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merciless rejection of Jack Gordon. And she remembered that every night for the past five years she had fallen asleep with Jack’s body against hers; if they had made love she would lay her head on his chest, her arms around him, drowsily happy with her knowledge of his contentment, smelling his soap, his shaving cream, his cologne, and just faintly, the perspiration that had lightly, briefly coated his body when he had reached orgasm; and inhaling all the intoxicating scents of him, she would fall asleep instantly. The nights they did not make love she would fall asleep with her face pressed against the smooth muscle of his arm, her arm in the channel dividing his chest, her hand resting in the springy hair.
    Remembering the feeling of the crisp curliness of Jack’s hair under her fingers, she fell asleep.
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    Diana slept soundly, dreamlessly, and awakened to brilliant light. She sat up and stared, astounded. Unsuspected last night, the startling cobalt blue of Lake Tahoe glinted in the sun, surrounded by white mountains studded with dark feathery shapes of pine trees. Excitedly, she reached for Lane, and stopped, hand arrested.
    Jack had looked helpless and endearing asleep, and she knew vulnerability was a quality often evident during sleep, but she was unprepared for the transformation of Lane Christiansen. Rapt and fascinated, she stared at her, at the innocence of her face in repose, all of its alertness and intelligence shuttered away behind eyelids thickly fringed with gold eyelashes that lay softly on her cheeks. The tautness of her mouth was gone; her lips were tenderly shaped, sensual. She looked very young, and wistful, like a golden-haired child who had fallen asleep filled with hurt after a scolding.
    “Lane,” Diana said gently, not touching her.
    Lane muttered in protest and rolled over, hiding her face with her hair and the folds of her pillow. Diana smiled and said again, “Lane.” Lane stirred and Diana said softly,
    “Hey, wake up and look at the day.”
    Lane only reluctantly awakened, and sat up, looking at Diana sleepily. At Diana’s gesture she glanced out the window, then stared. “Where on earth did that come from?”
    “Somebody moved it in for us overnight.” Diana quoted,
    “ ‘Beauty crowds me till I die.’”
    “Wordsworth?”
    “Our favorite poet.”
    “Our Emily said that?” Lane smiled, her sleepy eyes very blue against the backdrop of the sky, and ran her hands through her hair, brushing it back from her face.
    “Yes. Our Emily.”
    Lane stretched lazily. “I think I can smell bacon through the floorboards. I hope.”
    “People who work long hours usually have terrible eating habits,” Diana observed. “Is that how you stay so slender?”
    “I eat enough for three people. I must be part hummingbird.” She looked down at her body, frowning. “I’m all angles.
    You look like one of those soft pretty women they grow by the bushel down in Texas.”
    Pleased, Diana said, “I’ve heard that compliments from other women mean more because they’re sincere.”
    “I think that’s very true.”
    Diana’s smile deepened. “As long as we’re being sincere, I thought they only produced oil wells in Oklahoma, not such beautiful women.”
    Lane lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured.
    Astonished by her reaction, Diana said, “You’ve been told that a thousand times.”
    Lane continued to look away from her. “I wonder if Field Marshal Liz has us in alphabetical order again this morning. ‘That means you, Christiansen,’ ” she mimicked.
    Diana chuckled, wondering at Lane’s self-consciousness. Perhaps personal comments simply embarrassed her. But she seemed too poised, too self-possessed for that. She asked, “Are you going skiing?”
    “Of course. Aren’t you?” Lane was looking at her again, her arms crossed.
    “No. I don’t ski. I was thinking maybe you’d like to come into Tahoe with me, spend the day gambling.”
    “You