption about me?"

"Your actions, Ms. Leslie. Your attitudes."

"Who are you to speak of 'attitudes'? And we were discussing my son, not me, his friendships and needs, not mine."

"So what kind of a man do you want to set an example for your son? That tight-faced banker I've seen you with?"

"Why not? He's a good man. Kind, steady, leads a settled life. He's--" Safe, she had been going to say, but he broke into her brief hesitation before she could come up with the word.

"He's what? Dull? Boring?"

She looked away from him. There was nothing she could say, really. Lorne Cantrell was dull and boring, but he was also what she was looking for: someone who would never be able to hurt her. She knew that she wasn't risking hurt with him because she could make no real emotional commitment. However, she didn't care about that. She might, in time, be able to make a practical commitment to him. She could be a part-time mother to his children. She would learn to care for them. He could be a full-time father to hers. They would come to like him, and to get along with his children. What she had to look for was security, calm -- a serene, quiet atmosphere in which to raise her kids. No ups, no downs, just nice, level, even-paced family living.

"Do you want dull, Sharon? Do you want boring? Or do you want this," Marc said, his voice a low growl as he pulled her into his arms again. "I can see it in your eyes, Sharon, how you want me. I can feel it in the tension of your body whenever I come and stand by your desk in the library, or stand in line behind you at the post office. I can hear it in your breathing right now. You want me. I know that because I want you, too, and someday, you are going to admit it freely."

"No!" she said, but when his mouth came slowly toward hers, she did not turn her head away. She stared at him, mesmerized, until his lips brushed over hers, back and forth, until need and curiosity overcame caution and her own parted so she could taste and feel him with the tip of her tongue. Then her eyes fell closed as her body grew heavy and warm, curling toward his like a flower to the sun.

Her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest and swelled with an aching need for even greater closeness. A deep, silent part of her cried out with exhilaration at the worship she sensed in his touch, in celebration he unzipped her jacket and slid his arms inside it, molding her shape with his big hands. It had been so long since she had felt like a real woman, a woman who might be able to satisfy a man. And something told her that this time, she could. She yearned to have his hands on her bare skin, all over her, touching, stroking, arousing. Oh, heavens, but he felt good against her, hard and big and masculine! She shoved her cold hands inside his leather jacket, into his warmth. He smelled wonderful, the way a man should, and tasted incredible, of oranges and mint. She let her head fall back against his hand as it came from inside her jacket and rose to slide through her hair.

At once something turbulent, too long pent up, was unleashed in both of them, and they both met it without hesitation.

She moved against him, reveling in the solidity of his frame. Oh, Lord, she thought dimly, I've needed this man for so long! And then she no longer thought but simply gave herself up to the pleasures she and Marc Duval were drawing from each other, creating in each other, building together.

Her hair was like black silk as it slid through his fingers. Marc took all the sweetness her mouth offered, accepting the tentative little forays her tongue made against his own, then groaning as she became emboldened and moved deeper into his embrace, her mouth hungry and demanding under his. She clung to him, her hands clenching in his hair as if to pull him deep inside her skin. He strained to get closer, closer, but it could never be close enough, not like this, fully clothed, standing outside under a Christmas moon.

He had known! From the moment he'd first met her sultry gaze, seen it fire up and crackle at him, he had known there would be this kind of spark between them, a spark that would turn into instant conflagration. He wanted her like he had never wanted another woman in all of his forty-one years. He wanted to strip her down to her bare skin, lay her on the cold hard ground, and drive himself into her again and again until the desperate urge to have her was finally sated. But he knew that kind of urge would never be fully quenched. He lifted her up off her feet to rub her against him. When she moved her slight, dainty body, parted her legs to make a cradle for his arousal, he groaned and nearly collapsed as his knees gave way. He set her swiftly back onto her feet and turned aside to save his sanity, reluctantly breaking their heated kiss.

When he lifted his head, he couldn't speak, could only look at her. She was so beautiful with the moon shining on her pale face, her black lashes contrasting arcs along her skin, her lips wet and parted as if begging for more. But not now. He couldn't give her more. He knew if he took those lips again, he would gather her up and take her to his bed in the camper. At this point, maybe she wouldn't object, but when it was over, so would be his every chance of earning her trust. Wanting was one thing, friendship another, and he knew he would have to have both from her before he could even think of telling her his story.

"Angel," he murmured finally, "open your eyes. Look at me."

She did, and he saw that she was still dazed by the desire that had flared so swiftly and so powerfully between them. The stars high above reflected in the deep pools of her dark eyes. "I want you to go in now, Sharon," he lied. He didn't want her to go in. He wanted to keep her with him, enfolded in his arms, and make her so hot the cold wouldn't matter. "It's cold out here. It's time you were in your bed."

