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Chapter One

A bad hat: a person who deliberately stirs up mischief and commotion.

Grace O'Shaughnessy was naked.

The photographer she met last night slept curved into her side, his thighs pressed against her legs, his arm flung over her chest. A smile warmed his face, but her stomach felt like ice.

Grace lifted the sheet to take a peek, and a groan escaped her.

Yes, buck naked and tangled up in a man's plaid robe, her black straw hat crushed between the pillows.

The sour aftertaste of too much merlot tainted her mouth, and she touched her forehead, a headache snaking up her neck. Grace gingerly moved his arm off her chest. Sweat and heat stung her skin, and the ghost of his touch kept her off balance. It took all of her effort to stay focused on what she had to do. Mainly, to get the hell out of here before he woke up.

Grace swung her legs over the edge of the bed, clutching the robe to her chest. The shock of cold air nipped at her toes. She slipped out between the sheets, barely missing a pile of blankets and pillows arranged on the floor. Careful to step around the tangled bedding, she noted her surroundings.

Morning sunlight squeezed through the frosted windows and cast a gray light that did nothing to dispel the gloom. She wrinkled her nose. Not too successful earning his living as a photographer, the studio the antithesis of a romantic loft so popular with the city's urban professionals.

Wallpaper, faded with age, curled off the walls. The furnishings sparse--a Murphy bed, plain square nightstand, scarred wood table, and two chairs she remembered him saying he'd fished out of the bay. Was he kidding? From the looks of it, she didn't think so.

When Grace lifted her hat, he rolled over, let out a sharp snort and burrowed his head in his pillow. Her heart sped up and lodged in her throat and she froze. To her relief, he didn't move a muscle. Now was her chance to escape. After scooping up her clothes and purse from the floor, she made a beeline to the bathroom.

Grace closed the bathroom door before dropping the robe to the floor. Standing naked in front of the sink, she turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. The water refreshed her but the drawn face staring back from the cracked mirror horrified her--bloodshot eyes, hair matted to one side of her head, a flushed complexion.

She opened the medicine cabinet hoping to find a bottle of aspirin. Instead, she found a shelf crammed with blue Trojan boxes. Obviously, a long line of women visited the man's bed. Or maybe, he'd hoped to get lucky. With any luck, she had sense to use one of these condoms he'd stored so expectantly in his cabinet.

The remaining shelves held a box of bandages, two toothbrushes (one wrapped in its cellophane box) and a tube of toothpaste. She closed the cabinet door and sighed. What stupidity to sleep with a stranger. She'd never believed in one-night stands, wanting to have a connection with her lover. But last night she'd been vulnerable to the photographer's charms, and it'd been so long since she'd been this intensely attracted to a man.

A razor leaned against the glass shelf alongside a can of shaving cream and a bottle of aftershave. Grace brought the bottle to her nose, and took a whiff, the brisk scent evoking the smell of his skin. A tingling sensation coiled in her groin. A mouthwatering fragrance, reminding her of ocean spray and days spent in the sun. Cranking up the 'cold' on the faucet, she splashed her burning cheeks. She had to get out of here, and quick, before she crawled back into bed and demanded satisfaction, not remembering one second of their lovemaking. Just her luck to finally meet an attractive man and not remember a thing that went on between the sheets.

Grace zipped up her wrinkled dress and wadded up her nylons, stuffing them into her purse. She tugged her hat over her unruly hair. This hat had gotten her into this mess. The photographer had approached her to compliment her on its delicate rose trim and the way it framed her face. He'd seduced with his smooth words and his arresting face. And like a desperate woman, she fell for his affectionate manner.

Ready to leave, Grace opened the bathroom door and peeked out. The photographer remained in his position on the bed. Safe to make her exit, she tiptoed toward the front door, slipped on her shoes, and almost escaped.

"Gracie, you're leaving without saying goodbye?"

With her hand frozen on the doorknob, her purse slipped to the floor, the contents spilling across the carpet. Oh God, he trapped her with his intense eyes, those baby blues piercing. Black silk panties draped from his hand, his mouth curved into a wry grin. "Forgetting something?"

Grace's shoulders sagged. "You can keep them. Think of them as a souvenir."

"You think I invited you here to add a notch to my bedpost? Although I don't have a bedpost. Might be a problem."

The man had some nerve taunting her. She straightened her shoulders and took in a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, a surge of anger replaced her embarrassment. "I don't think anything about last night," she snapped.

His glacial eyes narrowed. Oh yes, those calculating, intelligent eyes had snagged her into submission. Her mother would call him a bad hat--an unreliable man who fooled around. Worse yet, he lived in the seediest neighborhood in San Francisco. The morning's harsh light revealed the shabbiness of his surroundings and dampened her enthusiasm for getting to know him better.

Grace snatched the panties from his hand. When his fingernails grazed her palm, a giddy sensation turned her stomach to jelly. Now, more than ever, she had to escape or she might do something really stupid, like sleep with him again.

"What do you think happened last night?" he asked.

"I...I need to go."

"You think we had sex, but believe me, neither of us was in any state to get it on." He peered down at the makeshift bed on the floor. "I slept on the floor most of the night, until the lightening hit, and then you freaked. I must have fallen asleep holding you."

A silly irrational fear, but uncontrollable. Every thunderous sky turned her into a pile of quivering jelly. But then, there was the fact she woke up naked, the robe bunched up around her feet. And...

"What about these?" She held up her panties.

"I've no idea why you're not wearing them." Amusement lit up his eyes and Grace longed to run out the door. She bit into her lip. "I woke up naked, and you say nothing happened."

"Not completely naked. You had on your panties underneath my robe, or at least when I crawled into bed." His eyes flashed. "Look, we got drenched in the storm. You passed out, and I needed to get you out of your damp clothes. Can I help it you weren't wearing a bra?"

His mouth twitched and Grace swore he winked, her mind muddled by last night's intake of too much wine.

"I've seen plenty of naked women," he went on. "I'm a photographer. It's no big deal."

Grace begged to differ, embarrassed by last night's drunken behavior. She knelt on the floor and tossed into her purse her lipstick tube, compact, tissue, loose coins, and all the silly items in every woman's purse. Lastly, she rolled up her panties into a ball and stuffed them in before clicking it shut.

"Let me make us some coffee," he suggested, and before she had a chance to avert her eyes, he threw back the sheets.

Grace let out her breath at the sight of his bare chest. The muscular definition and the sprinkle of dark tight curls dusted across his chest begged to be caressed. The waistband of his sweats slipped low around his slim hips, the snug plaid fabric revealing strapping thighs. For being powerfully built, he moved like a cat, and she wet her lips. Stepping back to let him pass, she clutched her purse and her eyes darted towards the front door.

"I won't bite," he said. "Sit down, one cup and you can go." He walked over to the kitchen and took out a plastic bottle of water from the refrigerator. Turning slightly, he smiled and motioned for her to sit down. "I insist you stay."

Well, she could use a cup of coffee, her head still buzzing. And, he looked harmless enough. Grace sat at the chewed-up table and watched him fill up the coffeepot with water and carefully measure out the ground coffee into the filter. While the coffee dripped into the carafe, he took down two red ceramic mugs from the open shelf. Once the coffeepot let out its final hiss, he poured the fresh brew into the mugs.

