After six buttons the nightgown would open no further, so he reached for the hem of the garment to remove it entirely. But when he had raised the hem to the middle of her thighs, he paused. For a clothed man to make love to a naked female implied things about power and dominance that were not what he wanted Margot to feel. They should be equally exposed.

He slid from the bed and swiftly removed his clothing, then joined her again as her dazed eyes opened to see where he had gone. Her high cheekbones were dramatically sculpted by candlelight, and the shadow of fear was still on her.

"I haven't forsaken you, Margot," he said quietly.

"I'm here for as long as you want me to be, and no longer." Though if she wanted him to stop, he didn't know how he would be able to endure it.

This time she moved to him, wrapping her slim, strong arms around his bare waist before touching her full lips to his mouth. He guessed that tonight she would speak little, so it was up to him to sense what she needed.

During the deep, unhurried kiss that followed, he drew her nightgown up over the tantalizing curves of her body. The flimsy fabric stayed crumpled around her shoulders for several minutes because neither of them could bear to separate long enough to allow the garment to be pulled over her head.

Finally he broke away and tugged the gown off, then tossed it aside. As his gaze went over her, he drew an involuntary breath. What a fool he had been to think that all women were made much the same. For him, Margot was the essence of female mystery, and she aroused him as no other woman ever had.

A tremor in his voice, he said, "You're as beautiful as I've always known you would be."

She gave a fleeting smile, then hid her face against his shoulder like the shy virgin bride of his imagination. "It's nice to pretend. To begin again," she whispered, her breath caressing his neck.

"More than nice. Marvelous." He stroked her hair, and the lustrous strands twined around his fingers. "Magical."

When she exhaled with delight, the movement caused her nipples to swing teasingly across his chest. His body tightened painfully, less willing to accept patience than his mind.

For a moment he teetered perilously between lust and restraint. Perhaps she was ready…

No. It was too soon. Over the years, his feverish dreams of her had been a product of his own eternal desire, but tonight his needs must be secondary.

After mastering himself, he gently pressed her back into the pillows. She was as pliant as willow, like the trusting girl she had been. He found it remarkable that for tonight, at least, she had managed to put aside her stubborn independence in favor of a sweetly feminine yielding.

Numerous bruises, obscene and ugly, marred the creamy perfection of her body. Instinctively he touched his lips to a purple-black patch on her forearm before remembering that he should be more careful. "Did that hurt you?"

"No." Her fingers curled into the counterpane. "Oh, no."

Taking that as encouragement, he gave each mark a feather-light caress with his tongue. Shoulder, elbow, hip; ribs, abdomen, and thigh. Ragged changes in her breathing tracked his progress like musical counterpoint.

When each bruise had been acknowledged, he cupped her lush breasts in his hands and buried his face in the tender cleft between. Her heart beat against his cheek, powerful and warmly alive.

If matters had gone differently-if the pistol had misfired-that indomitable heart might have been forever silenced.

Needing to obliterate the unthinkable, he turned his head and began suckling her breast. She whimpered and arched upward, her nipple going taut against the roof of his mouth.

Her hips began shifting with restless eagerness, so he drew both hands downward, his palms shaping the rich swell from waist to thigh. The tawny thatch between her thighs was a shade darker than the hair on her head, autumn oak rather than summer gold.

As he licked the warm convex surface of her belly, he slipped his palm between her knees. She gave a sudden gasp that was not pleasure, and her legs locked together.

"Trust me, Margot," he murmured, "It's natural to be nervous the first time, but I swear that I won't harm you."

She made a sound that seemed wrenched from deep inside her. Then, with obvious effort, she forced herself to relax again.

He caressed her tense limbs until her relaxation was genuine. At the same time, and moving with the same rhythm, he nuzzled and kissed her breasts and belly. By the time his hand had progressed to the top of her inner thighs, she radiated heat and yearning. He wove his fingers through the soft tawny curls to the hidden mysteries below.