She looked at him for a long moment, blinking as she remembered who she was, where she was, and who he was. "Mr. Duval ..." Sharon unclenched her hands from the wool of his sweater, pulled them from under the front of his jacket, and moved back from him, out of his circle of warmth. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. Her head spun. Her brain felt like mashed potatoes. She didn't know what to say to him. If he hadn't brought their untamed kisses to a halt, she willingly would have made love with him right there. Even now, she ached with a terrible need that she knew he could fill. "Mr. Duval ..." she tried again, but once more there were no words she could say.

"Don't you think you could start to call me Marc now?" he asked softly, taking her hands and tenderly tucking them into the pockets of her blue jacket, then zipping the front of it up to her chin. He smiled. "You can't exactly call us strangers after that kiss."

"I ... guess not." She swallowed hard and drew in a deep, shaky breath. She had to regain control of her own senses. She remembered all too well what happened to a woman who allowed herself to become so sexually overwhelmed that she couldn't make herself turn and walk away from a man. Marc Duval was one man who could do that to her. And she was not going to permit it.

"Good night," she said, and as she spoke, the bell in the church steeple a few miles away began to chime the midnight hour. They stood together, not touching, listening in silence to the bell, gazing down the valley toward the church. When the last, deep-throated, resounding "bong" had faded away into the night, she whispered, almost as if in surprise, "It's Christmas Day."

"I'll walk you home," he said.

She lips curved impishly, and his heart swelled at this first real smile Sharon Leslie had ever given him. "It's only a few feet."

"Still, I'll make sure you're safely inside." He took her arm and walked with her, careful not to brush his shoe against the white fur at the hem of her gown. At her door, he turned her and looked down into her face.

"Merry Christmas, Sharon."

She gave him another smile, just a tiny one, but enough to fill him with happiness he'd forgotten he could feel. "Good night ... Marc. Merry Christmas."

* * *

"Mommy! Look! Wake up! Look what Santa Claus put in my stocking!"

Sharon groaned as she rolled over and blinked her eyes open, trying to focus on what Roxy had shoved right under her nose. Grasping her daughter's hand, she put it back at least a foot so she could see the object, and smiled at Roxanne's delight.

"My Little Pony!" Roxy exulted, as if her mother wouldn't recognize the toy. "Santa must have known I lost my other one somewhere. Look, Mommy, here's a bunch of barrettes and a whole big box of Smarties! Do I have to share those, or are they all for me?"

"They're all for you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas. Climb in here and keep warm while you see what else Santa put in your stocking. Is Jason up yet?" She hoped he wasn't; maybe, after she'd seen the contents of her fat, bulging stocking, Roxy would be content to go to sleep again. A glance at her bedside clock told Sharon that it wasn't yet five o'clock. It had been well after midnight when she'd finally gone to bed, and then she hadn't been able to sleep for hours, thinking of those incredible moments in Marc Duvall's arms. What a fool she'd been to let something like that happen! What a stupid risk she'd taken!

Cuddled with her little daughter, she drifted off again and didn't awaken until Jason came in at half past seven, eyes shining with pleasure at the contents of his stocking, even though he knew full well who had stuffed it the night before. The three of them sat in Sharon's big bed and gloated over the goodies until they heard the McKenzie family and Freda up and moving around.

* * *

They opened their gifts before breakfast, the adults fortified with plenty of hot coffee, the children needing no fortification at all.

As she rolled her toy bulldozer across the carpet back toward the tree, her new doll riding astride it, Roxy looked over her shoulder at her mother, sitting in a nest of crumpled paper and shining bows and tangled ribbons. "Do you think Auntie Jeanie's feeling lonely for us this morning?"

She knew Roxy missed her aunt. This was her first Christmas without Jeanie. "I'm sure she is, honey. But we'll all be together again next Christmas." Behind her, Sharon heard a chuckle and looked at Rolph, whose green eyes danced with merriment as they shared a smile. He had a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck, even though he was wearing a pair of pajamas covered by a bathrobe. Freda had given it to him, and he wanted to wear it right away.

"I doubt Jeanie's even aware it's Christmas," he murmured.

Beside him, Harry laughed softly and said, "Max, on the other hand, probably thinks it's Christmas and Easter and every birthday he's ever had, all rolled into one. Your turn next, number two son."

"Amen to that," said Freda, stroking the soft plush of a new bathrobe one of the boys had given her.