Grace ran her finger over the chipped rim. He looked down at her, the carafe in his hand. "My name is Steven, Steven Levy." Dark fuzz glistened off his chest, his skin slick. He smelled aroused, that sensual odor a man gave off when he wanted to make love. Grace sensed it in him, and now inhaled it in the air around him.

He placed the carafe on the table and sat across from Grace. Taking his mug between his hands, his eyes stayed fixed on her face.

"I know your name," she said.

"Just checking--you seem lost." He blew into his mug and a puff of steam escaped.

"I'm not sure why I'm still here."

Grace faced the rumpled bed and the nightstand piled with books. Neatly arranged on a bookshelf by the far wall were Steven's photography supplies and camera lenses. A laptop was stored on the lower shelf along side a pile of sketchbooks. Large formatted photographs, held up by silver thumbtacks, disturbed the walls with abstract images.

"By the looks of you, I'd guess you're from the Midwest. You're too sweet to be from the city," he said.

Grace frowned at his assumption, irritated that he read her too well. "I've lived here for awhile."

"Where did you grow up?"

Grace glanced at the front door. Escape was impossible now. Steven held her hostage by his questions, and her curiosity about him. "I grew up in a small town you've never heard of, believe me. It's a dot on the map. The smallest town in the U.S.A."

"Now, I'm intrigued."

"I'm from Courtland, near Sacramento." She smiled at his furrowed brows. "See, you've never heard of it, have you? I was born under a pear tree. We claim to be the pear capital of the world."

"A big claim for such a small town."

Steven's smile showed off a dimple on the left side of his mouth. She liked the look of his broad mouth that would be yummy to kiss. An aquiline nose accented his narrow face making him less than handsome, yet, strangely feral. His pale blue eyes reminded Grace of tinted ice, the color a striking contrast to his nutty brown hair and olive skin. She shifted in her seat to stay focused on their conversation. He didn't help the situation when he reached across the table and pulled her hands into his grasp. His caress sent a zing through her heart.

He unfurled her fingers and a shadow passed over his face. "What are these marks?" His voice strained, he rubbed the pinhole scars on her fingertips.

Grace snatched back her hands and cradled the mug. "From needles, but not from drugs: sewing needles. I'm a hat maker."

"You're kidding!"

"You've heard of milliners, haven't you? I create hats."

"How in the hell do you make a living?"

"You should talk." Grace looked around the studio, her lips pressed together. She thought of her comfortable home in Russian Hill, the lap of luxury compared to this claptrap.

"Hey, I make a decent living," he said.

"So do I. Better than you, from the look of this place." She pushed away her mug. "I really should go. Thanks for the coffee."

"Wait, not yet. I'm not sure you believe me. We didn't have sex. I'd never sleep with a woman without her consent," he said. "I take you for someone who'd prefer to get to know a guy before jumping into bed with him."

"Sure, alright, but all I want is to forget about last night."

"Ah, well, that's too bad." Steven pointed to her necklace. "The cross you wear, does it have meaning for you?"

Grace touched the gold cross hanging from a chain around her neck. "It was a Confirmation gift. It has sentimental value since my dad gave it to me. I'm a recovering Catholic," she joked, and slid the cross back and forth across the chain. "I see you like to cook." She pointed to a row of well-scrubbed copper pots hung from a wire rack above the stove. "You have a tidy kitchen."

"Sure. It relaxes me. Especially if I'm blocked or need to think out a problem."

"I do something silly, like have my nails done. A waste of time, of course." She lifted her right hand and spread out her fingers. "See, I break a nail at least once a week."

He laughed a hearty sound, and Grace smiled. At least the man had a sense of humor, but what did it matter, she wasn't go to see him again.

"I don't know much about you," he said. "Other than you're a hat maker, and you have a special tattoo. I'm particularly fond of that flower."

Grace pressed her hand to her cheek, knowing she turned every shade of red. How did he know of her rose tattoo at the base of her spine? Not unless...

Steven's brows arched and he picked up his mug. It hovered suspended in the air. "So I took a peek when you left for the bathroom. I couldn't resist, and I must say, a pleasant view from where I laid."

Grace tore at the paper napkin, creating a pile on the table. She didn't trust this man, or any man for that matter. Being left at the altar changed a woman's view of herself, the humiliation and the pity in the guests' eyes enough to make Grace swear off men forever. Six months ago, her fiancé stood her up at the church, and took the cowardly way out. He'd left a note with her mother, accusing Grace of being high maintenance. So what that she liked her latte in a short cup, with a double shot, skim milk, and a splash of cream?

But all that was behind her.

The rose tattoo represented courage and self-respect, but how to explain this to a stranger, especially a man like the one who sat across from her.

"I don't normally go home with men I just meet. It was an experiment. Trying it out is all." A little white lie, but she had her self-respect. She didn't want him to think she had no clue what she was doing.

"What a strange thing to say." He chuckled.

"I wanted to know how it felt. My ex did it often enough. Cheat on me, I mean."

"You said ex. So you're single."

"Ah..." She squeezed her hands together.

"You either are or you aren't."

"I'm seeing someone." Oh, how easy to let another little white lie slip out. When did she take to lying so much?

Steven scratched his chin and stood. He picked up his mug and tossed the remainder of his coffee into the sink. "How long have you been together?"

"Four wasted years."

"I mean your new boyfriend."

"Oh him, well, we haven't been dating for long."

"So you're not exclusive."

Grace's gaze followed him as he rounded the table. He leaned down and placed a light kiss on her mouth. Another zing, and her heart swelled. Not good, not good at all.

"You came home with me," he reflected.

The soft touch of Steven's lips enflamed Grace's skin. Their eyes caught in anticipation, his mouth parted. She wiped her mouth with the chewed-up napkin, crunched it into a ball, and tossed it on the table.

"I told you. It was an experiment, and I was drunk. Not that I make it a habit to get drunk." She jumped out of her chair. "I've got to go."

"Stay. I like having you here. Let's christen the bed. You know you want to. I certainly do."

Grace slid her sweaty palms down her dress. Oh God, she did want to, but refused to give in to her lust. Determined to forget last night, she detested men like Steven, so confident in their maleness they thought any woman would fall into their bed. Remember the list, she said, over and over, like a mantra.

Fortifying her resolve to remain steadfast, sick of always dating losers, she'd made a list of qualities she wanted in a man. The list was taped to her computer screen, and she swore to adhere to it. She'd only date men who satisfied the qualities she so painstakingly listed. And, Steven Levy didn't come close to scoring high on her list.

Steven helped Grace into her coat. The doorknob's surface cooled her hand. Before he moved away, he gave it one last shot. "You know you want to stay. I promise to make you feel good."

Grace hesitated, for the nearness of a man was tempting, and it'd been so long since a man desired her. But she wanted more than a romp in the sack, and he couldn't give her more. Not from what she'd seen of his apartment or his lifestyle. Who knows how often he's brought women to his place, if the boxes of condoms were any indication?

Steven remained motionless, his hands resting on her shoulders. The sound of the dripping faucet was amplified in the room. Only one way out of this situation, and Grace took it. She swept past Steven, and ran out the door.

Met with rain-soaked clouds, Grace pulled the collar up around her neck. A typical March day, the air was bitter cold, the clouds threatening to weep down on the dirty sidewalks.

Grace rushed past several buildings with walls sprayed in colorful graffiti. The homeless sat huddled in doorways for shelter, tattered hats pulled down casting shadows over their eyes like shades. She reached inside her pocket and pulled out change she kept for the purpose of dropping into Styrofoam cups, battered guitar cases, tin cans. Anxiety kept her alert, the tense energy of the streets so different from her tree-lined neighborhood.

