Before The Dusk

Paris! Francesca had fallen in love with Paris! It had a special quality no other city had, an indefinable charm, that was part beauty, part enlightenment, yet more than either. It jumbled streets often ran together at odd angels, forming blocks that were more triangular than square. It wasn't uncommon to see an intersection where the buildings at each corner had their entrances and their shapes controlled by the triangular shape of the block.

Where as in England, as well as the region of America called `New England' had spots of greenery in its squares and parks, Paris had trees in rows along the sidewalks and down the boulevards. In the spring, the streets were alive and sweet with the scent of flowers. The buildings were uniformly beige or cream-colored stone with steeply pitched dark gray slate roofs, some decorated with black wrought-iron balconies.

It was lovely. Charming. Unique. It was perhaps the reason why after coming to the end of her four-year enlistment with the U.S. Navy, she had decided not to settle back home-not right away, anyway. Paris had been the place she had gone on vacation to with her friends when she was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The isolation of the Naval Base had entitled all personnel to one very nice fringe benefit, military-lifts to European countries when on leave. And Francesca and her friends had taken full advantage of it. Why not? She had actually vacationed, for a week here and there, in Norway, Sweden, Belgium, England and Spain. But Paris had always stood out in her mind.

Francesca had long ago given up trying to define the appeal of Paris and simply accepted it. She welcomed it, in fact, since when she considered all the memorable places she had ever visited, Paris was the first to come to mind. She had found a job here with the tourist trade. It had been relatively easy. Most of the sites she was narrating to tourists were sites that she herself had seen dozens of times, and yet, even if she had not, there was a written synopsis for each site that she had all but memorized. The address was to be given in English, but Francesca enjoyed doctoring her voice with a very slight French accent. After her first visit here, she had purchased a tape and book to teach her the French language, and as difficult as some thought another language to be, Francesca had caught onto it almost instantly. Including the little inflections needed to make the language sound as if it was her own. Was that yet another sign that she had made the correct choice in settling here in Paris for a time?

Time, of course, would tell! And she had only been here a short time, a mere three months. She still felt at times that she was still committed to the Navy-as if this was all just a long leave of absence and she would be returning to Keflavik, or the shipyards in Norfolk, Virginia. Paris still felt brand-new to her. She still felt invigorated, exhilarated, as if the air had extra buoyancy!

The sightseeing boat tours down the Seine's winding course through Paris had been canceled for today. The weather had turned stormy, and the rain heavy. Monsieur Turgot, her employer, had told her that at most only one or two boats would make a run today, and her boat was not one of those.

Francesca had decided to make the most of her day off in the middle of the week. There was a wonderful Bistro just off the Champs `Elysees on George V Avenue. She had taken a taxi to the restaurant because of the weather. As she emerged from the taxi, the doorman scurried out to shelter her beneath his umbrella. The glass door leading into the restaurant opened just as she came even with it and she stopped in surprise, staring at the couple that emerged.

The man was rather short, only a couple inches taller than Francesca herself, with a wide chest and a heavy-armed, powerful build. A fat cigar was clamped between his teeth. He looked like a longshoreman, but she had known him, affectionately as `shell-shocked Eddie', and a retired Petty Officer. The woman beside him looked exactly like what she was: the reigning queen of film comedy. Trust Eddie to marry a blooming movie star! Her chin-length waved hair was platinum blond, her eyes sparkling blue and huge, and her small figure was full-breasted and enticing. Yes, sir! Just how Eddie liked them!

“Darling, she could be my understudy right here, you know!” Maureen interrupted and gained everyone's attention. Francesca flushed, both excited and bewildered. “Of course we would need to cover that mop of red hair with a blond wig-but she would be passable!”

“She doesn't let you out much, does she?” Francesca said, uttering what to Eddie was the greatest heresy in the world. Eddie had always thought Francesca Galvani was “a babe.” He liked the whole package! Francesca had heard it all before. It was sweet, but embarrassing, too!

Maureen was oblivious to the undercurrent between the two former shipmates. All she cared about was having Francesca cover for her-not in the movie that she was filming here in Paris, but the party tomorrow night that she didn't want to attend. While Francesca could speak and understand French, Maureen had no interest in doing so. The upcoming party was sponsored by the French backers of the film, all of whom spoke French, and would be pleased and impressed if Maureen could speak it as well! And so Viola! If Francesca wore a platinum blond wig, and just the right clothing . . .

How had she let them talk her into this? It wasn't the two hundred dollars they offered, or was it? Francesca shrugged, jerking for the sixth time at the sides of the wig she wore. How could this thing possibly fool anyone? She grinned in spite of herself. It had fooled people. The French producers, the sprinkling of foreign diplomats, and perhaps even that tall, dark-haired dreamboat she had seen earlier!

Gee, where was he? She looked about as casually as she could for his tall, perfectly proportioned body. She unconsciously licked her lips as she involuntarily found herself catching her breath as she spotted him across the viewing room. The French producer's were being shown some of the dailies from the film Maureen was doing, and the room was in semi-darkness.

Francesca had not caught this man's name, but there was little else she didn't know, almost instinctively about him. His hair was long, and when it wasn't tied back with a Celtic hair band it must flow well passed his shoulders. She had watched him walk and it had reminded her of a jungle animal-a black panther, darkly beautiful . . . would he be just as deadly and dangerous?

Looking back to the screen, Francesca thought, I'm being silly! Just because the man was beautiful, didn't mean he was poisonous as well! Not all men needed to hurt-! She shook her mind free, actually jerking it back to the present, and away from the unpleasant memory of the last beautiful man she had allowed herself to fall in love with! She mustn't judge them all by Sam!

Some of the action on the screen managed to grip her just then, and she realized that Maureen really was quite funny-able to draw an audience into what she was doing. Laughter and chuckles could be heard throughout the darkened room, to attest to the fact that Francesca's opinion was shared by others.

Francesca's first reaction was to turn and run. Oh God! How embarrassing to be found out? Would he think less of her when he learned she had done this for money? And why-why, did it have to be Mr. Dreamboat himself to learn of her deception?

Francesca came to her feet abruptly. She heard her own stumbling words as she stood there. Not that she could recall them, or do much more than spit out words as her brown/gold eyes clashed and meshed with the warm caramel color of his eyes. When he gave her a smile, the words pouring out of her mouth stopped completely.

He stepped over the row of chairs she was sitting in with his long legs encased in blue denim, and Francesca found herself licking her dry lips as she was given privilege to the show of tightening material over what appeared to be a very tight and muscular ass. He flopped down in the chair beside the one she had vacated and reached for her hand, tugging her down to sit once more.

