The Silver Fox

Chapter 5

As she had promised, Justine left work early on Friday, a simple matter considering her lack both of pressing appointments and of powers of concentration. As he had promised, Sloane picked her up at five. She was waiting eagerly.

“It may take us a little longer at this hour,” he warned, stowing her small overnight bag in the back of his Mazda, “but I’d better discover just how long before it becomes a regular thing.”

“Are you planning to give up your place in the city and live full time in Westport?”

He shook his head as he stowed her safely in the passenger’s seat, then trotted around to slide behind the wheel. “I’ll keep the apartment for use when I need to stay in the city. If I have either very early or very late meetings, it might come in handy. Or, I may want to loan it to a visiting client.”

Justine nodded her understanding and agreement, though her thoughts had already begun to wander. “You look great … in jeans,” she blurted out on impulse. “I’ve only seen you wearing a suit.”

Great was an understatement. When Sloane paused to grin at her before starting the car, she realized to what extent. He was masculinity personified, from the corded stretch of broad shoulders beneath the khaki cotton twill of his shirt to the leanness of his denim-hugged hips. In motion, his lines were fluid; at rest, as they were now, he exuded strength and assurance.

“You don’t look bad yourself,” he countered, underscoring his words with a thorough perusal of her slender length. She also had worn jeans, topped by a light blue turtleneck of a loose cotton knit, with a change of more seasonal clothes in her bag. Despite the thorough covering of her every curve, she felt suddenly naked. Flags of pink waved softly on her cheeks, blending with the free fall of her strawberry-blond curls. Sloane took pity on her.

“Ah …” he cleared his throat of its huskiness, “we’d better get going if we intend to get anywhere.” His smirk was boyish and endearing, filling her with warm anticipation. A weekend alone with Sloane—nothing could sound more heavenly!

Justine relaxed back in her seat, reassured to know that her appearance pleased him … and disturbed him accordingly. The undercurrent of sexual excitement had always been strong between them, but never more so than at this moment. Once again the confines of the car conspired to heighten sensations that already ran high.

For better than an hour Sloane drove steadily, suffering as did she through the periodically stifling traffic. When at last they cleared the worst and left the parkway to negotiate the more private streets of Westport, the relief was tangible.

“Oh, it’s lovely, Sloane,” she exclaimed in response to the greenery which had gradually thickened with their approach. The land undulated gently in lushly alternating waves of maples, birches, beeches, oaks, and evergreens. “It’s hard to believe that this country is less than fifty miles from Manhattan!”

“You’ve never been in Westport before?” The sidelong glance he gave her carried his surprise.

“No! I’ve been on Long Island many times, and I must have skirted this area during drives toward New England, but I’ve never had cause to stop. I can see what I’ve been missing!”

Enthusiasm lit her features as she took it all in—the richness of the landscape, the wealth of the homes as they bobbed up at intervals from one another, the cultured state of the streets themselves, and, at last, the Sound.

Sloane had turned in at a hidden drive and now followed the curving pavement through archway after archway of leafy green splendor until they reached the house. At first glance through the windshield it was beautiful. At second glance, when Justine stepped from the car and smiled in delight, it was magnificent.

“What do you think?” The deep voice came from immediately behind, drawing her head around in token recognition of his presence before she turned to study the house again.

“I think it’s absolutely fantastic! I love it!” And she did! A distinctly contemporary structure, it was built of glass and fieldstone, with a shingled roof, large brown oak door and shutters, and a flagstone walk which beckoned irresistibly. Succumbing to its lead, she approached, breathlessly admiring the shrubbery with its patterned greens, whites, pinks, and purples, all flourishing under the skies of spring. “How did you ever manage to find this place?”

Sloane was close beside her, more intent on her reaction than on the sights she so admired. “It belonged to an author—he just wrote a best seller I’m sure you’ve heard about….” He laughed mischievously. “At any rate, he’s off to Hollywood to do screenwriting for television. His loss—our gain.”

Justine’s eyes shone brilliant emerald when she looked up at him. Our gain, he had said—how natural it sounded! Had it been merely a slip of the tongue … or a figure of speech?

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he murmured softly, unlocking the door, then taking her hand firmly in his. For Justine it was as though she were in a dream—being led by a silver-crowned vision of a man through the house of her fondest imaginings.

The foyer they entered was circular and open, giving access to a dining room and kitchen in one quadrant, a living room in another, the bedroom area in a third. Every room was spacious and modern, miraculously clean and freshly painted white. There were neither furnishings nor carpets; as they wandered slowly from room to room, their footsteps echoed in the emptiness.

“The best is yet to come,” Sloane spoke warmly by her ear. “Those stairs”—he pointed to a stairway leading down—“why don’t you go take a look while I start unloading the car. I’ll meet you down there.”

How anything could be better than what she had already seen she wasn’t quite sure. Skeptically she followed his suggestion, however, slowly descending into the first floor of the house. Wordlessly she stopped, mouth agape, as she understood. Before her was a large, open room with a wall of solid glass which looked out upon the medley of early evening color that was Long Island Sound. Yellows and oranges skittered over the waves in long, rippling shards of light, blending with the gray of the water, the amber-hued stone and sand of the beach, and the darkening blue of the sky. It was a breathtakingly private moment for Justine, made even more precious by Sloane’s silent arrival.

His arms slid around her gently as he joined her survey of the peaceful panorama. “Like it?” he murmured.

