True to her word, she hadn't thought about that morning or their kiss or the possibility of more while she'd been working. But the minute she'd gone off duty, all she'd been able to think about was the way Renee had felt lying against her—the softness of her mouth, the heat of her skin, the weight of her body. The wonder and excitement had swirled through her depths and settled in the pit of her stomach, surging upward to take her by surprise at unexpected moments. By the time she rapped on the hotel room door, she was shivering with anticipation.

Renee opened the door, took one look at Stark, and gave a small groan. "God, you look so good." Then she reached out, took Stark's hand, and drew her gently into the room. Pushing the door closed with her foot, she settled both arms on Stark's shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her. She kept an inch of space between them, fearing that if their bodies touched, she wouldn't be able to let her go until she had her in bed.

As if sensing Renee's hesitation, Stark rested both hands lightly on her hips but did not step any closer. Instead, she allowed her mouth to convey the depths of her longing. She caressed Renee's lips, sucking and stroking and probing until they were both moaning. When it became impossible to go on without taking a breath, she lifted her lips away a fraction and murmured, "It's so great to see you."

"Yes," Renee breathed.

"Would you like to...go out for dinner or something?"

Renee rested her forehead against Stark's, playing with the hair at the back of her neck, caressing her softly. "There is something I would like to do before the other thing that I'd like to do."

Stark stared at her questioningly. "Translation?"

"I want to see Paris."

"All of it?"

Renee nodded.

"That might take us all night, maybe even longer."

Renee laughed. "Are you tired?"

"I don't think so." Stark brushed her fingers over Renee's cheek and along her jaw. "I don't feel much of anything when I'm with you except you."

Renee's lips parted in surprised pleasure. "You're not allowed to speak until we leave this room. Because every time you say something like that, all I want is to get naked with you."

Stark opened her mouth but Renee swiftly put her fingers against her lips. "Shush. I mean it." Renee's lids grew heavy when she felt Stark's mouth move against her fingers in a soft kiss. "Bad idea." With tremendous effort, she moved away until a foot of neutral ground separated them. "I'm going to get my jacket, and we're going to see Paris."

"Anything you want." Anything at all

CHAPTER TEN

T he Peugeot idled at the curb in front of the entrance to the hotel, Hernandez at the wheel and Reynolds beside him. Blair glanced from them to Cam. "Double-dating?"

Laughing, Cam held the rear door for her. "Just for the vehicular portion of the evening. They're staying outside once we arrive."

"Good." Blair watched out the window as they crossed the Seine and moved slowly through the crowded streets of the Left Bank. "Where's Stark? I thought she was on tonight."

"I rearranged the shifts and gave her some downtime. I want her as lead for the finale tomorrow night."

"Ah yes—the presidential ball." Blair grimaced. "The farewell performance."

Cam reached for her hand and squeezed gently. "Tired?"

"Just the usual travel frazzle." Blair kept her tone and expression light. She'd heard the concern in her lover's voice.

"Will you be glad to go home?"

"Oh God, yes." Blair watched the nightlife pass by outside the window, thinking of how many times she had wished she could lose herself on just such a crowded street, to slip away unnoticed and awaken somewhere else—-to be someone else. With the exception of her clandestine forays into the dark bars and darker hours of so many lost nights, she'd never managed to escape her history or her destiny. Glancing at Cam, she realized that she no longer had any desire to be anyone other than who she was, or to be anywhere else—not as long as she had this one woman's love. "It will be good to get back to New York. I miss painting, and I'm anxious to finish up the last canvases for my show." She smiled and her face was free of worry or regret. "But, despite the circumstances, this has been one of the best trips I've ever had...because you're here."

"There's nothing that I would change about anything," Cam replied seriously, unconsciously echoing Blair's thoughts, "except to give you your freedom."

"Knowing that you understand why it's hard for me sometimes is just as good." Blair gave Cam's hand a small shake. "So will you tell me now where we're going?"

Cam's grin flashed. "Nope."

"There are things I could do to punish you for this, you know."

"I live in hope."

Blair laughed and glanced out the window, raising a brow when she saw the street sign. "Rue Christine. Stein and Toklas's street. Are we going sightseeing?"

"Not exactly."

Hernandez pulled the vehicle to the curb and Cam activated the speaker. "Keep comm channel four open. Parker and Davis are your backup."

