Dianne's telephone had been silent for days. She did not want to see anyone or talk to anyone. After her swan song - her final appearance at the Turned Leaf nightclub - wearing nothing but a diamante gee and the black pearl pendant, she was determined to do something about her state of mind. But it was hard: it was almost impossible.

Depression descended on her like a weight she could not possibly shift. Tears frequently blurred her vision, and loneliness dropped its pall on everything she tried to do. Whether it was eat, drink, bathe or exercise, the task was cut midstream by the feelings of futility and hopelessness.

The piano stayed shut, in a darkened room Dianne had absolutely no wish to enter. She would never play again. She would have to stave off the humiliation she experienced on that last night at the club by some other more drastic measure.

The telephone started to ring on the fourth day. Dianne knew it would be Marcia. Marcia: her boss, the nightclub owner who had pleaded with her to wear more and more revealing gowns, until defiance and recklessness had her appear in nothing - practically nothing. Would she come to regret her silly deed that last night?

'Who is this?' she said into the phone, her listless voice not even an echo of her past liveliness. Since she had dropped Brian, life had taken a turn for the worse. Perhaps it would have been better to be with Brian, even if all he wanted her for was sex: to be a part of his harem of heavenly creatures. It would be heavenly indeed, to have her body pampered by masseuses and beauticians on a daily basis, simply to prepare her for sex with Brian, under the hedonistic eyes of his voyeur friends. Why had she refused the opportunity?

The answer was clear. She had thought Brian wanted her and her alone. She was convinced he desired her in a unique and loving way - until it was revealed he treated a number of women similarly, and kept them in his Las Palmas villa, together: a clutch of females that were at once stunning physically while also willing to please him come what may, even if it meant he would lend them to his friends for carnal reasons. Was that what she wanted? Did she want to be farmed out to friends for sex? No - it was too crass, too tacky to contemplate, even if it did mean a relationship of some sort with Brian.

Ah, Brian! He had let her down, and the news came not from him directly, but from the captain of a yacht he had chartered on which they had gallivanted naked for three days. She thought it was a honeymoon: he treated it as an initiation rite for a life of communal sex she had no wish for. Ah Brian - he had let her down.

So she had let herself slide downward, to the point of playing the piano half naked in a nightclub that became famous and crowded because of her. And then those words: "Dianne - what are you doing in a place like this?" She would never forget the eyes of that man. The man who accused her of descending to depths she had never dreamed of.

She had never dreamed she would spend a weekend at the coast with a couple! She had sex with Marcia and her boyfriend - and enjoyed it, but what sort of fulfilment did it bring? None. Was she loved? No.

Dianne wanted love: to be appreciated and cared for. She wanted someone to think she was wonderful, and it would only happen when she believed it herself.

'I'm wonderful,' she said in a sad and sardonic voice, to herself. There was never a time when she believed it less.

Into the phone, she said, "Who is this?" once more.

'My name is Palin,' the male voice said. 'From Palin and Associates.'

Dianne inhaled quickly. 'The agents?'

'Yes - theatre and screen... but you seem to have heard of us.'

Of course she had heard of Palin and Associates - who had not? They were famous and successful, and the coveted coup of every musician in her part of the world, not to mention New York, Milan and Vienna. 'Mr Palin - how can I help you?'

'Well,' started the well-known agent in his practical tone. 'For a start, you can come to see me at my Chicago office, and we can take it from there.'

Chicago! The phone call proceeded, but all the while, Dianne had difficulty in believing what was taking place in her ear: in her mind. Incredible but true, it was happening to her, and she did not know why.

'Mr Palin - who told you about me? How did you get my number?'

'Dianne - may I call you Dianne? I think you know who it was. The gentleman is sitting in my office right now...' there was a mumble in the background as the men spoke. '... And as soon as you can possibly make it, we need to have a discussion about a number of things.'

The audience broke into a roar of applause, and Dianne rose to take a bow. She had played her heart out, taking the piano concerto to a new level of virtuosic rendition. She had taken a professional risk: but it was clear from the reception of the intelligent audience that it was well worth it. It had worked.

The arrangement was one she had devised herself; and it was well received. In the wings, she saw the vague shapes of her agent, Mr Palin, in his white tuxedo and another man: her lover, the man to whom she owed all this. Her eyes swam with tears of happiness and delight, appreciation and satisfaction.