“You're not going to let me scare you off, are you? I happen to be one of the few here who know that you are doing Maureen a favor.” The hand that had tugged her down, now entangled its fingers with hers. “I wonder . . . what is your true hair color-and has your eyes adjusted to those color contacts that make your eyes appear blue when they are actually--”

His smile deepened. His voice had been soft and drawling, rasping across her nerve ends, stimulating her, making her forget fear, any inhibitions. She wondered briefly if he had this effect on all women, or was she the only one not immune to his charm.

“Light skinned, brown-gold-eyed . . . you are either a blond or a redhead.” He had not let go of her hand, in spite of her efforts to tug away-if only to still her frantically beating heart. And now, as Francesca felt her face flush, she heard him laugh softly. “Will you not tell me? Or perhaps show me-later?”

“Yes, auburn!” Francesca repeated boldly, staring him straight in the eyes. Why had she gone into such details about her hair color, and why was he watching her with such an intense expression in his caramel colored eyes. Was he feeling a kind of déjB vu? Ever since he had taken her hand into his, she had felt . . . as if she had known him before. The deep timbre of his voice was familiar, the feel of his hand, its warmth . . .

“Well, now. Auburn could be considered red, and I like both--” Oh, that smile of his! It seemed to lighten his otherwise somber face, etching lines at the corners of those expressive eyes! Who was this man? He couldn't be one of the French producers, not if he was in on Maureen's little trick. Was he connected with the filming? Was he an actor? She eyed him intently, deciding he could most definitely be an actor!

That soft husky timbre was back in his voice. It seemed to crash through all her defenses suddenly so that she stopped trying to free her fingers from his. She slowly relaxed back into her chair. Why fight this thing-this attraction? Why struggle so against this curiously helpless feeling that had come over her ever since he put his hand on her-making his hand on hers stronger than her will?

She had never minded being front row and center! And if she hadn't committed herself to pulling this off for Maureen she would have said damn to the curious glances and whispers she would receive and whipped off this irritating platinum blond wig so that he could see the real Francesca Galvani!

She had already found that she was easily stirred up by his ready smile and confidence. He was really quite sure of himself-and he took his easy power over women for granted-or was it that he was not really conscious he had such power?

She nodded and returned his smile. Good Lord! She couldn't seem to get her balance with this man! She felt the casual brush of his arm against hers and realized that he still held her hand-and the physical contact pulled strangely at her emotions. She was unable to see beyond his eyes, which up close were warm, hazel, with green flecks in them. Eyes that cooly assessed her even while he continued to smile at her.

What was he thinking? And why was he examining her-like a bug on a wall! And he was positively staring at her. He was a complete stranger and yet an instinctive and primitive feeling from within recognized him, embraced him and she wondered if that same feeling had taken over his emotions as well. His face--

Abruptly he came to his feet and tugged her with him. She followed him, not thinking to ask him where he was going, unable to fight this unaccustomed urging inside of her to stay with him no matter where he intended to take her. She trusted him, and she had no reason to do so.

And then, she didn't need to wonder anymore, for he had led her out of the room set aside for the film, then through the maze of corridors to the door leading out into the street. The warmth of the evening was made pleasant by the caressing breeze that drifted with the cloying scent of night-blooming flowers. The itching platinum blond wig was jerked off her head, and the next thing, the only thing she became conscious of after that was the firm, sensuous feeling of his mouth moving against hers. His long fingers came up to move into her hair, displacing pins, sending them flying, and the fullness and thickness of her hair spilled down over his fingers and down to her shoulder blades.

Duncan lifted his head to stare down into her face in stunned, disbelieving fascination. Debra! Oh Lord, she looked just like Debra. She smelled like her, and felt like her! All evening he had studied her from across the room as she had moved and spoken with the guests at the party-and as he had watched her, a nagging familiarity had begun to grow. Eddie had told him to keep an eye on this woman-too help her out if need be so he had known that she wore a wig. He had guessed her eyes were not blue-what he had not imagined was that any woman could ever look so exactly like his first love.

After the deception Norton and Lisa Milon had played upon him, he was quick to check for scars at her ears, and near her hairline, but there were none. And-and she even kissed him like Debra- How he could remember, he did not know, it had been so many years, close to 380 years to be exact!

How could this be? And even if it was some Watcher's plot once again, how would anyone have known what Debra looked like? She had been from a poor family, for all that the Campbells had held power and prestige in the Highlanders, back then. A portrait had never been done of her while she was alive. The memory he had of her was buried deep, etched for all eternity in his mind. He had once commissioned a painter, the great Sir Thomas Lawrence, to do a portrait of Debra based on his memory-but while the coloring and features had been there, the sparkle of life, the essence of whom and what Debra had been could not be captured-as it might very well have been if Debra had been able to set for him in the flesh. Duncan had the portrait still, draped with protective film and stored in a secure warehouse on the Paris docks.

Francesca was staring up at him with large blue eyes. Debra's eyes. She had said her eyes were brown with gold flecks, but at the moment with the tinted contacts, they were a stunning, well-remembered blue. He kissed her again, unable to help himself. Her response was all he remembered and more.

How he liked the soft warmth of her skin against his palm as well as the slick hardness of her nails curling against the back of his hand. Their fingers were still entangled, and Duncan was unwilling-nay, unable to let her go. It was intensely pleasurable to feel her hand on his shoulder, her arm against his, to curl his arm around her waist and touch the bare skin exposed at the back of her gown. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

His hand moved teasingly over her lower back, exploring, pressing her closer against his proof of arousal. It was all he could do not to keep from delving beneath the material of her gown, sliding around to the soft fullness of her breasts. 380 years ago he had not been able to hold Debra in this way . . . but now, with Francesca, he knew just what he wanted to do to her, and just how he would gain her consent to do it.

His hand pressed more firmly against Francesca's back, moving her even closer, so there could be no pretense at what he wanted or how aroused she had made him feel. He inhaled her scent, drinking in the subtle, enticing essence as his hand moved back into her hair, fingering the strands, loving the silken feel of her rich auburn hair-a shade too dark for red-not Debra's hair color-but close enough!

Her breasts were soft against his chest and he could feel her nipples harden with desire. He knew she must feel his own desire, hard and swollen, against the soft cup of her pelvis. Duncan felt just as randy as he had in his youth and was fast running out of sophistication. He was simply filled with a haunting, needing hunger.

