Title:  Suuare
      Copyright (c) 1994 by Sarah Stegall 
	Rating:  NC-17
	Category:  Jake/Other
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      He could not get her out of his mind.
      Even when he'd been with Kate, her face had been in his mind. It was her 
      face, her mouth, her eyes, her sultry grace and her lithe body that had 
      been before him even as he held another woman in his arms. Now Kate was 
      gone and the other was still with him, bedeviling his days and nights.
      He didn't even know her name.
      Jake woke as he always did these days, sprawled face down and naked across 
      the white sheets, a pillow clutched against him. He hadn't slept like that 
      in years, not since he was an awkward, gawky teenager who couldn't get 
      through the night without half a dozen wet dreams. In those days, before 
      he'd ever held a real woman in his arms, the pillow made do for all the 
      women in his fantasies--hot, beautiful, and agile. To be reduced to this 
      again after so many years was humiliating.
      Yet, the alternative was too painful to think about.
      Jake rolled upright and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in 
      his hands. His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. He looked 
      down; he was hard as a rock this morning. He snorted. Well, some things 
      never changed, at least. Not that it did him any damn good.
      In the shower he tried to focus, to plan his day. He shaved under the 
      running water, hating the safety razor. Most of his life he had used his 
      grandfather's old-fashioned straight razor; after Alex had used it to kill 
      herself, he had destroyed it. Still, he couldn't get used to the 
      clumsiness of the safety razor, the cheap construction, the inelegant 
      design of it after the sleek perfection of honed steel. He sighed. Maybe 
      he should try an electric razor--he shuddered.
      He put some toast on and sat down to go through the paper. War in the 
      Middle East. Political scandal. Two drive-by shootings overnight. He 
      turned to the arts section: two plays, a new act at his favorite blues 
      club.
      And a gallery opening.
      "Viewpoint: A Collection by Kate Lyons". It was showing at a small but 
      trendy gallery on the north side.
      He thought of Kate, slim and cool and blonde, with her beautiful lying 
      mouth and her brilliant lying eyes. For a moment, for a tiny moment, he 
      had thought she loved him, thought she wanted him, but she had only wanted 
      the image of him she held in her mind. It had all been a charade: the 
      fashionable loft, the photography studio, her image as a sophisticated, 
      detached photographer. And all of it supported by her staid, respectable, 
      anonymous rich man--the husband she introduced him to only when he was 
      getting too close to her. Damn her.
      And inevitably, he thought about her, the woman Kate had photographed, the 
      woman she had used to seduce him. Kate had taken him on a surprise trip to 
      a remote trailer, where a biker buddy of hers (and where had she found 
      him? Jake often wondered) and a beautiful Eurasian girl had posed for her. 
      The girl had coiled and slid and curved in the tattooed man's arms, sleek 
      and lovely, a sloe-eyed courtesan who had looked not at her partner, but 
      at Jake.
      She had looked at him, and that look went through him like a bolt of 
      lightning. He'd felt the walls coming down, the dam in him breaking after 
      so many months of guilt and denial and shame and loss and grief. And in 
      that newly vulnerable state, Kate had moved in and claimed him with the 
      expertise born of long practice.
      But Kate was gone now, of her own accord, and he was alone again. And all 
      he could think about, dream about, was the beautiful Eurasian woman she 
      had photographed.
      Jake looked at the newspaper again. Would those photographs be in the 
      exhibit?
      He should forget it. He should ignore it. He didn't need this. He needed 
      to work. He needed to forget.
      He left the toast on his plate and headed for the door.
      * * *
      Why was he so nervous? This is absurd, Jake told himself. Still, he 
      couldn't make himself go into the tiny gallery on North Third. It was a 
      beautiful spring day, with the brilliance that Los Angeles could show when 
      she wanted, when the smog lifted, when the winds blew clean and fresh from 
      the Pacific. People on the sidewalk actually smiled; three tanned and 
      supple women on rollerblades greeted him with more than simple 
      friendliness as they rolled past. He hunched his shoulders, stooping as he 
      always did when he was uneasy, thrusting his fists into his pockets.
      He could not go in there.
      The gallery was a converted storefront; the front window was still a 
      display area. Against the stark grey drapes, only one photograph was 
      exhibited: a stark construction of concrete shapes and shadows. A discreet 
      sign in the window named it the work of Kate Lyons.
      What if she was in there?
      A more horrible thought struck him. What if he, Jake, was in there? Kate 
      had photographed him, stalking him with her long range lenses and her 
      cameras. He had only discovered it by accident, one of her many secrets, 
      when he found her private collection.
      "These are for me," she had said. "No one will see them except me."
      That was before he found out what a liar she was.
      What if he went in and found his own face staring back at him, his private 
      moments hung up on those walls for the world to look at? The thought made 
      him want to turn and run--until he remembered that her face might be in 
      there.
      He was blinking after the brightness of the day outside, letting his eyes 
      adjust to the darkness inside the gallery before he realized he had 
      changed his mind. The gallery was tiny, no more than two rooms. A man 
      lounged behind a desk, reading "Spy" and smoking despite the "No Smoking" 
      sign. Jake glanced around nervously, ready to bolt, but the only other 
      patron in the place was an older man walking slowly from exhibit to 
      exhibit.
      Hesitantly, Jake drifted to the nearest wall. The work was fine, if 
      sterile. The first room was a series of architectural studies--buildings 
      and scaffolds and the play of shadow and sun across urban towers, without 
      a single human figure in any of the pictures. He knew now where Kate had 
      first seen him: his own building was there, polished and towering, 
      dominating the monumental landscape around it. He was proud of it, and 
      pleased at the photograph. He lingered a moment, appreciating her skill, 
      and then moved on.
      The older man had left, so Jake was alone when he stepped into the tiny 
      second room with its crowd of faces, bodies, images. It was as if the 
      empty images in the front room had been displayed solely to contrast with 
      this congregation of faces. Everywhere he looked there were eyes, limbs, 
      breasts, feet, mouths. Women, men, and images where it was impossible to 
      tell whether that smooth expanse of back or arm or cheek was male or 
      female. It reminded him of Robert Mapplethorpe's work. It was very, very 
      good.
      Under a spotlight in the corner, he found the face that had possessed him 
      for seven months.
      Her eyes were rounder than he remembered, her mouth more full, but the 
      breasts and the smoldering look under the black lashes were the same, only 
      more real, more alive. Jake felt his breath come short as he moved from 
      one photograph to the other, drinking her in, seeing again the body and 
      the eyes and the long waterfall of her hair. His whole body tingled; he 
      felt every separate touch of his own clothes against his skin. The last 
      photograph held him mesmerized: she was looking towards the camera, that 
      drugged, dreamy look in her dark eyes, looking past the man holding her, 
      past the camera, past the photographer.
      At him.
      He'd been standing behind Kate, his eyes locked on the woman's, feeling 
      his limbs loosen and his heart speed up, feeling a change come over him 
      like winter giving way to ripe summer. Unable to bear it, he had run from 
      the trailer.
      Now in this dark room, under the spotlight, he'd found her again.
      He walked back into the front room. His wallet slapped the desk and the 
      smoking man looked up.
      "Yes?"
      "How much?"
