Chapter Twenty-Three

Not that he blamed the poor guy. Thanks to the Globe's nasty innuendoes, Cole was already wearing a "guilty" label. Chase realized that as the boy's father he was spending too much time with his own work and not enough reinforcing Cole in a moment of stress.

Unfortunately, this was not the time to do anything about it. He was late for a trip into San Francisco, where his mother was giving herself what she called her "really big" family dinner. As Chase got out of the shower and toweled himself dry, he realized he would be at least half an hour late. He was heading for the telephone to relay this message when the phone rang.

"Maggie?" Chase asked as he picked it up.

"Wrong!" a woman's voice responded, chuckling. "Try Emma."

"Emma!" Chase half-shouted. "Where are you calling from?"

"East of Oklahoma, Chase. I'm on the lam and your line's probably tapped." She sounded stronger, more confident than the time he had last seen her.

"Who'd tap my line?"

"The same people who've been shadowing me all the way from California. They picked me up in New Mexico and I've had company ever since."

Chase frowned. "Can I help you? Do you need money?"

"Chase, I'm looking for..." She paused. "I need help of the therapeutic kind. I don't need to feel like a hunted woman. Can you call them off, whoever they are?"

"Meaning Angie?" Chase surmised. "If she's having you followed, I'll speak to her. Since when did she ever listen, though?"

"That's why I gave you my Globe stock proxy," Emma reminded him.

"That gives you leverage with Angie. Call off her hounds, will you?"

"I promise. You okay otherwise?"

"I will be, Chase," she said in a determined voice. "I sure as hell will be. 'Bye!" The line went dead.

Mentally reviewing all that had happened in the last few days, Chase finished dressing and got in the big family car. As he drove into San Francisco., he tried to picture Emma "on the lam." She had always been the vulnerable one, too sensitive for the rough-and-tumble life of Falcon Crest. But she was still a cross between Gioberti and Channing genes, so underneath she had to be as tough as old rawhide. Chase smiled grimly. Emma would have to be as tough if she expected to win back her sanity and her purpose in life in the teeth of her own mother's disdain.

Jacqueline Perrault Gioberti had booked what amounted to a private room at one of the city's most expensive eating places. It was a corner table, surrounded on two sides by plate-glass windows overlooking San Francisco and shielded on its other side by potted plants and palms. Four waiters danced attendance, one for each person at Jacqueline's table.

"Sorry I'm late," Chase said. He blew a kiss to Maggie, pecked the top of Vickie's head, embraced his mother and turned to the fourth person at the table, a compact, slim man in a pale beige suit of shot silk over an open-at-the-neck voile shirt the color of blanc-de-blanc chenin grapes in late August, a kind of yellowy green the French called chartreuse.

"And this is Darryl Clayton," Chase's mother said. "He's going to direct Maggie's film."

"That's news to him," Maggie put in. "Darryl must think he's fallen in with a family of con artists, Jacqueline. He hasn't even read the script."

Chase shook the newcomer's hand and found it rather hard and firm, the kind of hand Chase associated with physical labor, not with directing movies. "Heard from Cole?" he asked Maggie as he sat down beside her.

"Not a word, the naughty boy," Jacqueline answered for her. "I have seen so little of him this visit."

"Any idea where he was today?" Chase asked his daughter.

"None of us knows," Jacqueline responded.

A furrow of irritation appeared between Chase's eyebrows. "Mother," he said in a soft, patient voice, "will you let them answer for themselves?"

"Oui, bien sur," she said with equal softness. "I must be very careful with my nearest and dearest, M'sieur Clayton. They consider me de trop." She made a small wrist gesture. "What you call 'too much,' eh?"

"You bowled me over and I don't bowl easy." The director turned to Chase as if trying to reestablish some modicum of male-female balance in the conversation. "It runs in the family, I guess. I've only read the first few pages of Maggie's script but it bowled me over, too. There is no substitute for absolute authority. And your wife really knows the vineyard scene."

Chase grinned at Maggie. "Someday when we have time, will you explain it to me?" He got a warm, answering smile. Then his glance moved past his wife's head to a tumble of shiny boxes lined up along the bottom of the window. The names of half a dozen Of San Francisco's finest stores and specially shops graced the wrappings.

"Who's been buying out the town?" Chase asked.

Vickie blushed. "Grandmother ... for me."

"But it's not necessary," Maggie cut in, talking to Jacqueline.

"Vickie has a perfectly good wardrobe. When she needs new things, she can buy them herself. And she certainly doesn't need -" Maggie gestured grandiosely... "Well, really, Italian boots at five hundred dollars a pair?"

"But the leather," Vickie pointed out enthusiastically, "it's so soft."

"It's a simple economy," Jacqueline purred. "Expensive clothes are the cheapest in the end because they last the longest."

"Mother," Chase told her, "in the case of five hundred-dollar boots, I would call it overkill."

"What else should one spend one's money on but one's family?"

Chase was about to reply, pointing out that the co-owner of Falcon Crest could easily afford to keep his own family in boots, when his mother began delving in her tiny handbag. "Alors," she said at last, removing a folded bit of paper. "Take this, Chase. It is for Cole's defense. I want you to hire Marvin Perlmutter. He's the top defense attorney in the entire West."

"We've got a perfectly good local man for Cole."

"Perlmutter will get Cole off."

"Cole is innocent. He doesn't need Perimutter. Again, Mother, it's overkill."

"Don't argue, silly boy." Beyond Jacqueline in a palm count, a quartet began playing for dancing. Couples appeared on the small parquet floor. "Tres charmant, " Jacqueline cooed. "M'sieur Clayton? Shall we?"

For a long moment, while the band played a medley of old Gershwin songs, Chase, Maggie and Vickie watched the director pilot Jacqueline flawlessly around the floor. He wasn't extravagant in his movement, merely firm and knowing. This allowed Jacqueline to spread her wings so to speak, and grace the dancing floor like a vivid butterfly.

"Tres charmant? " Maggie muttered. "Trop charmant."

"Meaning'too much'?" Chase suggested.

"She thinks she can buy all of us. Vickie with the most outrageously expensive wardrobe a girl her age ever had. You with a check for Cole's -" Maggie reached across and opened the folded check. "Will you look at that number, Chase?"

He pursed his lips and silently whistled. "I could buy Perimutter five times over for that much money."

"You see how she buys us?"

They watched Clayton and Jacqueline finish the set and, applauding, move slowly back toward the corner table.

"Nicely packaged fella," Chase said in a dry voice. "When you talk about Jacqueline buying us, let's don't leave out her pet director for your script."