Rolph shrugged. "So find me someone who's interested for more than fifteen minutes, and I might just take your suggestion seriously. After all, even though I caught the garter you didn't see any eligible females flinging themselves at my feet, did you?"

Sharon remembered how Marian Crane, the sharp-tongued, witty redhead who'd ducked the bouquet, had looked at Rolph when he caught that shocking-pink garter. She wondered if Rolph even knew that she was interested in him and probably had been for a long time. She also wondered if it was Rolph's habit of treating her like a sister that had made Marian deliberately duck the flowers. Apparently they'd known each other since early childhood.

Zinnie shook her head at him in disgust. "Right. You caught the garter, for all the good it'll do you. You've always given up too easily, my son. The day you try longer than fifteen minutes, I'll begin to take you seriously. No, Sharon's the next one. She caught the bouquet. By the way, did anybody else hear that nice Mr. Duval playing carols on his harmonica last night? It was a lovely sound to fall asleep to."

Sharon jumped up from the floor and began collecting her gifts and moving the piles back under the tree. "Breakfast time," she said. "If we don't get that out of the way so I can get the turkey stuffed and into the oven, well be eating Christmas dinner sometime tomorrow morning."

Jason grinned. "Mom, you say that every year."

"That's because every year we linger under the tree far too long." Then, robe flying out around her, she spun from the group in the living room and went swiftly into the kitchen. She'd get dressed after breakfast.

Looking out the window, she saw a silver world with the dazzle of frost on grass and shrubs, the sun peeking over the treetops to add a hint of sparkle. It was a beautiful Christmas morning, the closest thing to a white Christmas she'd ever seen there on the coast. Snow, if it came down to sea level, usually did so in January. Leaning forward just a bit, she could see the camper with its windows steamed up, and stood clutching the edge of the sink, thinking about Marc Duval again.

It was his breath that had caused that steam. What would the windows look like if there had been two of them in there last night as there so nearly had been, if he hadn't been the one to call a halt? She shivered and rubbed her arms under the wide sleeves of her robe, encountering her half dozen of Grandma Margaret's gold bangles she still wore. She'd forgotten to take them off the previous night. Now, slipping them down over her hand, she reached to set them on the windowsill just as the door of Marc's camper opened. He stepped out, looked right at her, and smiled. At that moment, one of the bangles fell into the sink with a musical tinkle, and inside Sharon something turned over and came to life again. She spun away from the window, forcing the feeling down with all her might.

"No way, Grandma Margaret! I don't care what you did to Jeanie. You're not doing the same thing to me. Not until I find a man I know is absolutely right. And Marc Duval is absolutely, completely, and terribly wrong."

"What's that, dear?" Freda asked behind her, coming in fully dressed and ready for the day. "Did you say something was wrong?" Shoving up her sleeves, Freda added, "Never mind. What could be wrong on such a perfect Christmas morning? You start the bacon, dear. I'll take care of toast and eggs."

* * *

The Christmas dinner table was set on white lace over red linen. Silverware gleamed. China shone. Crystal twinkled merrily with the reflected lights of the tree in the living room beyond. The wonderful aroma of roasting turkey filled the house. Sharon added the finishing touches to the table and joined her new family in the living room.

The children sat on the floor, laughing, talking, playing with their new toys. Harry and Freda were doing a jigsaw puzzle, while Zinnie and Rolph rested on a big sofa, enjoying each other's company. In the background, a record of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir played, permeating the room with the spirit of Christmas.

Did hearing me play make you feel lonely and sad? Marc Duvall's voice resounded in her ears as if he had stepped into the room and spoken those words from the previous night. Sharon sighed and sat down in a chair between Harry and Freda, picked up a puzzle piece, tried it, found it didn't fit, and leaned back, lost in thought. What was he doing right now? Was he sitting in his camper, feeling lonely and blue? What must it be like to spend Christmas Day all alone? He had said he might be moving into the house today. What a way to spend Christmas, and how long would that take, anyway? The Hardings had always rented the house fully furnished; she supposed he had bought it that way. What would he have to move but a few personal belongings? A banjo. A guitar. A flute. And a harmonica.

Christmas Day. Moving day. She frowned. She had never been completely alone at this time of year, but she had known the deepest kind of loneliness nevertheless. She swallowed the lump that rose into her throat.

How Jeanie would laugh if she knew she was sitting there mooning about the man next door! After all the trouble Jeanie'd gone to, dreaming up a man for her sister, going to the crazy extent of advertising for one, then she had ended up falling in love with that dream man herself. She'd find it vastly amusing that Sharon had been doing far too much dreaming of her own since Marc Duval had come on the scene.