      The man was younger than Jake had thought, blond and tan and with sleepy 
      eyes. He sat up slowly, putting the magazine down. He looked from the 
      wallet to Jake and back. "How much for what?"
      "I want some of the photographs in the back room. Are they for sale?"
      The boy's eyes changed, his expression became knowing. "Some of 'em. Which 
      ones did you want?"
      Jake was beyond embarrassment. Once he would have been mortified to stand 
      here and demand a photograph of a woman he didn't know, would never see 
      again, admitting to his obsession in public. Now he didn't care. His only 
      fear was that Kate didn't want the money, and that none of the pictures 
      were for sale.
      "The ones in the very back, with the...the Oriental woman and the tattooed 
      man." He hoped he wasn't blushing; put that baldly, it sounded like he was 
      buying something at an XXX-rated bookstore.
      The boy wasn't quite leering, but it was close. "Yeah, they're pretty hot. 
      Kate likes 'em. Which one did you want."
      "All of them."
      The boy's eyebrows shot up. "That'll be pretty steep. Like I said, Kate 
      likes 'em. She charges more for the ones she likes."
      "Is she...is she here?" Jake asked hesitantly.
      "Nah. She never comes down here. But she left me a price list. Here, hang 
      on." The young man rummaged in the desk, pulling out lists, invitations, 
      flyers in an untidy heap. Jake fought his impatience. In the back of his 
      mind her image burned, dark-eyed and piquant.
      "What's her name?" he burst out.
      The younger man looked up, startled. "What? Whose name? Kate's?"
      Jake knew he was blushing, and made his face stone. "No. The woman in the 
      pictures."
      Now the boy was openly leering. "I have no idea. She's pretty hot, huh?" 
      At last, thank god, the boy found the price list. "Oh. Well, Kate wants 
      two hundred apiece for them. Pretty steep."
      Jake could have laughed. There was no price he would not have paid for 
      those pictures. He tossed the boy his American Express Gold card and said, 
      "Ring it up. All of them."
      Then, just in time, he remembered that his name would be on the charge 
      slip. Kate would know who had bought her photographs. And she would know 
      why. More of his secrets stolen from him, he thought. Damn her anyway. He 
      hoped he never saw her again. He picked up the Gold card and put it back 
      in his wallet. "Cash," he said, hoping he had enough on him.
      He hurried home in the growling traffic, intently aware of the flat 
      package on the seat beside him.
      He rolled down the window to feel the breeze but got only the stink of 
      diesel from a dump truck in the next lane. One hand drifted over to lie 
      flat on the wrapped pictures. To lie on her. He could hardly wait to rip 
      the paper off, to see her face, to put his hands where his eyes had 
been...
      Stella greeted him effusively at the door, jumping up on her back legs and 
      pawing at him. He hadn't walked her all day, and she was overdue, but he 
      couldn't, he could not bring himself to put the pictures down. Jake flung 
      his coat in one direction, his tie in another, kicked off his shoes and 
      threw himself across his unmade bed. The paper tore away in long, 
      luxurious strips, and then at last she was in his hands.
      Her eyes burned through him like headlights. They were dark and alive and 
      awake, staring at him, into him, through him. Her mouth was a full pout, 
      he remembered how luscious her lips had been, sulky and sweet at the same 
      time, hiding secrets he wanted to taste. And her body...
      What was he doing? He put the pictures aside and sat cross- legged on the 
      bed, holding his head in his hands. God, he was getting aroused over some 
      pictures. He was possessed by a photograph, for Christ's sake. As if he 
      weren't a grown man, able to find a real woman, able to take a real woman 
      to his bed. Was there something wrong with him? He spent his days building 
      in stone and steel, and his nights reading the confessions of strangers. 
      There were few friends in his life, and no lovers. The only women he had 
      ever loved had betrayed him. Had betrayed themselves.
      Slowly, his breathing came back to normal. He unfolded his long legs and 
      got off the bed. He went into the kitchen to make dinner. Since Alex died, 
      he hadn't cared for cooking, since there was no one else to cook for. His 
      brief romance with Kate had been over too soon to progress to that stage 
      where he could cook for her. Tonight, though, he was hungry and unwilling 
      to settle for some second-rate restaurant meal served by strangers.
      He lost himself now in the familiar routine, getting out the onions and 
      the mushrooms and the wine. He stopped briefly to put on a Richie Sambora 
      CD, then went back to making Gratin de Pommes de Terre aux Anchois. He 
      hadn't had it in years.
        "You never find a reason why love falls from grace
        Some kind of voodoo, like a spirit you can't embrace
        There's a voice in the mirror, and a ghost in my heart
        That relives the passion before we were torn apart..."
      When he finally sat down to eat, he propped the photograph at the other 
      end of the table.
      She knew that the dark glasses would not disguise her, but hoped anyway. 
      She'd hidden her hair under a scarf, and was wearing the most conservative 
      business suit her dressmaker would permit her to wear ("Madam, you cannot 
      go out looking like a secretary! Here, try the sapphire blouse..."). Her 
      makeup was conservative to the point of invisibility. But as soon as the 
      boy looked up from his magazine, he recognized her. She could see his eyes 
      change before they dropped in embarrassment. She had seen it before. She 
      sighed. There was no use pretending.
      "I want to buy the pictures," she said carefully. "All of them." She 
      didn't have to explain which ones she meant.
      The boy looked up, startled. She saw his almost involuntary appraisal, 
      knew that he was seeing not the raw beige silk suit, the pearls, the ivory 
      satin blouse, but the breasts and belly and legs under it, from the 
      photograph. It was always that way. This one was actually smiling, though.
      "That's funny. I sit here for two days and no one buys a thing. Now twice 
      in one day I get customers for the same pictures."
      "I beg your pardon?"
      "You're too late. Ma'am." He looked suddenly awkward. "A...a guy came in 
      and bought every one of the pictures of you. This morning."
      She opened her handbag, drew out a hundred dollar bill. She held it out to 
      the boy, saw his eyes go wide. It was crude, she knew, but she was 
      impatient and desperate and didn't know how to be subtle about it. "What 
      was his name?"
      The boy reached out but didn't take the money. "I'm sorry," he said 
      sincerely. "I really am. But he paid cash. I don't know his name."
      She laid the money down on the table and put her card on top of it. "If he 
      comes back, say nothing, but call me."
      He picked up the hundred dollar bill and tucked it into his shirt pocket. 
      "I will. Thank you. Did you...did you just want those pictures?"
      "Yes."
      The boy hesitated, then pulled open a drawer. "I have Kate's address here, 
      if you want more--"
      He halted as he caught sight of her eyes.
      "No," she said coldly. "I have it."
      She turned and walked out into the sunlight.
      Her driver scrambled to open the door for her and she slipped into the 
      cool, quiet interior. Private, so private. No one could see her behind the 
      smoked glass windows. She was safe here.
      "Ma'am?" the driver was saying, looking in his rear view mirror.
      "Take me back to the penthouse," she said absently. She leaned her cheek 
      on her hand and looked out the window as they glided away from the curb.