Instead the growing dusk hid Lance's arrival from everyone but the young woman sitting cross-legged at the far end of the pier, a fishing line in her hand, a bucket of seawater by her side.

Lance moved softly along the shaky wharf so as not to disturb Lori at what she was doing. He'd often gone crabbing this way himself when younger. You got a bit of raw liver, threaded a hook through it, added a sinker or two and lowered it to the bottom, which was quite deep hereabouts, often as much as two hundred feet. The big beasts roamed the ba y floor, the killer crabs that made such good eating because they fed so indiscriminately themselves. Like most seafood - lovers, Lance had no use for crabs, lobsters, crayfish and the like that were raised in the quiet backwaters of hatcheries and other artificial environments supervised by man.

It was the lone-wolf crab who roved the bay bottom for his own dinner that attracted someone like Lance. And, obviously, Lori.

"Quiet, Cumson," she breathed. "I've got the sucker hooked."

Lance froze in his tracks. Slowly Lori was pulling in whatever had taken her bait. In the bucket beside her lurked a huge crab fully a foot across, with great, cruel pincers as deadly as Lance's own falcon's beak and talons.

Gradually the end of the line came into view. "Hi'ya, Killer," Lori murmured softly. "Be a good boy and hang in there just long enough . . ."

She swung the line up over the edge of the wharf. With one swift, complex movement she grabbed a short length of iron pipe, let the crab drop to the desk of the pier and rapped it sharply on its mottled carapace.

"Careful," Lance cautioned. "He's only stunned."

"That's perfect." She let the crab drop into the bucket beside her previous catch. "Okay, killer," she told it, "sleep it off awhile. The two of you have dined well all these months. Now it's our turn."

Lance hoisted the bucket and slid his arm around Lori's slender waist as she got to her feet. "I've got a couple of bottles to go with these fellas."

"They ought to taste scrumptious. The waters here are polluted enough to give them a real gourmet flavor."

Lance laughed out loud. "God, you think like me, you know that?"

She took a grip on his waist. "Counting the crabs," she said in a reckless voice, "that makes four of us."

"Four of us what?"

"Four of us killers."

"What's all this?" his mother, Maggie, had started, right before breakfast.

She'd found Cole loading a duffel bag full of hi clothes on the pillion seat of the Honda. "Laundry?" she asked.

"N-no. Look, Mom, it's like this. This is a real, permanent job. I mean, I'm not just dropping by to help out now and then. It's a firm job offer from Ka-, from Mrs. Demery. And it's room and board. So..." He moistened his lips nervously. "So I'm moving my stuff over to the Demery place."

Maggie's eyes snapped dangerously. "How big a bed has she got?"

"Mom! I'm bunking in my own room off the winery."

"Just hold it right there," Maggie warned him. "Chase," she called, "come out here, will you?"

Towel in hand, Cole's father appeared on the front porch still drying his bearded face. "What's up?"

"He's going to live with Katharine Demery."

"Look, you two," Cole began.

"What?" Chase asked. "What's wrong with the job you have with me?"

"This is a real job," Cole said. He could hear the stubborn mulish note in his own voice, but he didn't care. "Working for your own family isn't real work. Besides, Kate needs me."

"Kate, huh?"

"She told me not to call her Mrs. Demery. I mean, after all, she's practically my age."

"Cole," Maggie told him, trying to soften the shock of her words, "Katharine Demery is precisely ten years older than you. And ten years younger than me. Does that straighten out your head a little?"

He gave the elastic cord a final yank and secured it to the rear seat of the cycle. "Thanks for the run down," he said, stamping on the starter pedal. "You know where to find me. So long!"

Plume of dust. Hideous roar. Good-bye home. Good-bye parents. It didn't have to be that way, Cole told himself now as he unpacked his duffel and made up his bunk with sheets and a light blanket.

Kate stood in the doorway. "You need help with that?"

"It's all done. Figured I'd start weeding the back vines near the trees."

She eyed him a long while. "You okay today, Cole?"

"Never better."

"Your folks had something to say about your moving over here," she suggested. "It's only natural."

"What's natural," Cole told her, "is that when a guy gets to a certain age, his folks let go of him."

"Easier said than done."

She plucked at the bed sheets and neatened them, then plumped up the pillow. "You know you're welcome here, Cole. But if it'd be easier on you to stay at home . . ."

"And blow a half hour each day to and from work?" He grinned at her. Lady, you got too much work here to waste time getting to it."

"Still, nothing's worth, having a bust-up with your folks."

"This isn't a bust-up," he assured her. In the half dark of his bunkroom her lovely face seemed almost incandescent. Cole found himself wondering why, all these years, he had never seen just how beautiful she was.

"No," he said, finding his voice at last and trying to sound casual. "It's just something I have to do. Be on my own. Sort things out."

"There never was a better time than now."

"That's for sure. . ." He paused. "Why did you say that?"

She laughed. "Because what you're going through is a test, Cole. Somehow, by being in the wrong place, you've got yourself stuck in a crack and life is really squeezing you. That's when you have to know who you really are. Otherwise you can't stand up to the pressure."

He thought for a long moment. "You sound like you've been there yourself."

"Oh, yes," she assured him. "Two years ago, when Jim was taken from me, I panicked. He'd done all the thinking for both of us. He'd done the planning, everything. And, suddenly . . ." She stopped. "It was like being cut in two when Jim died. I felt like half a person. And it's taken me all this time to grow whole again."

Cole wanted to reach out and touch her tanned hand, hold it, kiss it. He knew she could read what he was thinking because after a moment she straightened up from the bed and turned to leave.

"Lunch is twelve noon sharp. Nothing fancy. just you and me and the kitchen table." She waved as she left.

The weeds hadn't been touched in at least two years. Cole sweated and snipped and dug and carted trash until he'd managed to free eight rows of vine from the smothering embrace of the unwanted plant life that stole nourishment from the same soil and growth from the same sun.

He had raked the green cuttings into a pile and set fire to them when he saw Kate waving to him from the main house. As soon as he had the fire smoldering without flaming, he joined her in the kitchen.

"I warned you," she said, passing a plate heaped with thick peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. "Nothing fancy. I generally save my breathtaking gourmet cookery for dinner."

"What does the chef recommend for tonight?"

"Tonight," Kate said in a fake French accent, "we ave ze coq au vin wiz se petite quenelles. In other words, chicken stew with dumplings."

"You sound like my grandmother," Cole remarked, reaching for another sandwich.

