CHAPTER ONE
Alexandra
It was her favorite time of day. Dusk. That in-between
hour before night descended when everything was softly
muted, merging together. The twilight hour.
Her Scottish nanny had called it the gloaming. She loved
that name; it conjured up so much, and even when she was a
little girl she had looked forward to the late afternoon,
that period just before supper. As she had walked home
from school with her brother Tim, Nanny between them,
tightly holding on to their hands, she had always felt a
twinge of excitement, an expectancy, as if something
special awaited her. This feeling had never changed. It
had stayed with her over the years, and wherever she was
in the world, dusk never failed to give her a distinct
sense of anticipation.
She stepped away from her drawing table and went across to
the window of her downtown loft, peered out, looking
toward the upper reaches of Manhattan. To Alexandra Gordon
the sky was absolutely perfect at this precise
moment . . . its color a mixture of plum and violet toned
down by a hint of smoky gray bleeding into a faded pink.
The colors of antiquity, reminiscent of Byzantium and
Florence and ancient Greece. And the towers and spires and
skyscrapers of this great modern metropolis were blurred,
smudged into a sort of timelessness, seemed of no
particular period at this moment, inchoate images cast
against that almost-violet sky.
Alexandra smiled to herself. For as far back as she could
remember she had believed that this time of day was
magical. In the movie business, which she was occasionally
a part of these days, dusk was actually called the Magic
Hour. Wasn't it odd that she herself had named itthat when
she was only a child?
Staring out across the skyline, fragments of her childhood
came rushing back to her. For a moment she fell down into
her memories . . . memories of the years spent growing up
on the Upper East Side of this city . . . of a childhood
filled with love and security and the most wondrous of
times. Even though their mother had worked, still worked
in fact, she and Tim had never been neglected by her, nor
by their father. But it was her mother who was the best
part of her, and, in more than one sense, she was the
product of her mother.
Lost in remembrances of times past, she eventually roused
herself and went back to the drawing board, looking at the
panel she had just completed. It was the final one in a
series of six, and together they composed a winter
landscape in the countryside.
She knew she had captured most effectively the essence of
a cold, snowy evening in the woods, and bending forward,
she picked up the panel and carried it to the other side
of the studio, placing it on a wide viewing shelf where
the rest of the panels were aligned. Staring intently at
the now-complete set, she envisioned them as a giant-size
backdrop on the stage, which is what they would soon
become. As far as she was concerned, the panels were
arresting, and depicted exactly what the director had
requested.
"I want to experience the cold, Alexa," Tony Verity had
told her at the first production meeting, after he had
taken her through the play. "I want to shiver with cold,
crunch down into my overcoat, feel the icy night in my
bones. Your sets must make me want to rush indoors, to be
in front of a roaring fire."
He will feel all that, she told herself, and stepped back,
eyeing her latest work from a distance, her head on one
side, thinking of the way she had created the panels in
her imagination first. She had envisioned St. Petersburg
in winter, and then focused on an imaginary forest beyond
that city.
In her mind's eye, the scenery had come alive, almost like
a reel of film playing in her head . . . bare trees
glistening with dripping icicles, drifts of new snow
sweeping up between the trees like white dunes. White
nights. White sky. White moon. White silence.
That was the mood she sought, had striven for, and wished
to convey to the audience. And she believed she had
accomplished that with these panels, which would be
photographed later that week and then blown up for the
stage.
She had not used any colors except a hint of gray and
black for a few of the skeletal branches. Her final touch,
and perhaps her most imaginative, had been a set of lone
footprints in the snow. Footprints leading up between the
trees, as if heading for a special, perhaps even secret,
destination. Enigmatic. Mysterious. Even troubling, in a
way . . .
The sharp buzzing of the doorbell brought her head up
sharply, and her concentration was instantly broken. She
went to the intercom on the wall, lifted the
phone. "Hello?"
"It's Jack. I know I'm early. Can I come up?"
"Yes, it's okay." She pressed the button that released the
street door, and then ran downstairs to the floor below in
order to let him in.
