he day was overcast, with rain threatening any minute, and so muggy Karen felt as if she would melt. Sweat gathered in a pool between her breasts, trickled down her sides. Her dress was thin and short-sleeved but still black; she could feel the fabric absorbing the heat. She concentrated on her physical misery and on the distant sullen rumble of thunder. She thought about how lush the grass was, listened to the birds singing, and let herself be annoyed because her heels kept sinking into the soft black dirt. She'd never before seen dirt so black, and she marveled at its richness.

She looked at the massive trees, the flowers. This small country cemetery was prettier and more peaceful than the large, manicured "garden of rest" where Jeanette was buried. Perhaps she should move her mother down here, rather than have Dexter taken Her stomach clenched. She had tried so hard not to think about what was happening, but her wayward thoughts had led her to the funeral anyway. She didn't want to think about the man in the casket. Dexter Whitlaw. Her father. Whatever his failings, whatever devils had driven him, at this moment she admitted that her memories of him weren't all bad.

There had been a few times when he sat on the floor and played dolls with her, folding his long legs as if he didn't even notice his cramped position, listening with apparent raptness as she spun elaborate stories about what the dolls were doing. Usually, they were sick, and she was taking care of them, an early manifestation of her nursing tendencies. And a couple of times, Dexter had taken her with him on walks in the woods and showed her how to hide in a bush and sit very still so that even the squirrels and the birds forgot they were there. Did those few bright moments outweigh a lifetime of darkness? Was she supposed to remember only them and forget the nights when her mother sobbed into her pillow, longing for a man who wasn't there?

What a waste of life, both Jeanette's and Dexter's. Regret swelled in her chest, suffocating her, or maybe it was just this damnable humidity making it impossible for her to breathe. It couldn't be regret; why should she cry for a man who had never given her a second thought, who bothered to call or visit only when he needed something? And yet he had kept his wedding ring, sewed it into his cuff to keep it safe. It had been important to him, as Detective Chastain had pointed out. Whether it was the life the ring represented, the normal life he had walked away from, or the people in that life, she couldn't begin to imagine.

She wouldn't cry for him. She refused to. But the outline of the casket was blurred, the minister's words were nothing more than background noise, and the pressure in her chest was so great she could barely contain it.

The trees stirred and rattled, breathing. A surprisingly cool gust of wind hit the backs of her legs, breathed down her neck. A chill rippled down her spine. The sensation was refreshing, though, and she sighed as the sweat evaporated on her body. She was grateful for the reprieve from the heat, even when a fine mist of rain closely followed the wind.

In only moments, she went from overheated to downright chilly, as the wind picked up and the rain began to pelt down. Detective Chastain opened an umbrella and held it over their heads, moving closer so they were both sheltered. She didn't know what she would have done without his assistance these past two days, she thought numbly. He had done more than walk her through the necessary procedures, much more; he had stepped in and taken care of arrangements, cut through red tape, smoothed over glitches before they became real obstacles. He had even remembered the flowers for the casket and helped her arrange for them.

She couldn't think why he had done it. She was a commonsense person, but she was beginning to think she had imagined his dislike the first time they met, because not even a glimmer of hostility had shown since then. Maybe fatigue and shock had made her hallucinate. Still, Chastain had gone above and beyond duty, even if she had been mistaken in her initial impression of him. Maybe this was an example of the courtesy toward women for which Southern men were so famous, but he had gone a great deal farther than opening doors for her or standing when she entered the room.

Yes, that was it. Think about the detective, or about regional differences in general; think about anything but the fact that the minister was pressing her hand and murmuring condolences, and the funeral director was waiting for her to leave so they could lower the casket into the grave and begin shoveling dirt over it. The grave was even disguised by a green felt carpet, as if the sight of it would be too much for the bereaved.

But she couldn't leave. She couldn't walk away from Dexter now, not in his last moment above ground. He deserved to have someone there for him, someone whose memory would record these details, so that he wouldn't vanish without a trace. Whatever his failings, he was her father, forever linked to her through shared genes.

"Go ahead," she said hoarsely. It was an effort to speak. Her arms roughened with chill bumps, and she hugged them against the bite of the wind, wondering where the heat had gone. The rain drummed down on the umbrella, spattered her legs and her back, and a shiver seized her.

She saw the funeral director glance at Detective Chastain, as if the final decision was his. Perhaps it was. If he chose to drag her away from the graveside, she didn't know if she would be able to protest, or to resist. If she tried to argue, the tenuous control she was maintaining would shatter, and she would collapse into a sobbing heap. A sobbing heap was not a good position from which to assert authority.