When he touched her, she gave a small cry. Her hips shifted spasmodically, pressing into his hand. He probed more deeply, finding folds of delicate flesh that pulsed against his fingertips, lavishly moist.

As he expertly petted and probed, her nails bit painfully deep into his shoulders. "N-now?" she quavered.

"Soon, my dear. Soon." He continued until he judged that she was on the verge of culmination. Then, throbbing with painful desire, he positioned himself over her. He entered slowly, and the tight, welcoming clasp of her body was everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. Knowing he was on the verge of explosion, he held still, his whole being hammering with an insistence that drowned out all the world but her.

Maggie had expected that there would be awkwardness at joining their strangers' bodies for the first time, but there was none. They might have been designed by nature as ideal mates, and she felt completed as never before. Without conscious volition, her pelvis curled demandingly against Rafe's.

He gasped. "S-steady now." He was braced above her, his broad shoulders rimmed by light, his strong features enigmatic in the shadows. He had as many bruises as she, and again she was awestruck by the courage and strength he had displayed in saving a woman he despised.

He was magnificent, all power and masculine grace, and she would savor every instant of their mating. In a distant corner of her mind, she knew that she would pay a bitterly high price for this joy, but she refused to think about that now. Wanting more of him, she wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him down, relishing the hard weight of his body pressing her into the feather mattress.

Stormclouds had been gathering around them ever since Rafe had arrived in Paris, and as he thrust into her, the storm struck. Furiously it swept her along, racing through her blood, driving all fear and doubt away. Then lightning blazed through every cell of her body. Moaning, she clung to him as the one certainty in the tempest.

The tumult died away, leaving her body quivering and her consciousness fractured. Only gradually did she realize that he was still hard within her. She ran her hands over his sweat-slicked back. "You haven't…"

"Don't worry about me," he said before she could finish. "The night is young."

Though that wasn't true, she did not bother to disagree. It was enough simply to be joined with him. Safe.

Yet desire still simmered within her. Rafe understood her body better than she did, for he knew when to begin moving again. His first strokes were infinitesimal, yet they generated an astonishing amount of heat. She matched his movements, and as the tempo increased, they ignited each other. The intimacy between them was scorching, a baring of mind and body that was frightening in its intensity.

Frantically she twisted her head back and forth as their bodies melded with stunning force. What had gone before was prologue, mere overture to a more urgent hunger than any she had ever known. This time the rising storm was not wind, but fire, burning away her awareness until there was only flame within her. Gone were fear and prudence, anger and hate, leaving only the searing knowledge that the man she loved was enfolding her with passion and exquisite tenderness.

She reached shattering fulfillment, and was consumed by fire. Unable to suppress the words, she gasped, "I love you."

Storm and fire. Disintegration and rebirth. Through the conflagration, she heard him groan, "Oh, God… God help me."

With shocking suddenness he withdrew, crushing her in his arms as he thrust hotly against her belly. After a handful of violent movements, his seed spurted between them.

She held him with all her strength, tears seeping between her eyelids. Once again Rafe was protecting her from potential disaster.

During the years she and Robin had been lovers, they had taken great care not to start a child, for there was no place in their perilous lives for a family. In her mind, she knew that was still true.

Yet some of her tears were for the loss of what might have been-the children she and Rafe might have had in the last dozen years if they had married; the baby that might have been conceived in tenderness tonight. Gone like the wind, like all her other dreams.

Rafe shifted his weight from her and used the discarded nightgown to dry them both. Then he drew her into his arms and they both dozed off without speaking.

The words did not exist that could describe how she felt.


* * *

With a terrified gasp, Maggie awoke from nightmare. Panic, pain, destruction-all of the familiar, ghastly fears that had been triggered by the incident in the Plaza du Carrousel crowded into her mind.

Shivering, she burrowed closer to Rafe. Even in sleep he radiated safety. Almost compulsively, she stroked his chest, smoothing the dark hair that felt so sensual against her breasts.