Francesca's head was swimming, and all her nerve endings from the tips of her toes to the top of her head were tingling as the warmth of his embrace spread out to ravish her entire body. The evidence of his desire against her abdomen turned her loins to hot wax.

“Hmm,” was his only response as he nuzzled her ear with the warm wetness of his tongue, causing Francesca to shiver deliciously. “I want you, all of you-in my arms, in my bed, surging beneath me, sweet. So sweet!”

And was there anything he might have said that could have been more stimulating, or arousing? Francesca's fingers were finally freed from his and her arms surged up to encircle his neck as she returned his kiss passionately. She strained against him, unconsciously letting him know that she was as hungry for this passion play as he was.

“Leaving with you?” Francesca asked, not thinking she would have to explain the implications! After all, Maureen might be the reigning queen of film comedy-but she was married, and even here in Paris, the press could have a field day with such a story! Eddie would kill her!

“I will flag down a taxi-it will drop you outside a building that use to be one of the warehouses for Chanel's clothing line. I have converted the loft into living quarters.” He was moving her down the fifteen steps toward the street as he spoke. A lift of his hand and he was able to secure a taxi almost immediately. “I will mingle for a few minutes more with the guests. Explain that Maureen had retired early because of the filming schedule tomorrow.”

His finger pressed against her lips, stilling her questions and a few seconds later his warm kiss sealed her fate completely. He closed the door as she leaned back against the seat and the taxi driver moved out into the traffic, taking Francesca to Duncan Macleod's studio apartment in the garment district of Paris.

The streets were very narrow here. The silhouettes of the buildings in the garment district loomed ominously above the taxi, blocking out the pale moonlight and even the twinkle of the night stars. Francesca found out quickly upon arriving at the old Chanel warehouse that Duncan had given the taxi driver enough money so that she could wait in the relative safety of his vehicle until he arrived. It was very considerate of him, as well as just a tad presumptuous!

Francesca smiled wryly. After leaving home at eighteen and joining the Navy, she was for all practically ways and means, an extremely independent woman! She liked it that way! She had learned through her unhappy relationship with Sam that being dependent on a man could steal away more than a girl's control of a situation. Sam had been able to manipulate her so easily-too fool her-but Francesca was going to be no man's fool again!

Nor was she going to be forced into a role of submissiveness, but then, Duncan Macleod would learn that. The wryness of her smile changed and her lips broadened into a full-fledged smile as she closed her eyes and thought more on this man-this Duncan Macleod. He was so very self-confident, so very sure, and while he might be presumptuous, he appeared to be for very valid reasons. And he wanted her-in a way she had never known before. This shared feeling of attraction, desire, and longing was something she was anxious to explore more thoroughly.

Her wait for that wasn't unbearably long, either, for Duncan arrived in his Land Rover a mere five minutes later. The taxi cab door opened, his long fingers closed over her wrist, and once again, he was leading her and she was following. Once again his touch was stronger than her will-or was it that it commanded her will? Did it matter? Why think about that now?

She remembered very little really about the outside facade of the warehouse or of the large room with a hard wood floor that echoed the tap of her heels as she walked to what looked like a cargo lift. With his warm fingers wrapped around hers and the intimate, all consuming attention his eyes paid her, there really was little wonder she even remembered those things. The top floor of the building that he had converted into a living space was done up rather classically with large, wall-hung tapestries and oil paintings. The furniture was a mixture of large wooden antique pieces that must have cost a fortune, and plush overstuff upholstered seating that looked very comfortable, and felt heavenly when sat upon.

But was heaven really the feel of the furniture or the simple pleasure of being surrounded by this man-and that is what his presence felt like-being deluged, overtaken, run to ground and then consumed. And he did it all so effortlessly. Francesca was learning that this man gave new meaning to the word sophistication! He had a debonair flair to the way he could serve wine, carrying on a lively and entertaining conversation and make her aware at the same time of what he wanted, and would patiently wait to obtain.

And would she make him wait when she was so impatient herself? Those dark caramel-colored bedroom eyes of his were more potent than any siren call. Little subtleties like the small caresses of heat on her hand, at her elbow, where his fingers touched. The effectual warmth of his breath flowing over the sensitive skin just below her ear, followed by the touch of his moist tongue, there, so brief, but so utterly stimulating had Francesca too lost in a world of sensation to want to carry on polite conversation-the sound of that deep timbre voice with its slight, unrecognizable accent was far too captivating, and for once in her life she couldn't seem to hold on to the thread of the conversation, but then Duncan didn't appear to notice.

She was nearly undressed with no actual knowledge as to whether he had removed her gown or if she had. She was standing there in her panties and bra, a glass of wine held clasped between two fingers while Duncan began to strip off his black suit coat. The bow tie and white shirt followed, then the black trousers. The candles that flickered their dim light in the open loft only seemed to make her more aware of his naked body, rather than her own. The lean, compact strength of him, with the muscles moving smoothly under the glow of his tan. She wanted to feel those muscles contract under her fingers as her eyes moved to take in the tight curl of hair on his chest and at his groin. And she could not help noticing too, however, unwittingly, that he did want her. With such evidence before her eyes, there was no way of ignoring it, nor denying to herself that just the sight of his naked body with its beautiful symmetry could make her catch her breath with a strange sense of excitement that started in her belly and spread like liquid wax, making her loins ache.

He smiled intimately at her, a carnal glow in his eyes. “I'm afraid a man's body doesn't hide things as easily as a woman's body.” His voice was so deep and husky, almost cajoling. “But then, you do understand that I want you.”

His lips closed over hers, ending the need for conversation, for embarrassment or for second thoughts. Francesca had none. Besides she didn't want to think, only feel the blazing path of sheer sensation that washed through her at his touch, his smell, and his very uniqueness.

He tugged at her hand and she could do nothing but follow. They were in his bathroom. The shower water was running, steaming everything up. And now he was concentrating soully on her, as if the steamed blocked out everything else. A flick of two fingers and he had opened her bra. She felt the straps falling down her shoulders as his large hands moved beneath the elastic of her panties, removing them while the heat of his palms closed over the curve of her buttocks. He walked her under the hot water and instantly her hair streamed wetly down her back, strands clinging to her shoulders and breasts. He pushed them aside as he soaped her all over, lingering between her thighs.

His words were spoken as if they had known each other for a long time, as if they had once been friends that had played together in the rain-but she had only just met him four hours ago at that film producers party for Maureen.