Kate took his hand. "What happened to your thumb?"

"A scratch."

"Deep. And dirty." She pulled him to his feet and led him to the sink. Carefully, she washed out the cut.

"You're going to love this next part," she said, dabbing red liquid on his thumb. A searing pain shot up his arm, then died away. "Hold still." She applied a big adhesive bandage and taped the edges shut to keep out dust. "There." But she didn't release his hand just yet. "Did you ever play the violin?" --She asked in mock innocence.

"Nope."

"Well, you never will again," she added mischievously. "Back to the peanut butter."

They munched in silence for a while, sipping cold milk from tall glasses. Seeing her across the table, Cole couldn't believe what his mother had said about her age. Ten years older? Impossible.

"I know how important it is to clear out the weeds so the grapes can do their thing," Kate was saying, "but I'd really appreciate it if you could look at my roof There's a hole in it the size of a baseball."

"Right after the weeds."

Someone was knocking on the front door. Kate got to her feet and disappeared toward the front of the house. After a moment Cole could hear her talking. The answering voice had a French accent. He jumped to his feet just as Kate led Jacqueline Perrault Gioberti and Maggie into the kitchen.

"I wish I could offer you something more than this," Kate was saying.

"But how charming," Jacqueline enthused. "Cole must be in seventh heaven. Peanut butter, jelly and milk. Perfect."

Her big, dark eyes darted this way and that about the small, clean kitchen. "You must forgive our intrusion, Mrs. Demery, " she went on, accenting Kate's name on the last syllable as if it were French. "I prevailed upon Maggie to show me where my grandson is living."

"And working," Cole put in.

"Naturellement," his grandmother said in an indulgent voice, as if it didn't much matter to her what Cole was up to here. "This will do you very well, Cole. Mark my words, it can only make a man of you."

The extravagance of her statement was in sharp contrast to Maggie's utter silence, her stare riveted to Kate's pretty face. After too much of this unblinking regard, the atmosphere had become uncomfortable, at least to Cole. But he didn't know how to cope with his mother's cold anger.

"Mrs. Gioberti," Kate said then, "you don't approve of Cole working here."

"Or living here," Maggie added in an echo of the earlier conversation.

"But that's foolishness," Jacqueline burst in. "You don't understand Cole, my dear."

"Don't I?" Maggie's ironic tone made her son feel incredibly uneasy.

"His reasons for breaking away," her mother-in-law continued, "for being here."

"Those reasons," Maggie said, staring Kate Demery full in the face, "I understand with absolute clarity, now that I've met his new employer."

"Mom. This is insane."

Maggie nodded slowly, but when she spoke it was to Jacqueline. "Think, Jacqueline," she said. "Think if Vickie went to work and live in the home of a single man. How carefree would your attitude be then?"

"But that's just it," her mother-in-law said, letting loose that silvery cascade of careful laughter she did so naturally. "We're talking about Cole, not Vickie."

"And Mrs. Demery isn't just anybody," Cole spoke up then.

"I beg your pardon?" his mother asked.

"She's had a lot of trouble herself," Cole went on in a strong voice. "If anybody ever needed a helping hand before it's too late, she does."

The silence began to crystallize around those last words. Finally Maggie stirred. "Is that how you see yourself, Cole? As someone in trouble who needs a helping hand?"

"You tell me," he said challengingly.

The tension seemed to evaporate on the silence that followed Cole's remark. Maggie sighed and shook her head slowly; she seemed to pull herself together, as if remembering her manners in the nick of time. "Mrs. Demery, I think I may have been out of line. I apologize."

"Please, it's Kate. Neighbors are neighbors, not strangers."

As the two Gioberti women left, Jacqueline could not resist glancing back at Kate, then winking at her grandson. It was a conspiratorial gesture, something along the lines of "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. On the other hand, there's very little I'd stop at."

Silently, Kate and Cole sat back down and returned to their lunch. "Your grandmother is quite something," Kate said at last. "But your mother is a real lady, Cole. No wonder you're such a good kid."

"Kid? How old do you think I am?"

"Nineteen? Twenty?"

Cole's face fell. "Not many secrets in Tuscany Valley-"

"Your mother senses some sort of attraction between us," Kate went on in that direct, no-nonsense manner of hers. "And there is one. But it's not the kind she thinks."

"No? What kinds have you got?"

Her smile was a thing of perfect, balanced pleasure. "A friendly attraction. We're good friends, Cole, because we're on the same side in life."

"And that's all?"

"It's more than enough."

By the time Cole got around to looking at the roof, the afternoon sun was headed toward the western horizon and the air had cooled considerably. He set the rickety ladder against the side of the two story house, but dug the bottom of the uprights a good two inches into the gravel. Then he climbed to the top and secured the ladder with twists of haywire.

He went down and up many times, carrying shingles, nails and tools until, by five o'clock, he had most of the leaky roof redone. Between the climbing and the hot sun, he had worked up a terrific thirst.

"Cold applejuice?" Kate asked.

She had climbed the ladder and was holding out a tall glass of amber liquid to Cole. He took it gratefully. "You're saving my life, Kate."

"But this is where you saved mine, remember?"

He drained the glass and edged down the slope of the roof to hand it back to her. "It must be the magnificent view from up here," he wisecracked.

"The view of the vast Demery estates, known throughout the world wherever fine wines are appreciated," Kate remarked kiddingly.

"Someday," Cole promised.

"You're sweet to say that." Their faces almost touched. Both their hands were on the empty glass. An instant later Cole had suddenly closed the gap and kissed her on the lips.

There was dead silence on the rooftop. Even so, neither of them heard the velvety whirr-click a Nikon shutter makes when the photographer presses the button. In this case the Nikon was resting in the fork of a tree nearly a thousand feet away from the Demery house. But its 400-mm telephoto lens had an unobstructed view of the roof.

Greedily, the shutter snapped again. And again.

When she returned to her office she closed the door, checked her notebook, switched on the computer terminal and began keying data into the EDS. So wrapt was she in this that she failed to hear the door behind her open. Finally the creak of the floor caught her attention.

She whirled in her chair. A handsome man was smiling down at her. Richard Channing!

"You fool," Julia said, not unkindly. "Trying to sneak up on me." She held out her hand as she got to her feet. "How are you, Richard?"

"Just fine, Sis." Ignoring her hand, he locked her in a tight embrace, kissing her firmly on both cheeks, as close to the corners of her mouth as he dared.

Julia's face flushed crimson. "You've got to watch those half-brotherly smooches, Richard," she said tartly. "Is this the surprise call you warned me about?"