A few blocks to Polk Street, and she'd catch the bus that'd whisk her to Russian Hill and the comfort of her home, away from these neglected streets.

* * *

Steven loosened his grip on the doorjamb. Grace left without giving him her phone number. He sank down into the chair and thrust his lips together at the pile of shredded napkin. Bits of white paper littered the table. He swept the pile with his hand and watched the rest of the pieces float to the floor.

That damn hat of hers had drawn him in.

He'd first noticed Grace standing by his photograph, the gallery spotlights casting a halo on her black hat. A flattering hat; a loose curl graced her delicate cheek, and honey-colored hair fell in waves down her back. The crimson fabric of her short dress presented a color risk in his world of black. Everything about Grace delighted him, from her tall height to her boyish hips, down to her shapely calves.

Steven went to the stove and took down a frying pan from the rack, and tucked a dishtowel in his waistband.

Grace typified the girl next store, so when he'd asked her out for a drink, he held no expectation of taking her to his place. Until Grace's expressive mouth and kind eyes disarmed him. The chance to relieve his loneliness took precedence over his better judgment. He'd ordered another bottle of wine and afterwards, asked Grace home, shocked she'd agreed.

Oil spitted over the flames, and he crushed a clove of garlic into the pan. He cracked three eggs into a mixing bowl, and vigorously whipped the eggs into froth.

When had he changed his mind about her?

About the time he'd caught a whiff of her perfume, so lush he wanted to wrap himself in it. A close up of her eyes convinced him she held a secret, the grayish green depths impenetrable. Her eyes blazed, but not from fear. Something else--desire, or maybe a need to be loved. A need he understood.

Steven poured the creamy egg mixture into the pan, and drizzled rich green olive oil over the surface, the olive color reminding him of Grace's eyes. Damn, he had it bad, and over a stranger he picked up for one night of sex. He didn't want a relationship, didn't need the grief, but she got under his skin.

Steven removed a plate from the drying rack and slipped the omelet from the pan onto the plate. He sat at the table and wished Grace sat across from him with those inquisitive eyes and tempting mouth ready to break free. He took a few bites, dropped his fork, and pushed away his plate. Impossible to think he'd date her for a few months, and break up with his usual cache of excuses. He enjoyed being free of attachments. Staying unattached was the responsible thing to do, considering.

After Steven finished his omelet, he stacked the dishes in the sink, and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater. A walk would do him good. From the nightstand, he picked up a novel to read at the coffeehouse. A blue envelope slipped from between the pages and floated down to the floor.

Steven picked up the envelope and stared at the return address. Another letter received in the last month asking him to come to Los Angeles. From the bottom shelf of the bookcase, he stuffed the envelope in a sketchbook with all the other letters he'd saved.

His feelings for Marie were complicated. After five years, he'd never found another woman to replace her.

* * *

Grace got off at the Green Street bus stop and walked home. She climbed the porch steps of the narrow Victorian, a house she purchased two years ago when she landed her first major contract. The moment she had walked into the foyer, she told her realtor this was to be hers. The vaulted ceilings and bay windows augmented with skylights flooded the rooms with sunlight. Grace converted the bottom floor into her workshop and showroom, and the upper floor became her private sanctuary complete with a roof garden.

Once inside, she threw her keys on the console table and pulled off her hat and slung it on the coat rack. Grace walked to her desk and pushed the button on the answering machine. Her mother's voice filled up the room, "Grace dear, this is Mother. Call me. Are you coming home sometime soon? You remember John Forester from high school. I talked with his mother, and he's interested in going out with you. So call me. It's about time you get out and date again. You're not getting any young..." Beep. The message cut off, saving Grace from having to hear how she failed in giving her mother a grandchild.

The remaining messages were from her printer and a solicitor selling health insurance.

Grace headed up the stairs to her bedroom. At the landing, the statue of St. Catherine, the protector of milliners, stared from her wall niche, her enigmatic ruby red mouth disapproving. Grace turned to the statue and wagged her finger. "We didn't have sex."

Grace lit the blue candle at the saint's feet. The mystery of saints and their miraculous powers held a certain fascination, the residual of her Catholic faith. And, what did it hurt to hedge her bets, helping her business any way she could? She smiled, the irony not lost on her. St. Catherine was also the patron saint of old maids. At thirty-five, single, with no husband in sight, this was the direction she was heading. Her mother never failed to point out this fact, announcing at every visit the married daughters of her friends popping out their second or third child.

Grace brushed her hair behind her ears. Too tired to reason why she behaved the way she did, she climbed the steps to her bedroom. She'd take a hot bath and forget about last night, and the stirrings of desire evoked by the mere touch of Steven Levy.

* * *

Mina Sato was naked.

By choice, for she picked up the man last night in a bar. Unusual behavior for her, but after downing several martinis in celebration of opening night, resistance to the man's charms became futile.

From the bedroom window, the Transamerica pyramid gleamed. Mina rolled over in bed and found it empty. A warm hollow in the sheets told her a man had slept beside her. Noises came from beyond the room, so it hadn't been her imagination. Well, no matter. She'd make up some excuse, and get the hell out, not interested in morning conversation.

Stretching her aching legs, she threw back the sheets and massaged her calves. Her feet burned from relentless rehearsals and late nights, but when the curtain rose last night, all the complaints and hard work faded into the background. Excitement had buzzed across the row of seats, a wave of anticipation that lifted Mina to a place in her heart never captured by a man. Wedded to the theater, she had no time for an affair.

Mina picked up a robe draped across the bed. Putting it on, she tied the sash tight around her waist. She walked over to the window, and whistled under her breath, the view alone worth millions. From where she stood, she noticed an empty square foil on the nightstand. Relief flooded her body, thankful one of them had sense to use protection.

"Hello. I've made us some coffee."

Mina jerked around and stared at the man in the doorway holding a breakfast tray in his hands. Tall and lanky, his sleek tailored suit and silk tie gave him a sophisticated appearance. Salt and pepper hair perfectly cut short framed a thoughtful face but it was his teal eyes that struck her with an odd sense of comfort.

"Who are you?" she said, and pulled the lapels of her robe together.

"Robert Sanders. Ah, I can explain." He walked over to the bed and set down the tray. He poured two cups of coffee in white porcelain cups, and handed a cup over to Mina. "I live here. I found you in my bed this morning, and my cousin gone."

"Oh, my God." Mina sank on the edge of the mattress and gulped down the coffee. She helped herself to a refill. "Your cousin? He left without saying goodbye? What a jerk."

"You're being polite. I'd call him something else altogether."

"Does he always leave women alone in your place?" How strange...she could have stole this man blind if he hadn't shown up. Not that she'd every think of such a thing, but really, for his cousin to do something this idiotic. What did it say of her choice in men?

"I saw him on the way in. Although, he didn't tell me you were here," Robert said. "When I leave town, I let him use my place. He lives over in Redwood City, likes to come to the city to play. I apologize for his behavior. The boy can be a dog." His silvery eyebrows twitched. "Though why he'd leave you remains a mystery. I'd say he's certifiably nuts."

Mina squirmed from his compliment and wondered if it was a proposition. Yet, his eyes politely kept to her face. "You know, I'd better get dressed. Thanks for the coffee."