      * * *
      He went to every photography and art gallery in the city of Los Angeles, 
      hoping she was a professional model. He haunted model and talent agencies 
      with her photograph. No one knew her. Remembering the tattooed man, he 
      even went to biker bars and tattoo shops, places he had never wanted to 
      go, places that repulsed him. No one recognized her.
      He told no one, not Paul, his partner, nor anyone else about her. She was 
      his secret obsession, the face that overpowered his reason and beset his 
      dreams. He began to despair of ever finding her.
      "Jake, we need to talk," said Paul. The big blond German's face was 
      creased with worry. "I need to know what is going on with you."
      Jake had come into the office late, as usual, throwing his raincoat 
      carelessly across the couch and sinking moodily into the steel and leather 
      chair behind his desk. His office was spare, clean, industrial. Paul, who 
      hung pastel watercolors in his office and put Oriental rugs on the floor, 
      called it Jake's laboratory.
      "Nothing," said Jake.
      "Don't bullshit me," said Paul. He swung a leg over the chair facing 
      Jake's desk. "I've known you too long. Is it Alex, still?"
      Jake shrugged. "I don't want to talk about it," he said warningly. He and 
      Paul had been partners--brothers almost--for ten years, but Jake would 
      not, could not open up his deep pain even to Paul. Alex was an intensely 
      private grief; the weight of her dead body in his arms would haunt him for 
      the rest of his life.
      "Okay, okay." Paul held up his hands in a warding-off gesture. "You know 
      you can talk to me anytime, Jake. But I need to know right now if I can 
      count you in on my presentations."
      Paul was the salesman, the pragmatist who turned Jake's genius into 
      contracts and permits and award-winning designs. Their partnership had 
      been very successful over the years; Paul knew his end of the business and 
      Jake never interfered with it.
      "What presentations? Are we taking on anything big?"
      Paul shook his head. "I submitted a proposal on the Minneapolis Civic 
      Center renovation project and the Cincinnati Museum of Art, but I haven't 
      heard anything back yet."
      Jake sighed. Projects that big made and broke an architect's reputation. 
      He hadn't taken on any really big commissions since Alex died. He knew 
      Paul was worried that they would slip behind the competition, but 
      appreciated the fact that Paul hadn't nagged about it.
      "Anything smaller?"
      The German shrugged. "A couple of small clients. A guy who wants to add an 
      extension to his stables out in Santa Rita. A client who wants a solarium 
      or greenhouse added onto a downtown penthouse."
      Jake rubbed his eyes. Familiar as the routine had been for most of his 
      life, now it all sounded so strange and distant from the ache that 
      suffused his life these days. "Okay. I'll talk to the solarium. When?"
      "Today. Two o'clock."
      "Fine."
      Paul stood, hesitated. "Jake, is there anything I can do?"
      Yes, he thought. Find me a girl with eyes like dark fire, who can look 
      through a man's soul and leave him helpless. But he said, "No, I'll be 
      okay. Thanks."
      "Two o'clock."
      "I'll be here."
      * * *
      She sat in the restaurant, oblivious to the stares, and toyed with her 
      salad. It was a way to kill time. She had never had the luxury of killing 
      time before, so the sensation was still new and interesting. Boredom had 
      not yet bored her.
      Still, there was this emptiness inside, and she did not know how to fill 
      it. Experience taught her that the obvious solution, a man, would not 
work.
      It was never the right man at the right time, she thought. For so long she 
      had had few choices, and now that she had infinitely many none suited. She 
      had been merely material to the men she modeled for, another shape to 
      light and photograph and drape and paint. She had been a trophy for the 
      rich men and a prize for the poor men, and nothing for herself. Poverty 
      and a certain aimless despair had consumed her, and she had allowed 
      herself to drift on the currents of trendy, hustling Los Angeles, her face 
      and her body the passport to places she didn't really want to be. But 
      she'd had no better place to be, no one better to be with than the famous 
      or the rapacious or the twisted. She had not been terribly hurt, but she 
      had not been happy, either, only bored and hungry and purposeless. Now, 
      finding that she could indulge herself in anything, she found she wanted 
      nothing.
      Or almost nothing.
      Now and then, as she was drifting off to sleep, or waking up, or thinking 
      about something else entirely, a face and eyes and mouth would come to 
      mind. She had seen him only briefly, for a few moments, before he turned 
      and left her to her boring, silly assignment and the pretentious woman 
      with the camera. A long, elegant body simply dressed, an expressive face 
      and a mobile, sensitive mouth. And eyes that held pain and grief and 
      desire. Eyes that had looked at her and through her, as if unable to bear 
      the sight of her.
      She had not known his name. She would have liked to see him smile.
      The limousine pulled smoothly up to the curb. Before her hand reached the 
      door latch, her driver was opening it, standing back for her. She put her 
      sunglasses on and stepped out.
      Shopping, always shopping. Not that she ever bought anything. She had had 
      so little, wanted so much. Now she wanted nothing. Or rather, she wanted 
      something to fill the emptiness, but didn't know what it was. The only 
      thing that had helped were the plants. Green, growing, living things that 
      grew and fought for territory and bloomed and died--these silent struggles 
      she understood, layered beneath the beauty of broceliad and lily and 
      orchid. This, she could lavish her care on. A private jungle, for her 
      alone, to hide in.
      She stepped into the lobby, headed for the elevator.
      * * *
      Marilyn opened the door to his office, smiling. "Jake? Your two o'clock is 
      here."
      The solarium builder, he remembered. He sighed. Another society dowager 
      who would ruin the silhouette, the balance of a beautiful tower just so 
      her plants wouldn't have to sweat through the Los Angeles summer.
      "Show her in," he said.
      He smiled his professional smile, and then the smile was wiped from his 
      face as though it had never been.
      "My God!" he said with an indrawn breath.
      The door closed softly behind her. He came around his desk, headed for 
      her, but halted.
      She recognized the hazel eyes at once, and had no words for the feeling 
      that went through her. But instinct and long habit made her step back, 
      putting more distance between them. He stepped forward again, as though 
      drawn on a leash. He reached out but didn't touch her.
      "It's you, isn't it," he said wonderingly. "From the trailer..."
      Her lips made a thin line. "And you...were watching." She made her face as 
      expressionless as possible. "Did you enjoy it?"
      "Yes, I did," he said helplessly. What could he say? You mesmerize me? I'm 
      obsessed with you? And by the way, what's your name? "I...I even bought 
      some of the pictures."
      Immediately he regretted saying that. It sounded like a come-on. Standing 
      here before him in her linen and silk, looking like an ad out of Vogue, 
      she didn't look like the kind of woman who would pose naked with a 
      tattooed man. Probably she would be angry with him.
      "You have the pictures?" her voice asked sharply.
      What was that trace of accent? he wondered. "Yes. I bought them from the 
      gallery."
      There was a tiny silence. "You know Kate." She said it as a statement, not 
      a question.
      "Yes," he said neutrally. "I knew her." He emphasized the past tense, and 
      saw by the tense way her mouth (that mouth!) turned down that she had 
      understood him.
      "She told me where they were being shown. I got to the gallery after you 
      bought them," she said slowly. "They didn't know your name."
      He stuck out his hand. "My name is Jake," he said.
