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"Don't you like it?"

Nicolette stared at the ring Miguel had just slid on her index finger: 14 karat white gold, with an 8x6 mm oval-cut emerald, encircled with quarter-karat diamonds. It was exactly the same ring she had pointed out to him yesterday in McCarties.

"Yes, it's fine."

"Just fine. Nothing more?"

"What do you want me to say? It's magnificent? Unbelievable? I know it wasn't but $1,500-hardly reason to swoon, now, is it?"

"You can't be pleased, can you? You say you want a ring, this particular ring. So I get the damn ring, and you act as if I'd pulled it out of a box of Cracker Jacks. If you don't want it, take it back. Get whatever you want. I'm tired of trying to please you." Miguel stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Nicolette sat by the french window, moving her hand slightly from side to side, watching the flickers of green fire from the heart of the emerald. Once, long ago, a new ring would have sent her giggling with delight into Miguel's arms. Once, she thought bitterly, I wouldn't have had to drag him into McCarties. When they were first married, he brought home the little red boxes almost every week...diamond necklaces, pearls for her ears, rings encrusted with precious gems. And his largess hadn't been limited to jewelry; furs, tickets for the opera, silver boxes engraved with her initials...he had heaped treasures at her feet, the offerings of a besmitten lover to her, his princess, his delight, his goddess.

Where had that ardor, that passion gone? What was the matter with him?

She stood up and walked across the room to stare at herself in the full length mirror. She was still beautiful, still desirable. She tilted her head back, admiring the milky curve of her throat, and raised her arms above her head in that slow, langorous stretch that had been her trademark pose when she worked as a model. Turning, she smiled over her shoulder at her reflection, licking her lips, moving her hands down to trace the outline of her slender body: the trim waist, the full hips. Kicking the folds of her silk kimona aside, she admired her legs, still tanned and shapely.

"What's wrong with you, Miguel?" she said aloud. "I'm perfect. Everything you could want. What's missing?"

There was a tap on the door. "What?" she snapped.

"Your coffee, Ms. Herrera."

"Bring it in."

May trotted into the room, her round little face wreathed in a smile. "Good morning! How are you this lovely morning?"

"Fine, thank you. Just leave the tray on the table, please."

"Yes, m'am.

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