"Yes, Commander."

And then Cam opened the door, gestured for Blair to follow, and they were on the street. Alone.

Blair glanced back in surprise when neither of the two agents stepped out to join them. Rarely had Cam acquiesced to fewer than three agents being with her when she was out in public. Perplexed, she glanced at her lover. "Cam?"

Shaking her head, Cam grasped Blair's hand and quickly drew her down the narrow, crowded street to 7 Rue Christine, one of a series of small houses with a tiny landing and stained-glass windows flanking its red painted door. Cam knocked, and a moment later, a petite dark-haired woman wearing a flowing green silk tunic and wide-legged sienna trousers opened the door.

"Cameron!" the beautiful woman exclaimed as she stood on tiptoe and kissed Cam's cheek. The deep brown eyes she turned to Blair were alive with quick intelligence and warm welcome. "Hello."

"Bonita," Cam said with obvious affection, "may I present Blair Powell." Cam smiled at Blair's look of stunned surprise.

"Blair, Bonita Ponte."

"Oh," Blair exclaimed, too taken aback to formulate anything close to a sentence. Then, at the sound of the woman's rich melodious laughter, she came to her senses and extended her hand. "I am so honored, Ms. Ponte, to meet you. I so love your work."

"Please, call me Bonita." She took both Blair's and Cam's hands and drew them into the house, closing the door behind them and leading the way into a luxuriously appointed sitting room. Two sofas of burgundy brocade with hand-carved mahogany frames faced each other in front of a marble fireplace. Thick carpets layered the floor in a riot of color. Above the fireplace hung a painting which Blair recognized as one of Marcea Casells's, Cam's mother and—as was her unexpected hostess—a hero of Blair's.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable." Bonita motioned toward the sitting area. "I'll be right back. I imagine that you are hungry."

"I'll give you a hand," Cam said quickly.

Bonita shook her head with an indulgent smile. "No, you relax. I'm sure you've both had a long day." With that, she swiftly disappeared in a billow of silk.

"Bonita Ponte. God, Cam. How do you know her?" Blair still couldn't quite believe they were in the home of one of the world's foremost Expressionist painters. She loved Ponte's work and had studied her style and technique while an art student in Paris.

"I've known her since I was a child. She and my mother are best friends." Cam lifted a shoulder. "I wasn't sure she would be home while we were here, but I took a chance and called her. Luckily, she just arrived back yesterday from a series of shows in Italy." Blair's expression was hard for Cam to decipher. She'd rarely seen her so subdued. "Is this okay?"

Still adjusting, Blair could barely speak. She wasn't certain which was the greater gift, the opportunity to meet one of her idols or the fact that Cam understood how much it would mean to her. Throat tight, she murmured, "It's wonderful. Thank you so much."

Bonita returned with a small serving cart that held a bottle of champagne on ice, glasses, and assorted hors d'oeuvres.

"I spoke to your mother just recently, Cameron," Bonita said conversationally as she handed them flutes of champagne. "She mentioned that you were able to attend one of her shows not long ago. She was very pleased."

"I'm afraid I've missed far too many, but I'm trying to make up for that."

Bonita gave an insouciant shrug. "She understands that your work is important and demanding." She appraised Cam gently. "You look well. You're...recovered?"

Cam blushed, uncomfortable with any reference to her near-fatal gunshot wound less than a year earlier. "Absolutely fine."

"Good," Bonita stated briskly. Then, she turned to Blair. "And you have a show soon, I understand."

Blair nodded self-consciously. "Just a small exhibit."

"Tell me about it."

Cam leaned back, one ankle crossed over a knee as she sipped champagne and listened to the two artists talk. Even though she was soon lost when the topic turned to narrative rhythm, tonality, variations in scale, and dimensional perspective, the flow of conversation was relaxing. The theory and even the practice of painting were not foreign to her, but the passion that the other two women shared was something only an artist could truly experience. Seeing Blair's unbridled delight, however, was enough to make Cam feel more than satisfied.

Shortly before eleven, Bonita stretched with a sigh of pleasure. "I can't remember having such an enjoyable evening in some time. I'm losing my taste for travel," she said as she looked from Cam to Blair, "but not for good company. I'm so glad you both could come."