Nine

Rafe’s blood chilled. Collette might have described Fortier in sweet, glowing terms, but the man was a monster. He’d killed dozens, and he’d done his work coldly and expertly. Was the assassin in London? The very thought made Rafe want to peer over his shoulder. Instead, he clamped his hands on the wooden arms of the chair he occupied and took a breath.

He had to question her. He had to find out how everything fit together, how Fortier was involved. The note he’d sent her had been vague enough. He had deduced she had someone to report to and something to lose if she failed. But her reaction had been akin to panic. He thought he might have to send more notes before she confided in him, but whatever she stood to lose terrified her.

And he didn’t like seeing her terrified. He didn’t like knowing he was the one who’d caused it. “I need more wine.” He rose and crossed to the bottle, collecting her glass on the way. “So do you.” He poured them both a healthy measure of wine and set the empty bottle down. Returning to his chair, he placed her glass beside her, then sat and drank deeply from his own.

“You are upset,” she said.

“Rather more afraid for my life, but I’ll set that aside for the moment. Where is your father now?” Not London. Please, not London.

“Imprisoned in Paris. He was arrested under orders of the new king.”

Rafe let out a breath. “Then he can’t kill me tonight.”

“He wouldn’t kill you anyway. I told you, he is not a violent man. He only killed because it was his job. He didn’t take any pleasure in it. He did what was required of him because he didn’t have a choice. I even have a letter from your own Foreign Office that says as much—if I could only read it.” She waved a hand to dismiss this last statement. “It’s not as if an assassin can simply retire and walk away. He knows too much. Napoleon would never have let him live.”

“We didn’t think Napoleon had let him live. The reports I saw stated that his body had been recovered and he was dead.”

“A ruse. One my father and I concocted. Before Bonaparte was sent to Elba, we knew his regime was falling. We orchestrated my father’s death and left Paris. We hid in the country, becoming the Fournay family. Although my father had never farmed before, he bought a small plot of land and a cottage and made an effort. So when I told you my father was a farmer, I didn’t lie.”

Rafe stared at her. “No, you simply left out some important details.”

She raised a shoulder, not disputing the statement. “Then Bonaparte escaped Elba and came back. But my father and I stayed in hiding. Bonaparte had many enemies when he returned. My father could have made a fortune, but he had finally escaped that life and we wanted to live quietly and safely.”

“But now you are in London, not living either quietly or safely.”

“The Bourbons have been restored to the throne, and though the king seems to want forgiveness and peace, not all of his supporters feel the same. Courtiers who suffered with him while he was in exile, those who watched their ancestral lands stripped from them, who saw their husbands or wives dragged from their beds to be hung from lampposts or sacrificed to Madame Guillotine want blood. And they want power back.”

“Secrets are power.” No one knew that as well as he did. He had been in the business of collecting secrets throughout the war.

“Yes. They had my father arrested, and when I pled for his release, they sent me here to collect secrets.”

“How did they find your father?”

She sighed. “One would think after the turmoil of the revolution that the people would have learned something, but that’s not the case. Neighbors still turn on neighbors, and one of ours had grown suspicious and reported us. One of the courtiers who came to investigate remembered seeing my father at Versailles all those years ago. They took him prisoner.”

“And they sent you here to spy because he might be recognized, but you are virtually unknown.”

“And the warden of the prison has written to say my father is ill. He will die if he’s left in that prison. That’s why I need your help. I don’t have the information they want. Will you help me?”

“Just one question.” Rafe raised a finger, interrupting her. “What happened to our friend Marcel? Did your father…” He drew a finger across his neck.

“When my father discovered the relationship, he discharged Marcel without a reference. As far as I know, Marcel is still alive. He’s probably married by now with children. I told you, my father didn’t kill for pleasure. You worry about your own throat?”

“We are alone in my flat. I didn’t want your father to learn of it and formulate the wrong idea.”

“And what is the wrong idea?” she asked.

“That I brought you here to seduce you.”

One of her brows lifted. “So the fire, the fruit, the wine—none of that was calculated to seduce me?” She set her wine down and moved closer to him.

“I am your friend. Nothing more.”

“And as a friend, will you help me?”

