She managed to swallow the tears. It relieved her, made it possible for her to steady her breathing and open her eyes. “Maybe not, but there’s usually a reason. I’d like to hear it.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. They lay close and tense, not quite touching. There were dozens of reasons he could give her—lack of sleep, overwork, the anxiety over the possible failure of his flight. They would all be accurate, to a point. But they wouldn’t be the truth. Libby, he knew, set great store by honesty.

“I care for you,” he said slowly. “It isn’t easy knowing I won’t see you again. I realize we both have our own lives,” he added before she could speak. “Our own place. Maybe we’re both doing what has to be done, but I don’t like the idea that it’s easy for you.”

“It isn’t.”

He knew it was selfish, but it relieved him to hear it. Reaching over, he linked his hand with hers. “I’m jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of the men you’ll meet, the ones you’ll love. The one’s who’ll love you.”

“But—”

“No, don’t say anything. Let me get it all out and over with. It doesn’t seem to matter that I know it’s wrong, intellectually. It’s a gut reaction, Libby, and I’m used to going with them. Every time I imagine another man touching you the way I’ve touched you, seeing you the way I’ve seen you, I go a little crazy.”

“And that’s why you’ve been angry with me?” She turned her head to study his profile. “Over my imagined future affairs?”

“I guess you’ve got a right to make me sound like an idiot.”

“I’m not trying to.”

He moved his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “I can even see him. He’s about six-four and built like one of those Greek gods.”

“Adonis,” she suggested, smiling. “He gets my vote.”

“Shut up.” But she noted that his lips curved slightly. “He’s got blond hair, streaked, kind of windswept, and this strong, rock-hard jaw with one of those clefts in it.”

“Like Kirk Douglas?”

He shot her a suspicious look. “You know a guy like this?”

“Only by reputation.” Because she sensed that the storm was over, she kissed Cal’s shoulder.

“Anyway, he’s got brains, too, which is another reason I really hate him. He’s a doctor, not medical but philosophy. He can discuss the traditional mating habits of obscure tribes with you for hours. And he plays piano.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“He’s rich,” Cal went on, almost viciously. “A 9.2 credit rating. He takes you to Paris and makes love to you in a room overlooking the Seine. Then he gives you a diamond as big as a fist.”