But, until the night before, she'd refused to let him get close; while she might want a man in her life, she did not want one who would demand too much of her either emotionally or sexually, and for that reason Marc Duvall's very open attraction to her had to be quelled. Just as her most inappropriate responses to him had to be.

Besides, a handsome, sexy, interesting, and disturbing man did not necessarily make good husband material, and she still wanted to marry again. So, for her own sake, she would have to quit thinking about him, forget what they'd shared, forget that he was alone on Christmas Day.

Marc Duval was not her problem. Maybe he'd gone out for the day. She knew he'd made friends since coming to town. Surely someone had invited him for dinner. As if to drive her crazy, the Mormon Choir began to sing "Silent Night." Again she felt the deep melancholy that had no place in a home at Christmas. No, she told herself finally, it was better if she kept miles away from the man. But what if nobody had asked him to dinner?

"What's the matter, Mom?"

She looked up, startled. Her son was standing right beside her. "Nothing, Jason. Why?"

"You sighed. You looked so sad for a minute." He frowned and continued, his voice low so no one else would hear, "You weren't thinking about him, were you?"

She put an arm around the boy and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. "No, love. I wasn't thinking about your father." She smiled. "But you were, weren't you?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Maybe a little. Just sort of ... remembering."

"Let's try not to, okay?"

She knew he was remembering that last, dreadful Christmas they had seen Ellis. She had hoped that time would blur the memories, but it had not. Perhaps they were too firmly ingrained in his mind ever to leave him completely. She was just grateful that Roxy, only three at the time, had no recollection of that terrible night, and that Jason, who'd been seven, remembered only that one. To her mind, the times they had been alone, without Ellis, had been as bad as the one Jason remembered. The loneliness she had suffered, the feelings of inadequacy, the yearning for something that she had once thought would last forever had overwhelmed her. No human being should have to endure loneliness at this time of year, she realized.

Getting to her feet, she took Jason's hand and said, "Hey, let's you and I get our jackets and shoes on. There's something I want us to do together."

"What, Mom?"

"Never mind. Just come on. You'll see."

* * *

Marc opened his door to a tentative knock. Jason stood there, beaming up at him. "Hi, Marc. Mom and I have come to invite you for dinner."

Over the boy's head, Marc sought out Sharon's fathomless dark eyes. Without a hint of a smile, she nodded, a curt little motion that caused her hair to swing down across her cheeks, partly obscuring the quick flare of color there.

"Thank you," he said. "I can't think of anything I'd like better."

Chapter Three

When the doorbell rang, Sharon froze, feeling goosebumps rise up on her arms under the long sleeves of her dress. With her heart hammering high in her throat, she went into the foyer and opened the door, standing back so Marc could enter.

"You look beautiful," he said, eyes skimming over her black silk dress with its glittery red and silver bow pinned high on her left shoulder, and the red band holding her sleek hair back from her forehead. He handed her a brightly wrapped package, holding two more in the crook of his arm, and the smile that lit his golden brown eyes was suddenly as precious to Sharon as any of the gifts she had received under the tree.

"Thank you," she said, "for both the compliment and the gift. But you certainly didn't have to do this. I didn't expect it."

"I know you didn't, any more than I expected your invitation. But I wanted to give you something. These are for the children."

"How nice of you. I'll call them."

"No. Not yet. I want to talk to you alone for just a moment." He lifted his free hand and touched her hair, then her cheek. His dark gold eyes were very serious. "Last night..." He swallowed. "Last night, what happened was important to me, Sharon. I want you to know that. I've wanted to hold you, touch you, kiss you, for a very long time. Ever since I first saw you. And I want to do it again," he added, almost in a whisper.

His soft voice got right inside her, twanging on nerve endings that should be left in peace, leaving her with a hot throbbing in the base of her abdomen. Fear struck her, fear that if he pushed this issue, she wouldn't be able to resist the crazy attraction between them any more than she had the previous night. She'd liked believing that it was only out of loneliness the incident had occurred. She'd finally gone to sleep convinced that mutual melancholy had driven them into each other's arms. Those kisses ... Heaven help her! She didn't want to remember them, but her body wouldn't forget. Still, she had to fight it.

"Marc ... please. It shouldn't have happened. It won't, not again." And it wouldn't, she promised herself. Because if it did, if she allowed herself to listen to the dictates of her body rather than her mind, she'd get all tangled up in an affair with him, and then she'd never find the kind of man she really needed and wanted, someone she could care for in an easy, detached manner, someone who would be good not only for her, but for her children. If not Lorne Cantrell, then someone very much like him.

