He got on his bike that same night and headed north. He was going to start his own company. No matter what it took, no matter what sacrifices he had to make, he was going to do it.

And the closer he got to San Francisco, the more he found himself thinking about Susannah. He kept remembering all those leggy San Diego girls with their short shorts and those skimpy halter tops that outlined their nipples. Wherever he went, they had given him sexy come-ons, but even though many of them were more beautiful than Susannah, he kept thinking about how cheap they looked.

He hated imitations. AH of his life he had been surrounded by inferiority-the shoddy little house he had grown up in, the incompetent public school teachers with no tolerance for a sullen, gifted rebel who had asked all the wrong questions, the father who spent every evening staring at the television screen and telling his son that he was a loser. For as long as he could remember, Sam had dreamed of surrounding himself with beautiful objects and exceptional people. And now, making the best microcomputer had become inexorably linked in his mind with having the best woman. By the time he reached the Valley, he was convinced that if he could have Susannah Faulconer, he could also have everything else that was missing from his life.

The next day he quit his job and packed up the computer board, the television-everything he needed to demonstrate Yank's machine. That same afternoon he began to make the rounds of Silicon Valley electronics shops. No one was interested.

By the second day, he was seething with frustration. "Just let me set it up," he told a Santa Clara store owner. "Let me give you a demo. It'll only take a few minutes."

"I don't have a few minutes. Sorry. Another time maybe."

The following day he had his first piece of luck. One of the store managers agreed to watch Sam's demonstration and even marveled over the elegance of Yank's design. Then he shook his head. "It's a neat little machine, no doubt about it. But who'd buy it? People aren't interested in a little computer. What are they going to do with one?"

The question drove Sam crazy. People figured out what to do with a computer-that was all. How could he explain something so rudimentary? "Hack around," he said. "Play some games."

"Sorry. Not interested."

On the fourth day the machine never made it out of the trunk of Yank's Duster because Sam couldn't find one store owner who would agree to see it. "Let me just show you what it can do," he pleaded. "Look, it'll only take a few minutes."

"Listen, kid. I'm busy. I got customers."

In an electronics store near Menlo Park, Sam finally lost his temper. He slapped his hand down on the countertop so hard he knocked a box of switches to the floor. "I've got a machine here that's going to change the future of the world, but you're telling me that you're too goddamn busy to spare a few lousy minutes to look at it!"

The owner took a quick step backward. "Get out of here before I call the cops!"

Sam drew back his boot and kicked a hole through the side of the counter. "I don't give a fuck! Call them! Let's see if you're smart enough to dial the fucking telephone!"

Then he stalked out.

Two weeks before Susannah's wedding, some of the FBT executive wives gave her a shower. It was nearly midnight when she got home. She swung the Mercedes around the east wing of the house toward the garage. The trunk was loaded with bridal lingerie and monogrammed towels. With the exception of a nymphet third wife, Susannah had been the youngest person there, yet they had all treated her as if she were their contemporary. Several of them had started talking about the movie stars they'd had crushes on when they were young-Clark Gable, Alan Ladd, Charles Boyer. They'd all looked at her strangely when she'd mentioned Paul McCartney.

As she reached up to punch the garage door control that was attached to the visor, she found herself longing for the days when her fantasies had starred a chubby-cheeked Beatle instead of a long-haired biker. She jabbed the control again. The garage door refused to budge, and she remembered that it had stopped working the day before and been disconnected. Her head was aching, and she rubbed her temples. If only she were sleeping better, she wouldn't be so edgy. But instead of sleeping, she kept staring at the ceiling and replaying every encounter she'd had with Sam. She reconstructed from memory exactly what he'd said to her and what she'd said in return. But most of all, she remembered the way he had kissed her.

Sagging back into the seat, she pressed her eyes shut and let that forbidden image wash over her. Once again she felt his brash young mouth settling over her own. Her bottom lip grew slack as she relived the moment his tongue had entered her mouth. She expanded the memory from what had happened to what had not, and imagined the feel of his naked chest against her bare breasts. Her breath made a soft rasping sound in the quiet interior of the car.

With a great strength of will, she forced her eyes open and fumbled for the door handle. She had to quit doing this. She was becoming obsessed with him, and she had to pull herself together. As she got out of the car and walked toward the garage door, she promised herself that she would stop dwelling on what had happened. She would stop thinking about him at all.

A rustling noise in the trees penetrated her thoughts. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, but the outside lights hadn't been left on and she couldn't see anything. Walking a little faster, she stepped into the path of the Mercedes headlights and reached for the garage door handle.

"Enjoy your party?"

She gasped, and spun around in time to see Sam coming out of the shadows, both thumbs tucked into the side pockets of his jeans. Blood coursed through her veins at the sight of him. She pressed her hand to her throat and took a deep breath. "What are you doing here? You scared me."

"Good."

"How did you get through the gates?"

"Gadgets are a hobby of mine," he said sarcastically. "Or have you forgotten?"

"Sam, I-I'm tired. I don't want any confrontations."

He scowled at her. "How was your wedding shower? I've been reading about all the festivities in the papers. Why the hell haven't you put a stop to it?"

