"My father set his sights on Mama when she was barely twelve years old. She made him wait six years."

"Mine moved quicker. They were married before my mother finished her first year of college. The Waverlys were an old, established family in Philadelphia. My father was already destined for corporate law. I know it must have been difficult for her, trying to fit into that niche of society. But for as long as I can remember, she's been more of a snob than any of the Waverlys. A house in the best part of town, clothes from the most exclusive designers, the proper vacations at the proper resorts in the proper season."

"Most people tend to overcompensate when they've got something to prove."

"Oh, she had a lot to prove. And in short order, she produced a child to help her prove it. I had a nanny to deal with the messier aspects of child rearing, but Mother took care of decorum, behavior, attitudes. She used to send for me, and I'd go into her sitting room. It always smelled of hothouse roses and Chanel. She would instruct me, patiently, on what was expected of a Waverly."

Tucker reached out to touch her hair. "What was expected of a Waverly?"

"Perfection."

"That's a tough one. Being a Longstreet, my daddy just expected me to 'be a man.' 'Course, that was in big, tall capital letters, and his ideas and mine veered apart after a while. He didn't use the parlor either," Tucker remembered. "The woodshed was his style."

"Oh, Mother never raised a hand to me. She didn't have to. It was her idea that I take up the violin. She thought it was classy. I should be grateful for that," Caroline said with a sigh. "But then, it wasn't enough that I play well. I had to be the best. Fortunately for me, I had talent. A prodigy, they called me. By the time I was ten that word made me cringe. She picked out my music, my instructors, my recital clothes-the same way she picked out my friends. Then I began to tour, just sporadically at first, because of my age. There were tutors, and the touring increased. By the time I was sixteen, the path had been set. For nearly twelve more years I kept to it."

"Did you want to?"

The fact that he would ask made her smile. No one else ever had. "Whenever I began to think I had a choice, she would be there. In person, by phone, in a letter. It was almost as if she could sense that little seed of rebellion beginning to take root. She'd just nip it off. I'd let her."

"Why?"

"I wanted her to love me." Her eyes filled, but she blinked the tears away. "And I was afraid she didn't. I was sure she wouldn't if I wasn't perfect." Ashamed, she brushed at a tear that had crept through her defenses. "That sounds pathetic."

"No." He wiped the tear away himself. "It only sounds sad, for your mother."

She took a shaky breath, like a swimmer struggling toward shore. "About three years ago I met Luis in London. He was the most brilliant maestro I've ever worked with. He was young, thirty-two when I met him, and he'd built a flashy reputation in Europe. He conducted an orchestra the way a matador dominates a bull ring. Decisive, arrogant, sexual. He was physically stunning, and magnetic."

"I get the picture."

She laughed a little. "I was twenty-five. I'd never been with a man."

Tucker had started to drink, but set the glass down. "You'd never…"

"Rolled in the hay?" The stunned expression on his face had her lips quirking. But the smile didn't last. "No. When I was growing up, my mother kept me on a very short leash, and I didn't have the nerve to strain against it very often. When I required an escort to some affair, she chose him. You could say that her taste and mine didn't mesh. I wasn't particularly interested in the men she found suitable."

"That's why you like me." He leaned over to give her a kiss. "I'd turn her hair white."

"Actually, I never thought about it. Another first for me." Pleased with the idea, she tapped her wineglass against his. "Later, when I began to tour by myself, my schedule was rugged, and I was… the term's repressed."

He thought about the woman who'd just tumbled over the bed with him. "Uh-huh."

She hadn't realized sarcasm could be soothing. "My sexuality was tied up in my music. I certainly didn't believe I was the kind of woman who'd just fall into bed with the first attractive man who crooked his finger my way." She reached for the wine bottle. "Within thirty-six hours of my first rehearsal with Luis, he proved me wrong."

She shrugged and drank. "He overwhelmed me. Flowers, soulful looks, desperate promises of undying love. He couldn't exist without me. His life had been meaningless before I'd come into it. He gave me the works. I should add that my mother adored him. He came from Spanish aristocracy."

"Suitable," Tucker said.

"Oh, eminently. When I had to leave London for Paris, he phoned me every day, sent small, charming gifts, gorgeous flowers. He rushed to Berlin to join me for a weekend. It continued that way for more than a year, and if I heard rumors that he was romancing some actress or cuddling with a socialite, I ignored it. I thought it was vicious gossip. Oh, maybe I suspected something, but if I so much as hinted to him that I'd heard something, he flew into a rage at my unwarranted jealousy, my possessiveness, my lack of self-esteem. And my work kept me occupied. I'd just signed a contract for a brutal six-month tour."

She lasped into silence, thinking back. The airports, hotels, rehearsals, performances. The flu she'd picked up in Sydney and hadn't shaken off until Tokyo. The strained conversations with Luis. The promises, the disappointments. And the news clipping someone had left on her dressing room table. With the picture of Luis embracing a gorgeous French actress.

"There's no point in going into every miserable detail, but the tour was relentless, my relationship with Luis began to unravel, and my confidence-my personal confidence-hit the skids. Luis and I ended things with an ugly scene full of accusations and tears. His accusations, my tears. At that point in my life I hadn't learned to fight well."

Tucker laid a hand over hers. "Then you learned fast."

"Once I make up my mind, I'm a quick study. Too bad it took me nearly twenty-eight years to make up my mind. When Luis and I parted ways, I wanted to take some time off, but I'd already been committed to all these guest appearances and a special for cable TV. My health…" It was difficult to admit it, even now. No matter how illogical it was, she was still embarrassed by the illness. "Well, it deteriorated. And I-"

"Wait. What do you mean deteriorated?"

Uncomfortable, she shifted and began to toy with the stem of her glass. "Headaches. I was used to having headaches, but they became more chronic and severe. I lost some weight. My appetite suffered because nothing seemed to settle well. Insomnia, and the resulting fatigue."

"Why didn't you take care of yourself?"

"I thought I was just being indulgent. Temperamental. And I had responsibilities. People were depending on me to perform, and to perform well. I couldn't just-" She cut herself off with a short laugh. "Excuses, as the wise Dr. Palamo would say. Truth- I was hiding out. Using my work to escape. The repression wasn't just sexual. I'd been taught to behave 'properly.' To present a certain image and to live up to my potential. And, as my mother would say, feeling unwell is no reason for a lady to act unwell. It was easier to ignore the symptoms than to face them. When I was taping the TV special in New York, my mother came up. Escorted by Luis. I was so angry, so hurt, I walked off the set." She smiled a little, then the smile became a laugh. "I'd never done a thing like that in my life. Beneath the anger and hurt was this little nugget of triumph. I had taken control. I'd acted on impulse, on pure emotion, and the world hadn't come to a screeching halt. It was a very heady five minutes."