But he gave a brief nod, and she tried to tell him with her eyes how grateful she was, not just for this but for everything. The funeral director turned aside with a quiet word to the waiting men. Chains creaked, and the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.

Karen shivered again and found she couldn't stop. Was she shivering or trembling? She couldn't tell, didn't care. All she knew was that she was shaking from the inside out, her teeth clenched hard to hold back the sob that was choking her.

Silently, Chastain stepped behind her, blocking the wind and rain from her with his body. She stood stiffly, locked rigid with the effort of control, but he moved closer, so close that he pressed against her, strong and solid and warm. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he opened his jacket and enfolded her inside the sheltering wings. The cloth draped over her shoulders, her bare arms, wrapping her in warmth. He still held the umbrella in his left hand, but his right arm slid around her and held her anchored to him, tight against his hard chest.

The gesture stunned her. Except for her mother, no one had ever put themselves between her and the world. Chastain's action was so unexpected and intimate… and protective. The protectiveness was what destroyed her, even while it supported her.

Hot tears blurred her vision once more, washing out the images of the men bending and digging their shovels into the mound of dirt, but she heard the sound of dirt spilling into metal. They worked methodically, despite the pouring rain, as if the job was too somber to be hurried. She stood until they were finished, and all the while Chastain stood at her back, warming her, lending her his strength so she could continue to stand upright.

Karen was accustomed to standing alone. Even as a child, she had tried not to bother her mother with her problems, because she had always sensed Jeanette carried enough burdens. Nursing school had only enhanced her independence by giving her even greater responsibilities. She hadn't leaned on anyone in years, and she was shattered to find herself doing so both emotionally and physically with a man who had been a total stranger a mere two days before. She tried to blink away the tears that kept burning her eyes. She tried to say something and found the pressure in her chest was too great to allow the words to escape. She straightened, though something in her cried out at the sudden cold, the loss of contact. She turned to face him, but his face swam before her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer.

The sob that tore out of her throat sounded like the wail of a wounded animal. She didn't know if she collapsed against him or if he reached for her, but abruptly she was in his arms, her face buried in the curve of his shoulder. She wept convulsively, her entire body shuddering as she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back.

Chastain let the umbrella drop to the soggy ground. He bent his head over hers, murmuring soft, consoling sounds that didn't seem to be words at all, but just the sound was enough. She tried to burrow closer, vaguely appalled at her own neediness yet helpless to stop herself. One big hand closed over the nape of her neck, massaging, cradling, hot on her tender bare skin.

The pain was almost more than she could bear, grief and regret and a piercing sense of loneliness tearing at her. Despite her deep resentment, while Dexter lived, there had always been the possibility that one day he would work out whatever problems he had, get rid of the demons that rode his shoulder, and want to forge a relationship with her. That couldn't happen now. He had died still largely unknown to her, all the bright possibilities at an end. She mourned that loss of hope as much as she mourned him, a father she had never really known but whose absence had shaped her life. Now she would never be able to tell him how angry she was, how hurt, never reach out to him and feel the connection of family. She wept for that, and for her mother, and for him.

But such extreme emotion was exhausting, and gradually she quieted, still held securely in Detective Chastain's arms, her wet face still buried in his shoulder. She heard him speaking quietly over her head to someone, perhaps the minister, and a few moments later, she heard footsteps moving away, squishing on the wet ground. They were alone, and now she was grateful to him for yet one more thing; she needed privacy and he had provided it.

The rain had stopped beating down, dwindling to nothing more than a lukewarm mist as the storm moved on. The wind had died, and already she could feel the heat of the day rebuilding, steam forming on the ground. His heart thumped steadily under her ear, his chest rose and fell with the cadence of his breathing, and the warm, musky odor of his body mingled with the faint, fresh, lemony fragrance of his aftershave. He smelled delicious, she thought dimly, just the way a man should smell.

Her mind drifted. She tried to think of the last time she had been this close to a man, but the memory eluded her, and somehow she didn't think she had ever before been so close. Other men had held her, of course, but not like this. She had never accepted comfort from a man, never let any of her few boyfriends see her weep. She had never let herself need them, but somehow, in this moment, she needed Chastain. She needed to feel his arms around her, just for now. She needed the physical strength so evident in his tall, muscular body, a strength that effortlessly supported her weight, and she needed to be held as tightly as he was holding her. She needed to hear his dark-honey voice murmuring to her, needed the reassurance that right now, just for a few minutes, she wasn't alone.

The emotional storm had left her drained, exhausted, oddly detached. "I'm sorry," she said in a sodden voice, muffled against his shoulder.

"You're entitled." He shifted a bit, holding her with one arm while he reached into his pocket. "Here's a handkerchief."