      For a moment, he thought she wouldn't shake his hand, and he felt 
      bitterness wash over him. Well, why not? He had stood and watched her 
      prostitute herself to the camera, like a man at a peepshow. Why should she 
      shake his hand?
      But she did, and at her touch he felt his body begin to sing. Her hand was 
      soft and cool and slender in his.
      "Suuare." She said it slowly, letting him get used to the sound of it. 
      Soo-AR-ay. As exotic as she was, as fascinating. Her eyes, revealed now, 
      were wide and liquid and alive. He had never seen her standing before, and 
      he found that she was much shorter than he had thought, a tiny, delicate 
      woman. Jake felt things happening in him, things he hadn't felt in a long 
      time, things he hadn't wanted to feel again.
      "Suuare," he whispered, the syllables flowing like wine on his tongue. "A 
      beautiful name."
      She pulled her hand away. "Will you sell me your pictures?" she asked.
      "If you'll tell me why you want them," he said boldly.
      She looked away. "Isn't it obvious? Would you want pictures of you, like 
      that, displayed for all to see?"
      "Then why did you pose for them?"
      She shrugged. "I needed the money."
      His glance took in her clothing--tailored, subtle, expensive. A year with 
      Alex had taught him a lot about women's clothing, and he knew haute 
      couture when he saw it. What the hell was a stripper, a model, doing 
      wearing Adolfo?
      "You don't look like you need it now," he was saying. "Kate must have paid 
      pretty well."
      He instantly regretted that, and wanted to kick himself. What was the 
      matter with him?
      She opened her bag and rummaged in it for a moment. She brought out a 
      keychain with a large tag on it. He saw it wink and flash in the light 
      slanting in through the window. She turned the tag face up and held it out 
      for him to see.
      It was done in enamels, an incredibly expensive extravagance. But it was 
      obvious why: it was a jewelled replica of a California lottery ticket, 
      with all six numbers circled in red.
      It took him a minute to figure it out, and then his eyes widened. "You won 
      the lottery?"
      "Four months ago. I can afford the pictures."
      He watched her put the copy of the ticket away. "And you're buying all the 
      prints?"
      "Kate will not sell the negatives at any price," Suuare said calmly. "But 
      I can buy the prints as they appear on the market."
      Jake bit the inside of his cheek. "That sounds like her. Bitch."
      Suuare looked surprised at this. "You're her...friend." The way she said 
      it didn't mean "friend".
      "No." His reply was brief but final. "No more than you are. She...used us 
      both that night."
      Suuare looked up at him, as though seeing him for the first time. They 
      were the same eyes, hazel, intense, focused solely on her. She remembered 
      them, the hot way he had looked at her while the camera clicked away. She 
      had assumed he was Kate's assistant, her lover, her sponsor. Or that he 
      had paid to watch. Now she saw him as a victim, in a way, of the arrogant 
      blonde with the expensive hobby.
      "I'm sorry."
      "I'm not," he said softly, and took her hand. "I met you."
      She stood still, unable to move. His hand was large and warm and 
      sensitive, folding her small one into his protectively. She didn't often 
      touch men or allow them to touch her anymore, not since the day six 
      numbers had changed her life. But this one- -Jake--was different. He 
      didn't feel like a stranger. Probably because he had so often been in her 
      thoughts. His thumb swept slowly across her fingers. He raised her hand 
      slowly to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand, his lips warm and 
      soft.
      He smiled, and she was startled at the transformation. His closed, solemn 
      face suddenly became boyish and open. "Suuare," he breathed her name. "I 
      am very, very glad to meet you. Again. Will you have dinner with me?"
      No, she thought. She had just escaped from all this. She didn't need to 
      get entangled with a man. And she didn't want to get entangled with this 
      one, especially. This one was dangerous. He would threaten her peace of 
      mind as no other. And if he turned out like the others...it would hurt. It 
      would hurt a lot. But she found herself nodding, unable to resist that 
      smile.
      Jake ran down a list of restaurants in his mind. For this meal, he wanted 
      champagne and strawberries and a quiet, dark corner to be with her. 
      Instead, they would get snotty service and overpriced, overcooked food.
      "Tell you what," he said. "Let me make you dinner. I'll give you the 
      pictures and we can talk."
      Warily she looked up at him. "Talk?"
      He ignored what his own body was urging on him, and nodded. "Just talk, 
      okay?"
      She didn't trust him. He could feel the suspicion--in her hand, still in 
      his. He forced himself to be still, to wait for her to relax with him. 
      "I'm a pretty good hand with a food processor," he said.
      She took a deep breath, and her perfume wafted toward him. He trembled 
      slightly. "All right," she said slowly.
      Springtime opened in him. He smiled.
      * * *
      Jake turned off the engine and got out.
      Suuare was looking up through the windshield. "You live in a warehouse?"
      "Glue factory, actually," he said, helping her out. Her hand was small and 
      quick in his, he didn't let it go but led her to the stairs. "I remodeled 
      it."
      Stella gave a quick bark and leaped for him, as always. Guiltily, he 
      realized he hadn't walked her today. Well, he'd make it up to her later. 
      Suuare stood in the doorway, watching him fondle the dog and rub noses. 
      Jake turned and motioned her in.
      "Come on, Stella won't hurt you. She's not a guard dog, she's a 
      foot-licker."
      "I don't like dogs. They...they scare me."
      Jake led Stella to the stairwell and locked her in, knowing that the 
      security gate at the bottom of the stairs would keep her in the building. 
      "Sit, girl. We'll be back."
      Suuare was standing in the middle of the room, turning around. Her calm 
      gaze took in the accent lighting, the basketball hoop, the architectural 
      models. She looked at him and untied her scarf. "You did all this?"
      "Yes."
      She walked around one of the models, almost as tall as she was. "You make 
      the shadows for the city, then."
      "Yes."
      She nodded solemnly. She went over to a sofa, tested it gingerly, sat 
      down, and crossed her legs smoothly. Jake stood and watched her, then 
      shook himself.
      "Dinner," he muttered. "Do you like French cooking?"
      "Mais oui, bien sur," she answered flawlessly. "J'aime la cuisine de 
      Provence, particularement."
      "Peut-etre des poissons?" he suggested. "J'ai les seules de maison."
      "Parfait," she said languidly. "Fish will be fine."
      He made poisson d'aubreville with a sauce minuit, a salade des albres, and 
      dove to the bottom of his closet for a Chardonnay. While he worked, his 
      sleeves rolled up, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. He damn 
      near cut his finger off.
      Suuare wandered around the big room, touching, looking. Surprisingly, she 
      was not nervous. Perhaps she was too confident in her ability to talk her 
      way out of any uncomfortable situation- -maybe she didn't care. Maybe, she 
      admitted to herself, maybe she liked being here with him.
      She came to the sleeping area and eyed the big bed. She rested a hand for 
      a moment on the bedspread, feeling the silk under her fingers. She swept 
      the backs of her fingers over it, feeling the texture, the cool surface of 
      it. Behind her she heard Jake drop something and a muffled curse. She 
      didn't turn, but a small smile curved her mouth. Oh, yes, he wanted her. 
      She could tell, it was radiating off of him like heat off a hot rock.
      But that didn't mean she owed him anything.