"There're towels in the bathroom. Take a hot shower, you'll feel better. I'll fix us some breakfast. It's the least I can do to make up for my cousin's behavior. I'm starving and need nourishment after that awful airline food."

Before she had a chance to respond, he left the room.

Mina picked up her clothes scattered across the floor and walked into the cavernous bathroom. Locking the door, she viewed the Jacuzzi style tub and separate glass shower with its multiple shower heads. Hesitant on which knob to use, she grabbed the nearest knob and gave it a twist. Letting the robe slip from her shoulders, she stepped inside and let the full stream of heat ease her muscles.

Robert Sanders was an attractive man. Not overtly handsome, but Mina liked his kind face and startling eyes. A wealthy man, she figured, from the looks of his suit, not to mention the breathtaking view from his bedroom window. Yet, she distrusted men with money, for they demanded too much, and she wouldn't be beholden to a kind deed.

During her shower, Mina drew up a plan of escape. She'd crunch down a piece of toast, to be polite. It'd only take a few minutes to beat it out of here. Much better than having the man's hands all over her, for she knew how men think. He'd assume because he found her in bed, she'd be an easy lay. Well, she had no plans of letting his hands near her.

* * *

The woman in his bed left him breathless. Exotic looks spoke of a mixed heritage. Against his better judgment, she sparked his interest. Any woman who'd jump into bed with Stan had to be a dimwit. His cousin put women into two categories--easy and desperate. Although, this woman appeared nonplussed at waking up alone. Decidedly, she fit into the easy category.

Robert picked up his suitcase from the hallway and dumped it on his unmade bed. The sound of the shower conjured up unheeded visions of the woman naked. He brought the covers up to his face and inhaled her spicy perfume. A pang of sorrow hit his heart. Better not to think of the past.

Flinging open his suitcase, he stared at his neatly folded clothes. When did his life become like the clothes in his suitcase? Neatly arranged, nothing out of place? The one person who'd stopped him from becoming a cliché was never coming back.

He shoved his suitcase to the side. There was time to unpack later. He left for the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

New York always left Robert hankering for peace and quiet. It amazed him how long he put up with the noise and traffic of Manhattan. Before moving to San Francisco, he had no idea a person could live in a city and still be able to have a quiet space to come home to. San Francisco became his hideaway from his New York friends who meant well but made his life difficult. Didn't they understand his need to be left alone?

The clean fragrance of shampoo alerted him, and he looked up from the counter to find her standing in the living room. Obsidian-color hair streamed down her back and left wet patches on her white blouse. Snug, worn jeans showed off taut, lean thighs, and a pair of legs that didn't quit. Her plain clothing underscored her stunning beauty.

She smiled. "Thanks, you're right, the shower felt wonderful."

Robert finished slicing bagels while keeping his eye on her. "I don't know your name."

"Mina Sato."

"Well, I hope you like bagels. It's all I have at the moment."

"Your place looks like a museum." Mina wandered around his living room, stopping to admire a glass sculpture perched on a pedestal. Slim tentacles of brilliant red and yellow rose in curly waves from its base. "This reminds me of coral."

"It's a Dale Chihuly. And you're correct. His works are organic in form."

"Now you sound like an art critic."

"A near guess, I own an art gallery in New York. I've moved here to open a gallery in SoMa, specializing in photography. That's my real passion." He waved his hand towards a wall of photographs.

Mina walked up to a black and white of an attractive woman sporting a mischievous smile. Friendly eyes leaped from the photograph, affectionate and good humored. "Is this someone you know?"

The knife paused in mid-air. Robert set it down and twisted his ring on his left hand. His heart twisted right along with his ring. "My wife. That was taken a few years ago." He coughed and turned away, his eyes burning from unshed tears. Wiping his hands with a paper towel, he turned back to the counter and finished slicing the bagels. After he arranged them on a tray, he got a jar of preserves and a tub of honey from the cupboard.

"Do you want your bagel toasted?"

Mina nodded and continued her study of the artwork. "I know this artist. Steven Levy." A large formatted black and white photograph hung in a prominent place above the sofa. "He's great, his work is so--I don't know. I just like how he fools your eye. You know. You think you know what you're looking at, but it's something else altogether."

Mina surprised him by taking her time to view the composition. In an excited voice, Robert encouraged her interest. "Tell me what you see."

"A woman's profile." She leaned over the sofa to take a closer look. "Oh my God, it's a light bulb!" And she laughed a full throaty sound.

"You like photography, then?"

"Some, but especially Levy's work. I've followed his career for some time." An enigmatic smile broke across her face, and he wondered if she'd slept with the artist. An unexpected jealous pang caught him unaware. Now, where did that come from? He had no claim on this woman, and certainly no interest. But, she did know Steven Levy, and that could prove to be advantageous.

"I'm hoping he'll be my featured artist for the grand opening," he said.

Mina cocked her head. "Really, so it's all arranged?"

"Hell, no," and Robert chuckled, shaking his head. "I have yet to get an appointment with the man. He's either shy or hates self-promotion. He has an unlisted phone number and the gallery owner who's showing his work is mute on the subject." He shrugged. "So, if you have a way into Levy's back door, please, let me know."

Robert waited for Mina to sit at the table, but she picked up a bagel, and remained standing. "I'll see what I can do," she said, and crunched down on the bagel, sending a dash of crumbs down her blouse.

He had the urge to brush off the crumbs, a flimsy excuse to touch her.

She held up the half-eaten bagel. "Thanks for the bagel, but I have to go. Early rehearsals. It's tough getting motivated after opening night, but that's how it is. By the way, good luck with your gallery."

In a flash, the woman beat it out the door, leaving crumbs behind, and Robert to ponder on what a bizarre morning it had been.

Chapter Two

Toss one's hat in the ring: to become a participant in a contest.

Grace stood at the slate blue gate and took in the farmhouse with its classic wraparound porch, a scattering of terracotta pots jammed with geraniums adding dots of scarlet against the lemon yellow walls. She inhaled the musty waters of the Sacramento River, delighted in the flurry of geese skimming across the sky. This rich earth shaped Grace into who she was. Always, she'd come to rest among the pear orchards and dusty skies.

Grace walked into the house and set down her suitcase in the hall. Noises came from the kitchen, and she headed there.

"Hi, Mom. Smells good."

"You had me worried. You're late." Lauren O'Shaughnessy kissed Grace's cheek and swept a loose bang from her daughter's forehead. "I'm glad you came. We hardly ever see you these days."

"Work's hectic. The traffic's miserable. You know how it is. Takes forever to get out of the city."

"Your hair...I liked it the way you wore it last Christmas. Remember, it was shorter. A darling cut." Her mother removed her floral apron and draped it over the kitchen chair.

Grace's mother looked tidy despite cooking over a hot stove. A hairstyle neatly swept up in a simple tortoise clip, makeup in place, lipstick fresh. Wearing taupe linen slacks and a pale green blouse, a string of pearls and matching earrings, she dressed according to her status in the community. The O'Shaughnessys owned the largest pear orchards along the river.

Grace poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen counter and eyed her mother's elegant attire. "Why are you dressed up?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Lauren said. "I guess I was too excited about you and John. He's thrilled about tonight, so I hope you'll be pleasant. He has a terrific job in Sacramento. Frances, you know his mother, told me he's a political aide. Sounds exciting."

