Chapter One

Who would think a single red hair could end a marriage?

Elizabeth rubbed a hand against the throbbing pain behind her left temple and tried to force her attention back to the half-graded term paper in front of her, but it was no use.

The culprit had been an auburn hair actually, glinting in the sun that streamed through the door behind Stuart as he’d set his briefcase and coat on the kitchen counter and leaned to offer Elizabeth’s cheek a perfunctory kiss. That was when she saw it on his lapel, the red, silky remnant of his infidelity.

She closed her eyes and fought down a wave of nausea born of grief and exhaustion. Somewhere out there, Stuart was frolicking with Cecilia Aldorf like a sex-crazed teenager instead of the highly accomplished, forty-five-year-old neurosurgeon he was.

The hair was unquestionably Cecilia’s. No one had tresses, long and wavy and clingy, quite like Stuart’s surgical assistant. Elizabeth’s own hair, cut in a conservative, shoulder-length style, was unarguably brown. Naturally so. Apparently Stuart’s taste ran the gamut of artificial, because the redhead’s breasts were round and perky and as utterly questionable in their authenticity as her hair color.

Months ago Stuart had sworn to end the affair. Anything to save the marriage, he’d said. Elizabeth meant everything to him, he’d said.

Liar. Last night he’d even smelled like his lover; floral and cloying and sexy-sweet. Elizabeth had nearly choked on the scent, half-blinded by the flash of setting sun on the evidence of Stuart’s guilt. A single hair, and he hadn’t bothered to deny her shriek of accusation.

The urge to laugh now bubbled in her throat, followed by an unexpected sob that rose so fiercely, she clapped her hands over her mouth and sat back in the chair, her welling eyes fixed on the beige, concrete-block wall above her desk.

A mere twenty-four hours had passed since the denouement of her ten-year marriage, and in that time she’d managed to give two art history lectures, counsel three freshmen on the upcoming semester schedules, and grade an impressive stack of term papers, all without shedding a single tear. She couldn’t keep a husband’s attention, but she made one hell of a college professor.

“Dr. Gilstrom?” The male voice, followed by a soft rap at the door, drew her attention from the concrete wall.

Immediately Elizabeth straightened at the sight of the young man standing at her office threshold. He was a student in the graduate art history class she taught three times a week. Although they’d never formally spoken, she knew his face intimately. Too intimately. For the first weeks of the fall semester, even in the midst of slide shows and lectures, her gaze had strayed to him of its own accord. He was, quite simply, one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. A work of art that stirred something within her most creative—and feminine—core.

And right now she couldn’t remember his name.

“I know you’re probably trying to get out of here for the night,” he said, a smile curving his full, sensuous mouth, “but could you spare a moment?”

The castors on her desk chair squeaked as she pushed back and turned toward him, motioning to the folding metal chair a foot away. “Of course. Have a seat…”

“Boone,” he offered, and sat, filling the six-by-eight office with the scent of autumn, faded shampoo and healthy, warm male. “Boone McCrea. I’m in your 506 art history class.”

“Yes, I know.” Elizabeth could think of nothing clever to say. She certainly wasn’t a flirt, and had always worn her marital status as protective armor against temptation. Now, stripped of it, she found herself the object of the young man’s intense contemplation, and she felt…naked.

He was too young to look at her with such solemn fascination. Perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four, with sculpted features, a golden complexion and wonderful, expressive lips. A face from a dream.

She studied the wave of rich, dark hair that fell across his brow and experienced a fleeting sting of satisfaction. She’d actually managed to forget about Stuart for all of two minutes, thanks to Boone McCrea’s extraordinary beauty.

“I need to ask you about tomorrow’s field trip to the Binoche Gallery,” he said finally. “I know you gave the pertinent information yesterday in class, but I had to leave early.”

She squelched the indignant urge to demand why he’d left her class in the middle of lecture, and lifted the pile of papers on her desk to withdraw a photocopy of the trip’s itinerary. “Did you get one of these?”

“No. Thank you.” He took it from her, folded it and slipped it into the pocket of his navy windbreaker. He had strong-looking fingers. Paint-stained. The hands of an artist. Elizabeth felt her own fingers tremble slightly and crossed her arms over her breasts to hide the reaction.

“We’re meeting in Georgetown, in front of the gallery,” she said, forcing her attention back to his face. “But some of the class is gathering at the Tenley Metro station around three o’clock to ride together.”

His dark lashes lifted and he met her gaze with clear, clover green eyes. “What about you? How are you getting there?”

She hesitated, surprised at the question. “I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I'll drive.”

“Does your husband like art?”