The steam from the hot water made everything seem dreamlike, and Francesca didn't really want to think too hard about what he had said and why. The soap dropped and was forgotten as they touched each other, exploratively at first and then more boldly. It was easier to forget all the things that might stand between them outside of this time, this moment. Now, was the lubricious feel of his skin beneath her exploring, grasping fingers. It was being lifted in his strong arms while her legs straddled his lean hips. It was the upward thrust of his body and her welcoming softness. It was the wild, soaring feeling that rushed over her in spasmodic waves of pleasure, leaving her feeling sublimely contented and . . . loved.

The mattress of the immense bed he carried her to was softened by the goose down, feather-throw beneath her. Duncan, tossing his wet towel carelessly onto the floor, had gone toward the kitchen area of the loft, leaving Francesca alone with a towel of her own. She worked industriously at drying her hair, almost relishing the pull of her scalp as she rubbed long, wet strands between the towel.

“Wet silk . . .” he had said, and she could still feel the pull of his fingers in it, sweeter than any caress. She didn't realize she had closed her eyes or that a dreamy expression had moved across her features until she felt the mattress shift under his weight and heard him say, “With your eyes closed like that and that secretive smile curving your lips, I could almost believe you might be sitting here conjuring spells, rain-witch!”

Her eyes flew open a moment after she felt the warmth of his mouth against hers and tasted the sweetness and warmth of chocolate on his tongue. The kiss ended and he actually winked at her as he handed her the heavy mug of hot chocolate he had prepared for her while in the kitchen. He leaned back into the feather-throw, resting his weight on his elbows and watched her. The very intense look was back in his eyes.

“Eddie Sullivan told me a few things about you. Things he thought I might need to know if for some reason you needed my help.” He laughed softly. “Not that you did. You carried your own-as Maureen-and was quite convincing-especially with your adopted French accent.”

Francesca laid down opposite him, curling her legs up comfortably and propping her chin in her hand. “I am good with accents.” Smiling, she shifted from the French they had been speaking to English, with the effected Scottish burr articulating, “As you can see, Duncan, I am a woman of many talents.”

“Oh, aye,” he returned in full Scottish burr, “Are you almost done then with the drink, lass, so that I might partake of some more of those talents?” He was already reaching for the mug in her hand, and she laughed softly as he placed it along with his on the night stand beside the bed,

The very lights of the devil reflected in Francesca's eyes as she judged his rapid assault and rolled free of it. Marshal arts had been her specialty amongst the many forms of self-defense and attack she heard learned to use during her years in the Navy. Her speed and litheness could be contributed to that now, as she came off the bed in a waiting stance. She beckoned to him with her hand, taunting him, then grinned with pleasure when he sprang up from the bed as lethal and sleek as a jungle cat and matched her stance.

They circled each other. He attacked, she countered. She attacked, he countered. Again and again, they tested each other on their skills and both were pleased by the challenge offered by the other. In the end, it was Francesca who decided she just didn't want to play anymore. Duncan was able to pick up on that quickly, and with two swift moves brought her down onto the feather-throw, then sat straddling her waist.

There was no answer to that for his lips were brushing hers between his murmured words, and when his mouth closed over hers at last she clung to it greedily, responding fiercely to his kiss while her body tingled with renewed warmth and heat. Oh God, he made her want him- he made her want this-an affair of the senses, a lover who made her feel like a whole woman, able to respond like a woman.

The five-year relationship she had shared with Sam had been a destructive one! She carried deep scars from it. Sam had wanted a woman he could control, and in the beginning Francesca had been easy to manipulate, easy to instruct. It was when she had proven to be better than he at what she did, when she was promoted before him--. That was when the relationship had started to sour-and continued to escalate to a speedy and painful demise.

Sam had been a professional at turning her accomplishments into obstacles in their relationship. The promotions were never merited in his eyes-they were given simply because she was a woman-her commanding officer had simply been meeting the required quota of female to male promotions required by the chain of command as was dictated by the Department of Defense. This same lack of acceptance had slowly penetrated their sexual relations-and the more withdrawn she had become from him, the more he pressed her and had condemned her.

Duncan's open acceptance of whom and what she was, was in itself, liberating. Confused thoughts on all of this spiraled close to the surface of her mind but never quite got there while she gave herself up to the wonder of being in this man's arms. Her hands moved up to buried themselves in the soft texture of his dark hair, and everywhere their bodies touched there was heat, and sensation-and the pull and draw to join again, to become one, to soar like a pair of mated eagles in a sky they both reigned supreme in.

Why did there always have to be the next morning? Francesca remembered too many `next mornings' with Sam. After an argument-her eyes would be puffy with tears, her heart aching from the things they had said to each other, but then sleep would finally overtake her and the morning after would make the nastiness of the night before seem less intense, and even in a strange way-endurable, so that by noon all was forgiven, if not forgotten. And then there was the other next mornings after--she had laid there only wishing Sam would finish so she could get some sleep before inspection the next day, so she could get back up and finish studying a course she was going to be tested on.

This morning after-this morning, was different from any other morning she could recall since arriving in Paris. This morning she opened her eyes and stretched only to realize that Duncan held her securely in his arms. She breathed in his scent, felt the radiant sleepy-heat of him and relaxed back in his arms, with a content smile. There was no heartache here, no need to soul search, or wish to be somewhere else. A glance at the small clock on the night stand told her it was early. Her smile deepened as she snuggled closer, resting her cheek against the place where she could hear the steady beat of his heart. She closed her eyes and was soon asleep once more.

Francesca eyelids felt heavy, but flew open nonetheless, as a sense of panic seized her. She came to her knees on the large bed, her gaze flying to the clock on the night stand. Oh, thank God! She still had two hours before she was expected by Monsieur Turgot on the first sightseeing tour. A little self-conscious now, she settled back down on the bed and cast a surreptitious look in the direction all that noise was coming from.

What in the world was he doing? She sniffed the air, and got her answer. Making breakfast and that noise was the sound of glass plates on the granite counter top beside the stove. Francesca moved off the bed and went in search of her clothing. The panties and bra were laying neatly on a small stool in the bathroom. As she slipped into the two garments, she looked about the small bathroom and saw that he had cleaned up the puddles that had been on the floor

What an unusual man! Almost domesticated, she thought, then the next minute shooed that thought away quickly as certain memories from last night reminded her that he was not tame, he was wild, demanding, and elusive.

Had she really allowed him to kiss her only a half hour after meeting him? And she had just followed his lead-his unspoken orders-and jumped into a taxi to wait impatiently for him to do exactly what he had down to her last night. Take her, possess her, complete her.