'How on earth did I get here?' she asked herself under her breath. 'How did I do this?'

Dianne knew she did not do it alone.

She turned and bowed again, her beautiful Habanera gown swishing around her like a silk cloud. It was an unusual shade of pink, whose deep folds turned purple and gold, and it fitted her like a glove: not surprising, since it was tailored specifically for her form.

'I did not do this alone,' she breathed as she neared the two men in the wings. 'I did not do this alone. How did this happen to me?'

The man she loved took her by both hands and embraced her, then promptly turned her around and gently pushed her out on stage again to take a final bow. 'You may have to play another brief encore,' he whispered. 'They're practically hollering for you out there.' There was joy in his voice too.

His encouragement was enough: his presence was enough. Dianne gave him a brief glance and caught the look of devotion and pride in his sharp piercing eyes. They were the same eyes that had looked at her in dismay so long ago, and asked the question of her: 'Dianne - what on earth are you doing, working in a place like this?'

His appearance at the club had filled her with the realisation that she had descended to a level from which it was difficult to rise. Brian had trained her to love being looked at in lust: to love pleasing voyeurs and lechers. He had trained her to feel good when eyes looked upon her body, causing her to thrill to anyone's gaze, thrill to anyone's touch.

She could climax to the touch of a masseuse's hand, a beautician's stroke: the fingers of strangers. She got aroused by being naked in the presence of strangers. Brian had promised her a life of leisure. 'A life of sex, nakedness and jewels.' And it had seemed so attractive when it came from his lips, because she thought he meant if about them as a couple. She thought he loved her. But he did not.

She had given him her body, allowing him to take her in front of Boris, the famous musician and old voyeur. How many times had she succumbed to the arrangement Brian had with his friend? She would feel his hands all over her, and delight in being ravished, debauched and denuded in front of a small group of lecherous old men.

She had played the piano softly, while Brian stood behind her and smoothed the straps of her gown off her shoulders, down her arms, pulling the fabric until her bosom was bared and trembling, her nipples hard and excited at being shown to all in the room while she continued to play. His hands would play on her flesh like an instrument, and when she finished her piece, he turned her to face him and she would pleasure him in front of his friends.

Dianne coloured a fierce shade of red when she remembered taking Brian's penis in her mouth while sitting at her piano stool, leaning forward so her bare breasts dangled deliciously and swung, perky and excited by what she did. She remembered looking up at him and smiling, enjoying it all, because she thought he loved her.

He had made her wait, wait, wait. And it was not worth any of the patience and persistence she had put into the relationship. What a disappointment it was. Her body cried out with betrayal and disappointment.

'Disappointment is one of the most cruel of human emotions,' Marcia her nightclub manager had said. She was so right. She had soothed and consoled her - and they had finished up having sex. She, Marcia, and the maitre d' from the club. Did she enjoy that? Of course she had: it heightened her appreciation of what it meant to be a woman, but it had not satisfied her, or made her happy. It had not led to an on-going relationship. It was casual sex. And what she wanted now was permanence: a relationship where love was given and returned in equal measure.

Perhaps it did not exist.

Of course it did. Memories slid away as Dianne gazed into the eyes of the man who gave her everything, and knew very well it existed, and that it was hers. New memories leapt up to replace the old. The memory of his first kiss. The memory of the first time he had made love to her. Her whole body thrilled and leapt to these memories, ones that would never die. That would never lose the power to strengthen her, embolden her in the way she had started to make love. She gave herself to him, and this time it was so good.

The boat was sleek and fast, its prow cutting into the water sharply and swiftly. Dianne stood on deck, feet steady now after two days of recovering her sea legs. It was bliss to enjoy the sea air, the wind, in her hair. She was finally free of worry, of discontent. Without a care in the world, she could stand on the polished boards of this schooner, holding onto a brand new white rope, shading her eyes to look outward to where a drop of sheer chalk cliffs plunged into the turquoise waters of a steep cove.

From here, the schooner plunging steadily under her, she could reminisce; think back to the day she flew in to Chicago from Heyden City, full of anticipation, dread, expectations she knew could only be fulfilled by magic, sheer magic.