She groped for it without lifting her head, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, and then wondered in acute embarrassment how she could possibly give it back to him after blowing her nose on it. She crushed the cloth in her hand. "I'll wash it," she mumbled.

He gave a quiet chuckle, then wrapped his arms around her again. She resettled her head on his shoulder, sighing, feeling the dampness of his coat under her cheek. In the trees overhead, birds began to twitter and sing again with the passing of the rain.

"I never really knew him," she whispered, feeling compelled to talk. "He'd drift back into our lives every other year or so, and Mom would start hoping this time he would stay, but then he'd leave again, and she would cry for days. I hated him for that."

Those strong, comforting arms tightened, squeezing. "Did you want him to stay?"

"At first. Every time he came back, I ran to my room and prayed as hard as I could that he wouldn't leave again, and that Mom would be happy and not cry anymore. That never worked for long. Then I started making wishes. I wished on falling stars, on wishbones, I tossed pennies into any pool of water I could find. I didn't know any officially designated wishing wells, but I figured any water would do."

He chuckled again, and she found herself somehow smiling into his coat. The smile was wavery, but it was there. He rocked her back and forth a little, as if she were a child. "Feeling better?"

She nodded. "Crying causes endorphins to be released into the body, automatically lifting the mood."

"Then you must be slap full of endorphins right now," he teased, and this time she laughed. It shocked her, and she went still. How could she laugh? She was standing by her father's grave.

"Don't worry about it," he said, shaking her a little, understanding without being told why she had gone rigid in his arms. "People always laugh at funerals, sometimes even the families. My grandmother always said it was the angels' way of easing the burden. It isn't disrespectful, it's healing."

He was right. She thought back to other funerals she had attended, the bouts of muffled laughter, and she relaxed again. "When I was about eleven, we went back to West Virginia for my grandfather's funeral—my father's father. I remember Granny sitting in a rocker, holding this little lace handkerchief, reminiscing about Gramps with some of the older people. They all started laughing at some tale, trying to hold it back at first, but then Granny started actually whooping, rocking back and forth, holding her stomach and laughing 'til she could barely breathe. They all laughed like maniacs."

"It helps to remember the good times. So, you're really a West Virginia girl? I thought I heard a drawl sneak into that Ohio accent a few times." He imitated her accent, saying "Oh-Hi-uh," instead of "Oh-Hi-oh" the way Southerners did. As he spoke, he subtly released himself from her clutches, though not her from his. Moving to her side, he started her walking by the simple means of walking himself, holding her close with an arm around her waist. She had to walk or be dragged.

Karen hadn't wanted to show her face yet. She knew her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her makeup ruined. She only hoped she had been able to blot up the worst of the destruction. But Detective Chastain had decided it was time for her to leave, so, willy-nilly, she was leaving. Perhaps he had work to do and had to get back to New Orleans. She felt guilty about the way she had monopolized his time.

"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked, embarrassed all over again. He had offered his help, but perhaps it had only been a courtesy offer and he hadn't really expected her to accept.

"Of course not." He squeezed her a little as they reached the graveled little path that led to the car. "I'm off duty, and I don't have any appointments."

"Or a date?" she asked, disliking even the idea. She was surprised at herself. Had she suddenly become so needy that she couldn't bear losing his support? She had better snap out of it fast, because she was flying home the next morning.

"No date," he said easily. "Why don't we walk around the Quarter for a while, then have dinner? You haven't seen anything of New Orleans, really, and you need to relax."

Her sudden tension seeped out of her. He wanted to spend the rest of the day and the evening with her. Well, perhaps he didn't really want to, perhaps he merely felt responsible for her, but she was too grateful for the chance to avoid a long evening spent alone with only her melancholy thoughts for company that she felt a flood of relief at the invitation. "Thanks. I'd like that."

The afternoon sun suddenly blazed full on her face, the rain clouds gone for now, though ominous dark clouds were building again in the southwest. The heat and brightness of the sun were incredible, and she felt herself beginning to sweat again, as rapidly as she had grown chilled before. Squinting her swollen eyes against the glare, she misjudged her distance from the edge of the path and brushed against a shrub. The stubby branches snagged her hose and held fast.

"Darn it!" She stopped, looking down to assess the damage. The nylon was tangled on one of the branches. A hole the size of a half-dollar had been torn in the fabric, and an ugly run laddered both upward and downward from the hole. A run in black hose was particularly ugly, she thought, looking down at her pale leg peeking through.

She started to lean down and release herself, but he squatted beside her and curved one hand around her calf, using the other to work the nylon free. A small red scratch from the branch marred her skin, shining brightly through the gaping hole in her panty hose. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch, soothing the sting.