"Nice layout here," he said, by way of not replying to the question. "These old instruments," he remarked, fondling a nickel-steel thermometer. "These were Jasper's, weren't they?"

"Yes. Still accurate to a tenth of a degree."

"He certainly wouldn't know Falcon Crest anymore," Richard said, sitting down across the desk from her. "Stainless-steel vats, air-bag presses that gentle the juice out of the grapes. More varietals than Jasper ever knew possible. And now I finally get to meet the scientific brain who's responsible."

"Hardly."

"You've built it up and you're content to hang in here," Richard went on as if she hadn't spoken, "tied to the land, to the grapes, to the wine. If I know you, Julia, your idea of investing your money wisely is to buy some new books on wine-making."

"Not a bad idea. We're always learning."

"That's the trouble with you people. Basically you're farmers-land-rich and cash-poor."

"It's never given me a sleepless night," Julia parried.

"You've never had the sheer socko thrill of being cash-rich," her half brother told her flatly. "You've never had that kind of power in your own hands. Ask your mother about it sometime."

"I can do without her input," Julia assured him. "Is this the same bait you were dangling on the phone? Quick riches?"

Richard captured her hand and held it in his. Julia could feel an odd tingle run up her wrist. "Here's the offer - I'll buy your shares of Globe stock at forty dollars each. Do I have to do the math for you?"

Julia released her hand, cleared the computer video and tapped in a computation. A number with a lot of zeros showed on the screen. "Last I heard those shares were worth twenty each."

"My half sister gets a premium price."

"Try it for yourself," she said, moving to one side to let him get at the terminal.

"I ... don't trust those things," Richard said, reaching in his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small ebony and teak abacus, its beads strung on shiny brass wires. Effortlessly he flicked a few beads up and down with the tip of his finger. "With your shares, I'd own over sixty percent of the Globe."

"Which should be worth a lot more to you than forty dollars a share."

"Spoken like a true Channing," he said. "Financial modesty was never our strong point. Forty-five?"

Julia swiveled back to the terminal and touched its keyboard. A number with more zeros showed up on the video. "Try fifty dollars a share -," she suggested.

"If we can conclude the deal today. Right now."

Julia's smile went impish. "Just putting you on, Richard. just testing. My shares aren't for sale. I may he cash-poor. But I'm not exactly starving to death."

For a moment Richard's attractive features seemed to harden into a steel mask. Then, with an effort, he forced himself to smile. "I don't take kindly to teasing, dear sister," he said then. "The moment you want to talk deal, seriously, don't waste time in telling me. But I can't guarantee it'll be as sweet for you as the deal you nearly had just now."

Beyond the laboratory doors they could hear voices. They got to their feet and peered out into the winery. In the distance a smallish party of people was moving from vat to vat. In the gloom Julia could recognize Chase by his beard. The rest were women.

". . . Cabernet Sauvignon," Chase was saying. "It should he ready this fall, but the final word on that always comes from Julia."

"She is Angela's oldest daughter?" a woman with an accent asked.

"She's also our head oenologist."

"I thought you knew such things, too," the woman persisted.

"As a practical matter, yes," Chase agreed. "But Julia's college-trained. You can't trust the output of Falcon Crest to anybody except an expert like her."

"There she is," Maggie said. "Julia, are your ears red?"

Richard escorted her down a long flight of stairs until all of them were standing in a group together. "Julia, you remember my mother, Jacqueline Gioberti," Chase said. He eyed Richard with distaste and seemed reluctant to mention his name. "What're you doing here? Digging up more dirt?"

"Just a friendly chat with Julia."

"If this guy bothers you," Chase told Julia, "let me know. We'll have him off the premises in no time flat."

"My goodness, Chase," his mother said. "Who is this handsome young man?"

Chase frowned. "A large pain in the neck," he muttered.

Jacqueline was smiling directly at Richard. The aura that surrounded this attractive woman was always strong, but never more so than when she met a good-looking man. The eyes brightened. The smile widened. The face glowed.

"This is Richard Channing," Julia said. "Douglas Channing's son."

In the great echoing vault of the winery, the words seemed to reverberate endlessly. For a long moment, no one spoke, certainly not Jacqueline, who stood like a statue, smile frozen in place.

"How do you do?" Richard said then.

"Yes." The woman's voice sounded weak for a moment. Then more strongly: "How do you do."

"I feel as if we've met," Richard went on, producing a smile with even more voltage than hers. "My associates in Zurich speak of you."

"You have the advantage of me," Jacqueline replied.

"Richard is publishing the Globe now," Maggie explained.

"Unfortunately," Chase added, "he's just leaving."

Richard laughed easily. "Always a welcome mat here at Falcon Crest, eh, Chase? Don't worry, I am going."

As he walked out through a side door, jacqueline's stare seemed to follow him, not merely after he was out of sight, but as if with X-ray vision she could follow his progress to the ends of the earth. A clouded look came over her lovely face.

"Mother?"

When Jacqueline didn't speak, Julia suddenly stirred to life. "I left my terminal open back at the office. Nice to see you again, Mrs. Gioberti."

Chase waited until Julia had left. Now only he and Maggle attended his mother. "Mother?"

Jacqueline shivered. "It's too cold in here."

"Yes. Time to leave."

"For me, too, " she said. "I heard from Rene in Zurich today. I am needed there tomorrow at the latest. A matter of some signatures."

"Jacqueline," Maggie objected. "You can'tjust drop everything and run off."

"You don't keep Swiss bankers waiting, my dear. There's a night flight over the pole that leaves this evening. I've got..." She peered nearsightedly at her wristwatch.

"It's nearly six o'clock," Chase told her.

"I've got two hours before the flight leaves. Alors, toul de suite. We must hurry."

"You're not serious," Chase demanded.

His mother's face had a haunted look to it. "Oh," she said, "but I am."

She smiled as she drove out of Tuscany Valley for the highway into San Francisco. Jacqueline was gone only one day; already life seemed much simpler. The fact of the matter was, Chase's mother spooked Maggie. She was, to put it simply, too chic, too sophisticated and too rich for comfort.

Not that Maggie wasn't grateful for the introduction to Darryl Clayton. But the nagging thought remained, just as Chase had voiced it: Jacqueline could find a way to buy even Maggie's friendship. Of course, if she could believe Darryl, the script had sold itself. "I'm serious," he'd enthused over the phone this morning. "Please let's have lunch. I want some sort of handshake agreement before I leave for L.A."

