I could see the sense in that. There was no practical reason for Churchill to get married. It wasn't like he had a problem finding female companionship. He got calls and notes from a variety of women, one of them an attractive widow named Vivian who sometimes stayed overnight. I was pretty sure they slept together, despite the logistics of maneuvering around the broken leg. After date night, Churchill was always in a good mood.

"Why don't you get a husband?" Churchill countered. "You shouldn't wait too long or you'll get set in your ways."

"So far I haven't found one worth marrying," I said, making Churchill laugh.

"Take one of my boys." he said. "Healthy young animals. All prime husband material."

I rolled my eyes. "I wouldn't have one of your sons on a silver platter."

"Why not11"

"Joe's too young. Jack is a ladies' man and isn't nearly ready for that kind of responsibility, and Gage...well, personality issues aside, he only dates women whose body fat is in the single digits."

A new voice entered the conversation. "That's not actually a requirement."

Glancing over my shoulder. I saw Gage walking into the room. I cringed, fervently

wishing I had kept my mouth shut.

I had wondered why Gage would date someone like Dawnelle, who was beautiful but seemed to have no interests other than shopping or reading Hollywood gossip sheets. Jack had summed her up best: "Dawnelle is hot. But ten minutes in her company and you can feel your IQ dropping."

The only possible conclusion was that Dawnelle was going out with Gage because of his money and position, and he was using her as a trophy, and their relationship consisted of nothing more than meaningless sex.

God, I envied them.

I missed sex, even the mediocre sex I' d had with Tom. I was a healthy twenty-four-year-old woman, and I had urges with no means to satisfy them. Alone-sex didn't count. It's like the difference between thinking to yourself or having a good conversation with someone—the pleasure is in the exchange. And it seemed everyone had a love life but me. Even Gretchen.

One night I'd downed a mug of the tension-tamer tea I often made for Churchill to help him sleep. It had done nothing for me. My sleep had been restless, and I woke with the sheets twisted into ropes around my legs, and my head had been filled with erotic images that, for once, had nothing to do with Hardy. I sat bolt upright from a dream in which a man's hands had been playing gently between my thighs, his mouth at my breast, and as I had writhed and begged for more, I had seen his eyes flash silver in the darkness.

Having an erotic dream about Gage Travis was about the stupidest, most embarrassing and confusing thing that had ever happened to me. But the impression of the dream, the heat and darkness and clutch-and-slide, lingered in the corner of my mind. It was the first time I'd ever been sexually attracted to a man I couldn't stand. How was that possible? It was a betrayal of all the memories of Hardy. But here I was, lusting after a cold-faced stranger who couldn't have cared less about me.

Shallow, I scolded myself. Mortified by the direction of my own thoughts. I could hardly stand to look at Gage as he walked into Churchill's room.

"That's good to hear," Churchill said in reference to Gage's earlier comment. "Because I don't see how a woman shaped like a Popsicle stick is going to give me healthy grandchildren."

"If I were you," Gage replied, "I wouldn't worry about grandchildren for a while." He approached the bed. "Your shower's got to be fast today, Dad. I've got a meeting at nine with Ashland."

"You look like hell." Churchill said, giving him an appraising glance. "What's the matter?"

At that, I overcame my self-consciousness long enough to look up at Gage. Churchill was right. Gage did look like hell. He was pale under his tan, his mouth bracketed with harsh lines. He always seemed so inexhaustible, it was startling to see him drained of his usual vitality.

Sighing. Gage dragged his hand through his hair, leaving some of it standing on end. "I've got a headache that won't quit." He rubbed his temples gingerly. "I didn't sleep last night. I feel like I've been hit by an eighteen-wheeler."

"Have you taken something for it?" I asked. I rarely spoke to him directly.

"Yeah." He looked at me with bloodshot eyes.

"Because if not—"

"I'm fine."

I knew he was in considerable pain. A Texan male will say he's fine even if he's just had a limb severed and is bleeding to death in front of you.

"I could get you an ice pack and some painkillers," I said cautiously. "If you—"

"I said I'm fine," Gage snapped, and turned to his father. "Come on. let's get started. I'm running late as it is."

Jerk, I thought, and took Churchill's tray from the room.

We didn't see Gage for two days after that. Jack was enlisted to come in his place. Since Jack had what he called "sleep inertia." I had genuine worries for Churchill's safety in the shower. Even though Jack moved, talked, and gave the appearance of a functioning human being, he wasn't all there until noon. In fact, sleep inertia looked a lot like a hangover to me. Swearing, stumbling, and only half listening to what anyone said, Jack was more of a hindrance than a help. Churchill remarked testily that Jack's sleep inertia would improve a hell of a lot if he didn't go out tomcatting half the night.