"We've been sharing a drawer and I didn't even know about it?"

"You can have the condoms back now," I said generously.

His eyes sparkled. "I appreciate that."

As the night unfolded, we established that not only was I not bad in bed, I was phenomenal. A prodigy, Gage claimed.

We shared a bottle of wine, showered together, and got back into bed. We kissed voraciously, as if we hadn't already kissed a thousand times. And by morning I had done things with Gage Travis that were illegal in at least nine states. It seemed there was nothing he didn't like, nothing he wasn't willing to do. He was wickedly patient and so thorough that I felt as if I had been taken apart and reassembled in a different way.

Exhausted and sated, I slept curled against his side. I woke as weak morning sunlight pushed through the window. I felt Gage yawn over my head, and his body tensed in a shivering stretch. It all seemed too wonderful to be real, the heavy masculine form beside mine, the subtle stings and aches that reminded me of the night's pleasures. The hand that rested gently on my bare hip. I was afraid he might vanish, this lover who had possessed and

explored me with such gentleness, and he would be replaced by the cool-eyed and distant man I had known before.

"Don't go away," I whispered, reaching to cover his hand with mine, pressing it tightly against my skin.

I felt the shape of Gage's smile in the sleep-wanned curve of my neck. "Not going anywhere." he said, and settled me back against him.

Houstonians like to do things in a big way. and a River Oaks mansion debut is no exception. There were many events taking place on Saturday night, but the guest list everyone wanted to be on was for a big charity gala at the home of Peter and Sascha Legrand. The oil company executive and his wife, a city councilwoman, were using the occasion to introduce their brand-new mansion, an Italian-Mediterranean palace with ten antique porticoes imported from Europe and a thirty-six-hundred-square-foot ballroom that covered the entire second floor.

The Travises had been invited, of course, and Gage had asked me to go with him. It wasn't exactly your average second date.

The life section in the Chronicle had shown preview pictures of the mansion, including the fourteen-foot-high Chihuly chandelier that hung in the grand foyer. The amazing glass creation looked like a cluster of giant half-open flowers of blue, amber, and orange.

Intended for the benefit of a charitable foundation for the arts, the gala was opera

themed, which meant singers from the Houston Opera would entertain. With my limited knowledge of opera, I imagined singers in Viking helmets and long braids who would blow our hair back with their voices.

The four alcoves of the grand foyer had been decorated to represent famous opera houses in Venice and Milan. At the terraced back yard of the mansion, piazzas had been specially built on platforms just for the party, with buffets offering specialties from different regions of Italy. Armies of white-gloved waiters were available to serve the guests' every need.

I had spent the equivalent of two weeks' salary on a white Nicole Miller dress with a halter top that wrapped and twisted neatly down to my hips, then fell in soft folds to the floor. It was a sexy but ladylike dress with a vee neckline. My shoes were Stuart Weitzman, a pair of clear Lucite sandals with crystals on the heels and toe straps. Cinderella shoes, Carrington had said when she saw them. I had scraped my hair back so it was flat and shining against my head, and twisted it into an artfully messy knot in back. After carefully applying sooty eye makeup, delicate pink lip gloss, and subtle blush, I stared at my reflection critically. I had no earrings that went with the dress. But I needed a little something else.

After a few seconds' thought, I went to Carrington's room, looked in her art supplies box, and found a sheet of self-adhesive crystals. I took one of the smallest ones, not much bigger than the head of a pin. and applied it near the outside corner of my eye like a beauty mark.

"Does it look trashy?" I asked Carrington. who couldn't keep from jumping up and down on the bed. Asking an eight-year-old girl if something is a little over-the-top is like asking a Texan if there are too many jalapenos in the salsa. The answer is always no.

"It's perfect!" Carrington was ready to launch herself into orbit.

"No jumping." I reminded her. and she flopped down on her stomach with a grin.

"Are you going to come back here tonight," she asked, "or are you going to have a sleepover at Gage's?"

"I'm not sure." I went to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. "Baby, would it bother you if I slept over at his place tonight?"

"Oh. no," she said cheerfully. "Aunt Gretchen says if you do; I'll get to stay up late and we'll make cookies. And if you want your boyfriend to ask you to marry him, you have to sleep at his house. So he can see if you look pretty in the morning."

"What? Carrington, who told you that?"

"I figured it out by myself."

My chin quivered as I held back a laugh. "Gage is not my boyfriend. And I'm not trying to get him to ask me to marry him."

"I think you should," she said. "Don't you like him. Liberty? He's better than any of the other ones you dated. Even better than the one who brang us all those pickles and funny-smelline cheeses."

"Brought us." I stared closely into her small, earnest face. "You seem to like Gage a lot."

"Oh. yes! I think he'd be a good dad for me after I teach him more about kid stuff."