A few seconds later, Jack Wilton, bundled up in a black
duffle coat, and carrying a large brown shopping bag, was
swinging out of the elevator, walking toward her down the
corridor, a grin on his keen, intelligent face.
"Sorry if I'm mucking up your working day, but I was
around the corner. At the Cromer Gallery with Billy
Tomkins. It seemed sort of daft to go home and then come
back here later. I'll sit in a corner down here and watch
CNN until you quit."
"I just did," she said, laughing. "I've actually finished
the last panel."
"That's great! Congratulations." As he stepped into the
small foyer of her apartment, he put down the shopping
bag, pulled her into his arms, and pushed the door closed
with his booted foot.
He hugged her tightly, brought her closer, and as his lips
brushed her cheek, then nuzzled her ear, she felt a tiny
frisson, a shivery feeling. There was an electricity
between them that had been missing for ages. She was
startled.
Seemingly, so was he. Jack pulled away, glanced at her
quickly, and then instantly brought his mouth to hers,
kissing her deeply, passionately. After a second, he moved
his mouth close to her ear and murmured, "Let's go and
find a bed."
She leaned back, looking up into his pellucid gray eyes,
which were more soulful than ever at that moment. "Don't
be silly." As she spoke, a small, tantalizing smile
touched her lips and her sparkling eyes were suddenly
inviting.
"Silly? There's nothing silly about going to bed. I think
it's a rather serious thing." Throwing his coat on the
floor next to the shopping bag and putting his arm around
her, he led her into the bedroom.
He stopped in the middle of the room, and taking hold of
her shoulders, turned her to face him, staring into her
eyes, his own questioning. "You went missing for a bit,"
he said, sounding more English than ever.
She stared back at him, said nothing.
He tilted her chin, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on
the mouth. "But I have the distinct feeling you're
suddenly back."
"I think so."
"I'm glad, Lexi."
"So am I," she answered.
He smiled at her knowingly and led her toward the bed
without another word. They sat down together side by side,
and he began to unbutton her shirt; she tugged at his
tweed jacket, and within seconds they were both undressed,
stretched out on the bed.
Leaning over her, he asked, "And where was it that you
went?"
"Not sure. Fell into a deep pit with my work, I suppose."
He nodded, fully understanding, since he was an artist and
tended to do the same at times when he was painting. But
he had really missed her, and her withdrawal, her
remoteness, had worried him. Now he brought his mouth down
to her, his kisses tender.
Alexandra felt that frisson once more, and she began to
shiver slightly under his touching and kissing, which was
becoming provocative. He continued to kiss her as he
stroked her thigh, and she experienced a sudden rush of
heat, a tingling between her legs.
Unexpectedly, she stiffened. Swiftly, he brought his mouth
to her mouth; his tongue sought hers, slid alongside hers,
and they shared a moment of complete intimacy.
And all the while he did not stop stroking her inner thigh
and the center of her womanhood, his fingers working
gently but expertly. To him it soon seemed as though she
was opening like a lush flower bursting forth under a warm
sun.
When she began to gasp a little, he increased his pressure
and speed, wanting her to reach a point of ecstasy. He
loved this woman, and he wanted to bind her to him, and he
wanted to make love to her now, be joined with her.
With great speed, he entered her immediately, thrusting
into her so forcefully, she cried out. Sliding his hands
under her buttocks, he lifted her up, drew her closer to
him, calling out her name as he did. "Come to me again,
come with me, come where I'm going, Lexi!" he exclaimed,
his voice harsh, rasping.
And so she did as he demanded, wrapped her legs around his
back, let her hands rest lightly on his shoulders.
Together they soared, and as he began to shudder against
her, he told her over and over again how much he loved
making love to her.
Afterward, when they finally lay still, relaxed and
depleted, he lifted the duvet up and covered them with it,
then took her in his arms. He said against her
hair, "Isn't this as good as it gets?"
When she remained silent, he added, "You know how good we
are together . . ."
"Yes."
"You're not going to go away from me again, are you?"
"No . . . it was the work, the pressure."
"I'm relieved it wasn't me. That you weren't having second
thoughts about me."