Again, she was struck by his directness and the wayward direction in which their conversation seemed headed. “I…yes.” She noticed his gaze linger on her naked ring finger, where the pale circle of skin spoke of her wedding band’s recent removal. Its absence hadn’t felt so obvious before now. Hurriedly she tucked her hand beneath her other arm and added, “But he doesn’t have time to attend galleries often.”

“That’s too bad,” he said softly. “He’s missing out.”

Silence crashed between them, and all Elizabeth could hear was the inexplicable thunder of her heartbeat. She had to think of something to say, because Boone McCrea gave her the feeling he’d sit across from her all evening, perusing her every feature if she allowed it. Maybe she’d given him the wrong idea. Had he noticed her attention lingering on him in class?

That’s what you get for playing with fire, Professor.

Straightening her spine, she swiveled back toward her desk and said in a cool, clipped tone, “I have work to do, Mr. McCrea. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing.” The rustle of his jacket as he stood to leave told her he’d gotten the message. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the gallery. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say about the Fielding exhibit.”

“I have plenty to say about the exhibit,” she said, and used her red pen to vehemently circle an abysmal misspelling of Michelangelo’s name on the term paper in front of her.

“But not so much about the artist?” The smile in his voice brought her gaze back to his face. “People say he’s a real piece of work.”

That was putting it mildly. Ferber Fielding was a brash, disagreeable old man who had a way of showing up in Elizabeth’s world whenever she turned around, armed with a sarcastic barb or a disheartening scowl. Even a simple greeting stuck in her throat when they came face-to-face, whether at a gallery opening or the nearby Seven-Eleven. But Fielding had more talent than any artist Elizabeth had encountered since moving to Washington a decade before, and despite his surly demeanor, she held a grudging respect for him. At least enough to haul thirty art history students to view his work.

“He’s scheduled to lecture here before Christmas,” she told Boone. “I’ll make it a point to introduce you to him.”

“That should be interesting.” He studied her a moment, his humor fading to just a slight, curious tug on the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t interrupt my work. I was daydreaming.”

“About something sad.”

Elizabeth blinked at him. How could he know that about her? Her own husband hadn’t been able to read her emotions in a decade of marriage. Hell, until this moment, she hadn't even known that her sadness was as great as her rage over Stuart's betrayal. Maybe Boone was young, but his perception probably ran circles around most of the men she knew.

She heaved a sigh and glanced back at her work. "Yes. Something sad."

He paused in the doorway. “It’ll fade, you know,” he said, in a voice that made her feel oddly comforted. “Nothing lasts forever, Dr. Gilstrom.”

Not love, nor marriage. Not even life in general, she thought, staring at the empty space he left behind as his footsteps disappeared down the hall. No promise was truly kept.

For the first time since realizing her marriage to Stuart was over, Elizabeth put her head down on her desk and cried.

* * * * *

It looked like bloody handprints smeared on canvas.

Thirty-one pairs of eyes fixed on the chaotic abstract mounted on the gallery wall while disconcerted silence stole the soft, good-natured chatter of the group.

“How awful,” muttered one female student.

Elizabeth glanced back at her pupils and smiled. “Just the reaction I’m sure Mr. Fielding would relish.”

“So much of his work seems to be about death and violence,” the girl continued, sidling through the spectators to take a closer look over her Coke-bottle eyeglasses. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“I’d say there’s something right,” a familiar male voice spoke behind them, and Elizabeth turned to find Boone McCrea at her side, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the painting.

She was surprised to see him. He hadn’t shown up at the Metro station when the group convened to ride to the gallery together, and Elizabeth had tried not to feel disappointed. In her shadow-swathed existence of the previous few hours, he was a tiny, guilty pleasure, a pinpoint of light. Their brief encounter in her office last night had piqued her interest further. Earlier at the subway station, she’d been so busy staring up the escalator for a sign of him, she’d nearly missed the train’s arrival. A silly, broken woman, in love with youth, with the past, searching for…for what? She couldn’t explain her odd preoccupation with the young graduate student. It was too ridiculous.

When he hadn’t appeared at the Metro, she’d assumed he would miss the field trip, and silently, firmly, she closed him out of her thoughts…leaving only the bitter remnants of Stuart, and the sharp return of depression.

Now Boone McCrea had materialized before her like a sweet, silky breeze across her skin, and she shivered with misplaced delight. His dark hair was windblown and curly, his lean cheeks ruddy from the autumn afternoon. The maroon Henley he wore beneath his denim jacket set off the crystal clarity of his gaze, like red velvet behind emeralds in a jeweler’s showcase. He was…how could one adequately describe such balanced, sensual features? Or do justice to the shine of intelligence and humor in his green eyes?