She parked near one of the better-known seafood restaurants along the waterfront and found him, still in his ecru shot-silk suit, but set off this time by an open-necked shirt in orangey rose. His slim, compact body rose from the chair as she approached his table.

"I'm so glad you could make it," he said, ordering planter's punches for both of them. "I'm due back in L.A. for a dinner meeting with a couple of potential investors."

"Jacqueline mentioned you'd been looking for money-men up here."

"That's a director's full-time job these days," he explained. Maggie studied him as he spoke: he had a small head and a rather square face, crowned by short-cropped light brown hair. If he'd dressed in more conventional clothing, Maggie realized, he would have been hard to distinguish in a crowd.

"Sometimes," he explained, "you take three years to get financing for a movie that takes less than six months to shoot. It's frustrating."

They sipped their drinks slowly, cautiously sizing each other up while maintaining a steady flow of light chitchat. Maggie found him refreshingly candid about the glamorous life of 'the Hollywood director'. She began to warm to him.

"The property I was trying to get backing for," Darryl was saying, "is an old F. Scott Fitzgerald story. It's not easy. People in the business still remember him as controversial. But with a script like 'Tangled Vines' I've got a known quantity, the wine business. I've got an easy location schedule, right here in California. And I've got characters that stars will be willing to fight to play."

"I can't believe it doesn't need revisions."

"Sure it does," the director told her. "But wait till I get a few bankable actors interested. Then it can be tailored to them."

"You honestly think so?"

"Maggie, in this business there are no guarantees. I like it. But I may not find anyone to agree with me. Here's what I need from you."

He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket. "I want to take a six-month option. That's a common arrangement. But I can't pay for the option. That's where we have to trust each other."

"How so?"

"You'll sell me a conditional option, for, say, one dollar. But the condition is that the moment I start to get financing, I pay you a five-thousand advance against the full price."

"Not hard to take."

"But the moment I do, you've got to start the rewrite."

"I understand."

"No, you don't," he corrected her. "I'm the kind of director who takes an active interest in the script. The revisions will be done by you, but in consultation with me."

Maggie sat back in her chair as the waiter brought their order. They'd both chosen Coho salmon poached in bouillon. It arrived in a long copper bain-marie, together with side dishes of vegetables and a pale green chive mayonnaise.

"Mm," she said. "I like this deal already."

He looked at her and she realized that he had a very warm, reassuring smile, the kind that managed to make everything seem just fine. "I hope you keep that attitude," he said then. "It won't be easy. You'll be living in a rented apartment somewhere in L.A., punching the typewriter day and night."

Maggie looked up at him. "I thought-"

"You thought we could do this by mail?" Darryl asked.

"I'm not sure I could leave my fam-"

"You'd have to," the director cut in. "Not for long, just a few weeks at a time. But, after all, you'd be only an hour's plane ride from them."

"Yes," she said doubtfully, "but-"

"Let's do justice to this salmon before it cools," he interrupted again. Expertly, he transferred fish to her plate, then helped himself. Maggie looked down, then up at him. She giggled.

"What's funny?"

"It's the same color as your shirt."

He compared the two. "Well," he said at last, "let's start with the fish. We could always have the shirt for dessert."

She ate in silence, enjoying the delicate texture of the salmon, the unusual flavor given it by the broth, the tang of the special mayonnaise. As she ate, Maggie turned the idea over and over in her mind. She was taking a chance, giving him a free option. But, oddly enough for someone she'd met only recently, she trusted this man. And, besides, who else did she know in the film business?

As for leaving the Valley to work on revisions, that was out of the question now, with Cole in deep trouble and Chase needing as much help as possible from her. But revisions wouldn't begin for some time. At least six months? By then peace might have descended on the Valley and maybe she could run off to L.A. now and then.

"I find this whole thing very exciting," she said then.

"The fish? Or me?"

When she glanced up at him she caught an expression in his eyes that hadn't been there before. She knew the look. Every attractive woman does, even when she's been a faithful wife for twenty years. By rights, the look in Darryl Clayton's eyes should have been a warning.

For some reason, it suddenly wasn't.

Lance had been dawdling in their bathroom. She had half-expected him to come out in pajamas, but it was no real surprise when he appeared fully clothed, although it was nine o'clock at night.

Masking the pain, Melissa affected a calm, slightly ironic tone of voice. "Working the night shift again ... in San Francisco?"

Lance watched her warily. Then, in a cool tone: "Yep."

"Your nerve is improving. You didn't even flinch."

"What do I care?" he snapped. "We've got a modern marriage, remember?"

"Does that mean it's out of the question for you to stay home even one night?"

As he glared at her, she felt an acute stab of pain. Her face contorted, but she managed to remain silent.

"Why?" Lance asked. "So we can keep taking potshots at each other?"

"How about a cease-fire? Just for tonight?"

"Too late." He turned and started for the door.

The pain suddenly rocketed up inside Melissa like the thrust of a sword. She screamed. Lance stopped and looked back at her.

"Hey, give me a break."

She could feel perspiration on her forehead as the pain kept growing. She had bitten down on her lip in an effort to remain silent. Now a low moan escaped. She writhed sideways on the bed.

Lance frowned. "What is it?"

Her face white with effort, Melissa managed to whisper, "Dr. Ruzza. Call him."

There was a knock at the door. Angela Charming swung it open. "Melissa. Are you all right?"

"Help me," the younger woman moaned. "Please?"

"What's wrong?" Angie rushed to the bed. "Are you in pain?" She glanced at Lance. "What's been going on here?"

"I don't know what happened. She was just lying th-"

"It hurts," Melissa managed to say. "Sharp pain. Call Dr. Ruzza."

"Lance, get on the phone. Now!"

"The baby's not due for another two months," he said. "She just went ape. I didn't do anything."

His grandmother turned her wrath on him. "Do something now!" she thundered. "Get on that phone. Fast!"

He began dialing a number. Angie bent over Melissa. "Did something happen to bring this on?" she asked her.

Biting her lip, Melissa shook her head from side to side. "But he mustn't talk to me like that," she managed to say.

Angie's eyes flicked sideways to her grandson. "Tell him to get over here on the double. Wait." She snatched the phone out of Lance's hand. "Doctor? This is an emergency. Break every speed record." She slammed down the phone and whirled on her grandson. "What sort of tricks have you been up to?"

"Nothing. This isn't my fault," Lance protested.

Angela Channing began pacing back and forth across the carpeted floor. From Melissa to the phone, from the phone to Melissa. "I've been entirely too lenient wjth you," she told Lance. "You haven't the slightest idea of proper behavior. Well, young man, you're going to shape up, and fast."