"You can take them off at the car," he said, rising, his task accomplished. He smiled down at her with those brilliant gray eyes. "I'll stand on the other side and not look, I promise."

The prospect of taking off her panty hose in his presence, even when he was on the other side of the car, seemed almost too daring and intimate. Intimate. There was that word again. All day—well, actually since the first day—it seemed as if he had wrapped her in a blanket of intimacy without actually doing anything sexual. He had touched her constantly; he put his hand on her arm or her back, held her, supported her, and perhaps she couldn't have made it through the ordeal without those touches that let her know she wasn't alone.

Perhaps the sense of intimacy was all on her part; perhaps Southern men were normally this solicitous toward women. She hadn't known any Southerners before, since they didn't exactly flock to Columbus, Ohio, so she had no means of comparison. If Detective Marc Chastain was typical of the Southern male, she thought, then the women in the rest of the country didn't know what they were missing.

They reached the car, and Marc went to the driver's side and turned his back, just as he had promised. The brutal sun beat down on their heads, and he shrugged out of his jacket, holding it in one hand while he waited.

His black hair was rain-wet and gleamed in the sun. His white shirt was thin, letting the warmth of his skin show through the fabric as it draped across his broad shoulders. Karen looked across the car at him, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. For a moment, she stood paralyzed, unable to look away from him. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the size of him, the set of his head on his shoulders, the neatness of his ears, the black hair that tapered to a point on the back of his neck. That big pistol was still clipped to his belt, and she wondered if he ever went anywhere without it.

She had never before been so acutely, physically aware of a man as she was in that moment, almost breathless from the impact on her senses.

"May I turn around now?" he asked lazily, and the moment passed.

"Not yet," she said. He settled against the side of the car, still patient.

Karen looked down at her leg. The torn nylon sagged, looking much worse than bare legs would. Vanity, if nothing else, inclined her to do as he said. Faintly amused, at both him and herself, she lifted her skirt and hurriedly peeled off the ruined panty hose, then wadded the nylon into a ball and stuffed it in her purse.

To her surprise, she instantly felt better. As hot and muggy as the air was, she was immeasurably more comfortable without the hot nylon wrapping her from waist to toe.

Almost as soon as she straightened, he was around the car, opening the door for her. There was that touch again, this time on her back, gently guiding her into the car. From out of nowhere surged a longing to be in his arms again, comforted and protected, to be able to rest her head on his shoulder. Such weakness was so alien to her that Karen automatically straightened her shoulders, mentally recoiling. Yes, she had been under a lot of stress, and while maybe it was okay to lean on that strong shoulder for a little while, she wouldn't allow herself to make a habit of it.

As he slid behind the wheel, he gave her his habitual half-smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and just barely curled his lips, the one that made him look sleepy and… something else; she wasn't certain just what.

"On second thought, it looks like it's going to rain again, so walking in the Quarter is out," he said. "We'll go to my house. We can sit on the balcony, drink a glass of wine, people-watch. You don't need to mope around a hotel room all by yourself."

An afternoon walk and dinner were one thing, but going to his house was quite another. "I've imposed enough—" she began.

"Don't argue."

"It's your day off, and I—"

"I said don't argue."

The easiness of his tone kept her from taking umbrage but didn't blind her to his determination. He had decided she was going to his house, so go she would.

It was because he was a cop, she thought, letting her head drop back against the seat. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Doctors were like that, too. A nurse didn't have to agree with the order, as long as she carried it out. But that was her job, and this wasn't. Nor was it police business. She could tell him no. The problem was, she didn't want to. She wanted to sit on his balcony and sip a glass of wine; it seemed so Southern, so New Orleans. She wanted to amuse herself with a little people-watching. She definitely didn't want to face that empty hotel room right now.

They didn't talk much during the half-hour drive back to the city. She felt limp, oddly detached, almost dreamy. She recognized it as the aftermath of her emotional storm and relief that the funeral was over, as if she had accomplished some herculean task and now could rest. The sense of drifting was pleasant.

She didn't realize he lived in the Quarter until he turned onto St. Louis. Until then, she had just thought he was taking a shortcut through the Quarter, though when she looked at it logically, she knew that was ridiculous. Why wind his way through the narrow, crowded streets of the Quarter to get anywhere except in the Quarter? He slowed and punched the button on his garage door opener, and a wide blue door began sliding upward. He wheeled the car into the opening when there was barely enough room for it to fit under, making her gasp and duck her head.