This was the opening he’d been looking for. This was why he’d sent the false note and—if not lured her here—orchestrated this meeting. He’d weaseled his way into her confidence and he would take advantage of that position. Not that he felt smug about it. But he had done worse in service to his country.

“I’ll help you.” He raised a hand to stave off any exclamation from her. “But I cannot betray my country. What is it the royalists want?”

She glanced down. “Codes,” she murmured. “They want the codes to be able to decipher British secret messages.”

Rafe shook his head. “You know I cannot give those to you, even if I had access.”

She looked up at him. “Your former commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Draven, has access.”

“And he’s a man I would never betray.”

She slumped. “Then my father is doomed.”

“We will have to think of another way to help you and your father.”

“I don’t know another way! I have a coded letter in English, which I believe states that my father was forced to work for Napoleon. If I could get my hands on the British codes, I could decipher the message. But even that knowledge would not be enough to exonerate him completely. It might sway the French king toward leniency, but there is no guarantee. I have to hand over those codes to ensure my father’s freedom. If I can’t steal those codes, I may never see my father again.”

Rafe could not feel sympathy for the brutal assassin, but he did feel it for the woman who loved him. But even sympathy would not sway him to deceive Draven or play traitor to his country. “I will think of something. Give me a day. Meet me tomorrow night, and we’ll discuss the plan.”

“Will you bring me here again?” she asked.

“Not if you object. I don’t enjoy standing about in cold gardens in the middle of the night, but it won’t be the worst hardship I’ve had to endure.”

She glanced about his flat, her eyes lingering on paintings and a few of the pieces he’d collected—vases, lamps, and other accoutrement. “It’s dangerous coming here,” she said.

“Because you think I will try to take you to bed?”

“Because I think you won’t.”

Rafe stared at her. Women did this sometimes. As well as he understood them, at times, they still managed to say something that flummoxed him. “I’m at sea here,” he finally admitted. “We are friends, nothing more.”

“Correct.”

“And when I proposed something more, you were not interested.”

“I was interested. I simply did not think becoming your lover a good idea.”

“And now it is?”

“Oh, definitely not.”

He gave her a long look. “My ship is sinking.”

“That’s why you’re dangerous. Because you make me want what I cannot have.”

“Oh, you can have me,” he said, rather too quickly. “What I mean is—”

She laughed. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

Where the devil had she acquired that notion? She was the only woman he did want. “How could I not want you? That has never changed. If you want to change your position on the matter…”

“No. I meant only to say you tempt me. Coming here tempts me.”

“Good. I like to know I’m not the only one tempted.”

She rose, and he did the same. She twined her fingers, looking nervously about.

“What would we do were we hedgehogs, Miss Fortier?”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t—”

“Would you approach me? Would I approach you?”

“The, uh, boar pursues the sow, attempting to mount her.”

“I see. And what does the sow do?”

“She will persistently reject his advances. A high percentage of observed hedgehog courtships do not result in cop-cop—”

“Copulation?”

She nodded.

“I do wonder what tempts a hedgehog.” Before she could answer, he moved closer and placed a finger lightly over her lips. “That was a rhetorical question.”

“I wonder what tempts you,” she said shyly. “Do I tempt you now?”

Washed in the golden firelight, she was lovelier than words. And Rafe knew a lot of words to describe women. With her glossy hair piled on her head and her cheeks tinged pink by the wine and the flickering fire, she looked young but regal. He dared not allow his gaze to dip lower than her chin. “Immeasurably,” he murmured. She stepped closer, and he took her hand. It felt warm and soft in his, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Then, turning it over, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm. Her dark eyes turned even darker when his mouth skated up her flesh to brush against the skin at the inside of her wrist. She must have dabbed scent here because, above the clean smell of her skin, he also detected the fragrance of juniper.

His mouth explored her sensitive flesh until he found her pulse, which fluttered rapidly. She might have pulled her hand away at any time. He held it with the lightest touch, but when he slid his lips higher to the tender skin at the inside of her elbow, she trembled. Rafe’s gaze never left hers when he flicked his tongue out and tasted her flesh.

She inhaled sharply. “You are very good at this, aren’t you?” she whispered.

“If my imaginings count, I’ve had extensive experience touching you.”

“Did you ever imagine kissing my lips?”