"It will, you know," he said, and bent to brush her lips softly with his. "We won't be able to stop it now. Either of us." She jerked back, covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide and stormy.

"Don't!" she said. "I thought I had made myself clear. I do not want that from you."

"Don't lie to me, Sharon," he said with a slow, sexy smile that turned her inside out. "And above all, don't lie to yourself."

She turned and left the entry where they had been secluded. She could feel him close behind her, then the kids saw him and he crouched to hug Roxy and place an affectionate hand over Jason's head.

"Open them, go ahead," he urged, once he'd given the children their gifts.

Jason looked sorrowful. "But we don't have anything for you, Marc."

Over Jason's head, Marc's gaze met Sharon's. "I've already had all I want for Christmas this year." He smiled at the boy who was looking down into a box of huge homemade chocolate chip cookies.

"Wow!" Jason's eyes were wide. "Did you make these?"

"I did. I hope you like them."

"Love them!" Turning to his mother, he said, "Can I have one now?"

She nodded.

Roxy found cookies in her package as well, big thick ones, crescents filled with raspberry jam. Her eyes closed in bliss as she bit into one and chewed, a look of delight on her piquant face. "How come a daddy can make cookies?" she asked.

"I like baking cookies," Marc said. Then he asked Sharon, "Aren't you going to open yours?"

"Oh!" She had forgotten she held it in her hand. "Of course. But come in, sit down. You remember Harry McKenzie, I'm sure."

"What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Duval. Sharon mentioned that you'd be joining us. I've been delegated as bartender this evening. What can I get for you while we wait for dinner?"

"A cola would be fine, Mr. McKenzie. Thanks."

"Harry."

"Right. And I'm Marc." He sat beside Sharon on the sofa and watched as eagerly as her children while she undid the wrapping, with care and revealed a beautiful, polished shell about three inches long. It was a delicate shade of pinkish gray, with deeper violet spots on the ribs of its whorls.

"Oh ..." It was a small sound of pure pleasure, and it warmed Marc right through, as did the shine of the gaze she lifted to him. "Thank you. It's the most beautiful shell I've ever seen. Where did you find it?" She couldn't have said how she knew he hadn't bought it in a store, but something about his manner told her that he had picked up this one himself in his travels and had kept it because he liked it. And now he had given it to her.

"I was diving off a little island near Oahu," he said. "They live quite deep as a rule, so I was lucky to find this one in about sixty feet of water."

She picked it up and cradled it in her hand, brushing one finger over the satin-smooth texture of its inner surface. "Thank you, Marc. You couldn't have thought of anything I'd have liked better. Do you know what it's called?"

He smiled, so delighted she liked his gift that he wanted to crush her in his arms and kiss her until they were both out of breath but not with an audience present. "I think it's a harp shell." He accepted a glass of iced cola from Harry without taking his eyes from Sharon's glowing face. How long they might have sat there just looking at each other, saying potent and silent things, Sharon had no idea, but fortunately they were interrupted.

"Hello, Marc. How nice to see you." Zinnie came from the kitchen, and he stood quickly, only sitting again when she'd perched on the arm of the sofa. "What's that you have there, Sharon? My, my! What a rare specimen. Did you collect it yourself, Marc?"

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. McKenzie, and yes, I did. Are you a serious shell collector?"

She smiled and said, "I guess you could call me a serious shell collector. I'm a marine biologist and specialize in mollusks."

"Oh." He gave his little one-sided shrug and looked apologetic. "Then should I call you Dr. McKenzie?"

"You should call me Zinnie, unless you're looking for a fat lip," she said with a grin. "I came out to tell you that Freda says the gravy is at its peak of perfection, Sharon. There's nothing modest about Freda, let me say. Do you want Harry to carve at the table or in the kitchen? Would one of you kids go and see if your uncle Rolph is coming out or if he wants his dinner served in there beside your video games."

Both children took off down the hall toward the TV room, where Rolph had spent much of the afternoon with them playing with the new games, as happy as any ten-year-old.

Sharon laid her pretty shell carefully back into its nest of tissue and set the box with her other gifts. "I'd better get back on duty," she said with a smile for everyone. She didn't dare meet Marc's gaze again.

"If you don't mind having your talents on display, Harry, I'd love to have you carve at the table. It seems to do so much for the appetite."

"You got it, baby doll," he said. "Shall I uncork the wine now?"

"Yes, please. Excuse me, won't you? Dinner will be just a few minutes."