He chuckled. "Sorry. When you pull in here enough times, you learn how to judge it down to the inch." He cut off the car engine, got out, and walked around to her side of the car. Karen felt awkward just sitting there and making no attempt to open the car door herself, but she waited anyway. It took only a few seconds, and he seemed to expect to perform the courtesy. He opened the door, and she got out. He put his hand on her back again, a warm, light pressure that guided her toward a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a wooden door and opened it outward, ushering her through.

She stepped out onto a wide balcony that overlooked a luxurious courtyard. An old stone fountain occupied the middle, serving as a focal point around which plants of all kinds flourished. Enormous ferns and tall palms waved their lacy fronds; roses and geraniums and other flowers she couldn't name filled the air with perfume. She was certain she caught the scent of jasmine, though she didn't see any of the little starry white flowers. Enchanted, she stepped forward and rested her hands on the wrought-iron railing. This was wonderful. She looked down at a stone bench almost hidden among the foliage and wondered if he used the garden to escape from the stresses of his job.

"It's beautiful." She drew the delicious scent deep into her lungs.

"Thanks. One of the tenants keeps the place looking like a greenhouse, and I give her a break on the rent. The courtyard's nice, but I don't have time to take care of the plants. It would be just rock and dirt down there if it wasn't for Mrs. Fox."

"Then bless Mrs. Fox," she said, reluctant to leave the small paradise.

"Amen." He unlocked a door as he spoke, opening it inward and holding out his hand to her. She left the railing and walked inside, and felt as if she had also left the twentieth century behind. This house was from a different era, a different world. The plastered ceilings were at least twelve feet high, and the furniture was antique, but it was the kind of antique that was used every day, not put behind glass. The faded rug beneath her feet was still thick and luxurious, marvelously cushiony. The only modern note was a big easy chair, large enough to accommodate his height.

She started to ask how he could afford a place like this on a cop's salary, but the question was too rude, and she bit it back.

"I inherited the house from my grandmother," he said, watching her look around. "The attic is full of pieces of furniture that are two hundred years old. The fabric rots, of course, but I take care of the wood and every so often have a piece reupholstered."

"It must be wonderful, living in a place like this."

"I grew up here, so sometimes I take it for granted, but yeah, it's great." He held out his hand again, beckoning her forward. "This way." He led her through a small dining room and into the kitchen, then through double French doors leading out onto another balcony, this one overlooking the street. "Have a seat," he invited. "I'll get us something to drink. Are you hungry?"

"No, I—"

"I bet you didn't eat lunch," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Did you?"

"No," she admitted.

"You're a nurse," he said evenly. "You should know better. Sit."

Karen sat. He went inside, and she relaxed in the cushioned wrought-iron chair, watching the activity in the street below with a sort of fuzzy curiosity. She was tired and empty and still a little numb. Sitting here was just about all she felt she could manage right now. She looked at the hanging baskets of ferns, at the French doors on either side of her, and again felt herself in another world. The hot afternoon sun had cranked the temperature up into the nineties again, making steam rise from pockets of rainwater on the sidewalks, but the shade kept the heat tolerable. She needed a fan, though, just to be in keeping with the atmosphere. Smiling at the thought, she closed her eyes.

She must have dozed, rousing only when he set a tray on the table beside her. The tray held sandwiches of shaved ham, a plate of cookies, two empty glasses, and a bottle of red wine. "A domesticated man," she said, and heard the dreaminess of her tone as if she hadn't quite awakened yet.

"Don't give me too many points," he said in the lazy tone he seemed to have patented, sitting down on the other side of the little table. "The cookies are from a bakery, and any fool can make a sandwich."

He had changed clothes, she noticed, shedding the tie and exchanging his slacks for a pair of threadbare jeans. He was barefoot, and though he still wore the white shirt, he had left the tails hanging out, wrinkled from where it had been tucked in before. He had also opened a couple of buttons, so that it was fastened only to the middle of his chest. A broad, hairy chest, she noticed, still drowsy. Nice.

He propped his bare feet on the balcony railing, sighing as he relaxed. "Kick your shoes off," he invited.

She did, because the idea of being barefoot in this steamy weather sounded so wonderful. And she propped her feet on the railing, too, reasoning that passersby below wouldn't be able to see more than a few inches up her skirt, assuming anyone even looked. There was too much going on at street level for anyone to be concerned with whether or not she showed a little leg. She sighed just as he had, because it felt wonderful to be free of the hot, restricting shoes, to put her feet up, to feel her spine loosening. She so seldom just sat that this was a luxury.

Without sitting up from his relaxed position, Marc stretched out an arm and expertly poured two glasses of wine. "Eat," he said, and waited until she took one of the sandwiches before snagging the other for himself.