"Put a stop to it?" It was as if he had suggested she grow another head. Didn't he understand that once something like this was set in motion, there was no turning back? She was trapped. No, not trapped. Of course she wasn't trapped. She wanted to marry Cal. Cal was perfect for her.

"It's not right," he exclaimed. "You're locking the door on the two of us before we've had any chance at all. God, you're a chickenshit. If my own guts weren't aching so bad, I'd almost feel sorry for you."

"There isn't any two of us," she said fiercely. "You asked me to help arrange a meeting with my father. I did. That's all."

"You're a liar." He walked over to the Mercedes, then ducked his head inside and turned off the ignition. His hand lingered for a moment on the leather upholstery before he straightened to face her. She thought uneasily of her father. His bedroom was in the far wing of the house, but what if he heard them?

"I'm going to start my own company, Suzie, and I want you with me."

"What?"

"Any day now I'll get the first order. It's starting. Everything's starting right now."

"I'm glad for you, but-"

"It's starting. Right now!" Each part of his face had gone rigid with intensity. "Stop being so scared. Build my dream with me. Forget about your wedding. We can change the world. You and me. We can do it together."

"What are you talking about? I want you to leave. Don't you see? We're not anything alike. We don't understand each other." Even as she said it, she knew the words were a lie. He could read her mind. He saw inside her when no one else could.

"Don't you think I'm good enough for you? Is that it?"

"No! I'm not a snob. I'm just-"

"I need you. I need you to help me get my company started."

He speared her with his dark, exacting eyes. She wanted to weave her fingers through his hair, touch his silver tongue with her own. Desperately, she tried to make him understand. "I'm getting married. And I don't know anything about starting a company. Why would you want my help?"

He could barely explain it to himself, let alone her. "I feel good when you're around. You remind me of what it's all about. Quality, elegance, classic design."

"Is that all I am to you? A piece of design?"

"That's only part of it. There's something between us-something strong and right. Get rid of that deadhead you're engaged to. If you loved him so much, you wouldn't have turned into a firecracker when I kissed you. There's a whole world out there. Don't you want a little bit of it?"

"You don't know anything about my life."

"I know that you want a hell of a lot more from it than you're getting."

"I'm getting a lot," she retorted, determined to hurt him. "Like that Mercedes that you keep touching. And Falcon Hill. My father is giving us this house as a wedding gift."

"Is the house going to make good love to you at night?"

Stunned, she stared at him.

"Is it, Suzie?" His voice dropped, grew low and husky. He walked closer to her, and she took an involuntary step back, only to bump into the garage door behind her. "Both of us know how much you want that, don't we? Will the house love you real good? Will it hold you at night and fill you up and make you moan?" Reaching out, he pushed his hand inside her jacket and rubbed the skin at her waist through the soft knit of her dress. "Will the house make you cry out real deep in your throat? Have you ever cried out like that for a man? Fast little pants? Whimpers?"

"Stop. Please don't."

"I could make you cry out like that for me."

He pushed his hips into hers and pressed her against the garage door. She saw the flicker of the silver earring through the strands of his hair and felt that he was hard. The dark eroticism she no longer seemed able to control swept through her like wildfire. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't do that."

He leaned forward to brush his lips along her neck. She turned her head to the side, moaning softly. His hand moved upward over her rib cage and cupped her breast through the dress. He laughed softly and touched the nipple. "Can that house make you come?"

It was too much. With a cry that came from the deepest part of her, she pushed away from him. "Don't do this to me! Leave me alone!" And then she fled into the house.

She moved through the next few days in a daze. Her father and Cal seemed to attribute her distraction to bridal nerves, and both were exceptionally considerate. One morning as her father was leaving for an overnight business trip, he hugged her and said, "You know how much I appreciate all the ways you help me, don't you? I know I don't say it often enough, but I love you, sweetheart."

Her eyes misted at the tenderness in his voice. She thought of her secret meetings with Sam, the way she had deceived him, and was overwhelmed with guilt. At that moment, she silently vowed to be the best daughter in the world.

But the vow was easier made than kept. With only a week left until her wedding, Susannah lay in the darkness and watched the illuminated numbers on her digital clock flip to 2:18. She couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep, Her chest felt heavy, as if a great weight were pressing down on her.

Without warning, the phone on her bedside table jangled. She snatched it up and held it to her chest for a moment. Then she cradled it to her ear. "Hi," she whispered, grateful to have a partner in insomnia. "You couldn't sleep either?"

But it wasn't Cal. It was Conti Dove-Conti, Paige's lover, calling to tell Susannah that Paige had been arrested several hours before at an all-night grocery store and he didn't have enough money to bail her out of jail. Susannah pressed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to imagine what else could go wrong. Then, being careful not to wake her father, she threw on the first clothes she could grab and left the house.

Paige was being held at a downtown police station on the fringes of San Francisco's crime-infested Western Addition. Conti was waiting by the front door. Susannah had only met him once before, but she had no trouble recognizing him. Low-slung chinos, sleepy bedroom eyes with lids at half mast, wiry dark hair. He didn't look like a candidate for Mensa, but he was definitely sexy in an earthy sort of way.

He slipped his hands from the pockets of a red Forty-Niners' windbreaker and walked toward her. "Uh, yeah-listen, I'm sorry I had to bother you. Paige'll probably kill me when she finds out, but I couldn't leave her in jail."