She had trusted him-almost at his first words to her. She had always tried to be fair in her judgement of men! She refused to allow her experiences with Sam to taint her faith in love, caring and sharing between a man and a woman. It didn't always have to be about him . . . but this, what happened last night, had restored Francesca's faith in everything-and even if a relationship didn't develop between her and Duncan Macleod, she would always have the memories of last night when she had felt like the center of his world, and he had been the center of hers.

Francesca looked in the mirror over the sink and was startled by the rosy flush on her face and the sparkle, she could even see through the color contacts, that was in her eyes. She was smiling like a well-satisfied woman! Abruptly she laughed, then winked at herself, refusing to feel guilty or ashamed of herself. Popping the contacts out of her eyes, she tossed them into the small waste basket beneath the sink and ran some water to rinse her face with.

She dried her face with a fluffy white towel, burying her face into its softness. His hands closed over her shoulders and she jumped in surprise, then relaxed her back against his chest as his arms came around her waist and hugged her to him.

Kissing her softly on the forehead, he murmured reassuringly, “No, lass, you have beautiful eyes.” Abruptly he remembered the white shirt he had been bringing to her and moved to help her arms into it. He buttoned the front, then reached for her hand, tugging her with him.

There were eggs, crisp bacon and freshly buttered muffins. The eggs were soft-scrambled and faintly flavored with dill. Duncan took the stool beside hers and Francesca realized suddenly that she was ravenously hungry.

“Oui, I am a tourist guide in a country that is not my own!” She replied speaking in French with the matching accent and she laughed a little as she shrugged her shoulders, “But I can tell you all about the Statue de la Liberte! Now, why Americans come over here to see a smaller version of the same thing, I cannot say?” She chuckled again, adding, “But then, I do so understand why the Eiffel Tower is so popular, and the Notre Dame Cathedral.”

A peculiar expression crossed Duncan's face, almost as if he was looking inside himself at some memory that he was irresistibly drawn to, and Francesca longed to ask him to share whatever that memory was because his eyes had reflected such pleasure, and his sensuous lips had softened. Francesca felt like she was going to melt right off the stool.

Abruptly, she set down her fork and moved away from the counter. She located her gown, laying neatly across the back of the sofa-picked up and smoothed out, no doubt, by Duncan. She started to removed the white shirt he had given her so she could get dressed.

Duncan continued to watch her, but she couldn't know the confusion he was feeling. To come across a woman who seemed to be the very essence of Debra Campbell, and then to find out she worked for the boat tours-like Tessa Noel had when he had first met her. Was this one too many coincidences?

Like the time with Lisa Milon, was he seeing all the signs, just ignoring what they might say? Richie had warned him back then, but he had arrogantly refused to listen! Oh, Richie! Why did he have to remember? He closed his eyes against a flash of fresh pain. Would that feeling of regret ever fade, would it forever tarnish his memories of the boy he and Tessa took in, nurtured, and he had killed while haunted by the demons and used as a weapon by Arimon?

Francesca was sitting on the sofa, putting her high heels on when he reopened his eyes. Eddie Sullivan had approached him about Francesca. He had known Eddie for only a little over a year. A casual acquaintance, who enjoyed the opera as much as he did. Then there was the deception Francesca had willingly participated in, replacing Maureen at a party being sponsored by the French film producers. Why couldn't, Maureen had made the appearance herself?

Lisa Milon had been a sociopath and a pretty good actress as well. Francesca looked over at him just then and he wondered if she had been sent in Maureen's place for a reason. Everything had happened so fast last night-and it was because Francesca reminded him of the two women he had loved the most in his life. His first love-and his last love. No one could know what Debra looked like, unless they had broken into the warehouse and found the portrait. Was he going to find that Francesca was even a better actress than Lisa Milon was? And if so, how had the Watchers talked her into doing this? And why?

Duncan moved then, to scrap the plates of any leftover food and stack them into the basin of the sink. He was just rinsing his hands when he felt her move up behind him, body pressing up against him, her hands curling around his biceps. The warmth of her breath teased at the nape of his neck when she blew his hair apart there, then press a kiss against the skin.

“Shall we have dinner tonight?” She asked softly, back to English again, a New Jersey accent clearly proving she was an American. “There is a small sidewalk café on Champs-Elysees, near the Arc de Triomphe. If you do not already know the history of the Arc de Triomphe I have it memorized!”

The cheery teasing in her voice distracted him from his darker thoughts, making him feel almost guilty of his suspicions, and yet he could not be too careful. He had been able to stay out of the game for a year and a half-and beyond the detection grid of the Watchers. Or had he?

“The sun,” Duncan finished for her, remembering and the memory made him smile. Had it really been almost twenty years ago that he had jumped aboard Tessa's sightseeing boat tour? Had she really been dead for well over five years?

He noticed then the concern reflected in her golden eyes, and quickly smiled to allay any fears she might have. He wasn't ready to discuss things with her. He didn't know her-and he didn't know if he could trust her. She had been fantastic in bed-there were very little inhibitions in her-she had come to him as freely as Debra would have had they married, and as passionately, as Tessa always had.

He felt a sudden unreasonable angry wash over him as he moved with her to the lift and closed the gate before pressing the button to start their descent. He found himself wanting to strip away all the possible pretense she'd surrounded herself with from the first. Something else, a buried primitive impulse urged him to strip her of the gown she wore, press her up against the wall of the lift and make love to her-because in that-the joining of their bodies-there was a truth, and honesty.

But of course, he wrapped an iron-clad fist around his emotions and his suspicions, and when the lift stopped, he lifted the gate and escorted her across the large room to the door. In the light of mid-morning Francesca could see that the large room was in fact a weight room and exercise room. It wasn't a health center, for there were no modern day machines. Was it, for lack of a better name, a Dojo? From some of the charts on the wall she knew martial arts were taught or at least performed here.

Francesca made a note to herself to ask Duncan about it tonight. There really wasn't time to get into a discussion on it now. Her apartment was across the city from his, and she still had to change. Upon hearing her tell him her street address, Duncan must have surmised the same, because he drove fast, actually getting her to her apartment in record time. He elected to wait down in the car while she changed into the clothing she wore for work.

Joining him a short fifteen minutes later, she settled back in the passenger seat as he moved out into the traffic. They only had four blocks to the dock where the sightseeing boats were berthed. Tonight she would meet him for dinner. It had been decided. She shook her head, trying to think straight and reasonably, but she felt like she was sixteen years old again, rather than the mature, experienced woman she truly was. What other excuse was there for her to miss him when she hadn't even left his company yet?