"I'm always pleasant." Grace had a crush on John Forester throughout high school. Yet, he never once looked her way, so why would he look at her now? Still, he scored high on her list, meeting all the qualities she wished in a man. Unlike her disastrous evening spent with that horrible photographer. Why was she even thinking of Steven Levy?

The backdoor opened, and Grace's father walked in, and wiped his feet on the mat. He grinned at her and swept her up in his arms, hugging her in a tight embrace. "How's my sweet girl?" He kissed the top of her head before releasing his hold.

A buzz cut accentuated his square face and his skin shone a deep walnut color from too many days out in the sun. Grace sniffed a light scent of fertilizer on his clothes. She frowned at his sunburned skin. "Where's the hat I made for you?"

"It'll get ruined in the fields." He went over and nuzzled his face in the crook of his wife's neck.

Lauren giggled and slapped his forearm with the dishtowel. "You're going to get me dirty. Now go change, before they're here."

"You look beautiful, darling," he said, with a glint in his eyes. He stole a slice of fresh parmesan from the cutting board before walking out.

The doorbell chimed, and Lauren hastily wiped her hands on the dishtowel. "Answer the door, Grace. I'm going to fix my hair." Halfway out the door, Lauren paused. "Oh, and take them to the living room. We'll be there in a sec."

"Take who?" she said, but her mother vanished from the kitchen before she could answer.

Grace shook her head but did as her mother asked. Using the hallway mirror, she smoothed down her hair and rubbed the mascara smudged under her eyes. Then she opened the front door, and froze.

"Hello, Gracie."

Steven Levy's mouth formed into a loopy grin. His dimple popped out and a jittery pulse thumped in her chest. A camera bag was slung casually off his shoulder, and equipment lay piled at his feet. Grace's heart plummeted at the sight of him. He looked good, in black jeans and a white shirt, his hair mussed up from the slight breeze. Quickly stepping out on the porch, she slammed the screen door behind her, blocking Steven from entering the house.

"Imagine my surprise when I received this assignment." His smile widened. "To know where Courtland is."

Before Grace had a chance to get a word in, an attractive Asian woman walked up the lane. Dressed in a navy suit, carrying a leather notebook, she held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Lucy Lee from The Monitor. I'm here to interview Frank and Lauren O'Shaughnessy."

Grace shook the reporter's hand. Not knowing what to do, she glared at Steven.

Steven cleared his throat. "Luce, this is Gracie, their daughter. You might want to interview her as well. How a small town girl made it in the big city."

Grace stepped back, her backside hitting the screen door. "Why are you here to see my parents?"

Lucy explained. "We're doing an article on the effects of the housing growth on the orchards and the small towns here. I'd like to talk to you as well. If that's okay? This is a fabulous house. Steven, I want you to get some shots of the exterior as well."

Grace sighed. She had no choice but to let them in. "I'll show you to the living room. My parents will be down in a minute."

Once Steven and Lucy settled in, Grace left for the kitchen. Fuming, she yanked open the cupboard door and grabbed a bag of Oreos. The cookies spilled on the counter, scattering crumbs everywhere. Ignoring the mess, she shoved a cookie into her mouth, letting the sweetness soothe her anger. What nerve of Steven to show up! He took this assignment on purpose. She just knew it.

Grace jumped as hands circled her waist, and a breath of air hit her earlobe. Steven's voice broke through her whirling temper. "I'd hoped you'd be here," he said. "It's why I took this assignment."

Swallowing the excess of cookie lodged in her throat, she twisted in his arms to face him. How blue his eyes appeared. She remained mute, unable to put together a coherent thought so lost in the depth of his lively eyes.

"It's been two weeks, and I can't get you out of my head." Steven descended on her mouth, a sweet tasting kiss. "Hmm, chocolate."

Grace arched her back, but he pulled her in. Slow and deep, he kissed her, and then she kissed him back, letting her tongue taste the inside of his mouth. His hands stroked her back and slid downward, ever further, until he cupped her rear, pushing the hollow of her thighs into his erection. Tremors cascaded down her limbs, sending her into a tailspin of desire. Never had a man affected her like Steven Levy.

"Grace!" Lauren stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

Grace wiggled out of Steven's embrace, her cheeks scalding.

Lauren took a step forward. "Who's this man?"

Steven jerked down the front of his jeans, his skin blanched. He held out his hand. "Steven Levy, ma'am. I'm here to take your photograph."

"Then you'd better take it," her mother said, ignoring his offered hand. She turned to Grace. "You need to get ready. John will be here any minute."

When Lauren left the kitchen, Steven's smile dipped. He captured Grace's hand. "Your mother doesn't like me...who's John?"

"A friend. Now, I need to get ready." The hurt look on Steven's face made Grace pause. Oh, how she wanted to stay, but she pushed down her sentimental feelings, recognizing them for what they were, an excuse to give in to the wrong man.

She left the kitchen and picked up her suitcase from the hall, before she did something stupid, like kiss him again. She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door, dropping her suitcase to the floor. A tap at the door made her cringe, and she sank down on the dresser stool.

Steven called out. "Let me in. We need to talk about this."

"You're supposed to be working, taking pictures or whatever," she said, her voice rising.

The door opened a crack and Steven's head peeked around the doorframe. "Don't do this." He walked in and his brows hitched up. "This is how I pictured your room. All white and sweet." He swung up his camera and snapped several shots of Grace sitting at the wicker dresser.

Covering her face, she pleaded. "Stop. I look awful."

The camera came down, and he tossed it on the bed. "I think you look beautiful. I see where you get your looks. Your mother's an attractive woman."

Grace walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. She picked up a toss pillow and hugged it to her stomach, her fingers pulling at the stringy fringe. She didn't trust her instincts when it came to her choices in men. Her disastrous relationship with Don proved she had a lousy track record. Tension sizzled in the air and warned her to tread with caution. Steven appeared to be a player, a man who enjoyed the conquest. "Please, go away."

Steven remained standing, his height a distraction. "Is John your boyfriend? The one you told me about."

"I don't have, well, sort of..." Stumbling over the lie, she felt like a real amateur. "He's someone I knew in high school."

"So, it's a date."

"Yes, I guess you can call it that."

"And you don't have a boyfriend. That was a lie."

"Yes, yes, a lie. You're not my type. I like you, but as a..."

"Ouch, don't say it," and he flinched. "No guy likes to hear the word ‘friend'. Not when they're attracted to the girl."

"It's the truth."

"Why should I believe you, when all you've been doing is lying to me?"

Grace had no answer. She picked up his camera, looked through the lens, and brought Steven into focus. A pensive face stared back at her through the viewfinder, and she took the shot. His face scrunched up in disgust.

"So, you don't like having your picture taken," she said.

Grabbing the camera from her hand, he slung the strap over his shoulder. "No photographer likes their picture taken. That's why we're behind the lens."

Steven kissed her, and this time held her in his grasp. She struggled to escape his arms, and he sucked in her lower lip and playfully teased her mouth. Oh yes, she wanted him, the attraction real, but the way she viewed it--he'd liked her for a good time. Tired of dating losers and good-time guys, she gave him a gentle shove.

"Don't push me away," he said.

"You're wasting my time."

"Sometimes you need to see where things go. Let things unfold as they will."

"This is from a guy with a shelf full of condoms in his bathroom."

"Hey, it's the same as buying ten bottles of aspirin because they're on sale. Not because you need them."

"So you weren't expecting a long line to your bed."