      It was wonderful, the ability to say no and make it stick. She had had to 
      say yes to too many men, too many situations she would have preferred to 
      turn down. Now she could say no and mean it. She'd been saying no for 
      months now, and fully intended to go on saying it.
      The picture beside the bed drew her eye. A dark-eyed, laughing young 
      woman, standing in the circle of Jake's arms. His sleeves were rolled up, 
      his collar askew. He was laughing into the camera, cradling her proudly, 
      protectively. Suuare felt a ripple of curiosity. Who was she? And why 
      wasn't she here? She saw no clothes, no evidence of a woman in the whole 
      huge place. If she was gone, why did he cherish her picture?
      It occurred to Suuare that any woman who left this man would be a fool. 
      She was shocked to know the feeling in herself. It had been a long time 
      since she had cared for any man. If she had ever cared. What would it be 
      like to care for this one?
      She encountered the stereo, and stood a moment going over the music there. 
      What an odd mix, she thought. DeBussy and Devo. Most of the records and 
      CDs, the ones that looked as though they were used most frequently, were 
      jazz and blues. But at the back, under a light film of dust, were 
      classical records and disco. That didn't seem to fit her image of Jake.
      "Play anything you like," he called to her.
      She chose an Oleta Adams CD and put it on. The lazy, sensual notes floated 
      out into the big room, swelling softly through the echoing space.
        "Everything must change,
        Nothing stays the same...
        Winter turns to spring
        A wounded heart will heal....
        'Cause that's the way of time
        Nothing and no one doesn't change..."
      "Dinner is served," Jake called. He was standing by the table, holding a 
      bottle of wine. His sleeves were stilled rolled up; she noted the cuff 
      links on the kitchen counter. How many men wore cuff links in this day and 
      age?
      She let him seat her, feeling him linger behind her a moment as he pushed 
      her seat in. Then he sat across from her and served her salad.
      "Congratulations," he smiled at her.
      That smile would destroy her, she thought. She had always remembered the 
      intense sadness in his eyes. She hadn't imagined what his eyes would look 
      like if he smiled. She watched his mouth, the full curve of his lips.
      "For what?" she asked.
      "On winning the lottery. I've never met a lottery winner before."
      She shrugged and picked up her fork. "It's hardly anything to be 
      congratulated on. It's just luck, like being born with black hair or blue 
      eyes."
      "Still, it looks like it's made a change in your life."
      She looked at him warily. "Yes. Quite a change. This is very good."
      "Merci," he said. "There are strawberries for dessert."
      "I never knew a man who could cook anything but hot dogs."
      "A...a lady I used to know liked French cuisine. We would cook together, 
      sometimes."
      "The one by the bed?"
      Shadows in his eyes--that was the look she remembered. A pang went through 
      her; she hadn't meant to hurt him.
      "Yes."
      Suuare glanced around. "Does she live here, too?"
      "No. Not anymore," Jake said shortly, and sipped his wine.
      "But you keep her picture."
      "Yes."
      "Were you going to put mine next to it?"
      That stopped him cold. He put down his fork and looked at her. "No."
      "You have no plants."
      "Excuse me?"
      She glanced up at him, met those intense hazel eyes. "There are no plants 
      in this room." In fact, she noted, apart from the dog there were no living 
      things at all here.
      He blinked, then looked around. "Well, no. I never thought of it before, 
      but you're right. I never have had any plants here."
      "I love plants," she said. "My place--"
      He waited, then said, "Yes? You were saying?"
      She hadn't meant to tell him anything about herself, but she said, "I have 
      lots of plants in my... place. I love plants, green things. They change 
      the air, make it more...like home. I would live in a jungle if I could. 
      That's why I want the solarium."
      "You're changing the subject," he said.
      She looked full into his eyes. "Yes," she said. "I am."
      They finished the dinner in silence. It was neither hostile nor 
      uncomfortable, but a little wary, as they sought some common ground 
      between them. He was rising to gather the plates when a frantic whining at 
      the door drew his attention.
      "Damn," he muttered.
      "What is it?"
      "Stella. I forgot to walk her." He looked at her helplessly. "I can't 
      leave her out there like that."
      Suuare folded her napkin and stood. "Well, if you give me the pictures, I 
      can call a cab and you can walk your dog."
      He stood with a plate in each hand, undecided. "Suuare, come walk with me. 
      Just a short walk, that's all. Please."
      She looked at him, the tall, long grace of him, and nodded. She felt safe 
      with him.
      The night was mild, and although the lights of the city drowned the stars 
      they could enjoy the breeze off the ocean and the coolness of the air. The 
      streets were deserted. Stella frisked along, now in front of them, now 
      behind, as Jake strolled towards the rail yards at the end of the street. 
      At first he had kept apart from her, shortening his stride to match hers, 
      but after he helped her over the railroad track he didn't let go of her 
      hand, and held it all the way down to the waterfront.
      At the end of the street, across the rail yards, was a small dock that had 
      once served as an offloading point for the ships that met the rail. Rusty 
      and abandoned now, it had fallen into a sort of careless charm, a small 
      private nook of a place. Suuare noted the wooden chair placed to look out 
      over the water and concluded that he came here often. Alone.
      He bowed her to the chair, and sat cross-legged beside her to watch the 
      lights of the passing ships. He was still holding her hand, and she was 
      intently aware of his touch, his warmth. She could hear him breathing. 
      Stella barked and trotted off to sniff around a pile of beams.
      "Rats," said Jake. "Now and then she actually catches one, and I have to 
      disappoint her by not eating it."
      She inhaled, smelling the sea, the smells of the city.
      "Why did you buy the pictures, Jake?"
      "Because you were beautiful. They are wonderful photographs. Because I 
      didn't want Kate to have them anymore." His voice was warm, low, intimate. 
      She closed her eyes, hearing it.
      No, she told herself. I will not get involved with this man. I will not. 
      Not when I finally have my freedom.
      "Alex--the girl in the picture by the bed--killed herself," he said, so 
      quietly she could hardly hear him. "We had been planning to get married. 
      I...I thought I might die, too. I was alone for so long...and then Kate 
      came. I thought...well, never mind what I thought. She lied to me. I 
      didn't know anything about her."
      He looked up at her, she met his eyes squarely. "I don't know anything 
      about you, Suuare. And I'm not going to ask."
      "Jake--"
      "Kate used you to ambush me. She lied to get what she wanted. I've had 
      enough lies. Tell me the truth or tell me nothing."
      She heard the steel in his voice, felt his hand on hers tighten. "Then you 
      must tell me the truth, as well," she said. "Why did you buy the 
pictures?"
      There was a long silence. He held his breath, then let it out softly. 
      "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop 
      thinking about you since the night I first saw you. Even when I was with 
      Kate."
      In the light from the street lamps she saw his eyes, open, trusting. 
      Slowly, she pulled her hand free of his and put it on his cheek, feeling 
      the stubble there. His skin was warm, smooth. She felt her breath quicken.
      "I have thought about you, too, Jake," she said.
      She placed her other hand on the other side of his cheek and drew him up 
      to her mouth.
      His lips were soft, warm under hers. He drank her in, open mouthed, eyes 
      closed. Her tongue met his gently, then more urgently. She felt him 
      breathing short and quick, felt him trembling under her palms. He tasted 
      like wine and flame and salt. He burned under her hands.
