"Am I invited?" he teased her with a smile.

"Uh-huh," she said with a smile.

"If you two are going to take a walk," Rina remarked, "you'd better get going. Sun sets early this time of year. I've gotta get home myself." She stood up. "I'll take my own glass in to Essie. Go on now."

Hand in hand they followed the trail beyond Emily's back lawn and through the woods down to the beach. The trees above them were ablaze with color, but unlike New England hues these had the muted tone of a Degas canvas. The reds had an almost pink shading to them, the yellows were clear, and the gold more of a tobacco hue. Squirrels rummaged over the woodland floor, seeking out nuts. At one point she and Devlin spotted a red fox going about his business. Reaching the beach, they walked for a short distance. The beach plums had been pretty much picked clean by those with a preference for jam, or by the deer and raccoons. The waters of the bay lapped gently against the sand. They spoke little, just enjoying the beauty of the late afternoon, and each other's company. Finally they turned back and, reaching the house, found Essie preparing to depart for the day. She waved at them as she trotted off down the sidewalk.

Inside the house they found a fire going in the den next to the kitchen. The chops were defrosted, and set neatly upon the broiling pan. From the smell the baking potatoes were already in the oven. The remainder of the apple Betty was covered and on the counter. Emily opened the fridge and saw a bowl of salad waiting.

"When the potatoes are almost cooked I'll do the chops," she said.

"Come and sit down," he called to her from the den, and she joined him, crawling onto his lap and kissing him gently. His arms slipped about her, and she laid her head on his shoulder happily. This was where she belonged. In her house. In Egret Pointe. In Devlin's embrace. It was a perfect moment. Air travel was always so amazing, she thought. This time yesterday she and Sava had been having tea at Claridge's in London.

"I like today's now better than yesterday's now," she told him.

His heart beat a little faster. "Do you? What were you doing yesterday?"

Emily told him, including seeing Reg with Gillian Brecknock, and what Sava had told her about the woman. "I can tell she's a perfect bitch," Emily remarked. "But do you think there's enough there for a book, Devlin? Born in Liverpool poverty, claws her way up to be a film and stage actress, now a dominatrix to the rich and discreet."

He chuckled. "Possibly. I'll Google her and see what else there is, and if it's worth making an offer. I'd probably have to go to London myself to do it," he teased Emily. "Do you think she'd dominate me if I asked nicely?"

Emily butted her head into his shoulder. "Villain!" she accused. "If you want your bottom smacked I'll be happy to oblige."

He burst out laughing. "Would you now?" he said. "Do you want to make me your sex slave with a leather collar and leash, angel face?"

Suddenly the memory of Sir William, and the bordello came into Emily's head, and she felt her cheeks growing warm. "No," she said. "I think I can make you behave without resorting to that, Devlin." Lord! Was it only three nights back that she and Sava had been Pretty Polly and Miss Molly? It would show up in one of Savannah's books eventually, she knew, and she giggled into his shoulder.

He turned her so he could kiss her, and one kiss blended into another as he cradled her in his arms. Oh, she had missed him! She wanted him here every night. Snuggling in his embrace while the smell of potatoes baking filled the air was hardly the most romantic picture in the world, but recently thoughts of domesticity with Michael Devlin were overwhelming her. Why wouldn't he say he loved her? Rina said he did; she sensed he did. And yet what if Rina was just a romantic, and Emily's instincts just wishful thinking? She didn't want to ruin a good author-editor relationship and get stuck with some bright-eyed, eager twenty-something for an editor. She was beginning to understand why this kind of a relationship was forbidden. Emily pulled away from her lover. "The potatoes are almost done," she said. "I've got to get the chops on. Do you mind if we eat in here on trays with the fire?"

"No. What can I do?"

"You can toss the salad, fetch and carry," she told him.

When the lamb chops were done Emily turned off the oven and slipped the apple Betty in to warm. Together they carried the food and a bottle of wine into the den and ate while Frank Sinatra played on a CD Devlin put into the player. The fire crackled, and it was all very cozy. And after dinner they put a DVD in and watched Casablanca. Emily cried when Bogart intoned, "Here's looking at you, kid," and sent Ingrid Bergman off with Paul Henreid. Devlin chuckled as Bogart and Claude Raines, who played the French police inspector, strolled off together into the mist, planning their own war against the Nazis.