Silently, she munched on the sandwich, sipped the wine, and watched the tourists strolling below. From somewhere drifted the sound of a street band, and she could also hear someone expertly playing show tunes on a piano. Snippets of conversation floated upward, mere background to the moment. She couldn't imagine any other place in the world like New Orleans, with its casual, exotic magic.

Their feet were propped side by side on the railing, and she surveyed them with interest, struck by the differences. Hers were much smaller and more slender, delicately formed, definitely feminine. His feet were big, bony, a little hairy on top: masculine. Interesting.

"Do you know," she murmured, still dreamy, "why men's feet look so different from women's?"

He moved his left foot over so it was touching her right one, eyeing them. Cocking his head a little, he said, "Nail polish."

If he had been within reach, she would have elbowed him. "Nooo. It was all that running around barefoot, chasing antelope and woolly mammoths."

He laughed, actually laughed aloud, a deep and deliciously male sound that made her toes curl. "So women's feet stayed dainty because all they had to do was wander around and pick berries."

"And carry the kids around." She wanted to hear him laugh again. She almost shivered again, this time with delight.

He settled his broad shoulders more comfortably in the chair. "Well, it would have been tough chasing woolly mammoths while carrying the papoose as well as spears."

"Excuses, excuses. Anything to get out of babysitting." The wine was good, she thought. She usually didn't care for red wine, but this was mellow and rich. She finished the glass and set it on the table, sighing with contentment.

Nothing was said for quite a while. The sizzling heat made conversation somehow unnecessary. A bass rumble of thunder announced the approach of more rain, and clouds began inching their purplish mass over the blaze of the setting sun. Marc carried the tray inside but left the plate of cookies on the table. He returned after several minutes. Music drifted from inside, a lazy blues instrumental. Everything drifted down here, she thought, closing her eyes. Anything else required too much effort.

"More wine?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Then eat a cookie."

"Slave driver." But she smiled as she picked up a cookie and bit into it. The flavor exploded on her tongue. "Ohh, that's good," she moaned. "What is it?"

"White chocolate. Pecans: Other stuff. They're my favorite kind." He ate one with gusto, then another.

What a mixture he was, she thought in amusement. Almost Old World in some ways, typical modern American male in others. He would feel perfectly at ease stretched out in his chair in that marvelous old living room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and watching a ball game. Plus, he was a cop, adding to his complexity. What other qualities would surface on longer acquaintance? It didn't matter, she realized; she wouldn't have a chance to find out, because she was leaving tomorrow morning. An odd pang tightened her stomach.

They killed the plate of cookies and their second glasses of wine. Thunder rumbled again, edging closer. Rain began to spatter on the street, and the tourists below began hurrying for shelter. Within minutes, the street was deserted, and the silvery rain increased in steadiness, hurrying twilight.

Karen felt slightly chilled on the outside, but the wine had created a warm glow inside. A single saxophone mourned, the pure notes reaching to her soul. She hugged herself, aching inside.

"Dance with me," he said softly, standing up and holding out his hand to her.

She stood and went silently into his arms. She closed her eyes, and her head found her personal resting place on his shoulder. There couldn't be anything more perfect, she thought, than slow dancing, barefoot, on a balcony in New Orleans, while the rain poured down and twilight wrapped around them. He was so marvelously warm, she wanted to sink into him, and she actually caught herself pressing closer. Immediately, she started to pull back, but he stopped her with a firm hand on the small of her back, urging her even closer.

"It's okay. Just rest against me." The words were barely a murmur, as if he didn't want them to intrude on the moment.

So she relaxed again, so readily that she felt a flicker of guilt in the far recesses of her brain. She was shamelessly using him, for comfort, for support, for… for pleasure. Yes, this was pure pleasure: the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and belly rubbing against her breasts, her own belly, as they swayed to the hypnotic wail of the sax. His thighs slid along hers, his feet brushed hers, and occasionally she even felt the bulge of his genitals, though she thought he was being careful about that—his perfect manners again. She found herself waiting, almost breathless, for the next time their movements brought her hip against him. She wanted to curl into him, press herself fully to that intriguing bulge.

Her heartbeat was slow, heavy. The chill was gone; she felt deliciously warm, almost boneless, all thought suspended.

One strong hand slid up her back to close lightly over the nape of her neck, and the other moved down to her bottom. She didn't think of protesting. Somehow the touch wasn't demanding anything of her. He was just gently kneading her bottom, that was all. She had never before realized how good that could feel.

He tilted her head back, his hand firm on her neck. She saw the sensuous curve of his mouth, then he was kissing her, and even that wasn't demanding. Her eyes drifted shut again. His lips were soft, shaping hers, and he didn't use his tongue.