It was all so romantic. Dinner by candlelight at a charming sidewalk café. He gave her flowers. Orchids, big showy colorful blooms in a sea of green with sprigs of lavender. The waiter brought a vase to put them in. The vase and flowers now sat beside the domestic French wine from the vineyards in the Bordeaux area that was already setting in ice. Francesca loved this café-the smells of the fragrant air, the sounds of the Paris nightlife surrounding her, and now with Duncan sitting across from her, she was sure she would never look upon it again without remembering this evening.

Except for the light brush of his fingers as he handed her the flowers, he had not touched her. Perversely, Francesca found she wanted him to touch her, and she wanted to touch him, to slide her fingertips along the straight line of his jaw, to tangle her fingers in his hair. Was she always going to be assailed by this need for him? It had somehow become worse since last night when he had taught her too much about pleasure in too short a time, leaving her craving more.

God, she was hungry, but not for the Ambrosia offered by the chef of this café. No! She wanted the Ambrosia only Duncan could offer her. She lowered her eyes from the intensity of his watching eyes and attempted to get a grip on herself. For goodness sakes! You would think she had never had sex before?

He paused in the middle of pouring the wine as if considering the question. He shrugged easily the next moment and delivered one of the glasses into her hand. “I teach mainly self defense and many of the mind doctrines of serenity, inner strength, inner healing.”

He smiled, taking her hand in his, his thumb rubbed across the skin of her palm. “We are all frightened at sometime in our lives. Inner strength, inner love can conquer that. Bravery isn't facing something without fear. It is facing it with the fear.”

Francesca was a little bewildered. She was also starting to feel highly stimulated as she continued to watch him, study him, devour him. She felt the pull of his allure and it was like the pull one felt standing atop a tall building, the curious mingling of fear and intrigue. Why did he answer her questions, but never elaborate?

Francesca laughed. “Perhaps I'm running away for a while! To find myself after having my every move plotted and planned for the last six years.” At his startled look of surprise, she added, “I was in the United States Navy. I was released about three months ago, and remembered how much I enjoyed Paris.”

His eyes dropped from hers abruptly. She sensed the sadness in him, even before he looked up again, snagging her gaze, allowing her to see for the first time such an intense pain that she reached across the table to rest her hand on his forearm, squeezing it as if she could draw some of the pain away.

“I was living in Seacouver at the time. I had just met Charlie Desalvio, the owner of the Dojo. He became a very good friend-before he died. I was living with Tessa then. We were planning to marry, but she was killed by a street punk--”

“Yes.” He had lifted the wine glass to his lips, the caramel brown of his eyes watching her closely. Except for the hand that still held hers on the table, he did not touch her or say anything sexual, yet sensuality hung heavy on the air between them. Francesca could feel the tension drawing out between them, taut and compelling.

Francesca looked away from the carnal promise in his eyes and tried to shake off the feeling. She was surprised she could even feel aroused now that Sam had been mentioned. His introduction usually acted like an icy glass of water in her face. But not this time.

“I thought he was the `one'.” She smiled a little, but it didn't reach her eyes. “We were not right for each other. I could not be what he had wanted me to be, and the more he tried to mold me, the further we grew apart. When he started the relationship with Tanya, I--”

The hand holding hers tightened with a comforting squeeze and he tugged at her so that she met him halfway across the table. His other hand moved to cup the back of her head. They were face to face, nose to nose, and eye to eye. Francesca didn't want to look away from him. His eyes were deep; she felt as if she were being drawn into them.

“I am the `one',” was all he said. Simply. Honestly. And she knew instinctively that what he said was, a promise and a vow to her. With him saying it, he had told her that he needed her. He had said that his body was hungry for her. He had committed both his heart and his soul.

She watched him ease back in his chair once more. The waiter arrived to take their order then, and the conversation took a turn to the lighter side. They spoke of the boat tour company she worked for and she learned that Tessa-Tessa Noel, had once worked for Monsieur Turgot. She smiled as she listened to him, glad that he now felt comfortable enough with her to speak of this woman he had obviously loved very deeply. The warmth in his voice, the glisten of pleasure in his eyes were not things she could begrudge him when the alternative was that haunting agony she had seen earlier. If Francesca had her way, he would never feel that type of pain again.

Francesca's hunger grew, and so did his. It wasn't for the delicious food that was placed before them. It was for each other. Anticipation seemed to outweigh everything else, and still they ate the food, drank the wine, because being together like this in its own way was a form of erotic foreplay. . . far better than any Francesca had ever encountered.

With his lips touching her, Francesca found the only thing difficult was trying to resist him. He really was the very meaning of seduction, with those glowing, full of promise eyes, and all the memories of last night it brought to her mind. She continued to watch his eyes, seeing them darken. She wondered what he was thinking and guessed that it was probably the same thing she was thinking.

“What in the world were they doing here? This had been her idea! A dinner at the sidewalk café! It was very public, and very safe. Safe, in that they would have to talk, not just touch, but now that the talking was done, she knew they were both more than ready for the touching to begin.

The waiter brought out the bill and Duncan gave him the money to cover it. Francesca reached in her purse to pay her share, but the touch of Duncan's hand on her arm, stopped her, and she knew instantly not to question or to further insist upon paying her way. He had said he was nothing like Sam-and well, so far that was no lie.

She stepped away from the table, but turned back when Duncan asked, “The orchids? Do you want them?” Francesca nodded eagerly, for some reason unable to speak, as she watched him scoop the arrangement into his hand, reach for her hand with the other, and led her toward his Land Rover.

At the vehicle, he paused before opening the door and stood smiling down at her with a strange mixture of amusement, frustration and desire reflected in the depths of his eyes. Francesca related to that look inside of one heart beat.

Lightly Duncan ran his tongue along her curved upper lip, savoring the shape and texture of it. Then his lips caressed her lower lip. His mouth brushed hers with infinite lightness, then returned to cover it fully. The kiss was deep. It was devouring, and as he pressed into her, her mouth opened under his. Francesca's hand moved to his check, caressing him there. Duncan moaned, and his tongue went deep into her mouth as his arms moved around her. The flowers were crushed against her body and the vehicle as he grounded her body into the hard, firm muscle of his.

Her skin felt hot and her mouth dug into his, devouring, demanding. She was lost to all propriety! `To hell with it,' she thought feverishly, `who cared! This was France, and the morales over here were not so strict or stringent.'