He grinned. “Once. Or twice.”

Her free hand wrapped around his neck, sliding into his hair. He straightened and she pulled him close. When he released her hand to wrap his arms around her, she linked her arms about his neck and looked up at him. Rafe had never wanted to kiss a woman so badly. And he’d never feared doing so before. The last time he’d tried to kiss her, she had pushed him away. What if he kissed her now and frightened her? What if the kiss ruined the friendship, and she wouldn’t see him any longer? Draven would kill him, but even worse, Rafe would lose Collette.

“Kiss me,” she said when he hesitated.

“Are you certain this is a good idea? I don’t generally kiss my friends.”

“Surely you can make an exception for me.”

“Surely.” He bent closer, then pulled back again. “But should I? This might change everything, and I do value our friendship.”

“As do I.” She pressed closer to him, and the air caught in his lungs when her breasts pushed against his chest.

“Then we stay friends,” he said, voice choked.

“Friends who have shared a kiss.”

“Yes.” He brushed his lips over hers, then jerked back again. “That’s actually a new category of friendship for me. Should we discuss its parameters before we go on?”

She sighed, sounding suspiciously frustrated. “No. Just kiss me, Rafe.” But she didn’t wait for him to comply. Instead, she rose on tiptoe and took his mouth with hers. Her lips were soft and gentle but insistent. He couldn’t have refrained from kissing her back if he’d wanted. Kissing her was as necessary in that moment as breathing. And when her mouth became more insistent, he met her demands, kissing her deeper, holding her tighter, teasing her with his mouth until he felt her tremble.

He trembled as well. He’d never reacted this way to kissing a woman before. He’d always enjoyed kissing women—some more than others—but he’d never been so moved, never felt as though he needed a woman like he needed Collette.

“I think this is enough for now,” he said, pulling back.

She blinked up at him, her brown eyes almost black. “Really?”

He ran his thumb across the satin of her cheek, marveling at the silky flesh. “I think it’s for the best.”

“And I thought it best if we continue.”

That was a rather appealing idea as well. Who the devil cared about restraint and all the rest of that rot? She was in his arms and he wanted her and she wanted him…and if he took her, he might just ruin everything. Because he was not who she thought he was. At least, he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her about his intentions and reasons for becoming her friend. And there was the small detail that he’d created the crisis he now offered to guide her through. Added to those damning facts, he had already decided he would do all he could to protect her from any sort of punishment, but his determination was no guarantee of success. He might just be the one who was responsible for her father’s death and her imprisonment and possible execution.

One of those reasons alone was reason enough to resist further complicating their relationship by taking her to bed.

Cursing Draven and the French government and his own surprising reaction to her, Rafe stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “It’s late and you’ve had a scare today. I’ll see you home.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I should go home before I’m missed.”

With a nod, he reluctantly released her and strode to the rack where he’d hung her cloak. She allowed him to drop it over her shoulders, but before she drew the hood up, she said, “Perhaps we can continue where we left off tomorrow.”

Rafe closed his eyes. This mission had just become the most difficult of his career.

* * *

Collette went through the day in a haze. When Lady Ravensgate asked about her inattention or her new habit of staring at the walls or at nothing in particular, Collette told her ladyship she had not slept well. That was not far from the truth. She’d barely slept at all. Rafe Beaumont had seen her safely back to the town house and behaved as the perfect gentleman throughout. But when she was finally in her bed, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way he’d kissed her.

No one had ever kissed her that way before. She had been kissed by but a handful of men and boys in her little over two decades of life. The problem was that even if she had kissed a hundred men, Collette didn’t think she would have experienced the same rush of pleasure she’d felt last night when Rafe had kissed her back. The kiss had been arousing when he allowed it. Just putting her arms around him, feeling his body against her, his scent engulfing her, had been arousing. But when she’d put her mouth on his, she’d thought she might moan with pleasure. He had the perfect lips and he held her with just the right amount of tenderness and possession.

And then he had kissed her back. Slowly at first. The man had patience. He did not attack as other men did, did not thrust his tongue into her mouth as soon as he’d pried her lips apart. He brushed and slid and teased and nipped until she clung to him. And when she opened her mouth, willingly and with a sense of desperation, he took his time stoking her desire before filling her and tangling his tongue satisfyingly with hers.