Did she dare to wish? Had she really recognised the voice in the background during the phone call she received from the famous agent, Colin Palin? It was a low voice, but she thought she knew it. It was the same voice that had said those fateful words: 'Dianne - what are you doing in a place like this?' It had to be.

Into her case, she had thrust sheet music, after the difficult choices of what to take and what to leave behind. Would she play Rimsky-Korsakov? Or Debussy? She did not know what she would play to impress the panel of impresarios, organisers, maestros and conductors at what was to prove the most important audition of her life. She would have to impress them not only with her choice of concert music, but also her ability to interpret and play it. There was precious little time to practise. She needed time, but there was no time left.

On the plane, she studied the scores intently, flexing her fingers and working herself up to such a nervous state she was sure that failure would be inevitable.

'A tomato juice?' The stewardess asked. 'Vodka? Lemonade?'

Dianne remembered the last time she had taken a flight, and the sheer blouse she had worn then. Now, she had to look businesslike, professional. She had packed the few remaining elegant things she found in her closet, ruing their lack of style. She needed to shop. But there was no time, no time!

Once in Chicago, she found there was just enough time to take a cab to River North, immediately west of Michigan Avenue, and see what she could find in the way of a decent outfit. It was easy to walk into Desiree Colman's once she was there, knowing she would find exactly what she wanted in her size. She blew all her savings on a dark blue suit that would look good at any venue: cocktail party, interview, audition - it would take her anywhere. The Colman label had that kind of style, and it was about time she shrugged off her sleazy episode and acquired some elegance.

The assistant looked at her try on outfit after outfit, approving of nearly all, but she could not go past the dark blue suit.

'It goes with your eyes,' said the clerk.

Dianne nodded and winced when she signed away what seemed like a fortune. She would have to pass the audition and start making some sort of money, or she would be back playing in some dive.

Thinking back to that day, the day she had agonised over clothes, music notes, almost everything, while lounging on a schooner deck with the coast drawing near and her hair full of the balmy wind of early evening, Dianne had to laugh. But she had no idea then that she would never have to worry about money again. Or work. Or love.

A shadow, long and full of the promise of evening, came up behind her, and a strong arm looped around her waist from behind. This - this sense of being loved and considered worthwhile, worth committing to - was what she had yearned for all her life. And now she had it. Snuggling her head back into the crook of neck and shoulder of this powerful loving man was everything her dreams were made of. He kissed her cheek lightly, but by no means dismissingly. He meant every caress and every word he said, and was as reliable as the day was long. How did she manage this - how did she deserve this kind of love?

'Deserve has nothing to do with it.' They were the words of Clint Eastwood in one of his famous films, which she had seen at a time in her life when everything seemed to be crashing about her ears. Now, she knew the words were so true: things just happened, and whether one deserved outcomes or not had very little to do with life. Consequences were something different altogether. What she was enjoying now was no consequence. It was sheer good luck.

She turned, swivelling within the arms of her man.

'Darling,' he said. 'My lovely. Look at that sunset - we are in for a beautiful evening. We should have some cold chicken and salad on board, and retire early. What do you say?'

She laughed. 'What - no theatre? No restaurant?' She knew what his answer would be.

'I want to be alone with you. I can't get enough of your eyes... your lips... mm. All of you.'

He kissed her deeply and she thrilled to the feeling of his hands all over the thin shirt she wore. She was hungry for his touch, and wanted nothing more than what he wanted. To be alone together, to savour every word the other said, to gaze into sharp piercing eyes that seemed to know what she thought before she formed any words.

'Yes, Rex,' she said. 'Yes.'

Rex looked out towards the horizon and she looked at his strong profile, the way his hair was sleeked back into a pirate's ponytail. His healthy tan, the muscular build that told of weeks of sailing at a time, the confident hold with which he grasped not only the wheel of the boat but especially her waist, her arms... he was unbelievably focussed and content, and she knew it was because he was with her.

'The moment you stepped on that boat, I wanted you. I knew Brian's ways and that you were a mere sexual plaything to him. To me, you embodied everything I had ever dreamt about in a woman.'

Dianne smiled. 'Oh Rex - how could you have possibly known? You didn't know who I was or what I did.'