"I'm flattered you think me capable of such a feat. But believe me, I have no such line to my bed."

Grace walked over to the window, the muddy Sacramento River in view, meandering towards the San Francisco Bay. From the levee, a weathered redwood dock jutted across the water. Her father had it built years ago. It was on this dock where he taught her to fish, and where she'd learned the names of the migratory birds. She'd played along the levees all her life, and dreamed of her children playing among the stark beauty of the delta.

Steven came up to her side and picked up a rock on the windowsill. "Do you collect these?" He referred to the smooth dark stones lined up on the windowsill.

"I like their permanence, their smooth surface."

"I envy you, living in one place all your life."

"Where's your family?"

"It's just me and Rose."

"Rose?"

"My bobe, ah, grandmother."

"What about your parents?"

"My dad died when I was young. I don't see my mother very often. She doesn't live around here."

His fingers grazed her arm. Grace backed away for he stood too close, and his physical presence too distracting.

"Go out with me. Forget John."

"I made up a list of what I'm looking for in a guy. You fulfill none of the requirements."

"You've got to be kidding!" He doubled over from laughter, tears glistening in his eyes.

Wiping them away with the back of his hand, he stared at her and she clenched her hands in irritation.

"I'd like to see this list of yours," he said.

"Go ahead, laugh, but I'm serious. I'm very successful in business, so why not love."

"Love's messy. If you think you can rationalize love, you're crazier than I thought." Steven sat on the bed and crossed his leg over his thigh. "I want to hear this list of yours."

"You'll just make fun of me."

"Go on, I'm waiting. I promise not to laugh."

Grace twirled a strand of her hair and shoved it behind her ear. He looked sincere, but his quirky mouth gave away his amusement. Irritated, she cared less what he thought. Let him laugh. Maybe if she told him what qualities were on her list, he'd realize he'd never live up to her expectations and he'd go away. "I only date blonds. All dark-haired men I've dated are jerks."

Steven touched his hair and frowned. "You're leaving out half of the male population."

"Also, I'm through with artists of any type. I've known many, and they're self-centered, bi or gay."

"Hey, I'm not bi or gay, and I'm not self-centered."

"Oh, really. You came here thinking you'd get me into your bed by crooking your little finger. I call that self-centered."

Steven lowered his head and picked up his camera. He toyed with the lens, twisting it on and off. "Your list sucks."

Satisfied she was getting through to him, she continued. "You wanted to know. And, there's more--"

"I've heard enough." He stood. "Look, you went home with me the other night because you wanted to get laid, so let's be honest."

That did it! Bad enough she went to his apartment, but to sling it in her face went beyond bad taste. Grace stormed towards the door and flung it open. "Get out--just get out!"

"You're a challenge. But I like a challenge." Steven slipped by her, but not before he kissed her cheek. "And, I'm as stubborn as you."

Grace slumped against the door. It took her a few moments to catch her breath, but she had to pull herself together. John would be here at any moment, and he at least had possibilities.

The doorbell broke the silence, refusing to give Grace enough time to change. She rushed down the stairs, furtively glancing at the living room, thankful Steven was busy setting up his equipment. In the shadows of the hallway stood a man, and when he saw her, his mouth swept into a smile. A deep cleft dimpled his chin.

"Hello, Grace. It's been a while. I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. The screen door was unlocked."

John Forester was striking, from his starched button-down shirt to his tasseled loafers. He laughed a deep rumble. "You look nothing like you did in high school. No braces."

Golden hair and tanned skin likened him to a Greek god. She ran her palms down her faded jeans, and felt frumpy in a T-shirt. "Ah, I need to get my purse. Would you like to wait on the porch? The swing's comfortable."

"It'll do. How are your folks?"

"Good. They're being interviewed by The Monitor. I'll explain later."

Grace rushed to her bedroom where she rummaged through her suitcase to find the right outfit. Clothes went flying, and she finally settled on a tight sweater with a low v-neck. She brushed out her hair and reapplied her lipstick. Shucking her jeans, she kicked them into the corner, and slipped on a pair of slim black slacks. Taking one last look in the mirror, she felt optimistic. John could be the one, Mr. Right, the type of man Austin would bless with her approval.

Grace took the steps two at a time, and vaulted over the last two steps right into Steven's arms.

"Whoa, you should be careful," he reprimanded, but his eyes twinkled.

Grace thought of Pan, the god of mischief, and she wiggled out of his arms. "You again. You should be doing your job. Aren't you here to take pictures?"

"They're not ready for me. Wow, you've changed your clothes. Sexy. I like you in black." His eyes soaked in her breasts before he scanned the rest of her body, and her skin perspired under his gaze. "So, it's a seduction," he said, and went over to the window and moved back the curtain. "He's not bad looking, but he looks conservative."

"Now you're an expert on my type of man?"

"I'll bet the guy has no clue about art, hats, or how to please you in bed. He's too uptight to be any fun."

Ignoring Grace, Steven walked out to the porch. She followed him, mortified he was shaking John's hand.

"I know Gracie from San Francisco," and before she could stop him, Steven rambled on. "She's a terrific model. The nude shots are especially brilliant. Some of my best work ever. They sell faster than I can print them."

Grace shoved Steven aside and clutched John's arm. "Are you ready to go? I'm starving."

John looked Steven over, and Grace smiled. It had been a while since two men vied for her attention, not that she wanted Steven's affection. But he did look hot in his tight jeans compared to John's khakis.

"Nice to meet a friend of Grace," John said and took her hand.

Steven growled before he disappeared inside the house. Thank God he left without causing more trouble.

"I thought we'd go to the Market Café. I heard it was good." John eyes skimmed down her sweater. "Glad you changed. I like this better than your T-shirt. So, is it true about the nude shots?"

"He's a tease."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"God, no! I met him at a gallery opening, and he's here doing a photo shoot for The Monitor. It's a weird coincidence he's here."

"I got the impression he was checking out the competition."

Rare to have two men jealous, Grace took a moment to enjoy it. She knew better than to get her hopes up, because the men she dated always turned out to be jerks.

How right she was.

After dinner, John drove her home and parked at the gate. The front porch light flickered, and the house stood quiet. Before John could kiss her goodnight, she jerked open the car door, said a hasty goodbye, and skipped up the porch steps. Fumbling with the key, she found the keyhole and pushed the door open, thankful to be safely inside. She leaned against the closed door.

All through dinner John talked about John. The only time he feigned interest in Grace's life was to find out the net worth of her business and her house. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd pulled out his portfolio to compare incomes.

Another failed date, her fifth in the last six months. Another line had to be added to her list of qualities--no button-down shirts and tasseled loafers. She sneaked to her bedroom to avoid her mother's interrogation. It would only bring her disappointment once she found out Grace planned never to see John again.

Grace flipped on the bedroom light, and her hand flew to her mouth to muffle her surprise. On the bed a red long-stemmed rose stood out, a stark contrast to the snow white comforter. The fragrance assaulted her senses, a sensuous perfume only found in garden roses. Steven must have snipped one of her mother's roses. No matter, the gesture melted her heart. She rubbed the velvet petals against her cheek, and for the first time that evening, her reserve about Steven crumbled.

Chapter Three

Keep it under one's hat: as a secret or in confidence.

Out of several women Steven dated, one remained a friend. They met from time to time to discuss their latest flings or lack of, and to seek each other's advice. This afternoon, she called to tell him good news, refusing to tell him over the phone. So they agreed to meet at Steven's favorite coffeehouse and bakery.