As she stood and walked past Marc, she caught a faint whiff of his aftershave and was sure her knees would buckle before she could get safely away. What a mistake it had been to invite the man for dinner! Clearly he had misinterpreted her neighborly gesture as an invitation to repeat their foolishness. But she wouldn't. Somehow, she would keep up her firm resolve. All she had to do was quit looking at him.

"How did a marine biologist and a civil engineer manage two such disparate careers?" Marc asked, accepting his well-stocked plate back from Harry.

"While I was off in the bush building bridges, Zinnie was lounging on beaches, waiting for the waves to wash in a shell or two," Harry said, earning an indignant look from his wife.

"What he means to say is that while I was diving into treacherous waters, risking my life and the bends to collect specimens of bivalve mollusks for the advancement of higher learning, he was lolling in hammocks strung between trees, bossing a crew of the real bridge builders."

Everyone had turkey on their plates now, and the vegetable dishes had made their rounds. After a brief prayer, Sharon lifted her glass and said, "To Christmas, friends, and family."

Everyone responded, lifting their glasses, and then Harry said, "To our hostess."

"Our hostess," came the response, and from somewhere to her left, Sharon distinctly heard the word "beautiful" added to the toast. Against her will, she glanced at Marc, meeting his gaze as he lifted his glass to his lips. To her surprise, he did not drink, but set the glass down again. With a smile, he picked up his fork as she had done.

"It must have been difficult to be away from your children," she said quickly to Zinnie, taking the conversation back in the direction it had been going before the toasts.

"It was, but luckily we've always had Freda."

"Yes," said Freda. "While they were off on their little junkets to warm, exotic, and interesting places, I was at home tending their wicked sons, trying to turn them into decent human beings." She reached across the table and patted Rolph's hand. "And look what we ended up with!"

"But just think, Freda, if you hadn't stayed home and looked after us, we might have grown up in some of those exotic and interesting places and become even more wicked. Think what your sacrifices have meant to the world."

"I remind myself of it every day," said the elderly lady, "and I know heaven will reward me. But speaking of warm and exotic places, Marc, I saw that shell you gave to Sharon. She tells me you've traveled much of the world. What do you do?"

Sharon's ears pricked up at that. She had wondered more than once exactly what it was Marc did. Her imagination had suggested everything from drug importer to spy.

"A little of this, a little of that," he said with an easy smile. "I learned how to bake cookies when I worked in a bakery in New Zealand." He spoke directly to the children, then added, "I took up diving in Fiji and worked there leading snorkeling tours for a while before shipping out on a freighter to Japan, where I spent several months."

"Wow!" Jason said, leaning forward eagerly. "Did you jump ship?"

"No." Marc laughed. "I had only signed on that far. I wanted to see some of the Orient. I just bummed around for a few months in Japan, in Hong Kong, and in mainland China, then caught a ride on a sailboat that was coming back this way shorthanded. I wasn't much value to the skipper for the first week, with my head hanging over the rail, but I enjoyed the rest of the trip and learned a lot about sailing. So much that I crewed again, all the way back across the Pacific."

"Where else have you been? What else have you done? It sounds as if you've led a fascinating life," said Zinnie.

"I've done so many things, I can't remember them all. I tend to work at something until it's not fun anymore, then go on to something else. Living that way, I've seen a good portion of the world. But here's something I've been wondering about, and now that I'm at the same table as a marine biologist, maybe I can get an answer. I was wondering if you'd know about gray whales ..."

Zinnie did know, and the conversation ranged then from the habits of the different species of whales to how stress factors have to be worked into bridges in high-risk earthquake regions, and what color upholstery fabric is most pleasing to the owners of ocean-going yachts, but it never managed to stay long on what Marc Duval had done with his life.

He was being deliberately evasive, Sharon concluded, the third or fourth time he deflected the conversation, and when he disappeared into the kitchen with Rolph and Harry, who claimed it was a tradition in the McKenzie household that the men clean up after the women had done the cooking, she told herself she was glad to see him go.

Freda and Zinnie were working on the jigsaw again, wanting to see it completed before they had to leave in the morning, and Sharon had just come down from getting the children into bed when the men returned. She was sitting staring idly into the fire, listening to the murmured conversation going on behind her at the card table. Marc sat beside her, as if it were his rightful place to be.

"Will you play for us?" he asked softly, and she flinched away from him.

"Not" It was a sharply whispered refusal.

"Why not?" He spoke in a normal conversational tone, drawing everyone's attention their way: "I'd like to hear you play again."

"Oh, Sharon, please. Hearing you yesterday was such a treat," Zinnie said.