'It's true - I had no idea at the time. I was smitten: attracted by the way you looked. But I made it my business to find out, and ... well, I tracked you down, didn't I?'

She blushed deeply, remembering how he had found her at the Turned Leaf, playing in an outfit so low-cut and sheer she may as well have been wearing nothing at all. She also remembered how it was Rex who had told her all about Brian: how the Las Palmas lecher could not have possibly loved her. How she was being groomed to be part of a harem of beautiful women on an island villa.

Rex was instrumental in saving her face, not to mention her career. He was the one who arranged her audition with Colin Palin.

'How did you manage to get hold of Colin Palin in the first place?' she had asked, not so long ago.

'He was at school with me - we went on to college together. He always had an eye for talent, and went to work with Rogers Barnes Gennaro right away, then set up his own operation in the early nineties. He rocketed to the top by engaging some top-notch musicians. And now you are one of them.'

'I can't believe it.'

'I can - you are a gifted artist. You heard the applause last week. You read the reviews.'

'Yes,' Dianne breathed. It was all true.

The truth looked her in the eye with love and desire. His piercing eyes stopped her heart. This was the truth: this man, who told her right away what he felt and what he thought. He never gave her cause to wonder, never made her wait.

She had ridden up the lift in the impressive building on Roosevelt Road, her stomach a knot of nervousness, and found him waiting for her, in the company of Colin Palin, whose well-known face she already knew, since he was the talk of every ambitious musician in the country.

When she saw him standing behind Colin, all her fears, all her nervousness were quelled and reignited. It was Rex - Rex Absalom, of the Boston Absaloms, wealthy shipwrights, businessmen and landowners whose power and influence was legendary in their own time. And he was there only because of her. What was his stake in this?

'Colin,' said Rex formally, before Dianne could compose herself sufficiently. 'I'd like you to meet Dianne Toliver.'

Dianne gasped, and took the hand of the agent with as much balance as she could muster. It was her real name: a name she had not used since she left college about thirteen years ago. How could Rex possibly know it? She had not even said it to Brian. She looked at his stern countenance, his deep eyes, and could see nothing there to divulge where and how he had found out so much about her.

The meeting proceeded slowly, Dianne gathering her wits only by degrees. She needed to concentrate, but her mind was on Rex. She wanted desperately to know what his interest in her was: why he arranged this audition. What did Rex Absalom have to gain by all this?

It seemed hours before she was led to a piano: hours of what felt like interrogation. Hours of torture. But the piano soon erased all the discomfort. She sat, opened her sheets of music, made herself comfortable, and took a few deep breaths. Her fingers were flexed and her mind was suddenly and professionally cleared of anything and everything.

She launched automatically into "Songs my Mother Taught Me" by Dvorak, a piece at once recognisable and able to be judged by anyone who knew their music. She went on for some time then turned a page deftly and went smoothly into the "Serenade" by Schubert. The music took over her hands and mind, and she played confidently and sweetly, a sudden smile forming on her lips. This is what she was made for: she loved playing, and knew she did it well.

The clapping of the two men filled the room when she finished and turned slowly on the stool. She had no need to ask. Colin Palin was beaming, standing and still clapping. 'I now know definitely that a rank of impresarios and conductors should hear you play,' he said. In minutes, she had signed contracts, and it was a done deal. From then on, the famous man was her agent, and she did not have to think about concerns, contracts or deals again. He would set up everything for her, and all she had to do was play - play her heart out, and bank her checks.

She stood, smoothing down her skirt: her gorgeous dark blue skirt, part of the Colman suit that had cost her so much money. It was not an issue now: she knew she would be able to afford some very beautiful clothes to play in. The man who took her hands, though, was not Colin Palin. He had answered a call on his mobile and had discreetly backed out of the door, nodding an apology to the other man.

Rex took her hands, and looked her directly in the eye. His silence was unsettling, and his stern look a kind of warning. But he spoke, and there was a knot in his voice. 'I was so moved by that music,' he said. 'You really are a marvellous performer.'

'Rex - what... why...?'

'Hush. You have just signed a contract with one of the most influential agents in the music world. I think champagne is in order!'

Dianne was whisked away in a sleek sedan to an uptown cocktail bar, where she was toasted time after time by a handsome man who had eyes for no one but her. It was an incredible feeling, one that filled her with such hope she was faint from feelings of trepidation and expectation.