Abruptly, she wished he would. She wanted more of his taste. But she enjoyed what he was giving her, more than she had ever enjoyed any other man's kisses, so she let herself get lost in those light, brushing kisses. And she realized she had curled into him, after all, her hips arched toward him.

His hand left her bottom, almost drawing a protesting moan from her. But she heard the click of the door handle behind her and realized he was guiding her back into the kitchen. It was dark inside; he hadn't left a light on. She didn't bother opening her eyes, merely sighed with dreamy pleasure as he continued kissing her and his hand returned to her buttocks. Both hands, she dimly realized, and she was clinging to his shoulders with both hands. Her breasts were tight, achy; her loins were full. It felt good, better than good. She wanted his tongue, she wanted it so much that she rose on tiptoe and deepened the kiss herself, tentatively probing. And she wanted to stretch against him, so she did that, too, pressing her breasts to him and feeling her nipples pinch with pleasure.

He gave a low growl, deep in his throat, and took the initiative from her. This time, the pleasure was sharp, splintering, and she moaned aloud. Oh, yes. He tasted wonderful, like cookies and wine and himself. His tongue moved deep and sure, taking, and hers danced around it, softly teasing. She had never before realized kisses could be so subtle, so full of meaning, so varied.

He grasped her skirt and worked it up to her waist, then slid his hands beneath the waistband of her panties to clasp her bare bottom. Her buttocks were cool, his hands hot; the contrast had her arching forward, gasping. Her breasts throbbed; her hips undulated a little, reaching for and finding the hard ridge of his penis, rocking against him, instinctively seeking relief. She had gone beyond warm; she felt feverish, her skin too tight, her clothes too binding.

He stooped a little, tugging at her panties. They slid down her thighs, dropped to her ankles. "Step out of them," he whispered, and mindlessly she did so. Her heart was pounding, her body caught in a fever of need.

"Open your eyes."

She did that, too, staring up at him in the rain-washed dimness of the room, his face lit by the watery light seeping through the french doors. His expression was set, his eyes narrow and piercing, his mouth fiercely sensual.

They weren't in the kitchen after all, she realized with a sort of distant surprise; he had danced her through the other set of doors. They were in his bedroom.

The bed hit the backs of her knees, and he eased her down onto it, his hands firm and sure. She barely had time to register the coolness of the sheets beneath her bare bottom, then he was on her, heavy and solid, kneeing her thighs apart while he opened his jeans.

She breathed deeply, her eyes half closed, watching him through the fringe of her lashes. She still felt dreamy, as if none of this were real, yet she had never wanted so intensely as she did now, never hungered for another man as she did for him. The power of her need surprised her; she wasn't quite certain how she had come to this moment, lying on a bed with a man she barely knew, her panties on the floor and her skirt around her waist.

The first touch of his penis to her was startling, a stark intrusion of reality. Her eyes flared with shock, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. He held her gaze, his big body pressing her into the mattress, and entered her with a hard, steady thrust, sheathing himself to the root with one movement. Her body arched in feminine shock at the force of his penetration, at this searing invasion. His penis was smooth and hard, thick, impossibly deep, and she writhed around him.

He steadied her, holding her firmly as he withdrew a little and thrust again, his gaze intent on her face. She couldn't stop her gasping cry at the resulting sensation, the pleasure that was almost torment. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She clung to him with desperate hands, feeling as if she were about to be torn apart by an internal force she couldn't contain. He whispered soothingly to her, words of masculine reassurance she couldn't quite grasp, but the dark honey of his voice was more effective than any words.

"Please." She heard herself begging, for mercy, for relief, for anything and everything.

He understood her urgency even better than she. He pulled back and thrust deep, hard, then again, and she began climaxing.

He rode her hard through the waves of sensation, pounding into her, holding her thighs spread wide so she had no control, no protection. He showed her no mercy as she convulsed and arched, nor did she want any. She wanted only him, the fierce intimacy of his body locked into hers.

When her spasms eased, she lay sprawled limply beneath him. She was exhausted, emptied out, barely conscious. His powerful body bucked when he came, and her flesh quivered from the impact of his thrusts.

He lay heavily on her, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, his heart thundering against her own. He felt damp with sweat through his clothes, but a slight, cooling breeze wafted through the open French doors, bringing with it the freshness of the rain. Karen turned her face into his neck, breathing in the hot odor of his skin, and felt herself sink toward sleep.

She roused a little when he withdrew, instinctively protesting the loss of his weight, the comfort of his animal warmth in the rain-cooled night. "Shh," he murmured, soothing her.

