Summer Island

He reached up and took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles gently “No, Im really not feeling well, and Ive got a crack-of-dawn conference call coming from Tokyo. I think Ill take you home, if you dont mind. ”

She pouted prettily, and he wondered if that was one of the things they taught wealthy young girls at schools like Miss Porters. If not, it had been passed down from one generation to another as carefully as the secret of fire.

“Ill call you tomorrow,” he said, although he didnt mean it. There were only two choices available to a man at a time like this: hurt her by not saying it, or hurt her by not doing it. One-lying now-easier.

Once hed made his decision, Dean couldnt get out of the room fast enough. He maneuvered through the crowd like a Tour-de-France cyclist, saying good night to the few people who really mattered, getting Sarahs wrap (fur in June???), and hurried out to stand beneath the portico.

Sarah made idle chitchat as they stood there together, and he listened politely, answered at what he assumed were the appropriate places.

Finally, he heard his car drive up. The black Aston-Martin roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt. A uniformed valet jumped out of the drivers seat and rushed around to open Sarahs door, then helped her into her seat.

Dean nodded at the man as he walked past. “Thanks, Ramon,” he said, getting into his car. He slammed the door shut and drove off, hitting the gas too hard.

It was a full minute before Sarah asked, “How did you know his name was Ramon?”

“I asked him when we arrived. ”

“Oh. ”

Dean glanced at her, saw her perfect profile cameoed against the blackened window glass. “What? Is there something wrong with knowing his name?”

A frown darted across he

r face. She lifted a hand, pointedly. “Heres my house. ”

Dean pulled up the circular driveway and parked beneath an antique street lamp.

She turned to him, frowning slightly. “Youre not what I expected. The girls . . . they talk about you. ”

He ran a hand through his too-long blond hair. “I hope its a good thing, not being what you expected. ”

“I she said quietly. ”I wont see you again, will I?"

“Sarah, I-”

“Will I?” she interrupted forcibly.

Dean took a deep breath, released it. “Its not you. Its me. Im restless lately. It doesnt make for good company. ”

She laughed; it was a practiced, silvery sound that only held traces of mirth. “Youre young and rich and sheltered. Of course youre restless. Poor people are driven and hungry. Rich people are restless and bored. Ive been bored since grade school, for Gods sake. ”

It was such a sad thing to say. Dean didnt know how to respond. He got out of the car and went around to her door, helping her out. Slipping a hand along the small of her back, he walked her to the door of her fathers hilltop mansion. Quietly, he said, “Youre too beautiful to be bored. ”

She looked sadly up at him. “So are you. ”

Dean kissed her good night, then returned to his car and raced home.

In less than fifteen minutes, he was standing in his living room, staring out at the night-clad city, sipping warmed brandy from a bowl-size snifter. On the walls all around him were framed photographs-his hobby. Once, the sight of them had pleased him. Now, all he saw when he looked at his photographs was how wrong his life had gone.

Behind him, the phone rang. He waited a few rings for Hester, his housekeeper, to answer it. Then he remembered that Hester had gone to see her kids tonight. He strode to the latte-colored suede sofa, collapsed onto the down-filled cushion, and answered the phone. “Dean Sloan. ” It was, he knew, an impersonal greeting, but he didnt care.

“Dino? Is that you?”

“Uh. . . Eric? How in the hell are you?" Dean was stunned. He hadnt heard from his brother in what. . . a year? Eighteen months?

“Are you sitting down?”

“That doesnt sound good. ”