Steven walked inside the North Beach bakery and the fragrant smell of pastries made his mouth water. He spied his friend sitting in a booth by the window. Mina Sato sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, spread out lengthwise on the seat. The minuscule skirt rode up her thighs revealing toned legs shaped by years of dancing, a daring crushed velvet hat tilted seductively on her silky mane of hair.

"Let me buy you coffee," Steven said.

"Cappuccino with a sprinkle of chocolate and vanilla. Oh, add a shot of hazelnut." Mina grinned, her mouth glossed with russet lipstick.

"Nothing is simple with you."

"Come on, you know you're stuck with me. Now hurry. I've got to be at the theater early."

Steven walked up to the counter. The owner greeted him in rapid fire Italian. A wiry woman, she flitted from one end of the counter to the other, like a bird foraging for seeds. Chocolate stained her white apron but a person could eat off the floor.

Rows of pastries on glass shelves enticed him, a temptation for a man with a sweet tooth. He touched his stomach in anticipation. "Mrs. Caravaggio, how are the kids?"

"Take my advice, don't have any. All you'll ever do is worry. Carla, my baby, she's living with her boyfriend. Kids believe in living together without considering marriage. Next she'll be telling me she's pregnant. And he isn't even Catholic. A German with no religion."

Steven sympathized with the German boyfriend. Marie, his ex,-girlfriend, had committed the ultimate sin when she dated a Jew, and the worst of it, a poor one.

"At least she has someone to cherish," he said.

"Poor boy, you're a romantic. So, you're seeing that attractive girl over there." She glanced at Mina.

"She's a friend."

"A handsome boy like you and no girlfriend." Deftly, she folded a pink pastry box in anticipation of his order.

"I'll take a canoli for here, and two to go." And he ordered the cappuccino and an espresso for himself.

Steven returned to the booth balancing the drinks, a canoli, and a small box tied with string. He set the box next to his plate.

Mina eyed the canoli. "How can you eat that and stay so thin?"

"Genes. Everyone in my family is skinny." Steven dug into the pastry, licking the cream off the tines. "Look, instead of salivating over my dessert, I'll buy you one."

"Better not. I swear if I gain an ounce I'll be sent back to the chorus line. I've worked too hard for this role to give it up now."

Mina stole a bite of canoli before he could playfully stab her hand with his fork. He growled, "Hey, I said I'd buy you one."

"You need to learn to share."

"So why the phone call?"

"I met a guy."

"Wow, give the girl a medal."

"Let me finish. I have exactly forty minutes. This is about you, not me. I'm doing you a favor if you'd listen."

Mina drummed her manicured nails on the table top. The tapping noise sent an irritating shiver down Steven's spine. He slapped down Mina's fingers. "Cut the percussions. I'm listening."

"His name is Robert Sanders and he owns a gallery in New York, and is opening one here, in SoMa. He wants you to open his show."

"You slept with THE Robert Sanders?" Steven's awed voice carried across the bakery. "I'd say your taste is improving."

"For the record, I didn't sleep with him. He's married. I slept with his cousin, but that's a humiliating tale for another day."

Steven's forehead creased. Always careful when it came to dating men, Mina preferred to spend her evenings at the theater or home alone, reading a good book or watching a favorite movie. Rarely did she go out, and their affair ended when Steven realized she'd always choose the theater over him. And, there was Marie to consider, never fully letting go of his love for her.

Mina went on. "You should see his penthouse. It's like a museum."

"The cousin's?"

"No, Sanders's."

"Well, get on with it, and tell him to call me."

"Ah, there's a slight problem. I don't have his phone number. I only know where he lives. And I'm not going over there. Not even for your career."

This could be his breakthrough. With Robert Sanders's representation, he'd reach a new level of success. "Come on, please. All you have to do is go to his place, ring his doorbell and give him my number. Easy."

"You can do it. I'll tell you where he lives."

"I'd look too desperate." He preferred to be approach by a dealer, but he needed the money, his mother's bills piling up higher than Mt. McKinley. And, to be represented by Robert Sanders, well, that improved his chances of making it. But to go to Sanders's door like a beggar, he couldn't do it. Not when Mina would be a sure bet to get Sanders's attention.

Mina frowned. "You are desperate. Look at the dump you live in."

"It works for me. Come on, be a friend."

"All right, but only this one time. Then it's up to you. You need to be more accessible."

"I like my anonymity." Steven let his work speak for itself, and sold through client referrals. He detested self-serving promotions, websites and critics' tedious reviews of his work.

"Sorry I didn't make it to your opening the other night," she said.

"Nothing much happened." Only that he met an intriguing girl who wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, he said, "Marie sent me another letter. This is the third one in two months. She wants me to visit."

"Tell me you're tearing them up."

Taken aback, he slumped down in his seat. He'd loved Marie, and he'd wanted to marry her, but she had a drug problem. Eventually she dumped him for a stunt man who supplied her with drugs and excitement. "I've written back. Just to tell her I'm doing well. She claims she's clean."

"I don't believe her. She's a witch. Watch yourself. She likes her men exciting, who take risks. Remember why she left you. For a behemoth stunt man. I'm afraid you're not her type of guy."

"She left him," he said, smugly. "I guess too many trips to the emergency room. Anyway, I take risks as much as the next guy."

A snort hissed between Mina's teeth. "That's why you hole yourself up in your darkroom and hide behind the camera lens. The last time you had a girlfriend for more than a day was with me. Forget about her, and move on." Mina propped her elbows on the table. "You know I give it to you straight. You want my advice, Marie's bad news. She's an addict who's slept with more guys than Heidi Fleiss."

And Mina did give it to him straight. Steven appreciated the truth even if it needled him. Marie was all passion. The thrill of defying her parents, her lovers, testing the boundaries of every relationship. But people change.

"I did meet a woman in red at my opening." He smiled and thought of Grace in her skimpy red dress and sexy hat. He'd left her the rose in hopes she'd seek him out.

"One of your groupies? Those women scare me. With their pale faces and dark lips."

Steven's mouth tweaked up. "Grace O'Shaughnessy. She's a hat maker and the opposite of an art groupie."

Mina pulled down the hem of her skirt. Too engrossed in his thoughts about Grace, Steven failed to notice the disturbance in Mina's eyes, the slight frown at the mention of Grace's name. "She's a challenge," he stated. "This makes for a fun pursuit."

"You're a pig. You're going to chase her, then once you have her, drop her so fast she won't know what hit her."

Steven drank the last of his cold espresso and frowned. A bitter taste coated his tongue. "I like Gracie. She's different, creative and sweet, and she makes hats."

"But she'll get hurt."

"Why the concern over someone you don't know?"

Mina stared out the window. "I'm speaking for all the women in the world dumped by men afraid of commitment."

"She's different." His voice caught and he scraped the crumbs on his plate with his fork. "There something about her..." After his photo shoot, he'd gone to her room to leave the rose. The room smelled of her perfume and he'd sat on the bed and let it wash over him.

"It sounds like she's gotten to you?"

"Maybe, no, but..." Now he sounded like an idiot. Thinking back to the weekend, he detested that jock, what's his name, with his perfect hair and preppy clothes. He'd looked up Grace on the Internet, and sure enough her business had a website and phone number. He thought of calling her but held back, hoping she'd come to his place. After all, he'd left her the rose.