Duncan pulled back, his hand moving to touch her face; his thumb ran slowly along her cheekbone and down to her mouth. She could taste a trace of salt on his thumb as she flicked her tongue out, wanting to taste him again. Wanting. . .

“I wonder if I can make it home in less than fifteen minutes,” he murmured and Francesca chuckled softly. She brought her hand up behind his neck and with two fingers, pealed the hair band holding his hair off, worked it around her forefinger for safe keeping, and moved her fingers into the rich, softness.

His eyebrows quirked up and she knew instantly that he liked the idea. His head bent and he was kissing her again, his lips savoring hers, his teeth nipping at hers and all the while her fingertips dug into his scalp with increasing pressure. She held him. She loved him, and it was familiar, and all he had thought he had lost and would never have again.

She smelled like Debra, all earthy and rain-washed. His hands moved up into her hair, holding her head as his mouth moved against hers. He tested her, he tasted her and wanted to continue to explore her. His tongue came into her mouth again, and he heard her little sigh of satisfaction and longing. Francesca wasn't even aware she had made the sound but Duncan felt it rush throughout his body.

He kissed her more deeply, more desperately. His hands moved in her hair. He pressed her body up tightly against his and felt the full mounds of her breasts against his chest. The hardening points of her nipples teased at his senses.

He moved his head, changing the angle of their kiss, and his lips burrowed deeply into hers. His hands trailed down her back and moved to cup her buttocks. Francesca could feel the urgency of his desire, the stiff, full thrust of his need against her stomach, and the passion within her bubbled up even higher.

Francesca was completely out of control, and she could only thank God that Duncan had enough sense to see that if he continued to bombard her with these intoxicating kisses she was only going to continue to melt mindlessly, and brazenly in his arms. She was already all but rubbing herself up against him like a contented cat. He lifted her in his arms, and the motion broke their kiss. The mutilated orchids were dropped in her lap as he spun around and with long, impatient strides made for her apartment.

“We can't do this. Not here-someone could come along.” He told her in a rough barely coherent whisper. The huskiness underlying his words told her his arousal point was simmering at low, but not for long. The front facade of her apartment building came into sight and Duncan took the steps, two at a time. The lift to the second floor was free, and Duncan stepped into it, hit the heel of his hand against the button that would start the lift into motion, then dropped his one arm so she could stand on her feet once more.

The moment her feet touched, they lifted again as his arms tightened around her, holding her up tightly against him. Francesca's hands curled into his shirt, and a button or two flew. His mouth descent down fiercely over hers, as the heat of the moment overtook both of them for several mindless minutes.

Madam Marazin gave a loud and rather obnoxious sigh as the lift door opened and still the couple inside remained locked in such a heated embrace it nearly made her blush and she was well passed the age for such nonsense.

Slowly, as if coming out of a dream, Duncan moved back, just enough to allow Francesca her feet again. She glanced warily around Duncan's arm at her neighbor and couldn't stop the self-satisfied grin that spread across her lips.

Duncan turned to face the elderly lady at about that moments with such a warm and charming smile that he was instantly endeared to her heart. He stepped out of the lift, tugging Francesca with him and with a respectful air, held the door for Madam Marazin.

By this time the lady in question was shaking her head and smiling from ear to ear. “You are a rightful rogue, young man! In my day . . . ” she began, but the lift had started its descent and whatever else she had to say was swallowed up by the noise made by the lift.

Francesca worked the key in the lock, but it was hard to stopping the trembling of her fingers, especially when he held her like this, from behind, with his arms around her waist and his hands on the move, roaming up and over her breasts. His warm breath teased the sensitive skin of her neck as he pressed warm, tongue moistened kisses against her exposed neck. In the end, with a deep chuckle, he took the keys from her and unlocked the door for them.

Compared to the loft apartment, her small residence wasn't at all spacious, but it was pleasantly furnished. She was too nervous now, too eager for him, and far too excited to care what he thought of the place she lived. He moved her inside, then kicked the door shut as he brought her back into his arms. There was no pausing to turn on a light, to light a few candles, to start a fire in the fireplace. They already had a fire, the one burning between them, and the darkness of the apartment was brightened by the moonlight that streamed in from the two windows that faced the street.

She pressed him down on the sofa, straddling his lean hips as her hands completed the job it had started on his shirt in the lift, only this time when her hands curled into his shirt, she was able to contain herself enough that she didn't damage his wardrobe. Her mouth covered his with a savage hunger that was quickly assuaged by the demand of his response. Slowly, and sensuously she licked at his lower lip, then sucked it into her mouth only to release it and seek the full force of his kiss once more.

Duncan undressed her, pulling the soft sweater over her head, unzipping her linen skirt and tugging it down, then lifting her from his lap onto the sofa so he could finish removing it. Her high heels came off next, and she closed her eyes as she felt his hand move up her legs, along her inner thigh, across her hips to the top of her pantyhose. Off those came, too, followed by her panties. His teeth were nipping at the top edge of her bra where it joined in the front, and she wasn't too surprised when the clasp released.

He did appear to be a man of many talents! Yes! They had already established that, hadn't they? And she was a woman of many talents as well! He had said so. But when she moved to demonstrate one or two of these talents, his hand captured both her wrists and held them high above her head.

Francesca's breath caught in her throat as he buried his head between her breasts, then turned his head from side to side to lick at, first one turgid nipple, and then the other. She squirmed against his hold, and then moaned softly as he settled his mouth over one throbbing peak and began to suckle. She sighed, biting into her lip as he shifted his attention to her other nipple. She stopped squirming and his mouth lifted.

She closed her eyes, grasped for breath as his free hand began to map out the smooth skin of her neck, throat and rib cage. Her belly quivered as his tender-hard mouth moved down from between her breasts, laving her skin until his tongue found the dip made by her navel and moved in to explore it. The fingertips of his free hand were moving over the soft skin of her thighs, stroking up and down the length of her bent leg. And then suddenly his hand slid between her legs and found her moist center. Her skin felt like it was on fire wherever he touched and she arched into his hand and growled low in her throat as she felt his finger move up deep inside her. She was slick with desire, so hot and eagerly responsive.

His lips claimed hers, tongue ravishing her mouth, greedy for the taste of her. She felt his control over her increase, not the physical restraint of his hand holding her wrists, but the mind control! It was diabolical, this power he had over her senses. But it was all right! It was okay! Because what he wanted became what she wanted as well. His touch was what she craved-and this was what it meant to be held in his arms, to be taken in such a way that all that mattered was the wanting, needing, giving, getting, joining.