The kiss had been everything and more than she could ever have imagined kissing a man like Rafe Beaumont would be. She’d thought her knees would give out, wanted them to fail her so he might sweep her up and carry her to the bedroom. Because if Rafe Beaumont could kiss that well, what else could he do well?

And then he’d turned into a gentleman. Not that he’d never shown signs of being one before. Even when he’d backed her into a corner at Montjoy’s ball, she hadn’t really been afraid he would do anything she didn’t want. The problem was that she did want him to do all the things she could think of—and others she hadn’t even considered. And the other problem was he was right to halt their kiss. He was right to stop when he had. She needed his help with her father, and she was scared and uncertain and vulnerable.

But she wasn’t scared and uncertain or particularly vulnerable in the light of the day after. She knew she didn’t owe him her body for offering his assistance, and she knew she wanted him regardless of the situation with her father. She’d wanted him from the first moment she’d seen him. That had been pure physical lust. Now it was more than that. It was lust combined with respect and genuine affection for the man. He made her laugh. He made her happy when she was with him. He made her quiver when she was in his arms.

If she and Lady Ravensgate had had some event that evening, Collette might have been distracted from her salacious thoughts. An event where she might gather political information would have been even more welcome. But they’d had no invitations for that night and no engagements, which meant after dinner, Collette had nothing to do but pretend to read and think about later that evening when she would be alone with Beaumont in his cozy flat.

She’d retired early, but instead of sleeping for a few hours, she’d spent the time in her room brushing her hair and trying to find the most attractive style. In the end, she’d left it down and dressed in her yellow muslin, which made her feel like a schoolgirl, but which she could don without help and was reasonably modest. Beaumont either wanted her or not. She would not be one of the women she constantly spotted around him, women who tried far too hard to gain his attention with low-cut bodices and caught hems that revealed ankles.

The cloak was voluminous enough to hide the lighter color of her dress when she sneaked out into the garden just before midnight, and though she was early, she found Beaumont waiting. As soon as she saw him—stepping out from behind a tree to make himself visible to her—she practically ran to him. She’d wanted him to sweep her into his arms, but instead, he caught her hand and kissed it. “Shall we talk out here tonight?” he asked.

Disappointment stabbed through her. “I had hoped we would return to your flat.”

His violet eyes were unreadable, and then he nodded and led her out of the garden and to the waiting hackney. Once on their way, when they could not be overheard above the clatter of the horses’ hooves, he said, “I have a plan.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s rather daring and risky, but if it works, it will solve most of your problems.”

Daring and risky were not her favorite words. She would have preferred infallible and safe, but she supposed she’d left words like that behind when she’d left France.

“Tell me.”

“I will. When we reach my flat and after you have a glass of wine. I fear we will both require fortification.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest all the way to St. James’s Square. And then when they were alone in his flat, she waited impatiently while he hung her cloak. She’d thought he might offer her wine, but he stopped and stared at her.

“What is it?” she asked, having forgotten all about her earlier attempts to look alluring. Now that she did remember, she wished she hadn’t worn the yellow muslin. It wouldn’t help to look sixteen.

“I’ve never seen you with your hair down,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s brown,” she commented, but her belly had done a slow roll at the compliment. The color of her hair might be ordinary, but she knew it was quite lovely when loose. It was glossy and thick, with perfect waves that would have curled if it had been shorter. As it was, it reached to the middle of her back, a manageable length since she often had to style it herself.

“I like brown,” he said. “Very much. Wine?” He crossed the room and lifted a bottle of red wine from a side table. “I thought we might try a wine from Burgundy tonight.”

“And how did you acquire that?”

He spread his hands. “I have my methods.” He poured them both wine, then sipped his slowly. Collette couldn’t manage more than a taste of hers. Her stomach felt as knotted as a ball of yarn rescued from a kitten.

“You mentioned a plan.”

“I did.” He set the glass of wine on the table and paced away, then back again. “I thought long and hard about this, and I believe the only way to save your father is to have him brought here.”

She shook her head. She had planned to take her father to America. That was the only safe place for them. But freeing her father from France was one step. “How? He is under lock and key in France. Even if I did go to France, how would I get to him?”

