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upstairs with me.”
    â€œWhat’s upstairs?”
    â€œMy bed.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œThere’s more room in a bed. And it’s more comfortable.”
    â€œLook,” she said when he didn’t answer, “Mrs. Macon isn’t home and she’s not coming home, not tonight. And Mr. Macon won’t be home until tomorrow either.”
    â€œThen why did you tell me to come in?”
    She giggled. “Why do you think, silly? You’re not sorry, are you?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œThen come on upstairs.” On the stairway she said: “You’re in love with her.”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    She shrugged. “I always know,” she said. “I can tell. But it doesn’t really matter, you know. She can have her love—all she wants of it. I like what I have.”
    Her bedroom was on the third floor. “My name’s Lizzie,” she announced at the doorway. “What’s yours?”
    â€œDanny,” he said. “Danny Rand.”
    â€œThat’s a nice name,” she said. “Let’s go to bed, Danny.”

Chapter Seven
    CARLA RELAXED AS SHE drove the MG home. She held the steering wheel in one hand, letting the other arm rest on the back of the seat. The air was cool and fragrant with the smell of morning, and little currents of wind toyed with her hair. She liked the wind in her hair—it made her feel free, and she always enjoyed the feeling.
    Freedom was a remarkable state, a state she wanted and at the same time rebelled against. While she had spent all her life escaping such rule as her mother’s hairbrush, she still felt the overwhelming need for someone strong. Sometimes she felt free and powerful, but there were other times when her spine turned to jelly and she felt weak as a kitten.
    This morning she felt half-free and half-bound. She could still feel Charles holding her and hear him whispering in her ear, and the clean smell of him lingered in her nostrils. She had spent the night—and what a wonderful night!—in bed with another man.
    But she was not entirely free. If she were, she wouldn’t be racing back home at this hour to meet her husband. If she were free, she wouldn’t need Charles as desperately as she did. Her plan of getting a strong hold over him by making him need her physically wasn’t working at all. As a matter of complete fact, it was backfiring. She knew that she had no hold whatsoever on Charles, that he could do without her with ease. No matter how desperately she gave herself to him, there were times when she felt like a toy, a plaything he used for his own amusement and nothing more.
    To be sure, he treated her like a woman. But each day she sensed something beneath his outward display of affection—a deep reserve that would keep her from ever possessing him fully.
    Carla, however, was falling more and more deeply in love. Not love, exactly; she was ceasing to believe in love as such. Rather, the hold she was trying to gain over Charles was one which he was gaining over her. And she didn’t like this at all.
    She felt as though she was becoming a slave, and that wasn’t the role she wanted to play. Oh, she didn’t mind being a slave, dependent upon her man—but she wanted a relationship in which her master would be equally dependent upon her. She wanted to possess while she was possessed; she wanted to be needed as well as to need.
    As she parked the MG in front of her house, she noticed a car across the street. Somehow it didn’t look as though it belonged on Nottingham Terrace. It wasn’t a rich man’s car. Then, paying no more attention to it, she walked to the door and entered the house.
    â€œMrs. Macon?”
    The sound made her jump. She turned, startled, and walked into the living-room. There was a man seated there, looking directly at her with a strange expression in his eyes. She noticed the plaid shirt and