He did release her, spinning her around, draping her across the back of the sofa, his magically hand still riding high against her moist heat. She felt the draft of his departure, and then he was back, and she trembled as she felt both his hands take a hold of her hips. Seconds later, she felt him move into her from behind.

She cried out softly as she felt herself stretch and encompass him. Duncan pulled her back against him, nuzzling the side and the back of her neck. Her hands dug into, and curled around the top edge of the sofa and her eyes closed as she let the warm, exciting pleasure and feel of him wash over her. He cupped her breasts in his hands and Francesca knew she had never felt anything quite as exquisite as these sensations of pleasure he was generating in her and she welcomed him as he drove himself repeatedly into her soft, slick moistness, and his fingers pulled and tugged at her nipples, blotting out everything but the need in her and in him to reach that shining star, the star burst of carnal pleasure that they both found helplessly addicting.

So this is how it is for us and there couldn't be more to want or need! Francesca thought afterwards, while they lay tangled together on the sofa in the aftermath of lovemaking. She lay practically on top of him, still tasting him, still unable to stop touching him, even if it was only to run her fingers over the smooth hard bone and muscle of his shoulder.

“You're beautiful, Cesca! And more than I ever dreamed I would hold in my arms again.” Duncan's voice was deep and husky. Francesca raised her eyes to his and read the sincerity behind his words. He pressed the softness of her body into the lean hardness of his as he used one hand to brush back the auburn hair from her face. “I look at you and all I want to do is protect you from harm . . . but people get hurt around me. People die.”

“And you do not trust me to take care of myself?” His head had bent and his mouth had moved down to her breast making it hard to put her thoughts into any cohesive pattern. “What and who are these people who die on you?”

She, of course, knew only moments after the words left her mouth that he was speaking of Tessa. She wanted to reassure him that she would not die, but she could not, for there were no guarantees in this life. But this self-inflicted guilt and responsibility he carried around inside him--now that, she could rectify and would!

“Than make me understand,” she insisted. “What happened to Tessa wasn't your fault! I know you, Duncan, you would have moved heaven and earth to prevent it! And I think I know a little about Tessa-enough to know she would have done whatever was needed to stay alive, if she had been prepared, but she wasn't and no one could have been!”

His fingers stroked and glided through her auburn hair. He leaned down just enough to catch her lips in a quick, passionate kiss before his mouth moved to her ear. “But now I have found you, Cesca, and you make my heart sing.”

Francesca moved to rest her head against his chest. She closed her eyes tightly and tried not to think, but the night seemed ripe for shared secrets and shared truths. And perhaps there was never going to be a right time to tell him about her inadequacy. The thing that had finally been the last straw in her relationship with Sam. It was what started all their arguments and left her lacerated and bleeding inside. And just how important was it going to be to Duncan Macleod?

“Yes!” There was so much feeling in the single word, that Francesca's head angled up so she could look him full in the face. The moonlight cast shadows across his handsome face, but she could see clearly the intensity of his emotions. “She wanted a child of her own very much, Cesca.”

“And so do I, Duncan,” she replied, then rushed on, actually placing two fingers over his lips to silence him, because she had to say this, and say it all at once, or she might lose her nerve and never say it again. And he deserved to know. This sweet wonderful man needed to know.

Silence greeted her confession, and fearfully her golden eyes clashed with his warm caramel ones. She was so frightened of what she would see. But there was no condemnation in his eyes, only a warm accepting glow. His hand reached out to turn her head so her face brushed up against his and he could drop soft kisses along her cheekbone.

“I am sorry, Cesca,” he murmured against her ear, “I cannot have children, either. Tessa accepted it because she wanted to be with me, but I could never fill her arms with the life of a child made of our love.”

How could he make his eyes change from shunning hazel to warm, melting caramel like that? It really was quite distracting! Almost as distracting as the feel of her legs sliding over the hair roughened skin of his thighs, or the firm, hard length of him pressing up against her stomach.

It was early morning outside when Francesca awoke. Her bedroom curtains were open, since she had not thought to draw them shut last night, and the weak early morning light of dawn washed everything in the room in a light bluish haze. The weight of Duncan's arm was around her waist and the light pressure of his hand, resting on her buttocks. She smiled, pushing the full length of her auburn hair from her face so she could look at him. He lay sprawled on his back, and the arm not holding her was flung out above his head. A night-long shadow of beard darkened his jaw. Francesca ran her hand light across his dark hair. It felt so thick and soft to the touch, and she tangled her fingers into it.

“Aye, it's a fine morning to be sure, Duncan Macleod,” she teased back in a perfect Scottish accent that reminded him potently of Debra Campbell. “And so would you be hungry? I can try my hand at cooking us a wee breakfast, but I'll have you know I usually just grab a croissant from the bakery two stores down.”

She arched a brow at him and couldn't help the chuckle that escaped upon seeing the way he laid there, watching her. Perhaps last night or the night before he hadn't looked at her with male satisfaction, but he was looking very content with himself this morning.

She stuck her tongue out at him and came up off the bed. “Well this old girl has got to work today-at least until thirteen hundred!” Batting a lash or two at him, she paused after opening her wardrobe door, to ask, “And what do you plan to do today? Do you have planned classes at the Dojo on Saturday?”

Duncan sat up, throwing his long legs over the side of the bed, and now as Francesca moved closer to the bed, his arm reached out and his hand closed over her waist, pulling her to stand in the space between his legs.

Francesca looked at him in bemusement. His eyes were narrowed and watchful and she felt a prickly feeling at the nape of her neck. She felt like she was faced with a stranger suddenly. And one who didn't trust her.

“I have only shown a few people the things I have stored there,” he said softly and his expression changed as if a memory had somehow lightened his mood, but there was a flash of pain in that memory, too. Francesca saw it, and her lips tightened.

Francesca turned then to face him and after seeing the concern that reflected from her golden eyes, he relented and spoke to her bluntly and openly of Anne and his one year relationship. He wasn't too clear on why he left Seacouver for France, but he was perfectly clear about her being pregnant, and his willingness to accept another man's baby as his own.

She kissed him quickly and spun around to reach for a skirt in the wardrobe. He moved into her bathroom as she slipped into the garment. He had meant to check on the portrait of Debra yesterday, but he had become involved with other things and before he had known it, it had been time to meet Francesca for dinner. Today, he planned to make sure the portrait was undisturbed. He hoped he would find this to be the case, but even if it was not, Francesca needed to be confronted with his past and who he was.