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Or more, I thought, but I kept the comment to myself. 'Did he ever try anything?'

Sean shook his head. 'No. But I think he knew. I think he felt sorry for me. My second year, he threw me together with an older boy named Dave Woodbury. A real loser, I thought. He was a
maths
genius, and gay as the day is long. He didn't even try to hide it. Turned out he was one of the coolest people at the school. He knew who he was and didn't give a damn what anyone thought. He became my mentor - for sex and mathematics. I lost every friend I had when I started hanging around with him, but even then I knew he was the best thing that ever happened to me. He moved to
Arizona
after he graduated, though, and we lost touch.' 'Was he into games?'

'Nah. Dave was kind of conservative. I got involved in that later. Some of my friends at college were into it. They'd drag me along to some scene and all I'd think was: this is so lame. I could do better than this. So one day I tried.'

'And the rest is history?'

He laughed. 'What can I say? I have a gift. I have to admit, though, if the person I'm mastering doesn't

interest me, I get really bored, really fast. I like to deal with a bottom who's strong, who won't get fucked up over it. People can, you know. They let it take over their lives. They use it as a way to avoid real interactions. I steer clear of people like that. On the other hand, if I do find someone who interests me between the ears, mastering them doesn't seem so important - like with you.'

I looked up at him, surprised and flattered. His eyes twinkled as he
rucked
a stray curl behind my ear. He seemed pleased to have taken me off guard. 'I don't want you to bend to me,’ he said, 'even supposing I could make you.'

'What do you want?'

'Damned if I know.' The covers rustled as he tried to get comfortable. 'No. That's not true. I know what I want. I'm just afraid I won't get it.'

I hugged his ribs. 'What do you want?'

He stared unblinking at the ceiling. 'I want to be free, but I don't want to be alone.'

"That's a tough one,’ I said, helpless to hide the rush of emotion in my voice.

He knuckled the top of my head. 'Don't you worry about me, Miss Kitty. Some people never discover what they want. I'm one step ahead, this way.'

Despite his words, he sounded sad. I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder. He was a good person. He deserved to live his dream. I was sorry I couldn't be the one to help him.

'I'm glad I know you,’ I said, my throat still too tight for comfort.

'I know,’ he said. 'So am I.'

Two weeks later, Sean moved into one of the tower blocks on

He dropped by relatively often, sometimes to work out, and sometimes for a more interesting form of exercise. We probably had more sex than some married people. Despite this, we behaved more like friends than a couple. I never asked who else he was seeing and he never took exception to my infrequent dates - my very infrequent dates.

We also became business bedfellows. A month passed before I was sure in my mind, but I did make Sean my partner. He walked out on the lawyers the very next day, which scared me, though he expressed no doubts whatsoever. Together, we opened a second bookshop, this one called Mostly Mystery. Like Mostly Romance, it became as much meeting place as shop, a space where people went to see and be seen. Sean's business savvy proved invaluable, along with his
Halloran
work ethic. Both shops did so well I increased his power-profit share to 60,’40 - in my
favour
, of course, but he didn't complain.

Then we went on-line.

Sean and I both bit our nails over that. Would people buy from a cyberspace genre bookshop? Could we give it the same
cosy
feel we gave our real-world sites? Actually, the real question turned out to be: could we keep up with all the orders?

One morning I woke up, rubbed my sleepy eyes, and
realised
I had nearly half a million dollars in personal assets. The idea floored me, along with the fact that, if business continued as it was, I might be a millionaire before I turned forty.

Philadelphia Magazine plastered me on their cover for an article on the city's Top Ten Female Movers and Shakers. There I stood, looking dazed, as I wondered why they hadn't put the new mayor on the cover. Sean said she wasn't as photogenic as me but, I don't know, I thought she looked pretty good for a sixty-year-old.

A week after the article hit the newsstands, I caught a piece in the City Paper on Marianne, or 'Madame M' as she called herself now. It seemed she'd set herself up as a
dom
-cum-sex therapist and quickly scaled the heights of the local S-and-M-for-hire community. She informed the reporter that she had a number of international clients as well. "The Japanese find bondage very therapeutic,’ she confided.

Trust Marianne to land on her feet. I was glad her current victims considered the abuse she doled out a privilege. I even felt, strange as it sounds, an urge to call and congratulate her on her career move. I quashed it, but it told me I was over my bitterness.

And then there was Joe.

For a while we heard nothing and I told myself: well, he's a struggling actor, we're not likely to hear. If he's lucky, he's off-off Broadway and waiting at tables, and so much for Desmond
Gerrard's
high-powered agent friend.

Then I saw him in a sweets commercial. He played one rowdy teenager in a crowd of rowdy teenagers. He looked skinny, but it was definitely him. He even had a line. '
Tastee-licious
,' he said with a heart-stopping grin. The ad ran every five minutes, it seemed, and my pulse jumped every time.

"They have to pay him residuals whenever they run it.' Sean nodded sagely. 'So we know he's not starving.'

We also know he's in touch with you, I thought, giving him a sideways glance. Words like 'residuals' weren't part of Sean's normal vocabulary.

I assumed Joe had sworn him to silence. While I admired Sean's loyalty, I resented it, too. After all this time, I could have been trusted with a lousy postcard. I wasn't going to stalk Joe, for goodness sake. Our relationship was fun while it had lasted but now it was over - end of story. What I felt was the concern any woman would feel for a former lover, no more and no less. If no one else made the stars shake in my firmament the way Joe had, that was only because lady tycoons didn't have much time for dating, or sex, except with Sean - and Sean didn't want to shake my stars.