She stopped and stared at him. "What're you dressed for this time of evening? Another night on the town? Your wife and your baby are in trouble. Your place is here. And, by God, here is where you're going to stay!"

"Grandmother," Lance pleaded, "none of this is my fault."

He was still defending himself when the doctor arrived and shooed them both from the bedroom. He stayed for some time with Melissa while Lance and his grandmother waited downstairs, surrounded by a heavy silence broken only by the steady ticking of the hall clock. Finally Dr. Ruzza could be heard descending the curved marble staircase. They moved toward him.

"She's resting," he began. He was a short, squat man with a shiny bald head fringed by curly gray hair the consistency of steel wool.

"The baby?" Angela demanded.

"I've sedated Melissa. She should be more comfortable."

"The baby?" she insisted.

"She hasn't lost it."

"Thank God," Angie breathed.

"But there are complications," the doctor went on. "The baby's in a breech position. This could change in the next few days. But if labor began prematurely..." He paused.

"Can it?" Angie demanded.

"The possibility is always there." Dr. Ruzza started for the door, but stopped and turned directly to Lance. "I have to tell you, Lance, if she goes into labor prematurely we have a dangerous situation. It. could-" He paused and his face grew very still. "It could endanger your wife's life ... as well as your child's."

The three of them stood without speaking for a long moment. Then Angela Channing looked the doctor directly in the eye. "Tell us exactly what to do.

"She must remain in bed for the full term," he explained. "She must avoid anything that upsets her, physically or emotionally. I'll drop by tomorrow morning. Good night, Mrs. Channing ... Lance."

"Thank you, Doctor." Angie held the door open for him and, after he left, closed it very slowly. "You heard?" she asked Lance.

"Yeah, I heard. Look, Grandmother, this isn't my-"

"Melissa is to have whatever she needs," Angie cut him off. "That includes the loving care of a husband. On hand. At any hour. At every hour."

"Look-"

"Lance," his grandmother said in a voice so strong it hit him almost as if she had hurled a javelin at his breast.

"Yes?"

"This baby," she said in that same tone, "must live!".

Again, it was typical of Chase to begin at once spreading various contracts and other legal documents on the table. But before the attorney would start the meeting he first toured the room, peering under tables and behind pictures on the wall.

"Looking for eavesdropping bugs?" Chase suggested. "Nervous?"

"That's what I pay him for," Angie snapped.

Phillip grinned. "Chase, these days any school kid knows how to record a conversation secretly. You'd do well to pay more attention to security problems yourself."

Chase shrugged. "What's the point? My closest and dearest enemy is right here in the room with me."

Angela Channing produced a laugh that sounded more like a snort. "Don't kid yourself, Chase. There isn't a winery in the Valley that wouldn't love to eavesdrop on Falcon Crest's inner workings." "This is routine stuff," Chase countered. "Here, this is simply a contract with our new Canadian distributor. You sign here."

Angie picked up the weighty sheaf of papers, donned her reading glasses and paged quickly through the contract. "Have you read it?" she asked Erikson.

"It's okay to sign."

"That's not what I asked you."

"Angela," the lawyer said in an exasperated tone, "darling Angela. Try to control your natural tendency to treat me as a first-year law student."

"Mm." She unscrewed her pen and began signing on various lines. The meeting continued slowly but smoothly for another half hour until all business had been attended to.

"What are these supposed to be?" Angela asked then, picking up a canape from a platter and examining it as if it might, indeed, contain a miniaturized listening device. "Is this their idea of lunch?"

"Nouvelle cuisine," Phillip suggested. "It's supposed to be slimming."

Angela munched suspiciously. "More like an alfalfa fritter."

"Angela," Chase said then, "I've heard from Emma."

A glance darted between Angic and Elrikson.

"Where is she?" her mother demanded.

"That's not the point. She wants you to stop having her followed."

"What makes her think I'm having her followed?" "Someone's trailed her halfway across the continent."

Erikson frowned. "Where did she call from?"

Chase paused for a moment. "I guess it can't hurt to tell you because she's far away from there by now. She said she was east of Oklahoma."

Once again Angie glanced sideways at her attorney. "That could be anywhere."

"Let's assume Louisiana," Chase replied.

The frown on Erikson's brow deepened considerably. "Angela," he said at last, "I think we'd better pool information with Chase."

"I don't."

"Be sensible, Angela."

A frustrated look settled on Angie's face. She picked up another canape and tentatively nibbled at it. "Watercress souffle. Tell him."

"Chase," Phillip went on, "Emma's right. We've had a man trying to locate her."

"You can't blame a mother for wanting to know her daughter's safe." Angie cut in.

"But the problem is, our man lost her somewhere in Arizona. That's a hell of a long way from Louisiana."

Chase thought for a moment. "I got the feeling there was someone on her tail at that moment," he said at last. "I got the distinct idea she was still under surveillance."

"Then it wasn't our man," Eiikson concluded.

"Then whose?" Angie burst out.

"Someone with the same interest in Emma that you have," Chase said with a faintly malicious smile.

"Nonsense. I'm her mother. Nobody has a mother's interest but me."

"Your interest in Emma," Chase told her flatly, "is summed up in one succinct phrase - her share of Globe stock."

"Don't be insulting."

"And that sums up the interest of whoever else is having her shadowed," Chase finished. "So we really don't have to spend too much time figuring out his identity."

"Richard Channing," Angela spat out. "That miserable, shrewd, nasty bast-"

"Your opinion of Richard isn't any lower than mine," Chase interrupted. "In any event, I want him to call off his dogs."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"By showing him he's barking up the wrong tree." Chase's smile grew broader as he reached in his jacket pocket and produced a handwritten letter. He smoothed it out on the table, but made sure he protected it with both hands from being snatched away. "You recognize Emma's handwriting?"

Phillip Erikson bent over the letter, as did Angie. After a moment they both looked up, startled. "She's given you her proxy?"

"That's what it says." Chase folded and pocketed the letter.

A long silence ensued. Chase carefully packed away in a briefcase the various papers he had brought to the meeting. Phillip did the same. Only Angie seemed thoroughly lost in thought. She stared at the tray of snacks but her glance was unfocused, faraway.

Finally Chase got to his feet. "Good-bye. Enjoy your rabbit-food lunch."

Angela's vacant stare followed his figure out the door. Then she returned to her own thoughts.

"Bit of a shock," her lawyer said then. "This gives Chase the second-largest control in the Globe, after Richard."

"It makes it imperative you keep buying up shares."