Mina reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "It's fine to have feelings for another woman besides Marie."

"It's been a long time. It scares me."

Consulting her wristwatch, Mina shot up from her chair. "I have to run."

"Hey, wait. I snagged two tickets to the Impressionist exhibit at the Legion. It's for Tuesday afternoon."

"Can't make it." An odd smile swept across her face, and she held out her hand. "Say, look, do you have that ticket on you? I've changed my mind. I'll meet you inside."

"Great, two o'clock then." Steven removed a ticket from his shirt pocket and Mina snatched it from his hand.

He turned to look out the window. Pedestrians hurried by. He focused on a couple holding hands. A world in love and Steven rubbed his jaw. He thought of Marie, and his mother, and the confusion women caused in him.

Steven reached for Mina's hand before she flew out the door. "You're going to talk to Sanders, right?"

Mina kissed the top of his head. "Sure, for you I'll prostitute myself." She eyed the pastry box. "You're going to eat all those?"

"No, I'm going to share. They're for Rose." The only woman he allowed into his heart.

"You're a good boy, you know." She ruffled his hair. "Say hi to Rose for me."

Mina pecked him on the cheek, leaving a lipstick mark, and sprinted out the door.

Steven decided to walk to Rose's apartment, an art deco building shadowed under Coit Tower. He let himself into the lobby and took the two flights of stairs to his grandmother's apartment. As he walked into the entry hall, he smelled French roast from the kitchen, and the familiar lemon potpourri kept in a brass bowl by the front door. The familiarity settled over him and he relaxed.

Steven set the pastry box on the coffee table. A jarring mechanical noise echoed down the hallway, and he followed the sound to Rose's office. She huffed on the treadmill, a tiny stick bundled in a fuchsia-colored sweat outfit, her stiff hair pulled back by a chartreuse scarf.

Steven yelled above the hum of the motor. "I brought you a treat. You'd better get off that contraption." He frowned at her. "I'll be in the kitchen."

After a few minutes, Rose walked into the kitchen, drying her face with a towel. "How's my favorite grandson?" She raised herself on her toes to peck him on the cheek.

"Your only grandson."

"I still love you, honey."

Steven smiled and let her pat his shoulder. "Let's go sit in the living room. I've brought a treat."

Steven handed Rose the plates and forks, and poured the coffee into two mugs. He carried the coffee into the living room and placed the mugs on the coffee table, then unwound the string on the box. They sat in their usual arrangement, Rose in her favorite damask chair, and Steven sitting across from her on the matching sofa.

"You know I can't resist Mrs. Caravaggio's pastries." He scooped a canoli onto the plate, and handed it to Rose.

"Want me to get fat?" But she attacked the pastry eagerly.

"You need fattening up. You're too thin. Should you be on a treadmill? Dr. Rosen isn't too keen on you straining yourself."

"He's a real shmendrik. I'm fine. He's upset because he can't charge more money." Rose waved the fork at Steven. "It's a Saturday night. You should be out with a girl."

"You're my favorite girl. I wanted you to be my date for my opening." It would have saved him making a fool of himself with Grace.

Rose stared at her grandson, the tip of her tongue resting on her upper lip. A tender smile lit up her face. "It's better for you to go alone, so you can meet someone."

Steven finished the last bite of canoli and sank back into the chenille pillows. Rose looked him over, her astute eyes focused on his face.

He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. "I did meet someone. Her name's Grace, but I like to call her Gracie. You'd like her. She's sweet as saccharine."

Rose scratched the armrest with her fingernail. "Then I'd like to meet her."

"She's from Courtland. I'll bet you've never heard of it."

"The pear capital of the world."

"I can't fool you," he chuckled, his grandmother a trivia junkie. "I did a photo shoot at her parent's house, a rambling farmhouse. The wraparound porch, the whole works, with the orchards and the river as a backdrop. The photographs turned out better than I expected." He sighed. "She had a childhood so different from mine. She's kind." This made her vulnerable in Steven's eyes, and an overwhelming need to protect Grace came over him.

Rose leaned forward, her eyes penetrating. "The way you talk, she's more than a good time."

Steven felt his heart burn at the vision of Grace naked under his sheets. He refused to go into details with his bobe, even though Rose Golden wrote books steamier than any sex life he'd ever experienced. Steven punched the pillow into the backrest. He crossed his leg over his thigh. "Look, let's talk about something else."

Rose reached for the newspaper lay folded on the side of the chair. "I read your review. It says you're the next great wonder of the photographic world."

"I read it, and you're exaggerating. Critics are frustrated artists and half the time they write nonsense. I'll be forgotten in the morning."

"Someday my portrait will be worth a fortune. All my friends are jealous I have such a talented grandson." Rose referred to the portrait above the fireplace, a large formatted black and white.

"Don't plan to retire on it."

"I'd never sell it," she sniffed.

"Let's rent a beach house in Santa Cruz," he said, suddenly having the urge to get out of the city. At the beach he could relax and regenerate his creativity. "I'll take pictures, and you can write. It's a great time to go. No tourists."

"What's wrong, honey?"

"I don't see how going to the beach constitutes something's wrong."

She looked doubtful.

For Steven, Santa Cruz stirred up fluid memories of happiness. Rose sitting under the green-striped umbrella with a straw hat and a writing tablet in her lap, the sea air brisk--and Grace rose in his vision, clear as if she stood in this room. Clearing his throat, he reached for his coffee. He had to get a grip on his heart.

"Forget it," he snapped.

"You can run away, but your problems will keep popping up until you deal with them."

"I'm restless, that's all. Have you heard from Mother?"

"She called a few days ago. She sounded lucid. A good day. We talked for a while and she asked about you. I told her about your show. She sounded proud."

"Well, give her a gold star for thinking of me."

"Now, be respectful."

Steven gathered the plates, but Rose placed her hand on his arm. "We'll clean up later. You need to see her and deal with this anger you carry inside."

"I have nothing to say to her. And frankly, why should you care about her, the way she treats you?"

"How I deal with my daughter is my concern. I've accepted her illness. She has a heart, like the rest of us. She's sorry for what she's become. It's the way it is and you need to accept this."

The canoli lay like a dead weight in Steven's stomach. He walked over to the mantle, and picked up a gold frame. Studying the black and white photograph, it depicted a time before he'd lost everything. A delicately boned man with thick wavy hair sat on a bench, and held the hand of a boy. Five-year old Steven sat erect in a pin striped suit, his mother on one side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes clear, before the strains of her illness stamped its mark on her face.

"She hates me."

"Leah loves you. You live your life behind your camera. The one time you opened up, you picked a foolish girl."

He pivoted around ready to defend Marie. "How dare you!" She'd made him feel alive and brimming with talent. She did love him once, and maybe, still, if the letters were any indication of her feelings.

Rose walked up and placed her hand on his shoulder. "You deserve so much, honey, so much. Someone who understands you. Someone who can give you a place to call home."

His anger deflated and he hugged Rose, the lightness of her reminding him of Grace. "I'm sorry. Let's talk about something more pleasant."

"Help me clean up," she said.

"And you can tell me about the new book you're writing."

Steven dried the dishes while they talked about romance novels. He teased Rose about writing real literature and she teased back, telling him to take real pictures. Steven declined her offer of money, claiming a windfall from selling his photographs during his exhibit. He escaped out the door without having to mention again the honey-haired girl who captured his heart faster than the shutter speed of his lens.

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