“You misunderstand. You won’t bring him here.”

She lifted a brow. “You will?”

He laughed. “No! Absolutely not. As exciting and daring as the prospect of sailing to France and rescuing your father sounds, I’m afraid I would almost certainly fail. No one ever gave me the exciting missions, and this probably isn’t the time to start.”

“Then what are you proposing?”

“I am proposing the men who imprisoned Fortier bring him here. How did you plan to communicate with them? If you had the codes and wanted to let them know, how would you do so, short of returning to Paris?”

She hesitated, staring at the wine in her glass.

“If you don’t trust me, this will never work,” Rafe said. “I might as well take you back.”

“You’re right.” She looked up from the glass. “I suppose I would ask Lady Ravensgate for her help.”

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

“She is able to contact the royalists.”

“Then she is not a distant relative of yours?”

“Not at all. I was told she and my father were friends, but I don’t believe it. She has ties to the Bourbon family, and if she sympathizes with them, she likely blames my father, in part, for the rise of Napoleon.”

“Then she is more of a jailor than an ally. She’ll kill you if you become a liability. Is she a spy as well?”

Collette looked back at the wine. It was one thing to tell her secrets but quite another to divulge someone else’s.

Rafe didn’t push her. “Then you write a note to the royalists holding your father and tell them you have the codes. But, you write, you don’t dare send these codes. Too dangerous. You will only hand them over in person, and after the exchange, you want to go immediately into hiding with your father.”

Collette stared at him. “But I don’t have the codes.”

“That’s not the point. Once the men have brought your father, once he is on British soil, we’ll be able to spirit you both away.”

“Who is we?”

He lifted his wine and sipped again. “I have powerful friends, and if I ask, they will help. No questions.”

Collette considered the proposal. “And then you never have to betray Draven or steal the codes.” It was as bad as she had feared. Daring and risky were understatements. So much could go wrong. And yet she knew Beaumont was correct when he said the only way to save her father was to bring him here and then escape. Who was to say that even if she obtained the codes her father would be freed? As long as the royalists could squeeze information out of her, they would. Her father might never be free. She would never be free.

Unless she took her freedom into her own hands.

The plan was dangerous, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. She sipped her own wine and walked away from him to peer out the window at the street below. Carriages clattered by as did men in hats and greatcoats on their way to gambling hells or other male amusements. The question in her mind was not whether the plan would work. She believed it could. But could she trust Rafe Beaumont? How did she know he was an ally?

And what reason did she have not to trust him? Yes, he’d been a soldier in the war against the French, but all of that was over. There was no indication he had any involvement with the government or the army now. And he’d been her friend. He’d been there in the garden when she needed him. He’d saved her from the runaway cart outside the museum. He’d treated her with kindness and was helping her here tonight instead of out on the street like the men she saw passing by.

And then there was one other issue. She wanted to trust him. She already liked him far too much. She was attracted to him. She felt more than mere friendship for him. She wanted to believe he could help her. She wanted to be more than his friend.

Collette turned from the window. “Why should the royalists believe I have the codes? I’ve been here months and haven’t managed to even come close to these codes. If I suddenly tell them I have the codes in hand, I don’t think they’ll believe me.”

“I thought of that.”

“Did you?”

“Of course. One always has to give an adversary a taste of the prize, to whet her—or his—appetite, so to speak.”

“And how should I whet the royalists’ appetite?”

He moved closer, pulled the curtains closed behind her, and leaned close. “You’ll tell them three words.”

“Three?” she whispered, her voice deserting her at his closeness.

“One.” He held up a finger. “Two.” Another finger. “Three.”

“What are they?”

His lips brushed her ear as though he would whisper the words of a lover. “Rafe Beaumont’s lover.”

She closed her eyes, her head spinning. How had he managed to make three words so utterly arousing? Her whole body had grown warm. “And you think they know who you are?”

He drew back slightly. “They can easily find out. And when they do, they will know not only did I serve under Draven, but also that he trusts me implicitly. As my lover, you could get close to the codes.”

“The royalists will know this?”

“Count on it.”

She stared at him for a long moment, looking into his eyes and searching for any sign of deceit. She saw nothing. Nothing but those lovely violet eyes in a too handsome face.