The sweets commercial, apparently, was just the start of Joe's brilliant career. Over the next month, we watched him hawk soft drinks, gardening implements, and a call screening service for the local phone company.

Then he got the Big Break, a juicy part in a torrid night-time soap. Manhattan Nights, they called it. Before the show even was aired he popped up on Good Morning America and Entertainment Tonight - the newest, hottest,
flavour
of the month. The tabloids had him engaged to three different actresses in a week.

Sean found the latest scandal sheet stuffed in the bin beneath my kitchen sink. 'You'd be an idiot to believe that crap,' he said.

I agreed, but crumpling the paper into a ball made me feel better.

We watched the first episode together. Neither of us cooked if we could help it, so Sean brought a goody hamper from his mother. It held roast chicken, mashed potatoes and a tiny green salad - which Sean ignored.
Mrs
Halloran
had let it be known she considered me prime daughter-in-law material. Sean insisted she was barking up the wrong tree, but mothers will hope.

Eating her chicken seemed dishonest, under the circumstances, but it smelled too good to resist. Besides, I needed sustenance to face Joe's national debut.

I sat up as the opening credits rolled. Joe appeared first thing, striding down a bustling

'
Wow,'I
said.

'Yeah,' said Sean. 'He looks good.'

He acted well, too.

Joe played a chameleon-like stockbroker, the black sheep businessman in a family of cops. He was courting the daughter of a wealthy magazine publisher - the second patriarch of the saga. Between the script and Joe's natural acting ability, deciding whether his character was good or bad was impossible. Without a doubt he was dangerous, not to mention sexy.

Sean hooted as the camera panned lovingly over Joe taking a phone call in the shower. 'Do you think they could make him spend any more time with his shirt off?'

I noticed he didn't look away. Of course, neither did I.

"This is going to be a big hit,’ I predicted, impressed with the look of the show, with the quality of the actors and the chemistry between them.

Sean leant back against my knees and pointed his fork at the screen. 'Big with a capital "B".'

He sounded happier about Joe's prospects than I did. I guess he was the bigger man. But it was hard to be big when you'd been dropped like a stone for doing what you knew was right.

'He'll come round,' Sean assured me, reading my frown. 'People don't forget someone they're so crazy about.'

Maybe not, I thought, watching Joe gaze soulfully at the publishing magnate's daughter. But they certainly could get distracted.

Manhattan
Nights's
record-breaking first season was just wrapping up when one of the producers made the mistake of bragging publicly about the astronomical sum he expected to earn by selling the show worldwide. Joe and four of the other central characters promptly refused to re-sign unless their salaries were tripled. To my surprise, Joe was the reputed ringleader. People Magazine said so, in the same issue they splashed him on their cover as the Sexiest Man Alive. Even seeing the
rumour
in print, I didn't believe it until one of the quintet, an older actor who hadn't worked in a while, broke ranks and signed a contract for less.

"This doesn't alter my position in the least,' a very self-contained Joe told the roving reporter for Entertainment Tonight.

The reporter had collared Joe outside Cafe
Tabac
with a stunning redhead clinging to his arm. She wore filmy aqua chiffon. He wore jeans and a neatly pressed dress shirt. I wondered who did his ironing these days. He

and his partner seemed comfortable in the eye of the camera, though Joe did refrain from batting his eyes.

After a brief, bosom-inclusive shot, the camera ignored Joe's date and focused on the clean, resolute lines of his face.

‘I, personally, will not agree to return for a second season until these demands are met for every member of the group of five,’ he said, 'including
Mr
Sandoval.'

'But
Mr
Sandoval has already signed a contract,’ the reporter pointed out. 'What makes you think the producers will renegotiate on your say-so?'

Joe's mouth curved in an expression just short of a smile.

'Believe me,’ he said, 'the producers read more of my fan mail than I do.'

That one
soundbite
proved tasty enough to air on national news. Each time I heard it, I wondered at the change in Joe.

'Now that's chutzpah,’ Sean said admiringly, as we watched a dignified anchorman stoop to report on the drama.

I plumped a pillow behind my back. 'Joe's agent must be having fits.'

'Unless it's his agent's idea.'

I wanted to believe that, but I couldn't. Joe's confidence - Joe's
cojones
, some might say - sat too easily to belong to anyone but him. The whole affair knocked me back. Despite the fact that Joe's balls were no longer my concern, I didn't like seeing him change from the sweet, unassuming boy I'd known.

‘I guess he's
Mr
Big now,’ I said.

Sean patted my thigh. 'And you're Ms Big, Kate, so pull in your claws.'

I knew I deserved that but I didn't like it - any more than I liked the sight of the slinky redhead whispering in Joe's ear.

Sean was too sharp to miss my scowl. 'Poor pussy,’ he mocked. 'Someone else is drinking from your bowl.' He cupped my trouser-covered mound in his broad, callused hand. He squeezed roughly and laughed to find me wet. 'Why don't you take your frustration out on me, Miss Kitty?'

So I did. We both felt better afterwards - except I dreamt of Joe, again. In the dream, Joe and I faced off in the centre ring of a circus, our audience invisible, our sole illumination provided by a single spotlight. Joe held a lion tamer's whip. He cracked it over my head, skirling it out like a snake as he drove me towards my cage. I snarled at him, but I couldn't get away; I couldn't even move except on my hands and knees. Closer and closer he backed me to the open door. Faster and faster I crawled, my knees grinding painfully in the sawdust. The dream was so vivid I could smell the shavings and the sweet-sharp scent of my own humiliation.