'I don't know how to feel,' she whispered, half to herself. She knew she looked good in her blue suit. It was not her appearance she was worried about. Neither was it the appearance of Rex Absalom. He wore grey: a suit that looked at once relaxed and startlingly attractive over a light blue shirt whose open collar showed tanned skin and strong neck muscles, telling of an outdoor life. His piercing eyes sought hers continually, and she tried not to gaze too deeply into that sharp grey. Smoothed back from a high forehead, his hair was dark, sleek: caught in a buccaneer's knot that was not the least pretentious or trite. Long fingers passed her a flute of sparkling wine and touched the tips of hers for a fragment of a second. The sensation was electric, startling.

'I don't know how to feel,' she repeated.

'You should feel the beginnings of a sense of achievement,' Rex said, 'coupled with the initial dawning of excitement about a brand new life.'

She gasped.

'A brand new life that will look only forward - and never, never back.'

'Is that really possible?'

'If you will allow me some say in it,' he smiled, 'I am sure I can arrange some of the details!'

Rex laughed, lowering his guard for a second, a flash, during which Dianne had a small opportunity to glimpse his hope. My goodness, there it was. This man was hoping she would have him.

Dianne could not believe what she saw. Doubt crowded in, laced with experiences of being taken for granted, of being exploited. What was she to say or do? 'Oh goodness,' she whispered. 'What am I to do now?'

'I think you must trust me for now. Please trust me, Dianne.' The way he said her name was almost enough, but Dianne could not just place dependence on this man's say-so: it was too much to ask after what she had gone through in the last months.

'How can I...?'

'This is all I ask - Colin Palin has already asked you to try and set up residence here. I already have an apartment on the North Side. If you agree, I can help you settle, and that way, we ... I...' he shook his head. 'I don't only want to help you - there's a bit of selfishness involved here. I want to see you, Dianne.'

She lowered her eyes and wondered about the feelings she had. He was obviously genuine: she could not doubt that. But was it too early to place trust in anyone? She had to think about that: think deeply.

The yacht lurched and they came about to face the sun. The crackling of the radio seemed to indicate they were approaching land.

Rex sleeked his hands over her shoulders lovingly. 'Take the wheel, Dianne. We're going in. Tomorrow, we're having dinner with Sir Percy Olliphent, and we need to be rested. He's the conductor everyone wants to play with. You need to be rested! I'm not going to any auditions - but I'm just as excited.'

His kiss was long and demanding, crushing her lips in a way she started to recognise as desire but had not yet simmered down to getting used to. Rex wanted her: loved her, and it was still a shock of surprise that kindled strange feelings in the pit of her stomach. Wanting him just as badly was now not simply a physical response. Had she started to erase those physical impulses that had her recklessly accept any physical touch as sexual? Perhaps: Rex had a gentle yet strong way with him, a look in his eye, a genuine respect in his demeanour that swayed her to new sensations. What was this she felt?

Dianne knew it was love, but hardly dared to think about it. But she had dared to return Rex's hesitant and exploratory courtship. Yes: it was a courtship the like of which she had never encountered before, one that thrilled and mystified her, made her wait for and expect more. The biggest surprise in her life was that she got it, with very little need for waiting. No broken wishes, no dashed hopes. Rex was always there, always willing to take her to the next more intimate step.

How could she ever forget the night at his apartment in Chicago where he had toasted her new successful shot at a performing career with champagne, then drew her into his arms?

'I have waited for this for so long,' he rumbled under his breath, half to her and half to himself. 'I cannot believe you're here with me.' His lips brushed her cheek and he showed all the signs of wanting to kiss her.

Dianne could not possibly hold back. No man had ever expressed his desire in this subtle engaging way. 'But you made it happen for me,' she whispered.

'I'm merely a catalyst. No one plays like you. You should be drawing crowds of thousands... and you will. If Colin Palin has anything to do with it, you'll have the engagements, you'll draw the crowds.'

'Oh, Rex...' If only what he said was true. But success tonight did not only mean music, or playing the piano. Success tonight was all in this man's eyes.

'Hush. Kiss me. Kiss me and say you'll...' he stopped and looked deeply into her eyes. 'You do know, don't you?'

