having Marianne to talk to, and called herself petty. It irritated her
to see the glow of lovemaking on Marianne's face. And she called
herself spiteful.
But with all that aside, Emma couldn't make herself comfortable with
Marianne's romance. He was a gorgeous, exciting, and talented man.
There was no denying that, especially as she studied the drying
prints. She had agreed, with Marianne's urging, to photograph
Blackpool. He had been a perfect gentleman, Emma remembered. At ease,
amusing, flattering-in the platonic manner suited to her roommate's
lover.
Lover. With a wistful little sigh, Emma frowned at the prints. Perhaps
that was the crux of it. She and Marianne had shared everything -every
thought, every deed, every dream, for over ten years. This was
something they couldn't share, and Marianne's bubbling happiness was a
rub-a constant reminder of something Emma had never experienced.
That was something to be ashamed of, she thought. She could justify her
feelings day in and day out. Blackpool was too smooth, he was too
experienced, he was too fond of clubs and women. His eyes were too dark
when they rested on her-and too cocky when they rested on Marianne. But
the truth was, she was desperately envious of Marianne.
It didn't matter that she didn't like him, Emma told herself. It didn't
matter that Johnno didn't like him and continually made snide comments
about Blackpool's penchant for leather pants and silver chains. What
mattered was that Marianne was in love.
She switched on the light, arching her back. Spending the best part of
the day developing had given her a ravenous appetite. She hoped Runyun
and the contact she'd made at Rolling Stone would approve of the shots
she'd taken of Devastation in the recording studio.
She was scrounging in the refrigerator for something more interesting
than molding bologna when she heard the elevator open. "I hope you
bought supplies," she called out. "We're getting down to science
projects in here."
"Sorry."
Emma whipped around at Blackpool's voice. "I thought you were
Marianne."
"No. She gave me a key." He smiled easily, holding it up before tucking
it into his jeans. "I'd have stopped by the deli if I'd known I'd find
a hungry woman."
"Marianne's at class." Emma checked her watch. "She should be back
soon."
"I've got time." He swung into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder.
Emma shifted away automatically. "Pathetic," he decided, but helped
himself to the imported beer Mariannd kept stocked for him. There was a
brass opener screwed into the wall. He popped the top, then studied
her.
She'd scooped her hair on top of her head to keep it out of the way
while she worked. At his scrutiny, she became aware that her jeans were
too tight and her T-shirt too big. She dragged at it as it slipped off
one shoulder.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you anything else."