Elizabeth stifled the urge to laugh. He was a distraction, a means of frivolous relief sent from heaven to offset the pain of her pending divorce. There was no other explanation.

Abruptly she realized she was staring and quickly regained her composure. “What do you think the artist intended with this particular piece, Mr. McCrea?”

He lowered his gaze to hers and smiled, an odd, secretive smile, before turning to address the chubby student who found the painting so disconcerting. “Manipulation of the masses. He knows how to flip the switch on the public’s emotions. Most people who look at this painting will automatically see violence.”

“And yet the painting is entitled ‘The Patisserie’s Hands’.” Elizabeth’s own mouth curved into an ironic smile. “It’s not blood that makes the handprints. It’s chocolate.”

Wry laughter and murmurs floated through the group as they shuffled on to the next canvas.

While they examined the smaller, more traditional landscape, she glanced back to locate Boone. He still lingered at ‘The Patisserie’s Hands’, but his attention wasn’t on the painting. He was quietly chatting with another student, a blonde girl, his dark head inclined toward her as they spoke. His gaze focused on her as though she were the only other soul on Earth. Either he found her honey-skinned beauty totally entrancing, or Boone McCrea was a damned good listener.

Elizabeth tried to look away, but found herself mesmerized. Despite the unseasonably cool weather, the girl wore a cropped T-shirt and low-slung, bell-bottom jeans that bared her flat tummy. Her silver navel ring caught the light and glistened like a droplet of water, ready to drizzle into the waistband of her Levi’s. But Boone wasn’t gobbling her up with a hungry, sweeping gaze, the way Elizabeth had seen a thousand other men his age regard such a beautiful girl. His eyes were locked on the blonde’s as she gestured to the painting. He was listening, with what appeared to be genuine interest, to what she had to say.

Elizabeth swallowed her resentment, returned her attention to the smaller painting before her, and flipped through her notes to find information on the landscape. “This is one of Fielding’s earlier works. Note the tighter brushstrokes, the realistic color and rather unimaginative subject matter. It’s amazing how twenty years of living can change an artist’s style.”

* * * * *

It’s amazing how ten years of living in a loveless marriage can change a woman’s sense of self.

The screech of the Metro’s brakes and the train’s accompanying lurch brought Elizabeth out of her maudlin reverie. She gathered her briefcase, tugged the lapels of her trench coat across her breasts, and stepped out onto the platform to bid her students goodnight. Boone McCrea wasn’t among them. Suspiciously enough, neither was the blonde with the navel ring, whose name Elizabeth couldn’t remember. They’d simultaneously disappeared as the students filed out of the gallery, and she wasn’t exactly surprised. Resigned was more like it.

“If you come up with any further questions about the exhibit at The Binoche, bring them to class with you on Monday,” Elizabeth told the remaining students as they rode the escalator to the darkened city street above.

Her gray Mercedes sedan sat in the deserted Kiss-and-Ride Metro lot near the college campus. Juggling her briefcase and purse, she activated the keyless entry, slid inside the chilled leather interior, and drew the seatbelt across her lap. God, it was cold for a late September night. But it was the thought of returning to a silent, empty house that chilled her to the bone.

She slipped the key into the ignition, turned it, and…nothing. Frowning, she tried again. Only a single click. The battery light came on.

“Damn…” She let her forehead thud against the steering wheel. “Damn!”

The five-minute walk across campus to her office left her trembling with cold beneath the thin trench coat. To make matters worse, it had begun to rain; a soft, misting drizzle that made the grass glisten in the streetlights like a field of diamonds.

“Forty-five minutes,” the tow company told her when she called from her office in the eerily silent art building. “Stay at your car, miss.”

“By myself, for almost an hour in a deserted parking lot?” Astonishment curdled her tone, and she immediately clenched her jaw and breathed patience. “I’m sorry—cancel the tow. I’ll think of something.”

Setting down the phone, Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her face and squelched the urge to cry. A dead battery. Big deal. A dead marriage; a dead life.

“Damn,” she whispered again, and with a slow, deep inhalation, banished the self-pity that circled her soul like hawks over carrion. Then she called a cab.

Outside, the crystalline mist had turned to a steady rain. Bracing herself against the cold night, she tucked her chin into the collar of her coat, stepped out of the art building…and abruptly collided with a warm, hard body.

“Whoa.” Two strong hands encircled her arms and steadied her. “Dr. Gilstrom, this is a surprise.”

Elizabeth looked up, faltered, sputtered.

And found herself smiling into clear, green eyes...