She did not dare open her lips.

'You do know I have been in love with you since the minute I saw you.'

She tried to say something but his mouth descended on hers and it was a physical agreement she made with Rex Absalom. A promise made with lips and tongue: a delicious but hesitant first meeting of bodies that confirmed everything she suspected of this stern-looking yet eternally gentle man.

Their bodies could not be denied. He took her to his masculine bedroom, where checks and plaids and the over abundance of books and leather chairs made her understand right away this man had not shared his life with a woman for some considerable time.

'We shall not talk,' he whispered. 'I am... I am so wary tonight. I...'

It was her turn to hush him. Accepting his overtures was at once perplexing, filling her with anxiety, and a sheer delight. It was heaven to be made love to, the garden of Eden was surely in this room of books and ottomans and plaid curtains. The lamps cast amber light over everything, laying pools of yellow her half closed eyes appreciated. Her body responded, but that was not the surprise. The responses of her heartbeat, the absolute delight in her mind and heart: that was what tipped Dianne over. It was not as quick and sudden as his declaration, but it came, and it was unconfutable. She was in love with Rex Absalom.

They made love in the high soft bed that was a bit too narrow for everything they needed to do: they needed to express a newly-found love, and it was an orchestration of senses, sights and sounds that required a larger stage than Rex's bachelor bed. But it had to suffice, and they laughed as often as they uttered sounds of physical pleasure.

Rex pleasured Dianne with fingers that were expert but unpractised. His love led him to touch her tenderly - perhaps too lightly at first - on breasts and neck and back, until she was demanding more, twisting and turning to receive his touch with such delight it was obvious in her eyes and her smile.

'Smiling at each other is a sure sign of compatibility and attraction,' someone had once told her. Was it true? It must be: Rex's usually stern look melted before her eyes, and she beheld his intimate side, which made her melt. Her body was his and he took such pleasure in looking at her and touching her, in entering her and making her his, that it was like a new miracle. And she just had to smile back when - after the loving - they lay back exhausted and replete.

Her mind was full of the loud shouts of arrival, of success: her heart was pounding. Her body tingled from the attentions of his fingers and mouth. But she did not utter a sound.

'You are out of breath,' he said tentatively, his eyes full of a satisfied smile.

'I wonder why,' she joked.

And that was it - there was no need of declaration, promise or contract. They were one, and it was not to be taken lightly or simply.

'We shall not say anything,' he said, serious once more and nuzzling her neck. 'I have so much to say... but let's not say anything.'

Dianne mumbled something. She too could have uttered whole sentences full of her early sensations and surprise, but she had to agree. If he felt that way too, there was no need to voice a thing. They both knew. It was wonderful.

She woke the next morning relaxed, refreshed, feeling at home more than she would have in her own white bed. Rex was standing over his tousled bed with freshly brewed coffee, mangoes and French toast.

'My - you've been busy!' she said.

'I've never made such a mess in my life. I spilled sugar... I don't know if this milk is... Do you like mango?'

She laughed happily. Rex was nervous! Breakfast forgotten for a moment, she pulled him back to bed. A long good morning kiss confirmed for both of them what they already knew. This was it. They had found one another. There was no need to look anywhere else but in that bed for everything they had ever sought.

Harbour lights on the horizon soon grew into a small marina where they berthed without much fuss. The coast seemed peopled by holidaymakers calmly promenading the avenues in a coastal town lit by the many lights of restaurants and bars. The smell of the sea and slow swash of waves accompanied Dianne below to change her clothes.

Rex was talking into his mobile phone, a crease of concern twisting his high forehead. He nodded and shook his head in turn, saying little.

'The real world has reached us,' Dianne said wryly.

At first Rex said nothing. Then he shook his head again. 'Indeed it has,' he said, a tinge of anger in his tone. He folded the phone and held it between his palms, deep in thought. Then he spoke. 'The real world has a habit of doing that. I'm afraid we have a problem.'

'What is it?'

'Your past is catching up with you, Dianne. I don't really want to discuss it, but we have to. Colin Palin has just given me a spiel on the phone. It appears the papers in Chicago are out - in the morning your face will be all over the city. The media has discovered your stint at the Turned Leaf.'

Dianne reddened. 'Oh, no.'

'It won't be pretty.'