"They're not cheap, Angela," Phillip cautioned her. "Since Richard has been running the Globe the share price has started to rise."

"I don't care, what they cost. Keep buying."

"And charge it to Chase's part of the Falcon Crest accounts?"

"Yes," Angela said, For the first time that day she smiled and - picked up another canape, which she tasted. "Pate of dandelion," she pronounced. "Rabbit food indeed."

"What do you care, my dear?" her attorney remarked. "You're already eating Chase Gioberti alive."

Although she was supposed to stay in bed, Melissa felt too restless this afternoon. She had carefully gotten up and walked to the window. The exertion had produced no bad effects. Thanks to the gentle sedation Dr. Ruzza had given her, she no longer felt any sharp, stabbing pains. An occasional ache was the only reminder of that horrible night a week ago.

Melissa looked at the sky to the north. A towering buildup of dark clouds signaled the threat of a thunderstorm. She knew that this late in the summer a really heavy rain could hurt the grapes, and certainly a month from now, rich with September fullness and weight, the grapes could be torn from the vines by too violent a storm.

She stared westward into the setting sun. Its rays touched the leaden heights of the incoming cloud bank and for a moment turned them to gold. This house at Falcon Crest, Melissa thought, really dominated the Valley, the view, everything. And one day it would belong to her child.

She tried to catch a glimpse of the Demery house. Gossip had it that Cole was working there. A few weeks back she'd seen someone who might have been him on the roof, laying shingles. The house was only a ten-minute walk from here, but now, in her present condition, she didn't dare attempt to make it.

As she peered through the window, she wondered about Cole, how he was weathering his ordeal. The Globe hadn't printed one of its nasty little rumormongering articles for a while. Strange to think that only through the pages of the newspaper could Melissa keep up with the news of the Valley. She was a prisoner here, thanks to the baby growing inside her.

Straining her eyes, she thought she could make out a tall man working in the Demery vineyard. A woman seemed to be nearby. Melissa sighed unhappily. The baby was due in six weeks. Till then, she knew she would be virtually bedridden, only an onlooker to the events of the Valley.

The only bright spot was that Lance had stopped going out nights. Melissa's face went blank. Bright spot? She returned to her bed and sat down on the edge of it. She had wanted Lance with her. But his presence hadn't been as bright a spot as she'd hoped for. She was beginning to realize that a falcon caged against his will is not a particularly responsive pet.

Downstairs in Falcon Crest mansion, Angela Channing and her daughter Julia had met in the library. Chao-Li served them chilled glasses of the new Pinot Noir. They sat in opposite wing-back chairs and silently sipped the straw-pale wine.

"A touch too fruity?" Angie suggested.

"Not after it breathes." Julia held the glass up to the sunlight streaming in from the west. "Give it five minutes in the glass. Then try it again. But what about the color? Too pale?"

"Not for my taste."

"Mine either. Oh, I called the weather bureau."

"What's the verdict?"

Julia made a face. "Does the weather bureau ever give you a straight answer? There's a heavy buildup of cumulo-nimbus heading this way, but there's been no sharp temperature change to trigger off any precip. Can you translate into English?"

"Sure. It's a definite, positive maybe." Angela laughed.

"I've told all the foremen to stand by in case we need to cover the new gamay vines. They're too vulnerable."

Angie sipped her wine again. "Better. But do most people let wine stand in the glass for five minutes? You've got to improve the next batch, Julia."

"Come on, Mother. If a person knows anything about wine, he knows it needs to breathe a little."

"Reds, yes. This is a white."

Julia laughed bitterly. "Don't you ever let up?"

"Not when it comes to wine." An uneasy silence fell between them. Angie continued sipping the Pinot Noir. Her glance shifted first to the north windows, where the sky was a bruised gray, then to the west, where the sun still shone brightly. She saw a copy of the Globe crumpled in the wastebasket.

"Did you throw the paper away?"

"It's trash, Mother."

"I agree," Angie admitted. "But that son of Douglas' seems to have upped the circulation and advertising. Shares in the Globe keep rising in price. Apparently he knows what he's doing."

Julia said nothing, thinking of the offer. Richard had made recently for her own shares. The profit would be even higher now.

"Of course," her mother went on, "If the public wants trash, anybody who sells it to them ends up making a profit. In Douglas' day the Globe managed to make money and still be a decent newspaper."

When Julia remained silent, Angie got up and went to the wastebasket. She retrieved the paper and sat back down in her chair, pouring herself another half glass of the Pinot Noir.

"Don't tell me you really like the new wine," Julia said then. "I'd faint if I ever got a compliment."

"It's ... adequate," her mother confessed grudgingly. "In fact, it's ... pleasant."

She began reading the Globe. "In fact," she mused aloud, "you might even say the wine was hell and damnation!"

"What?"

"You were hiding this from me, weren't you?" Angie's eyes blazed at her daughter. "You didn't want me to see this?"

"I said it was trash."

"FALCON CREST MURDER SUSPECT DALLIES WITH WIDOW," Angie read aloud from the newspaper headlines. "And here's a picture of them kissing. How in God's name do they get these photos?"

Her eyes raced furiously from one column to the next. "How can they print this kind of innuendo?" she demanded. "Listen to this. 'While Sheriff Robbins continues collecting evidence, his chief murder suspect, temporarily at large, seems to have established an illicit liaison with an older widow. Cole Gioberti, 19, of the Falcon Crest clan, has apparently become the live-in companion of Katharine Demery, 29, despite the fact that a deep pall of suspicion concerning the Agretti murder hangs over him. Julia, the target of this isn't Cole. It's Falcon Crest."

"No one believes it."

"They believe photographs," Angie stormed. "The difference in their ages makes the gossip even smuttier. It's a smear campaign against Falcon Crest. We're not just a place, Julia. We're a trade name. It's on every one of our bottles. Richard,Channing is making sure that when someone sees the name, he associates it with illicit sexual gossip, accusations of murder-. Chao-Li!" she shouted.

"Calm yourself," Julia advised.

"I'm calm. Don't worry about that," Angela snapped.

The Chinese majordomo appeared in the doorway. "You called?"

"Where is Mr. Erikson? Can he be reached?"

"I will try, Mrs. Channing."

"Get him on the phone for me as soon as possible. Here!" She shoved the newspaper at him. "Take this out and burn it!"

The Globe tucked under his arm, Chao-Li retired to the pantry and dialed several numbers. He left urgent messages. The call light in the butier's area glowed red for Melissa's room. He hurried up the curved stairs. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

"Yes, Miss Melissa?"

