AT THREE O'CLOCK in the morning, she woke up screaming.

IT WAS DAWN before Diane could stop trembling. The chill she felt was bone deep.

Richard was dead. She would never see him again, hear his voice, feel him hold her close.

And it's my fault. I should never have gone into that courtroom. Oh, Richard, forgive me… please forgive me… I don't think I can go on without you. You were my life, my reason to live, and now I have none.

She wanted to curl up into a tiny ball.

She wanted to disappear.

She wanted to die.

She lay there, desolate, thinking about the past, how Richard had transformed her life…

DIANE WEST HAD grown up in Sands Point, New York, an area of quiet affluence.

Her father was a surgeon and her mother was an artist, and Diane had begun to draw when she was three. She attended St. Paul's boarding school, and when she was a freshman in college, she had a brief relationship with her charismatic mathematics teacher. He told her he wanted to marry her because she was the only woman in the world for him. When Diane learned that he had a wife and three children, she decided that either his math or his memory was defective, and transferred to Wellesley College.

She was obsessed with art and spent every spare moment painting. By the time Diane graduated, she had begun selling her paintings and was acquiring a reputation as an artist of promise.

That fall, a prominent Fifth Avenue art gallery gave Diane her own art show, and it was a huge success. The owner of the gallery, Paul Deacon, was a wealthy, erudite African-American who had helped nurture Diane's career.

Opening night, the salon was crowded. Deacon hurried up to Diane, a big smile on his face. "Congratulations! We've already sold most of the paintings! I'm going to set up another exhibition in a few months, as soon as you're ready." Diane was thrilled. "That's wonderful, Paul." "You deserve it." He patted her on the shoulder and bustled off.

Diane was signing an autograph when a man came up behind her and said, "I like your curves." Diane stiffened. Furious, she spun around and opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, when he went on:

"They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet." He was studying one of her paintings on the wall.

Diane caught herself just in time. "Oh." She took a closer look at the man. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was about six feet tall, with an athletic build, blond hair, and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a soft tan suit, a white shirt, and a brown tie.

"I-thank you."

"When did you begin painting?" "When I was a child. My mother was a painter." He smiled. "My mother was a cook, but I can't cook. I know your name. I'm Richard Stevens." At that moment, Paul Deacon approached with three packages.

"Here are your paintings, Mr. Stevens. Enjoy them." He handed them to Richard Stevens and walked away.

Diane looked at him in surprise. "You bought three of my paintings?" "I have two more in my apartment." "I'm-I'm flattered." "I appreciate talent." "Thank you." He hesitated. "Well, you're probably busy, so I'll run-" Diane heard herself saying, "No. I'm fine." His smile widened. "Good. You could do me a big favor, Miss West." Diane looked at his left hand. He was not wearing a wedding band. "Yes?" "I happen to have two tickets for the opening of a revival of Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit tomorrow night, and I have no one to go with. If you're free-?" Diane studied him a moment. He seemed nice and was very attractive, but, after all, he was a total stranger. Too dangerous. Much too dangerous. And she heard herself say, "I would love to go."

THE FOLLOWING EVENING turned out to be delightful. Richard Stevens was an amusing companion, and there was an instant compatibility. They shared an interest in art and music, and much more, She felt attracted to him, but she was not sure whether he felt the same way about her.

At the end of the evening, Richard asked, "Are you free tomorrow night?" Diane's answer was an unhesitating "Yes." The following evening they were having dinner at a quiet restaurant in SoHo.

"Tell me about you, Richard." "Not much to tell. I was born in Chicago. My father was an architect and designed buildings all over the world, and my mother and I traveled with him. I went to about a dozen different foreign schools and learned to speak a few languages in self-defense." "What do you do? For a living?" "I work at KIG-Kingsley International Group. It's a large think tank." "That sounds exciting." "It's fascinating. We do cutting-edge technology research. If we had a motto, it would be something like 'If we don't have the answer now, wait until tomorrow.'"

AFTER DINNER, RICHARD took Diane home. At her door, he took her hand and said,

"I enjoyed the evening. Thank you."

And he was gone.

Diane stood there, watching him walk away. I'm glad he's a gentleman and not a wolf. I'm really glad. Damn!

THEY WERE TOGETHER every night after that, and each time Diane saw Richard, she felt the same warm glow.

On a Friday evening, Richard said, "I coach a Little League team on Saturdays.

Would you like to come along and watch?" Diane nodded. "I'd love to, Coach." The following morning, Diane watched Richard working with the eager young ballplayers. He was gentle and caring and patient, screaming with joy when ten-year-old Tim Holm caught a fly ball, and it was obvious that they adored him.

Diane thought, I'm falling in love. I'm falling in love.

A FEW DAYS later, Diane had a carefree luncheon with a few women friends, and as they left the restaurant, they passed a gypsy fortune-telling parlor.

On an impulse Diane said, "Let's have our fortunes told." "I can't, Diane. I have to get back to work." "So do I." "I have to pick up Johnny." "Why don't you go, tell us what she said." "All right. I will." Five minutes later, Diane found herself sitting alone with a sunken-faced crone with a mouth full of gold teeth and a dirty shawl over her head.

This is nonsense, Diane thought. Why am I doing this? But she knew why she was doing it. She wanted to ask if she and Richard had a future together. It's just for the fun of it, she told herself.

Diane watched as the old woman picked up a tarot deck and began to shuffle the cards, never looking up.

"I would like to know if-" "Shhh." The woman turned up a card. It was the picture of the Fool, colorfully dressed and carrying a satchel. The woman studied it a moment. "There are many secrets for you to learn." She turned up another tarot card. "This is the Moon. You have desires you are uncertain about." Diane hesitated and nodded.

"Does this involve a man?"

"Yes." The old woman turned up the next card. "This is the Lovers card." Diane smiled. "Is that a good omen?" "We will see. The next three cards will tell us." She turned over another card.

"The Hanged Man." She frowned, paused, and turned up the next card. "The Devil," she muttered.

"Is that bad?" Diane asked lightly.

The gypsy fortune-teller did not answer.

Diane watched as the old woman turned up the next card. She shook her head. Her voice was eerily hollow. "The Death card." Diane got to her feet. "I don't believe in any of this," she said angrily.