A Will and a Way

she walked over to brush his hair from his forehead. But he’d probably wake up with a stiff neck and a nasty disposition. Better get him upstairs into bed, she decided, and shook his shoulder.
    “Michael.”
    “Mmm?”
    “Let’s go to bed.”
    “Thought you’d never ask,” he mumbled, and reached halfheartedly for her.
    Amused, she shook him harder. “Never let your reach exceed your grasp. Come on, cousin, I’ll help you upstairs.”
    “The director’s a posturing idiot,” he grumbled as she dragged him to his feet.
    “I’m sure he is. Now, see if you can put one foot in front of the other. That’s the way. Here we go.” With an arm around his waist, she began to lead him from the room.
    “He kept screwing around with my script.”
    “Of all the nerve. Here come the steps.”
    “Said he wanted more emotional impact in the second act. Bleaches his hair,” Michael muttered as she half pulled him up the steps. “Lot he knows about emotional impact.”
    “Obviously a mental midget.” Breathlessly she steered him toward his room. He was heavier than he looked. “Here we are now, home again.” With a little strategy and a final burst of will, she shoved him onto the bed. “There now, isn’t that cozy?” Leaving him fully dressed, she spread an afghan over him.
    “Aren’t you going to take my pants off?”
    She patted his head. “Not a chance.”
    “Spoilsport.”
    “If I helped you undress this late at night, I’d probably have nightmares.”
    “You know you’re crazy about me.” The bed felt like heaven. He could’ve burrowed in it for a week.
    “You’re getting delirious, Michael. I’ll have Charles bring you some warm tea and honey in the morning.”
    “Not if you want to live.” He roused himself to open his eyes and smile at her. “Why don’t you crawl in beside me? With a little encouragement, I could show you the time of your life.”
    Pandora leaned closer, closer, until her mouth was inches from his. Their breath mixed quickly, intimately. She hovered there a moment while her hair fell forward and brushed his cheek. “In a pig’s eye,” she whispered.
    Michael shrugged, yawned and rolled over. “’Kay.”
    In the dark, Pandora stood for a moment with her hands on her hips. At least he could’ve acted insulted. Chin up, she walked out—making sure she slammed the door at her back.

Chapter Five
    T ier by painstaking tier, Pandora had completed the emerald necklace. When it was finished, she was pleased to judge it perfect. This judgment pleased her particularly because she was her own toughest critic. Pandora didn’t feel emotionally attached or creatively satisfied by every piece she made. With the necklace, she felt both. She examined it under a magnifying glass, held it up in harsh light, went over the filigree inch by inch and found no flaws. Out of her own imagination she’d conceived it, then with her own skill created it. With a kind of regret, she boxed the necklace in a bed of cotton. It wasn’t hers any longer.
    With the necklace done, she looked around her workshop without inspiration. She’d put so much into that one piece, all her concentration, her emotion, her skill. She hadn’t made a single plan for the next project. Restless, wanting to work, she picked up her pad and began to sketch.
    Earrings perhaps, she mused. Something bold and chunky and ornate. She wanted a change after the fine, elegant workshe’d devoted so much time to. Circles and triangles, she thought. Something geometric and blatantly modern. Nothing romantic like the necklace.
    Romantic, she mused, and sketched strong, definite lines. She’d been working with a romantic piece; perhaps that’s why she’d nearly made a fool of herself with Michael. Her emotions were involved with her work, and her work had been light and feminine and romantic. It made sense, she decided, satisfied. Now, she’d work with something strong and brash and arrogant. That should solve the problem.
    There shouldn’t be a problem in the first place. Teeth gritted, she flipped a page and started over. Her feelings for Michael had always been very definite. Intolerance. If you were intolerant of someone, it went against the grain to be attracted to him.
    It wasn’t real attraction in any case. It was more some sort of twisted…curiosity. Yes, curiosity. The word satisfied her completely. She’d been curious, naturally enough, to touch on the sexuality of a man she’d known since childhood.