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  When Babs wandered on to another painting, Dean drifted along with her, managing to appear interested even though he wasn't. The work was some surrealist thing, an incongruous mixture of colors and images. R.D. joined them, with the MacDonnells in tow.

  "Amazing work, isn't it?" Beth Ann remarked, studying the painting as if mesmerized. "So full of power and energy, don't you think?"

  Dean nodded and wished he had a drink.

  "I think"—Babs paused as she contemplated the painting a little longer—"he must have really liked red."

  For an instant, there was absolute silence. Then R.D. burst out laughing. "Babs, you're just too precious for words," he declared, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I swear, those are the first honest words I've heard tonight. Come on." He hooked a big arm around her small shoulders and herded her toward another painting on the other side of the room. "You've got to see this one over here."

  A slightly embarrassed Beth Ann trailed after them dragging Kyle along with her, but Dean stayed behind and pretended to study the painting on the wall. Right now he wasn't in the mood for his father's company.

  "Do you like it?"

  Dean glanced sideways at the woman who had come up on his right. He was faintly surprised to discover he didn't know her. That in itself was a novelty, but so was the woman. She wasn't dressed like Babs or any of her friends. Instead she wore a plain black sheath and absolutely no jewelry. Her dark hair was lifted back from her face, then allowed to fall in a thick cascade onto her back—a style that didn't remotely resemble the curls of Babs's Italian cut.

  As unusual as the woman's appearance was, Dean wasn't interested in making idle conversation with a stranger. "I find the painting very interesting," he said and started to move on.

  "Then you don't like it," she stated flatly.

  "I didn't say that." Dean frowned.

  "No," she agreed. "You said it was 'very interesting.' That's what everybody says when they don't really like something."

  "In this case, it isn't true. I happen to like surrealism," he replied, mildly irritated by the hint of censure in her voice, and tired of others believing that they knew what he liked or wanted.

  "This isn't true surrealism, not like Dali." She continued to study the painting, her unusually thick eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown. "It's too coherent for that. This is more like a picture puzzle."

  She spoke with such certainty and authority that Dean found himself drawn in by it. "What makes you say that?"

  "Because. . ." And she went on to explain the symbolic use of numerals to represent mankind and the human intellect set against the blazing red of the sun, the vivid green of the land, and the swirling blue of water, creating an allegory of man and his relationship with nature.

  Dean followed only part of it. Somewhere along the way, he became fascinated by her intensity—an intensity that was both serious and passionate. It was there in her gray eyes, the dark gray of the clouds on the leading edge of a thunderstorm, clouds shot with lightning and jet black in the center. It seemed perfectly natural to shift his attention from her eyes to her mouth. She had soft, full lips, the lower one pouting in its roundness—blatantly sensuous, not at all dainty like the sweetheart shape of Babs's. Dean started wondering what they would look like if she smiled.

  "Do you work here at the museum?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You spoke so knowledgeably that I thought . . ." He shrugged off the rest of it.

  "I've studied art extensively and spent two years in Europe going from museum to museum, poring over the works of the old masters."

  "Are you a collector then?" Although he had never been good at judging a woman's age, she seemed young—young for an art collector, anyway. Dean doubted that she was any older than he was.

  "No." She looked at him with a kind of amused tolerance. "I'm an artist."

  "You are. Don't tell me this is one of your paintings." Dean stared at the oil she had lectured about so intelligently only minutes ago.

  "No." She smiled for the first time—just a curving of the mouth, her lips together. "My style is much more turbulent, more emotional, not landscapes of the mind like his." As she gestured at the painting, Dean noticed her hands, the long fingers and the short nails. The hands of an artist, graceful and blunt.

  "What's your name? I have the uncomfortable feeling that I'm going to be embarrassed when I find out who you are."

  "I doubt it." Again there was that little smile. "I'm what is known as a struggling artist. I don't think the name Caroline Farr is going to mean anything to you. Maybe someday, but not now."