"I seem to have run out of water, Chao-Li. Could you fill my carafe? I have to take my six o'clock capsule."

"Certainly, Miss Melissa."

Thunder rolled closer. "Isn't it odd?" Melissa asked. "Here in the west the sun's shining. And to the north it's starting to rain. Is that the Globe?"

"When that happens," Chao-Li said gravely, sunshine and rain together, the farmers have a saying, 'The Devil is beating his wife.' Curious."

Melissa reached for the newspaper under his arm.

"My father used to say that, but in Italian, 'II Demonio' I can't remember." She opened the Globe.

"I'll get your water."

Melissa's glance skipped here and there across the front page of the newspaper but her mind was still on what her father had said. She had never been able to speak Italian, nor had Carlo Agretti attempted to teach her. In his generation, one was proud of being an American. But in her generation, Melissa knew, there was a great feeling for getting back to one's roots. A few phrases of Italian had remained with her. But ...II Demonto batta ...

Outside the north windows, rain rattled now, a gentle sound at first. Chao-Li reappeared with the filled thermos carafe, poured a glass of cool water and helped her take her sedative.

"I don't really need it anymore," Melissa remarked. "I'm really fine."

"Still . . ."

The Chinese went to the north windows and closed them until only an inch of open space remained at the bottom. "You will nap now?"

"Probably."

She watched him leave. II Demonio batta su ...

She relaxed with a sigh. A moment later, one arm folded over the unread newspaper, she fell asleep.

A bolt of lightning cracked down on the mansion and hit one of the bronze-bound cupolas with a sizzling crash. The explosion seemed to fill the world with noise. Melissa jumped awake.

A full storm was beating against the house now. She had been asleep for some time. Someone had come in and closed the west windows against the rain. The small bedside clock showed the time to be after 9 P.m.

Melissa got out of bed and padded on bare feet to the nearest window. Wind lashed the trees. The rain was hard, beating down with a kind of fury. In the distance lightning flashed again. She shivered and pulled on a thin dressing gown. As she returned to the bed, another flash of lightning burst nearby and she saw the newspaper on the coverlet. She switched on her bedlamp, and the moment she did, the headlines seemed to leap out at her:

FALCON CREST MURDER SUSPECT DALLIES WITH WIDOW

Eyes wide, Melissa scanned the photograph. It was Cole, no mistaking him. And the caption said the woman was Mrs. Demery, who was much older than ...

Melissa jumped out of bed. She strode to the west windows and stared out into the night at the storm ravaging the land.

Somewhere over there, about a mile away, Cole and that woman ...

Thunder filled her ears. She winced, twisted away from the window and fell on one knee. Abruptly, a pain like a lightning bolt seemed to slice through her midriff. It burned. She gritted her teeth. It struck again. "Lance?" she called.

Grasping the bedpost, she got to her feet. She pushed the bell, waited. Where was everyone? She kept pushing the bell. "Lance?" After what seemed like an age, she stepped into her slippers and made her way to the door. The pain seemed to fill her whole body. It cut at her brain. She staggered out into the hallway.

"Lance?" she called. "Help! Somebody!"

Thunder drowned out her cry. Holding onto the curved railing with both hands, Melissa made her way down the staircase, lightning flashing, thunder roaring in her cars. II Demonio ...

She couldn't get it out of her head. The pain was blanking out her ability to think. Il Demonio batta su ... moglie! That was it!

She half-fell against the front door of the mansion, wrenched at the knob and pulled it open. Rain sluiced down over her.

All the lights were off in the Demery house. But Cole had built a roaring fire in the living-room hearth. He and Katharine had finished a small bottle of wine. Arms around each other, they stared into the flames.

"Nothing better on a rainy night," Cole murmured in her ear.

"Romantic," she responded, snuggling closer to him. "Far from the sweat and strain of trying to grow grapes."

"We'll make out just fine," Cole assured her. "The vines are clear of weeds. We'll have a full harvest if this storm lets us alone."

"I like that youthful confidence," Kate told him. "We'll make out just fine," she quoted. "No doubts whatsoever."

He turned her face to his and kissed her slowly and lovingly. After a moment he could feel both her arms encircle him. They clung to each other as lightning split the sky and thunder crashed.

"No doubts at all," Cole said then. "Do you have any?"

"About the grapes? Or us?"

"Do I look like a grape? About us, you and me."

She sighed happily. "I can pretty well imagine what people will say about you and me." Her pretty face broke into a grin. "And I don't give a hoot. Do you?"

By way of answer he grabbed for her and they rolled over onto the threadbare carpet. The fire crackled reassuringly. He pulled down one shoulder of Kate's blouse and kissed the tanned skin there.

"Freckles."

"Not just there," she admitted.

"Other places?" Cole asked. "I have to make a full inventory."

Someone was pounding on the front door. Cole had pulled the blouse farther down, but Kate suddenly sat up. "On a night like this? Visitors?"

The pounding grew louder. She got to her feet and opened the door. There on the porch, dripping wet, stood Melissa. She reached out for Kate and would have pitched forward if the older woman hadn't caught her.

"Cole! Help me carry her in."

They got her in front of the fire and Kate put a bath towel around Melissa's shoulders. "I have to talk to Cole," she was babbling.

"I'm right here, Lissa."

"I have to talk to Cole," she kept insisting.

He knelt in front of her. "Lissa, it's me."

Her eyes widened. She clutched at her abdomen. "The pain!".

"Lissa, what is it?"

"It's all wrong, Cole. The marriage. The baby. The Devil is beating his wife."

Cole glanced up at Kate. "She's off her rocker. We'd better get-"

"I need to talk to you," Melissa said, grasping Cole's arm.

"Why me?"

"Because ... all the good times we had ... the picnics . . . doesn't that mean something to you?"

Cole's face had gone white. "You're married to Lance now."

"The pain!" She seemed to crumple forward.

Kate bent over her. "Easy. Is it labor?"

"This baby," Melissa managed to say in a tight, gritty voice. "Someday this baby will. . ." Agony twisted her face. "Will inherit all of Falcon Crest!" she screamed.

"Relax, Melissa," Kate said in a soothing voice. "We're going to get you back to Falcon Crest as soon as this storm's over."

The pain seemed to shake Melissa's slender frame. Then it subsided for a moment. "Cole," she said then in a small voice.

"Yes?"

"I've never made love with anyone but you."

Agreat bolt of lightning slammed into the earth and the house rocked with the violent crash of thunder.

"This baby," she gasped, "is yours."

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