After it was over, he caressed her as if she were small and delicate. He kissed her forehead, the corners of her eyes, the tip of her nose. Kissed her as if he were memorizing her face.

She dipped her thumb into the hollow beneath his collarbone, pressed her lips to his chest.

He stroked her shoulder, buried his face in her hair. Gradually, she felt him tensing again, and she trailed her fingers over his flat stomach to encourage him.

His voice was the barest whisper. “I have something I need to tell you.”

He sounded so grave, and time had become her enemy. She let her fingers move lower. “Later.”

His breath caught as she touched him. He closed his palm over her wandering hand. “It has to be now. I’ve already put it off too long.”

“The girls will be back soon. One last time.”

He rolled on his side so that he was facing her. His mood was so sober that she felt her first trickle of foreboding.

“I should have told you last night—even before—but I kept chickening out. You’re not going to like it.”

Her sexual lassitude disappeared. She waited, and when he hesitated, she began to feel sick. “You’re married.”

“No!” His eyes flared with outrage. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

Limp with relief, she sank back onto the pillow. Nothing he could tell her would be as bad as that.

“Nealy, I don’t work in a steel mill.”

She turned her head, gazed up at him. He looked so upset. So serious. She wanted to comfort him, tell him that whatever was bothering him didn’t matter.

“I’m a journalist.”

Her world tilted on its axis.

“I tried to tell you at the restaurant last night, but I was selfish. I wanted another night together.”

A long silent scream built inside her.

He began talking. Explaining. “. . . working in L.A. . . . tabloid television . . . hated my job . . .”

She was flying apart.

“. . . looking for a big story so I could hold my head up again, but—”

“A big story?” His words finally penetrated.

“I’d sold out, Nealy. And I discovered the hard way that money doesn’t mean anything if you don’t respect yourself.”

Her voice seemed to be coming from a faraway place. “That’s what I am? Your big story? Your ticket to self-respect?”

“No! Please don’t look at me like that.”

This was too cruel. Her most private moments hadn’t been private at all. She’d been sleeping with the enemy.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“You won’t write about me?”

His hesitation lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. She sprang from the bed, reached for her clothes. “I’m leaving as soon as I tell Lucy good-bye.”

“Wait. Let me explain.”