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could never tell when you were lying.”
    Jack was stoic.
    “I didn’t think you thought about me anyway,” Portia continued, “and that’s why I want you to have her.   Because maybe if you take it, when you see her… you will think about me.”
    Jack was about to speak, about to continue his refusal of the gift, but when he saw the pained expression on her face, he reluctantly retreated.   “Okay,” he said sighing.   “I’ll take it.”
    Portia smiled, the pretty one again.   “Spending tonight alone?”
    “Yes,” Jack lied again.   “As a matter of fact I am.”
    “That’s not good.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s your birthday.   You should never spend that alone.”
    “No, I guess I shouldn’t.”
    “Would you like some company?”
    And there it was, Jack realized, the real reason Portia had come here.   It had nothing to do with his birthday, or the need to deliver a present.   She had come here to give herself to him.   She was the real gift.   But it was one he could not accept, because irony was wagging its bony little finger; Gabrielle was still sleeping inside.
    “Company?” Jack said. “No, thank you.   It’s already very late, and I have to be at the studio early tomorrow.”
    Portia stepped even closer, almost brushing against him.   She reached up and began straightening the material of his robe.   “Are you sure?   I promise you won’t regret it.”
    Jack reached up and gripped her hands, stopping her, then forced them down.   “Yes, I’m sure,” he replied, barely able to stifle the bitterness in his voice.
    Portia forced a smile.   “Oh.   Oh, I see.   Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep then.”   She reached up again and adjusted one last area of his robe.   She then made a slow, seemingly reluctant turn and began towards the car.   As she reached it, she looked over her shoulder and whispered to him: “Sweet dreams, Jack.”
    Jack stood there dumbly, every molecule of his being protesting her departure.   He could only watch as she entered the convertible, brought its engine to life, and slowly drove away.   He had the distinct feeling that he was never going to see her again.   But that was only true in part.

CHAPTER 4 – THE RED
 
 
 
    Jack entered his house and climbed the staircase, towing the painting at his side.   He passed the darkened hollow of the bathroom, moved through the hallway, and reentered the bedroom.   In passing he briefly cast an eye at Gabrielle’s semi-bare form.   She still lay on her stomach sleeping, a palm turned upward, wholly oblivious to her best friend’s untimely visit.   He came to a long wall at the far end of the room, the top half of which was covered almost wall to wall with framed photographs.
    One might easily have mistaken the collection for a proud display of Jack’s most prestigious models.   Here hung an exquisite image of the Italian prodigy Marilyn Strayes , her face almost entirely obscured by a massive swath of jet-black hair except for one crystalline eye; a photo of Andrea Alpena, her famously full and shapely lips pressed together in a huge, inviting pucker; and perhaps twenty-five other women.   Most were pre-pub cover shots for ELLE or VOGUE.   However, the presence of these women had little to do with Jack’s pride in their success.   They were actually a running tab, marks on a bedpost, a gallery of Jack Parke’s favorite lovers.
    Recently he had added not one but two pictures of Gabrielle.   The first was a dramatic, full-frame close-up, underscoring the woman’s perfectly smooth skin and swarthy Brazilian features.   The Vanity Fair article in which the photograph appeared, titled Model Actress, said: “Not only is she an unusually bright starlet on the verge of becoming Hollywood’s next superstar, but a serious threat in her newfound role of international model.”   The second photo was a smiling, near full body shot of the woman wearing an elegant blue