Enough light came through the windows and open doors that she could sleepily watch him remove and discard a condom, and she was alert just enough to ask, "When did you put that on?" She would swear his hands had never left her after they had entered the bedroom.

"When I put on the music." He turned back to her, still kneeling between her spread thighs. His eyes were heavy-lidded with concentration as he began removing her clothes. Karen let him unzip her dress, his hands working under her; her sluggish thoughts still centered on the condom. He had planned this, then. Even before they had begun dancing, he had intended to make love to her.

The significance of this seemed important, but why eluded her. He tugged her dress off over her head and tossed it aside, then deftly undipped her bra and removed it, too. Her attention was caught by her nudity, which, despite the intimacy of the act they had just shared, made her feel far too vulnerable. She shocked herself, lying there naked and spread in front of a man who was still clothed, even though his jeans were down around his thighs. He should have been soft, but his swollen penis jutted out from under his shirt, twitching with arousal.

Her hands moved; perhaps he sensed her intention to cover herself, for he caught her wrists and pinned them to the pillow beside her head, and took his time looking her over. Her nipples drew into tight little points under his inspection, and he smiled. Leaning over her, he licked her left nipple, circling the point with his tongue before gently catching it between his teeth and applying delicate pressure.

Prickles of heat shot through her. She gasped, fruitlessly wrenching her arms in an effort to free them—not to push him away but to hold him close. He sucked at her, pressing the nipple hard against the roof of his mouth while his tongue worked at it, and she writhed helplessly. She hadn't known her breasts were so sensitive, but the way he was sucking her aroused her so sharply she felt herself, impossibly, building toward another climax.

Bending forward as he was, the tip of his penis nudged at her swollen folds, prodding her opening. Her breath snagged, caught. Her hips arched.

He swore softly, his breath ragged, and reared back from her. He fought his way out of the shirt, tossing it aside, and quickly sheathed himself with another condom. Leaning over her again, he caught her wrists in one hand and stretched her arms over her head, arching her breasts upward in tender offering. He took full advantage of her position, sucking both nipples, gentle and ruthless at once.

His free hand moved over her belly, down between her spread legs. She was swollen and sensitive from their lovemaking, barely able to take the two big fingers he worked up inside her. She quivered, gasping, and her head tossed restlessly back and forth within the frame of her upstretched arms.

A shudder of arousal rippled over him. "You're tight," he murmured, kissing her throat. "Am I hurting you?"

"N-no." She could barely speak. His fingers reached deep inside her, pressing upward. His thumb rasped over her clitoris, circled it enticingly. "Oh, my God." She cried the words, arching tautly. Heat poured through her, drawing her upward like a bow. She could feel another climax building, even stronger than the last. Her shaking thighs were spread achingly wide again as he shifted close to her, taking his fingers out of her and replacing them with the long stroke of his shaft.

The spasms boiled swiftly upward. He felt them begin and pressed himself deep. Rhythmic cries shook from her, and her body convulsed. He controlled his own urges and slowly, carefully, rebuilt her desire until she climaxed yet again, and only then did he let himself come.

She slept, and woke to his hands on her again.

Night had completely fallen, and he had removed his jeans. Rain still pattered down outside, and the French doors were still open, letting in the damp air. Nothing else in the universe existed but the confines of the bed and man who held her close to his heat and hardness. She didn't think, simply was, for the first time in her life, lost to pure physical pleasure. He could have done anything to her, and she wouldn't have protested.

He slid down her body and pressed his mouth to her, the caress so tender and intimate she almost wept, would have if desire hadn't risen again, throbbing insistently in her loins. He mounted her, said, "I'm going to do you hard this time," and did, ruthlessly driving for his own pleasure and making her come, too. She thought she would faint this time, the spasms were so intense. She clutched his sweaty sides and completely gave herself up to him. This savage lovemaking in the dark, rainy New Orleans night was more intensely carnal than anything she could have imagined doing, and she didn't want it to end.

This time, he slept, too, holding her so close that sweat formed between their bodies, sealing them together.

The night felt endless. She woke to the same rain and darkness, the hot damp air, the contrasting coolness of the rain-laden breezes. She couldn't see a clock anywhere, wouldn't have looked at it in any case. She kissed her way down his body. By the time she reached his groin, he was awake, erect, groaning. She kissed his shaft, licked the length of it, and felt it grow even more, then she took him fully in her mouth. Torment was a two-way street, and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she had.

She didn't know how many times they made love that night. Her mind was in a fog, her body completely turned over to him. When she was so exhausted she simply couldn't respond again, he cradled her in his arms and brushed a tender kiss across her eyes. "Sleep, darlin'," he whispered in that black magic voice, and it was as if she only needed to hear the words before she let go of consciousness.