      She lingered, enjoying the taste and feel of his mouth, and finally broke 
      the kiss slowly, leisurely. He remained motionless for a moment, and then 
      hung his head. He was utterly silent.
      "I have to go," she said after a while.
      "Suuare," he whispered. "Don't go."
      She put a hand on his hair, so soft and thick, and stroked his head as one 
      might stroke a cat. She stood, turned back towards the warehouse, and 
      extended her hand to him. "Come. I want you to call a taxi for me. I want 
      to go home."
      He nodded, misery on his face.
      Back at the studio, he unlocked the door and led Stella in. The dog 
      sniffed at the table, the remains of the fish, and then bounced up onto 
      the bed and curled up at the foot. It was obviously her accustomed spot.
      Jake didn't look at Suuare, but went to the dresser beside the bed and 
      pulled open the top drawer. When he turned around, holding the stack of 
      photographs, his eyes were miserable. Reluctantly he held them out to her.
      "You don't owe me anything for them," he said as she reached for her 
purse.
      "I know what they cost you," she said. "I don't need charity, I can afford 
      them."
      "I won't take your money," he said fiercely.
      She reached out and took the photographs in her hand, feeling a great 
      relief. He stood there, looking tormented, not meeting her eyes. Finally, 
      he reached for his raincoat.
      "I'll drive you home," he said dully. "Unless that's a secret."
      "No," she said, surprised. "Not at all."
      On the way he drove the car with only half of his attention. His mind was 
      in a turmoil, his heart wrenched. They drew up in front of the towering 
      apartment building. He recognized it, had voted for it when it won an 
      award five years ago. He knew the woman who had designed it.
      He turned off the ignition and sat, his mind in chaos. "Suuare...."
      She sat, a hand on the door latch, watching him quietly. He suddenly 
      turned to face her.
      "Suuare ... when I watched you, I felt something. I thought maybe you did, 
      too. Was I wrong?"
      Her mouth was solemn, her eyes in the shadow thrown by the roof. "No," she 
      said. "You weren't wrong, Jake."
      "Will I see you again?" She knew he wasn't talking about her commission.
      Her hand on his cheek was cool and soft. "If you like."
      He caught her hand in his. "I like. Oh, yes, I like." He turned his cheek 
      and kissed her palm, inhaling the scent of her. She smelled like 
      sandalwood and sassafras.
      "Dinner. A movie. The theatre. A ball game, anything," he said. "I just 
      want to be with you."
      "I would like...I would like to listen to music with you," she said 
slowly.
      "Opera? Jazz? Rap?"
      A tiny corner of her mouth turned up, ever so briefly, and he realized 
      that he had never seen her smile. He wondered what it would be like to be 
      smiled at by her.
      "Blues," she said. "Pick someone you like."
      "Tomorrow?" he asked. "Eight o'clock?"
      She drew her hand out of his grasp. "Yes. Meet me in the lobby."
      She was getting out of the car. Jake knew a moment of panic- -what if she 
      was lying? What if this was all a trick, a deception? She would disappear 
      and he would not even have the photographs any more. Could he trust her?
      She walked into the building, carrying his heart.
      * * *
      Suuare was there, at eight o'clock, as she had promised. With infinite 
      relief he saw her small figure, cool and poised, sitting in the lobby when 
      he arrived. When she stood up he went weak in the knees.
      She was wearing an emerald green silk dress with spaghetti straps and deep 
      cleavage. He could see the tops of her breasts, remembered how they had 
      looked, so soft, so round. He wondered what they would feel like in his 
      hands, and immediately after wondered how he was going to get through the 
      rest of this evening without embarrassing himself.
      She walked towards him, solemn as a judge, her dark eyes huge in her face. 
      She was so beautiful he was going to die, he thought. Her hair fell like 
      ink down her back, straight, shining, unadorned. The emeralds in her ears 
      were as real as her mouth, her eyes.
      Her eyes were like black velvet holes; he would fall in and drown, he was 
      certain.
      "You look very nice," she said as he reached for her hand. "I like cuff 
      links." She turned his hand over in hers, looking at the heavy gold links. 
      His heart pounded in his ears.
      "You look...stunning," he said when he found his voice. "I'm going to go 
      in fear of my life tonight."
      She drew her arm through his and turned to the door. "Then we will have to 
      stay among crowds," she said. "Where are we going?"
      He held the door for her. "A little club out near Venice. I know the band 
      that's playing tonight. Are you hungry?"
      He drove in a daze, wondering how he had gotten so far in so fast. He 
      wanted her so badly. He didn't know what to do. He felt lost and helpless.
      At the club, the doorman waved Jake in without a second glance, staring at 
      Suuare. The lights were low, the music sharp and sparkling in the near 
      darkness. The balding piano player nodded at Jake as he came in, winking 
      when he saw the woman beside him.
      "Would you like to dance?" Jake asked her.
      She came into his arms, and he thought he would die right there. She was 
      warm and soft and smelled incredible, and she stood looking up at him with 
      those enormous eyes. He put an arm around her and pulled her in tighter 
      than he had intended, though not half as close as he wanted. Her hand in 
      his was light and strong.
      The music was seductive, low and melancholy and hypnotic. The keyboards 
      set a slow, rhythmic tempo, with the saxophone weaving in and out of the 
      melody like a wandering lover. It was sad and sensuous and evocative, all 
      at once, and their bodies moved to it marvelously. He closed his eyes to 
      feel her better, wondering at how perfectly she fitted under his chin, in 
      his arms.
        You never really know, you never really know.
        You make your plans so carefully, but it burns out of control.
        You never really see--no, you never really see--
        Something hiding in the shadows brings you screaming to your knees.
        You can hold it in your hands, think you feel it in your soul;
        You never really know, you never really know.
        Who can ever tell? Who can ever tell?
        Will it lift you up to heaven or drag you down to hell?
        You can hold it in your hands: don't ever let it go...
        You never really know, you never really know.
      Suuare felt the music moving through her, sweeping her away on it, 
      relieving her of the need to talk, to guard, to watch. She felt relaxed 
      and safe in Jake's arms, feeling the strength in them. The music changed, 
      the bands changed, and sometimes they just sat and listened to the music. 
      Neither of them drank much, but at all times she was aware of him beside 
      her, undemanding, but overwhelmingly present. Most of the time he just 
      held her hand quietly. She was not unaware of the passion trembling 
      through him, but she put it out of her mind and concentrated on the music 
      swelling through the darkness.
      It grew late, and the band announced the last number. Jake stood and drew 
      her into his arms again. He danced well, she thought. So many men thought 
      they could dance, but Jake was graceful, unconscious, deft. She looked at 
      him, caught him looking at her.
      She smiled.
      He froze, as though in shock, and then halted in the middle of the dance 
      floor as the other dancers swept around them, an island in the middle of 
      the music.
      "Suuare," he murmured, and she dared not guess at what was in his voice. 
      His hands, the touch of him against her, were persuasive enough.