She smiled to herself. "You're the best, Jack, the very
best. Special . . . unique, actually."
"Ah, flattery will get you everywhere."
"I've just been there, haven't I?"
"Where?"
"Everywhere. With you . . . to some wonderful place."
Pushing himself up on one elbow, he peered down at her in
the dim light of the fading day, wondering if she was
teasing him. Then he saw the intensity in her light green
eyes, and he said softly, "Let's make it permanent."
Those lucid green eyes he loved widened. "Jack . . . I
don't know what to say . . ."
"Say yes."
"Okay. Yes."
"I'm talking marriage," he muttered, a sudden edge to his
voice. He focused all his attention on her, his eyes
probing.
"I know that."
"Will you?"
"Will I what?" Now she was teasing him and enjoying doing
so, as she usually did.
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes, I will."
A slow, warm smile spread itself across his lean face, and
he bent into her, kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips.
Resting his head next to hers on the pillow, he
continued. "I'm glad. Really so bloody glad, Lexi, that
you're going to be mine, all mine. Wow, this is great! And
we'll have a baby or two, won't we?"
She laughed, happy that he was so obviously delirious with
joy. "Of course. You know what, maybe we just made one."
"It's a possibility. But to be really sure, shall we try
again?"
"You mean right now?"
"I do."
"Can you?"
"Don't be so ridiculous, of course I can. Feel this."
Taking hold of her hand, he put it on him under the
duvet. "See what you do to me. And I'll always be ready to
make babies with you, darling."
"Then stop boasting and let's do it!" she exclaimed,
sliding a leg over him, kissing him on the mouth. "Let's
do it all night, in fact. It's one of the things I love to
do with you, Jack."
"Don't you want dinner?" He raised a brow.
"Oh, who cares about food when we've something so
important and crucial to do."
He started to laugh. "I care. But we don't have to venture
out, my sweet. I brought dinner with me. In the shopping
bag."
"Oh, so you planned all this, did you? Very devious, you
are, Jack Wilton. You wicked, sexy man. I might have known
you came here to seduce me. To impregnate me."
"Seduce you! What bloody cheek! You've just displayed the
most incredible example of splendid cooperation I've ever
come across. As for impregnating you, you can bet your
sweet ass I'm going to do that."
They began to roar with laughter, hugging each other and
rolling around on the bed, filled with hilarity and
pleasure in each other, and the sheer happiness of being
young and alive. But after a moment or two of this gentle
horseplay, Jack's face turned serious, and he held
Alexandra still. "You're not going to change your mind,
are you, Lexi?"
" 'Course not, silly." She touched his cheek lightly,
smiled seductively. "Shall we get to it then . . . making
babies, I mean."
"Try and stop me--" he began, but paused when the intercom
buzzed.
The shrilling startled Alexandra, and nonplussed, she
stared at Jack. Then she scrambled off the bed, took a
woolen robe out of the closet, and struggled into it as
she ran to the foyer. Lifting the intercom phone, she
said, "Hello?"
"FedEx delivery for Ms. Gordon."
"Thanks. I'll buzz you in. I'm on the fourteenth floor."
The carbon copy of the original label on the front of the
FedEx envelope was so faint she could barely make out the
name and address of the sender. In fact, the only part she
could read was Paris, France.
She stood holding the envelope, a small furrow crinkling
the bridge of her nose. And then her heart missed a beat.
From the doorway of the bedroom Jack said, "Who's it from?
You look puzzled."
"I can't make out the name. Best thing to do is open it, I
suppose," she replied, forcing a laugh.
"That might be a good idea." Jack's voice was touched with
acerbity.
She glanced across at him swiftly, detecting at once a
hint of impatience . . . as if it were her fault their
lovemaking had been interrupted by the FedEx delivery. But
wishing to keep things on an even keel, to placate him,
she exclaimed, "Oh, it can wait!" Dropping the envelope on
the small table in the foyer, she added, "Let's go back to
bed."
"Naw, the mood's gone, ducks. I'm gonna take a quick
shower, make a cuppa rosy lee, then start on dinner," he
answered her in a bogus Cockney accent.