“Shall I drive you back to Lady Ravensgate’s town house?”

“I…” Yes. She should tell him yes. Now that she had agreed to the plan, she should go back and write the note. But she didn’t want to go back to her cold, empty bed. Not yet. And unless she was wrong about the way Beaumont was looking at her, he didn’t particularly want her to go either.

“You?” he prompted. He wouldn’t make this easy for her. She’d have to say it.

“I don’t want you to take me back. Not yet.”

“Would you like to finish your wine first?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want the wine. It’s very good,” she added quickly, knowing he had probably opened the bottle just for her. “But I would rather have you.”

His mouth curved in a slow, seductive smile. “I thought you would never say it.”

Her cheeks were so hot that she feared she would probably burst into fire now that she had said it. “You didn’t give me much choice.” She drank a gulp of wine.

“Only because I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“Me not want you?” She gestured at him. “Have you looked in a mirror?”

“Have you?” He took her glass before she could take another gulp and set it down with his. He held her hand lightly, his fingers around her wrist. “Do you know you are the first woman who has ever refused me?”

“That must have made you incredibly arrogant. Perhaps I should keep refusing you.”

“No!” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Because you are also the first woman I have ever wanted. Really wanted.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He quirked a brow. “Do you think I have many female friends? I have precisely one. You. Because if I couldn’t have you in bed, at least I could have your friendship.”

“Perhaps you can have both.”

“I’ll take both.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I haven’t ceased thinking about the kiss we shared last night.”

“Neither have I.”

“This one will be better.”

“I don’t see—”

But his mouth was already on hers, claiming her lips in tender nips and grazes. He explored her lips with his own, with his tongue, with his teeth, until she could take no more. She wanted more. Wanted his tongue inside, dueling with hers. “More,” she breathed, yanking on his shirt to bring him closer. Opening her mouth, she darted her tongue out and slid it across his mouth. The hand on her back tightened, and he let out a groan.

His own tongue mimicked hers, then entered her mouth, exploring and tantalizing. He pulled back. “Was that what you wanted?”

“More,” she said.

His eyes darkened at the invitation. He kissed her again, and then she was swept off the floor and into his arms. Without pausing in the kiss, he carried her to his bedchamber. At least she assumed it was a bedchamber. It was dark, lit only by a low fire in the hearth. Gently, he set her on a bed and stripped off his coat.

“Servants?” she asked.

“Gone for the night,” he answered, taking a tinderbox from the table, striking the flint into the char cloth in the bottom, and lighting a sulfur-tipped splint. With that, he lit a lamp on the table, then crossed the room to light another. When he turned back, he pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. “I want to see you.”

“You first,” she countered, having no idea where such words had come from. She had not planned to say them, had never thought of herself as the sort of woman who would demand anything from a man, much less that he undress before her. But something about Rafe Beaumont made her brave. He wasn’t just any man. He was her friend. He was her ally.

For a moment, he looked as surprised as she was at her words, but then he licked his lips. “I suppose that’s fair.” He backed up and sat in a chair where a dressing robe hung. Ignoring it, he brushed it aside and toed off his boots. When his footwear was gone and he stood before her with bare feet, he unfastened his cuffs. Collette rose on her knees to watch. It seemed strange to see him so vulnerable, without shoes or the formality of a coat. But when he loosened the cravat at his neck, she did not think it strange at all that her heart thudded at the sight of his neck and the skin under the open V of his shirt. And then he tugged the shirt over his head and dropped it on the chair.

He had a magnificent chest. She had been pressed against it enough times to know it would be hard and sculpted, but this was like something a master would have chiseled. The broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist and firm abdomen. Just below was the hard bulge of his erection. If she had doubted he wanted her, if she had felt as though she weren’t pretty enough or exciting enough, the sight of his desire erased all doubts. He wanted her, and she wanted him just as badly.

“The rest,” she said, her mouth dry.

He reached for the placket of his trousers, unfastened it, and slid the material over his hips, down muscled thighs, and into a pool on the floor. Without any sense of embarrassment, he retrieved the trousers, crossed to the chair, and laid them over the top. Collette let out a slow breath. The back view was as impressive as the front. Seeming to know the effect he had on her, he crossed back to the bed. “Your turn.”