  "I'm Dean Lawson." As he formally shook hands with her, Dean noticed the strength of her fingers and the firmness of her grip. He also noticed that his name didn't mean a thing to her. More than that, she didn't seem all that impressed by him. It pricked his ego just a little bit. Between his looks and his name, Dean had never had any problems attracting women, but Caroline Farr was obviously different. "I'd like to see some of your paintings sometime."

  "I should warn you they're not surrealistic."

  "My wife will be glad to hear that. She doesn't care for it at all.”

  At that point their conversation returned to a discussion of art, and the inability of many to appreciate its different forms and styles. More precisely, Caroline talked and Dean agreed.

  "Your accent. . ." Dean tried to place it and failed. "You're from somewhere in the East, aren't you?"

  "Connecticut."

  "Are you just visiting here in Houston?"

  "Not really. Right now I'm staying at a friend's summer house in Galveston." When she said that, Dean automatically began to scan the milling guests, trying to remember which one had a beach house on Galveston Island. "It doesn't belong to anyone here."

  "Was I that transparent?" Dean smiled.

  "Yes."

  "Sorry. But, since you're not from here, you're obviously someone's guest."

  "Why?"

  "Because this affair tonight is by invitation. The collection doesn't go on public display until tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow I'll be in Galveston. I wanted to see it tonight."

  "My God." Unconsciously Dean lowered his voice. "You mean you crashed this? You just walked in?" He hovered between incredulity and stunned admiration of her audacity.

  "Of course." She was very matter of fact about it and indifferent almost to the point of arrogance. "This isn't someone's home. It's a public museum. Why should it be open to one—privileged—class of people and not to all?"

  "That's a good point." He tried not to smile. "However, most if not all of these guests are patrons of the museum."

  "Because they have donated works of art or money, does that entitle them to special treatment?" she countered in a challenging tone.

  "They think so."

  "I don't."

  "Obviously." Dean had never met anyone like her before.

  He'd heard that artists were a proud, temperamental breed. Wealth and status supposedly meant nothing to them. Dean found that hard to believe, even though this Caroline Farr seemed to feel that way. "You know, I really would like to see some of your paintings."

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Most afternoons you can find me on the west end of the beach."

  Someone came up to speak to him. When Dean turned back, she was gone. He was surprised to find that he wanted her still to be there—that he wanted to talk to her and learn more about her. He was intrigued by her seriousness and her passion, the intensity that emanated from inside her and charged the air around her. He caught sight of her across the room, tall, statuesque, dramatic in black. He wanted to go over there to her, but he didn't. He'd already been seen talking at length with her. It wouldn't look right if he sought her out again. Dean smiled faintly as the thought occurred to him that Caroline Farr would probably mock such a conventional attitude. She wasn't bound by the rules that restrained him. He wondered what it would be like to feel free to say and do what he wanted,
without worrying about whether he was living up to someone else's expectations: his father's, his wife's, or his friends'.

  A seagull swooped low in front of his car as Dean drove along the deserted beach, the window rolled down to admit the stiff breeze blowing in from the Gulf. His jacket and tie lay over the back of the passenger seat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and the collar unbuttoned. He felt like a kid playing hooky for the first time—a little guilty because he hadn't returned to the office or gone home after the meeting, and a little excited because he was doing something he shouldn't.

  But the farther he drove on the sideline's hard-packed sand, the more his excitement faded. For the last half-mile, he hadn't seen a single soul, not even a surf fisherman, She had told him he could find her here "most afternoons," but obviously not this one. Admittedly it was late, Dean thought as he squinted into the glare of the sun hovering low in the western sky. He wondered if maybe it was just as well that Caroline wasn't here. He'd be better off if he forgot all about her. Of course, he'd tried that, but he just hadn't been able to get her off his mind these last four days.