"Time for bed, Devlin," Emily said, stretching as she stood up. "If you're going to be a commuter tomorrow you'll need to start early."

"How early?" he asked her.

"You should probably roll out of here no later than seven. I know you don't have to be in at nine on the dot," Emily told him. "I'm going to take a bath before I go to bed."

"Can I join you?" he asked softly, a single finger running down the bridge of her nose. "Then I won't have to shower in the morning."

"Yes, you will," she told him with a smile. "And yes, you can join me."

He scrubbed her back with a large sponge as they sat together in a tub filled with bubbles. They lay back together, his hands cupping her breasts as he murmured lascivious suggestions into her ear and kissed the side of her neck, which suddenly smelled of lilacs. He sniffed. He smelled of lilacs. Michael Devlin began to laugh. "Did you put scent in this water?" he asked her.

"Bubble bath doesn't come unscented," she told him dryly. She could suddenly feel his penis beneath her, and she drew a slow, deep breath, turning herself about so that she was now facing him. The palms of her hands slid up his smooth chest to rest lightly on his broad shoulders. "I like it when you smell like a flower, Devlin," she said, her mouth brushing teasingly over his.

"Do you now?" he answered softly, his green eyes narrowing, his hands slipping about her waist.

"It but adds to your charm," Emily said. "Oh, yes, Devlin! Yes!"

He was lifting her up and then lowering her onto his penis. He leaned forward, pressing her against one of the curved ends of the large oval tub. Her legs came up and fastened about his torso. He fucked her slowly, deliberately, in a leisurely manner, until her eyes were closed and she was moaning with her pleasure, her nails digging into his back. When she had attained a small orgasm he pulled away from her, and, in answer to her puzzled look, he said, "I want to have enough left for when we get into bed."

They got out of the bathtub, drying each other off with thick towels. His erection remained, and Emily found she was almost weak with her anticipation, she wanted him inside her again so badly. What was the matter with her? Was she turning into one of those sex addicts the gossip shows were always promoting? He didn't ask if she wanted to go to his room. He just led her to her own bed and they got into it.

He kissed her slowly, and Emily sighed with happiness as she kissed him back. She loved the feel of his mouth on hers. His tongue ran teasingly along her lips, and then slipped into her mouth. She played with it, her own tongue brushing against his. Her hands caressed his lean, hard body. His fingers brushed over her breasts, and then his tongue was tracing the outline of her nipples and dipping into the valley between her breasts. His dark head rested on her as he began to suckle on one of her nipples.

Emily made little murmuring noises of obvious contentment. One of his hands slipped between her thighs, playing with her pubic curls, fingers pressing between her nether lips to find her clitoris, which was already swelling with rising excitement. He teased her until she was squirming with her eagerness, and he was satisfied she was moist enough to take him easily. Then he mounted her and slid his thick penis into her wet vagina.

"Oh, God, yes!" Emily cried out unabashedly. "Oh, Devlin, that feels so good."

"Look at me," he said softly. "Open your eyes and look at me, angel face. I want to see the look in your eyes when you come."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Yes, you can," he told her. "And I want you to see the look in my eyes when I come. I want you to see everything you do to me. Any woman can give you a hard-on, Emily. But you can find paradise with only one woman. Now open your beautiful big blue eyes for me, angel face."

Look at him while he was fucking her? It had never occurred to her. She had just let herself get swept away. Could this be better? Emily opened her eyes and looked into his. He began to move on her, slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. To her surprise the sensations were even greater. They were incredible. She could feel his thickness and the length of him more acutely. And then she was getting lost in his intense green gaze. She gasped with surprise and struggled to pull herself back, but she couldn't. She saw in his eyes what he couldn't say to her, and her heart was near to bursting. Did he see the same thing in her eyes? How could he not? And then the passion threatening to overwhelm her did. Eyes locked on his she reached orgasm, the shudders racking her body until she almost fainted with the pleasure they were gaining from each other, and that she saw in his own eyes. And when it was finally over they lay silent in each other's arms. There were no words left except the few neither of them could say. The three words that both Emily Shanski and Michael Devlin each wanted to hear from each other: I love you. They slept.