      As though seeing him for the first time, she looked at him and felt an 
      enormous change seep through her. His eyes were dark in the half-light and 
      sleepy-lidded, but the intelligence behind them was unmistakable. His 
      mouth was full, his lips large and sensual. She wanted that mouth; she 
      wanted it on her lips, her neck, her nipples. She could imagine its fine 
      velvet, its soft insistence, his tongue wet and slow...
      She pulled out of his arms and caught his hand, leading him off the dance 
      floor. He stopped her when they reached the hallway leading out to the 
      parking lot and turned her to face him. Without speaking, holding her eyes 
      with his, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her. No warning from her 
      body prepared her for her response. Her mouth opened greedily under his, 
      and suddenly he was pressing her up against the wall, his hands in her 
      hair, holding her face, stroking her earlobes as his tongue took her 
      mouth. She welcomed him, feeling the fabric of his suit against her 
      nipples, his big body pressed up against hers, his erection between them 
      like an unacknowledged promise.
      And then he placed both hands against the wall on either side of her face 
      and pushed himself away from her. He stood looking down at her, his face 
      open and vulnerable, and then looked down.
      "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done that. You just....overwhelm 
      me sometimes. Please don't be angry at me."
      "I'm not angry with you, Jake," she said. "May we go?"
      He held the door for her.
      She was silent in the car, at the apartment, in the elevator; he wondered 
      what she was thinking. When the elevator stopped at the penthouse level, 
      she motioned him out first. Her door was locked not by keys but by a 
      touch-pad: she made him watch while she punched in the combination.
      "No secrets, Jake," she said, with a small smile. "I want you to see 
this."
      It was a jungle indeed. As they stepped into the entryway, Jake could feel 
      the change in temperature. It was humid, hot, and green. Plants were 
      everywhere, in enormous tubs, in planters, hanging from the ceiling. Here 
      and there sat a chair, a table, looking out of place. It was extravagant, 
      this indoor jungle. Suuare touched a button and music--melancholy, 
      poignant- -floated around them.
        "I see the flood is coming...
        Rain on my face is like a river--
        All I can do is let it run.
        Ice in my blood that makes me shiver:
        I need your smile to bring me back to summer..."
      She took his hand and led him out onto the terrace.
      The sky above them was midnight blue; Los Angeles lay below them like 
      diamonds scattered thickly across black velvet. The terrace was lush with 
      greenery. A small table and one chair sat in the center of it. To one 
      side, an artificial pool held goldfish. Among the plants, Suuare in her 
      emerald green dress looked like a nymph come to life.
      "It's...amazing," he said finally. "I feel like I'm in Tahiti."
      "But it is all dying," she said. She held up the underside of a leaf. 
      Knowing nothing of plants, he looked at her quizzically. "Too much heat. 
      Too much smog. They need protection."
      The way she said it did strange things to the inside of him.
      "I can build you a solarium," he said. His practiced eye took in the line 
      of the roof, the lintel over the French doors. "If you don't want it too 
      big."
      She shook her head. "It doesn't have to be big," she said.
      He watched her move among the plants, touching each one as if it were a 
      personal friend. She ran a hand along the petal of a flower, drew a finger 
      down into the bowl of a bromeliad. Hair stood up along his arms. God, if 
      she would touch him like that...
      "This is my sanctuary," she said. "I hide here,"
      "What are you hiding from?"
      There was a long, vibrant pause. He sensed her hesitation and waited.
      "I was born in Macao," she said softly. "My mother worked in a brothel. I 
      do not know and do not care who my father was, but he was probably French 
      or British. My mother died in a bus accident when I was eight years old. 
      The women of the house brought me up."
      Jake shifted, opened his mouth to speak, but she went on quickly.
      "I was auctioned off at age twelve to a much older man. He bought me 
      because I was young and because I was a virgin. He used to lend me out to 
      his friends to secure political favors, but he also gave me a room of my 
      own and clothes and sent me to school. When he died he left me some money 
      and I came to America."
      She knew he was looking at her but she could not look back. She felt him 
      take her hand gently. "I have had to survive, and the only thing I had was 
      my body and my face." Her voice was a murmur. "I will not be bound by the 
      past but I cannot ignore it."
      Jake didn't know what to say. He'd suspected some similar past, but 
      couldn't think how to react. So he held her hand in silence and listened 
      to the wind.
      Finally he said, "Alex and I came from different backgrounds. I once told 
      her the past was behind, that it didn't matter, that it couldn't shape the 
      future. I was wrong. I won't make that mistake again. It's not just some 
      abstraction you can ignore, it's the fabric of your life. You have to deal 
      with it. Alex couldn't handle the tensions it set up in her life, and she 
      lost herself. I lost her.
      "I don't want to lose you, Suuare. I'll do anything I have to, to prove 
      that."
      He smiled, a small, painful smile. "I won't ask you to sleep with me, you 
      can stop worrying about that. If all you want is a friend, that's what 
      I'll be. Just....don't shut me out of your life. Don't cut me off. 
Please."
      "I won't," she said simply, and came into his arms.
      He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. It smelled exotic and 
      wild, as if some flower had been flown halfway around the world to die and 
      leave its fragrance in her hair. It was soft and fine, and as his hands 
      met behind her back, her hair fell over them like a veil.
      "What--" He choked, and started over. "What do you want, Suuare?"
      Her hands came up, under his jacket, skimming lightly over his back, 
      coming round to slide up his chest, his neck, pulling his head down to 
      hers.
      "You, Jake," she whispered.
      He kissed her very softly. He tasted sweet and hot. His lips broke free 
      enough to smile at her, then he was kissing her neck, slowly, taking his 
      time. He kissed under her ear and laughed when her dangling earring 
      tickled his nose. He closed his teeth briefly on her ear, and then 
      breathed gently into it.
      As she watched, his hands came forward and took hers. She suppressed a 
      gasp at their warmth. She could feel his pulse through his hands, 
      pounding. Slowly he raised her hands to his lips. Not taking his eyes from 
      hers, he turned her hands palm upwards and slowly ran his tongue down each 
      one, from her wrists to the tips of her middle fingers. He drew her right 
      hand up to place on his cheek--she felt a light stubble there, and felt 
      sudden warmth between her thighs. He brought her left hand up to his mouth 
      and slowly thrust his tongue between her fingers, drawing it in and out, 
      in and out, all the time with his eyes on hers. His face was very close 
      now, she could hear the delicate wet sounds his tongue made as it slid 
      across her palm to lick her fingers, one by one. His eyes were gleaming 
      with a mischievous sweet brightness.
      She felt wetness now on her thighs, felt a delicious ache in her fingers, 
      her whole body. She could feel her pulse racing as his hands came up 
      behind her head, tangling themselves in her hair, pulling her closer to 
      him. They slipped down her neck to her shoulders, her waist, and then he 
      pulled her powerfully against him, so that she was pressed up against him 
      the length of her body. She breathed in his smell, warm and tangy and 
      male, a mixture of sweat and warm wool and a clean smell of shampoo from 
      his hair.
      His mouth worked on hers, and she parted her lips, feeling his tongue meet 
      hers eagerly. They darted and slid, working wet and eager together in her 
      mouth, then his. She could no longer tell which of them was moaning. His 
      hands came down to grab her buttocks and pull them tighter against him. 