Yesterday? For a moment, she couldn't remember what Zinnie meant. For some reason that whole day seemed far in the past. "No. I'm sorry. I don't want to. I don't play anymore."

"You played at your sister's wedding."

"That was different. It was a promise I'd made. I had to."

Marc looked at her intently, speaking as if the two of them were alone. "I know I'm only a guest in your home, Sharon, but we've enjoyed a traditional Leslie family dinner, done a traditional McKenzie family cleanup in the kitchen, and now I'd like to add a Duval tradition to this very wonderful Christmas you were so kind to share with me." He smiled at her, and her stomach flipped over a few times before it settled down. Her heart, however, speeded up alarmingly.

"What tradition is that?"

"After dinner--which, by the way, we always had on Christmas Eve--we sang carols while my mother played the piano. That was what I was missing last night when I played my harmonica."

Her throat tightened. "I see."

"If I brought it over, could you all sing carols?"

"I ... yes. Of course." She looked at her harp in its corner. "But ... "

He touched her cheek with one bent finger. "No one will insist. If you want to, do it. If you don't, then ..." The shrug he gave was entirely Gallic, as was the one-sided smile.

"It would be nice to sing carols together. I just wish the kids hadn't both been so tired."

"There'll be other times for them. This time is for us." He still held her gaze as he got to his feet. She knew that when he said "us" he was not including the McKenzies and Freda Coin.

He was back moments later with both guitar and harmonica, and began playing the latter softly, as if to set a mood. "Sing," he urged them, and they did, tentatively at first, then with confidence as their voices blended nicely.

While he took a break and drank another glass of pop, Zinnie asked, "Do you come from a large family, Marc?"

He smiled. "Oh, yes. There are seven of us. I spoke to my parents and a couple of my brothers and sisters last night, but it was too hard to hear much with all the kids shouting in the background."

Sharon stared at her hands in her lap. Why, she wondered, did a man with such a large and presumably close family, choose to spend Christmas alone in a camper?

Zinnie, bless her, was wondering, too, and not at all averse to asking, however tactfully. "So sad, you can't be with them this year."

"Yes," was all he said as he picked up the guitar in place of the harmonica, and began strumming the strains of "White Christmas."

"You sing too," Zinnie said, but he shook his head.

"I learned to play instruments because I sound like a sick old crow when I sing. But I'm enjoying your voices."

Presently, Rolph slipped away, giving Sharon a quick smile and a wave as he headed for the stairs, then Freda, too, retired. For another half hour, Harry and Zinnie sat and listened quietly to the guitar, then rose and excused themselves.

Sharon thought Marc would go, too, but he continued to play.

"I like sitting here with you, watching the fire die," he said, still strumming a delicate chord. "I could spend a lot of evenings like this without getting tired of it."

"But one day you would, and then you'd be gone. "

"Would that matter to you so very much?"

She was silent, listening to the music, feeling it in her blood, filled with an almost uncontrollable need to go to her harp and play. She had once found such solace in music, and then it had become a punishment, a chore. She never wanted to feel with that kind of intensity again. "It ... could. If I let it."

He stood the guitar on its end, leaning against the arm of the couch. "Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Let it matter. Let me matter."

She shook her head. "Marc, I can't. It would be too ... dangerous."

"Why do you say that? How am I a danger to you? What makes you so afraid?"

"Who you are. What you are."

Again, he was startled, taken aback. Did she know who he was? There was no way it was possible, but he had to find out.

"All right then." His mouth was dry. "Who am I? What am I?"

"That's just it. I don't know. You came out of nowhere, and out of everywhere. You have no visible means of support, yet you dress like this" --she reached out and brushed the back of her fingers down the sleeve of his well-cut, clearly expensive suit-- "when the occasion warrants it. You come and go at will, living in a battered camper on the back of a rusty pickup, yet you buy a house that I'm sure didn't sell for peanuts. And none of this is any of my business, but I like to know who I'm dealing with."

She swallowed. "At dinner, whenever anyone asked you what you did, you evaded the issue. I don't like evasions. To me, they are as bad as lies." For too long, she had suffered from a man's lies and evasions.

"Are you asking me what I do for a living?"

She sighed. "Yes. I suppose I am."

"I'm a cookie-maker."

She got to her feet. "Marc ..."

He rose and turned her to face him. "No, seriously, that's what I am now. I've opened a cookie bakery in Victoria, another in Vancouver, and I'm working on a third in Seattle. I think that's probably what I'll do with the rest of my life. Make cookies. "

"But you don't actually make them yourself!"

