ce a week to make sure I haven't succumbed to some lecherous French
comte. I only wish." When Emma didn't smile, she tilted her head. "You
think he'll disapprove?"
"I don't know." Restless, she moved her shoulders.
"Emma, if it's serious between you and Drew, he's going to find out
sooner or later."
"I know. I'm just hoping it'll be later."
IT WASN'T MUCH LATER.
Emma enjoyed the morning sun on the terrace of her room in Rome. Though
it was late for breakfast, she was still in her robe, her coffee growing
cold, as she checked over her current batch of prints. In the back of
her mind she was assessing them not only for Pete but for her own idea
for a book.
Smiling, she took out her favorite of Drew. She'd taken it in the leafy
shade of the Bois de Boulogne. Only moments after she'd taken the
picture, he'd kissed her. And told her he loved her.
He loved her. Closing her eyes, she reached her arms up to the sky. She
had hoped, and she had wished, but she'd had no idea how happy she could
be until he'd said the words. Now that he had, she could begin to dream
what it would be like to be with him always, to make love with him, to
be married to him, to make a home and raise a family.
She hadn't realized how badly she wanted that. A man who loved her, a
home of her own, children. They could be happy, so happy.
Who understood the life and problems of a musician more than a woman who
had been raised by one? She could comfort and support him in his work.
And he would do the same for her.
After the tour, she thought. After the tour they could begin to make
plans.
The knock on the door broke into her thoughts. She hoped it would be
Drew, come to share breakfast with her as he had once or twice. Her
smile of welcome faltered only slightly when she saw her father.
"Dad. I'm surprised to see you out of your room before noon."
"Maybe I'm too predictable." With a newspaper folded in his hand, he
stepped into the room. He glanced first at the bed, then at his
daughter. "Are you alone?"
"Yes." She studied him with a puzzled frown. "Why? Is something
wrong?"
"You tell me." He slapped the paper into her hand. She had to unfold
it, then turn it right side up. But the picture was clear enough. The
picture of her and Drew. It wasn't necessary to read Italian to get the
drift. They were locked in each other's arms, her face tilted up to
his, her eyes slumberous and dreamy as a woman's became when she'd been
kissed by her laver.
She couldn't tell where it had been taken. It didn't matter where. What
mattered was that someone had intruded on a very private moment, then
had splashed that intimacy in newsprint.
Emma tossed the paper across the room, then stalked to the balcony. She
needed air. "Damn them," she muttered, knocking her fist lightly
against the rail. "Why can't they leave us alone?"
"How long have you been seeing him, Emma?"