  More than once, Dean had questioned why, out of all the women he knew, he was constantly thinking about Caroline. Her looks were striking, but he could name any number of women who were more beautiful. And his marriage was basically a happy one. Sure, there were times when he wished he could talk to Babs about some of the things that troubled him, but that didn't change the way he felt toward his wife. That was just silly, lovable Babs, and he really didn't want her any other way.

  As he thought about Babs, Dean realized that he had no business being out here. He was about to turn the car around, when he saw Caroline about fifty yards ahead on the edge of the sand dunes. In that second he forgot everything: vows, loyalty, and convention. It was all gone, lost in the excitement of seeing her again.

  Intent on the canvas propped on her easel, Caroline didn't even look up when he stopped the car a few yards away and climbed out. Dean walked over to her slowly, taking advantage of the chance to gaze at her unobserved.

  Her hair was caught up in a ponytail secured with a string of red yarn, but the strong sea breeze had tugged several long, dark strands loose and now lashed them across her face—a face that was a study of concentration, her gray eyes narrowed, flicking their glance sharply from the canvas to the scene she was trying to capture, then back again, her dark eyebrows drawn together, and the line of her mouth pulled taut in determination, her full lips pressed firmly together. There was a paint smudge on her cheek, and another on the point of her chin.

  More paint was splattered on the man's plaid shirt she wore with the tails tied in a knot at her waist. The looseness of the shirt failed to hide the outline of her breasts, thanks to the breeze that shaped the cotton material to her body. A pair of snug capri pants was stretched over her full hips and emphasized her long, slender legs. She was barefoot, her toes half buried in the sand. Somehow Dean had guessed she would have beautiful feet.

  "The artist at work," he said.

  "I'll be finished here in just a. . . few. . . short. . . minutes." Each pause was filled with decisive strokes of the brush.

  "Do you mind if I look?"

  "Not at all," she replied, shrugging her indifference but not taking her concentration off the painting except to dab her brush in more paint from the palette she held in her left hand.

  Dean circled around to stand behind her left shoulder. Flames radiated from the canvas, a core of red-orange spreading to yellow-orange, then gold, and yellow-white to tan. Swirled in amidst them from both sides came shades of light blue and dark green. The fiery turbulence of the painting made such a visual impact that Dean didn't immediately see the image of a late-afternoon seascape with the waves reflecting the long trail of light cast by the setting sun.

  "It's very powerful," he said quietly.

  The Sun and the Sea, she called it as she paused to study it critically. "I like to take subjects that have been painted endlessly by artists and see if they still can move us."

  "I think you've succeeded." Dean didn't pretend to be an expert, but he was impressed with the sensation of intense heat and light that the painting evoked.

  "Maybe. Either way, I'm losing the sunlight effect on the water that I want." Smoothly, efficiently, she began cleaning up and stowing her paints and brushes away. "Care to join me for a drink?"

  "Sure."

  The summer house sat off by itself in a sandy meadow of sea oats. Supported by a network of pilings that protected it from high water, it resembled a large square box with legs. Once the house had sported a coat of sunshine yellow, but long ago the sun had bleached it to a shade of cream.

  During the short drive to the house, Caroline had explained that it belonged to the parents of a friend, a fellow teacher. Caroline, it seemed, was a struggling artist rather than a starving one, who supported herself by teaching art classes in elementary school. She devoted all of her summer vacation to her own artwork.

  "What made you pick Galveston?" Dean took the easel put of the backseat and followed Caroline up the driveway of crushed seashells.

  "It was a place to live rent-free. Truthfully, it was more than that. I'd never stayed on this side of the Gulf Coast before. Just around Sanibel Island on the Florida side." She climbed the flight of wooden stairs to the wide porch that ringed the beach house. From the porch, the shimmer of sunlight reflected on the rolling water of the Gulf could be seen. "I've always been drawn by the sea. As a child I lived in a house only three blocks from the Sound. Maybe that's why I always want to be close to it. It's so. . . primordial. We all come from it. Even the fluids in our bodies have a high saline content. Without salt, we'd all die. So maybe my need is much more primitive than just being used to living near it." As Caroline pulled the screen door open, Dean caught it and held it open for her, then followed her inside.