"The ones I brought to your kids, I did. From my grandmother's and mother's old recipes. That's what the ones in my bakeries are based on too. I sell direct to university and college cafeterias, to day-care centers and hospitals, and certain select, small stores. It's a good marketing ploy, keeping my product exclusive until there's a real following. Then, when the time is right, and I'm sure quality control can be maintained, I might branch out into wider markets. "

"Then why live here? Why Nanaimo? Why not Vancouver or Victoria or Seattle?"

"I like it here. It's a big enough town to have a few amenities, yet small enough to be friendly. Big cities are--" He broke off, frowning. "Big cities are part of my past, and I prefer to leave that where it lies, behind me."

"I've noticed."

"I'm sorry. There are things I don't want to talk about. I'm not being evasive now, and I wasn't being evasive at dinner. I have done all those things I said, have been to all those places, and I did learn to bake cookies in New Zealand. I even taught my boss to make some of my family's recipes. It was the way they went over there that suggested to me maybe I could earn a living with them if I ever came home."

"But you aren't 'home,' " she said, moving restlessly away from him, crouching to put another couple of pieces of wood on the fire. She shut the glass doors and stood again, facing him with a much safer distance between them.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your accent. Where is home? Somewhere in Quebec?"

"It was. It no longer is. Now, home is where I want it to be." He moved closer, not touching her. "I want it to be here, Sharon."

"For the time being. Until cookies aren't fun any longer." Until I'm not interesting enough any longer.

He frowned. "Maybe. I don't know. Over the last few months I've come to realize that this might well be where I will settle, that cookies might well be what I'll want to make my life's work." He paused, stroked a hand over her hair. "Those months, too, of knowing you--at least, seeing you, talking to you now and then--have told me that maybe I'd like you to be part of that life."

She laughed and shook his hand off her hair. "I don't bake cookies worth a damn!"

His smile warmed her right to the soles of her feet in a way she didn't want it to. "So Jason tells me. I told him you have other, more important talents. "

Together, as if pulled by a magnet, their gazes swept to her harp. She shook her head. "No. No more."

He took one of her hands and pulled her a step closer to him. Their bodies touched lightly. Her heart raced. Her breath caught in her throat. "Will you tell me about it? What happened? What changed you? Was it your divorce? Did it hurt you so badly that you died inside and your music died with you?"

She shook her head. "Not that. I was ... glad for the divorce. It eased my hurts. My music died long before that. At least, the music in my heart did. I kept on playing though, trying to find it again. Finally, I just gave up."

"Funny," he said musingly, "when my wife and son died, I thought everything good in me had died too, but music, which I've always treasured, lived on, and eventually gave me some comfort ..."

Her eyes opened wide. "You lost your family? Oh, Marc, I am so sorry."

He flicked at one of the tears that spilled from the corner of her eye. "Don't cry for me. It's all in the past. I want to look to the future. And last night gave me hope that maybe I can have the future I want."

"Last night was ..." Her voice trailed away.

"Was what?" he asked softly, lifting her face up, cupping his hands around it. "As magical for you as it was for me?"

His hands, hard and callused, which had felt erotic the previous night, felt different somehow, reminding her of the wide variety of tasks they had performed, and she knew he was still being evasive. He was no manual laborer, this man. Not with his understated elegance, his educated manner of speaking, his knowledge and savoir faire. He was a chameleon who was, in spite of his attraction to her, still avoiding telling her the truth about himself.

She would never let another dishonest man into her life!

"Don't touch me!" she said, jerking away from him.

The violence of her reaction, as well as the sudden flare of anger mixed with fear in her eyes, shook him as she tore herself free, wrapping her arms around herself. "Go home, Marc. Please, just go home now."

He picked up his guitar and his jacket and nodded. To the bowed back of her head, he said quietly, "All right, Sharon. We'll leave it for now. But I intend to know what happened to you. And I mean to make whatever went wrong, right."

She lifted her head, turned and looked at him, and the tragedy he read in her face made him want to weep for her as she had for him. "Nobody can, Marc. That's what you don't seem to understand. It can never be right again, so there's no point in my wanting a man like you--a man who would want too much."

He shook his head. "I'd never ask for more than you could give me."

"You would!" she protested, her mouth twisting. "You'd want everything."

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Of course I would. But why not? You have everything to give."

He slipped out the door then, leaving her standing at the archway to the entrance. After a moment, she locked the door behind her and went quietly up to bed.

She lay for a long time thinking about him, and soon it was morning and the whole house was stirring. She got out of bed quickly. There was no time for brooding. She had guests and children to feed, which was just as well. She'd never had much time for brooders. Action was what she preferred, and action was what she would take.

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