      His body heat burned through his clothes to her; she could feel the bulge 
      of his cock against her. She heard his breathing change from a light 
      shallow pant to deep, ragged breaths as he kissed her, kissed her, kissed 
      her...
      When he broke free, finally, she was so entwined with him she was 
      practically wearing his jacket; his hair was in his eyes again. They 
      didn't speak, only now she could look him in those beautiful hazel eyes 
      without embarrassment.
      After that kiss, she knew everything about him she wanted to know.
      Her hands brushed up, and over, and around his chest and shoulders, 
      feeling the hard muscles sliding under the smooth skin. She loosened his 
      tie and began to unbutton his shirt. Without taking his lips from her 
      neck, he shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. With 
      graceful fingers she pulled his shirt out of his pants, pushed it down 
      over his muscled arms. His chest was smooth and muscled, the skin firm 
      under her cool fingers. Dark hair spread over his pectorals, leading her 
      eyes and imagination downward over a beautifully modeled stomach to where 
      it disappeared under his belt.
      This time when he put his arms around her, she could feel him trembling. 
      He kissed her, many small swift kisses over her face and neck, and she 
      murmured, "Yes!" to each one. His hands slid off her shoulders, but then 
      ranged uncertainly around her back, her side, searching. She smiled under 
      his kiss, then gasped as his hands slid up inside her skirt along her 
      thighs. Her hands roamed over his chest, over the dark, soft hair there 
      that tickled her face when she ran her tongue over his nipples.
      She began to unbuckle his belt, slowly, but he covered her hand with his.
      "Are you sure you want this?" he asked. "I can't promise to stop once we 
      get started."
      She laughed in her throat. "We have started." She worked the buckle loose 
      and unzipped him. Immediately his shaft sprang into her hand, hard and 
      hot. "Oh, God," he breathed in her ear.
      He lifted her dress off over her head and threw it on top of his abandoned 
      jacket. She wore nothing underneath. The clothes mingled on the floor like 
      old lovers. His eyes widened when her breasts came into view, the nipples 
      hard and demanding. He touched them gently, circling the left nipple, then 
      the right with seductive, teasing fingers. His hands slid along her skin, 
      from her shoulders down to her breasts. He cupped them in each hand, 
      breathing on the nipples, then tasted each one slowly, lingering. His 
      tongue was just as she had imagined: deliberate and wet and hot, sending a 
      warm tickle down her skin. He slid his hands down, down, down.
      "Oh, yes!" he said. He took her hands and guided them to his waist; she 
      peeled his pants off very slowly, watching as his thighs, his knees, his 
      feet were revealed, and then he too was naked. She looked at him, the 
      fine, lean, muscles, the elegance in the way he moved, the long jaw and 
      full mouth. He was beautifully built, athletic and graceful. His eyes were 
      intent, looking through her as they had that evening in the trailer. He 
      left her standing and knelt at her feet.
      Beginning at her ankles, he deliberately and delicately kissed all the way 
      up her calf to her knee, her thigh. He reached the top of her thighs and 
      buried his face in her. Her back arched as his tongue slicked into 
      her--once, twice, again. He curled his tongue into all her secret places, 
      as his hands stroked up and down her buttocks. As he worked, he "Mmmm"'d 
      deep in his throat; the vibration swirled up from her inner core to the 
      back of her throat. She could hardly breathe for the intensity of it. His 
      lips against her wet folds were warm and soft and luscious, teasing, 
      nibbling, licking. Shivers cascaded down her body; her nipples were so 
      hard they hurt. She could hear herself giving little moaning yelps but she 
      could not stop it. Heat gathered deep in the pit of her body as the 
      orgasmic energy built in her with every thrust of his tongue.
      His hands slid under her, lifting her hips higher, supporting her while he 
      licked and kissed. She could not stand; she slumped against him but his 
      strength held her up easily. She shuddered with the swelling power, 
      building in her until finally she cried out, quivering and gasping his 
      name as the wave broke over her. Her hips thrust against his warm mouth 
      over and over, his tongue matching her movements. He laughed deeply and 
      triumphantly when she subsided, eyes wide and fixed on his.
      He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth as he caught her up against him. 
      He grunted into her neck and grasped her bottom in his hands, lifting her 
      off the floor. To keep her balance, she put her arms around his neck and 
      wrapped her legs around him.
      His shaft was thick and hard, straining against his stomach. Below it his 
      balls were heavy and swayed against his thighs. She lost her balance 
      against him, clutching at his shoulders. He shifted, and then slid into 
      her with one quick thrust, crying out into her ear. He was heavy and full 
      inside her. She tasted sweat--or tears--on his neck, smelled his skin as 
      he thrust deeply over and over and over into her. She couldn't get enough 
      of him, working him deeper into her with every move. Grasping one of her 
      legs in each hand, he spread her wide around him, forcing her sensory 
      focus onto the sensation of his cock sliding in her. His rhythm built and 
      built, she felt him inside her hard as a rock, and then he suddenly 
      stopped.
      "What--" she started to say.
      But he gasped, his whole body shuddering as his release flooded into her. 
      "Ah!" he cried. It sounded like a sob.
      Suddenly his muscles relaxed and she felt his long legs and arms folding 
      around her, wrapping her against him, lowering them both to the floor. His 
      breath was in her ear, ragged and broken.
      "Suuare...."
      He was on his knees, still buried inside her, carrying her with him, her 
      legs wrapped around his waist. He enveloped her, immersing his face in her 
      hair, which fell across them both like a cloud the color of jet. He rocked 
      back and forth, back and forth with her.
      "Oh, God, Suuare, I wanted you so long, so long."
      She traced her fingers down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, up 
      again to knot together in his fine, thick hair. "Look at me, Jake,"
      His eyes were sleepy and happy and open. She looked into them and smiled. 
      "Was it like you thought it would be?"
      "No," he smiled. "It was better."
      She stroked his face tenderly. "I didn't think I would ever want a man 
      again."
      "Maybe wanting isn't enough," he said quietly. "Maybe there has to be 
      more."
      He breathed lightly over her breasts, holding her carefully. She was so 
      small, so delicate.
      "Will you build me a jungle?"
      "Yes," he said, and kissed her lower lip. "And fill it with flowers."
        Everything must change.
        Nothing stays the same.
        Everyone will change,
        No one stays the same....
        There aren't many things in life
        You can be sure of...
        Winter turns to spring;
        A wounded heart will heal,
        But never much too soon.
        Yes, everything will change:
        The young become the old,
        And mysteries do unfold
        'Cause that's the way of time.
        Nothing and no one doesn't change.
      THE END


      "Church of Desire" by Richie Sambora. Richie Sambora appears twice on the 
      soundtrack to "Red Shoe Diaries" but "Church of Desire" is from his album 
      "Stranger in This Town". 
      "You Never Really Know" by George S. Clinton. Clinton is the composer of 
      the music used in "Red Shoe Diaries"; the piano player in the club is 
      George Clinton (he's also the balding piano player at Alex's birthday 
      party).
      "You're Losing Me" by Zucchero, also off the RSD soundtrack. "Everything 
      Must Change" by Bernard Ighner.
      "Everything Must Change" appears on the soundtrack to "Red Shoe Diaries" 
      but is not apparently featured in the movie.