  The kitchen, dining, and living area was all one big room, starkly finished with the bare essentials of table, chairs, and sofa. The rest of the space had been turned into a temporary art studio. Caroline walked directly to it and propped the partially finished painting on an empty stand.

  "You can set the easel by the door," she said. "There's cold beer and part of a bottle of wine in the refrigerator. Help yourself.

  "What would you like?" Dean hesitated for an instant, then set the easel against the wall by the door and went into the kitchen.

  "I prefer wine. A holdover from my sojourn in France, I suppose."

  After she finished putting her paints and equipment away, she washed the paint from her hands and face in the kitchen sink. But she didn't attempt to freshen up any more than that, neither brushing her windblown hair nor applying new makeup to her clean face. Not that Dean thought either was needed to improve her appearance, but he was slightly taken aback by her lack of vanity. As she sat on the couch next to him, curling one long leg beneath her, Dean silently admired her strong self-confidence.

  They talked, covering a variety of subjects. One drink led to two, and two led to three. In many ways they were so different, coming from totally diverse backgrounds and lifestyles, yet Dean couldn't remember a time when he'd enjoyed a woman's company so much.

  Caroline drank the last of her wine and reached down, setting the glass on the floor. There was no end table. She turned back to face him, sitting sideways on the couch with an elbow propped on the backrest near his head.

  "I wasn't sure I wanted you to come here," she admitted, letting her gaze wander over his face.

  "Why?" He suddenly didn't feel too sure of his ground, not with her.

  "Because I was afraid you were going to be one of those insufferable bores who brags all the time about how much he's worth and what he owns." She smoothed the lock of hair at his temple, then let her fingers trail into his hair. "I'm glad you're not."

  "So am I." Reaching up, Dean cupped his hand over the nape of her neck and slowly drew her face closer.

  The moment was inevitable. It
had been since he met her on the beach. This was what he'd come for, what he wanted. Caroline did as well. He could see it when he looked into the velvety depths of her gray eyes.

  As he kissed her, her lips opened and Dean groaned at the silken feel of her mouth, taking him in, wanting all of him. He felt as if he'd been swept into one of her paintings, fiery-hot and turbulent, his need for her consuming him, primordial as the sea.

  In one sinuous movement, she uncurled her body and turned to lie sideways across his lap, never losing contact with his mouth. Her body was there for him to touch and explore. As his hands roamed over her, cupping a breast, stroking a thigh, curling over a hip, she was all motion beneath them, her soft buttocks rubbing across his stiffening joint in exquisite torture.

  She nuzzled his ear, the darting of her tongue creating more excitement. "I want to undress you, Dean," she whispered. For one split second he was too stunned to react. Jesus God, he thought. He'd heard artists were uninhibited. He tried to imagine Babs saying something like that to him, but even drunk, she would be incapable of it. "I want to see your body."

  Everything from that point on had the quality of a dream: Dean standing motionless while she removed his clothes, piece by piece, the touch of her hands on his naked skin setting off a wildness he had never known, the bright glow that had leaped into her eyes when she saw his erection, and the sound of her low voice telling him there was nothing more beautiful than a man's body. Her own clothes seemed to disappear in the blink of an eye. In that instant, Dean knew there was nothing more beautiful than this woman's body, with its firmly shaped breasts, slender waist, and wide hips made to cradle a man.

  Then he was holding her, loving her, rolling his tongue around her taut nipples while she writhed against him, her hands urging, her body exhorting, her legs twining around to draw him inside. There was no sanity, only hot sensations rocking through him, carrying him to a depth of passion, a stormy rapture.

  Afterward Dean surfaced slowly, knowing he had never been loved nor given of himself so completely. This incredible woman in his arms had reached into his soul and brought out emotions he hadn't known he could feel.