“Mmmmm.” Words seemed inadequate. Her hand moved up to cover his, holding it against her waist.

“I’m glad.”

For an eternity of silent appreciation they stood watching and absorbing the glory of the seascape. Justine felt a sense of serenity flow through her, a sense of contentment she had never known. If preservation of the moment in all its heartfelt beauty had been in any way or form possible, she would have fought for it. But serenity was fleeting—as it would always be. Contentment was relative—as it too would always be.

Only the present was a fact. And the fact was the need she had to be totally one with Sloane. If she’d deprived herself in the past, she’d had good reason. Now that reason eluded her as her body strained toward fulfillment. Silent yearnings sparked then flamed, fed by the solid mass of lean and muscled masculinity which braced her back, her hips, her thighs.

Simultaneously Sloane felt the change. Turning her in his arms, he lowered his lips to kiss her softly. “I thought of you all the while I was away—picturing you here, wanting to hold you just like this. I need you, Justine. I—” The thought went unspoken as his attention was totally absorbed by her features, soft and open and overwhelmingly feminine in invitation.

She was a gentle spring flower, tall and slender, brandy-budded and ready to bloom. Sloane was her sun. It had been his riveting command which had sparked her growth, this sense of unfolding deep within, this sense of awakening. Now nothing less than his total possession would see it to fruition. He was the catalyst, the most moving force to have ever entered her life. For him alone was she willing to put aside past vows and bask in the moment’s glory.

His kiss drew her inexorably closer to him. His sensual appeal was an intoxicant, pushing all other thought from mind. As he held her back for a long moment, his hands explored her curves, exhausting their outer limits before moving inward. He inspired total submission with his knowing touch, exacting helpless sighs from her as his fingers caressed the fullness of her breasts, made even firmer by his stimulation. Intuitively seductive, Justine strained against him, her arms velvet petals stretching up to cling to his neck. Whatever Sloane did to her she wanted; she wanted whatever he could give. Her life at that moment was Sloane; her being needed his for completion.

Her breasts glowed in creamy sheen when he slid the sweater over her head, then released the catch of her bra and discarded it quickly. The warmth of his hands sent quakes of desire through her, heightening a need which only he could fill.

But submission was not what he wanted. Taking her hand in his, he put it to his chest in silent command, urging her to touch him as he touched her. Instinct guided her fingers over and around the buttons of his shirt as, one by one, each was released. She gasped in wonder when the shirt fell to the floor, for it revealed a chest bronzed and broad, matted lightly with a T of gray-spiced curls that tapered to a narrow thread, then disappeared beneath the snap of his jeans.

“Go on,” he urged softly, his urgency barely held in check. She touched him, timidly at first, then steadily thrilling to the glory of his body. Her fingertips traced a route from the leanness of his ribcage, made even leaner by his sharply sucked-in breath, to the dual swells of muscle which spanned his chest, then up and over the firmness of his well-padded shoulders. She moved in closer against him, reveling in the feel of her breasts, her nipples alive and taut, against the warm texture of him.

Again he spoke. “Wait here, sweetheart.” She felt robbed of life when he moved away to crouch down on the floor and deftly spread the sleeping bags one on top of the other. “Our mattress.” He smiled up at her, then held his hand out for her to take it.

In a moment of intruding reality, Justine realized the extent of what was about to take place. Her insides began to tremble, her limbs to quiver weakly. But she wanted Sloane. She needed him. His appeal to her feminine drive crushed all thought of future torment. There was fear and uncertainty—but only that she might not please him. Above all there was excitement and anticipation, the awareness that she was on the threshold of something new and wonderful. Her eyes held his, then dropped to the strong hand that reached for hers. Irrevocably she took it.

“Sloane,” she whispered, sinking down onto her knees before him, “I’ve never … I haven’t done this … I’m …” The words seemed all wrong and out of place, totally irrelevant amid the torrent of emotion which surrounded them. But she needed to tell him. Her green eyes were open and beseeching, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never been … with a man before….”

Her pulse faltered, then raced ahead. It had been said. Would he laugh? Scowl? Think any less of her? He had no way of knowing why she had lived as chaste a life. He couldn’t know of the hurt she’d suffered as a child and her resultant fear of an involvement to which sex was a potential stepping-stone. Now all that seemed secondary. But would he understand?

As she watched intently, his face took on a softer set than she had ever seen. His eyes, dark with desire, glowed with pleasure as well. He stared at her, seemingly unable to believe what she’d told him. When she shook her head slowly to reinforce the confession, he reached up and wound his fingers through her amber waves. Fierceness was tempered by wonder as he spoke low and husky. “Then I’m the first … to…?”

She nodded silently, reasoning in part to herself. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything but … I thought you should know….”

“My God, Justine! You’re damned right I should know! It’s not every day that a woman gives her virginity to a man.” He paused, his thumbs caressing the corners of her quivering lips. “Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you want this?”

Her nod was slow and deliberate. “I want you, Sloane. Is it totally wanton of me to say that? I’ve never wanted anything as badly before. But I want you … I need you now.” With growing confidence, she slid her hands across the flesh of his middle and around to his back, pulling herself closer to him. “Please, Sloane,” she whispered softly, as a surge of intense desire seared her insides, “please make love to me.”

He lowered his arms to imprison her in rapture, pressing against the small of her back such that she knew his desire was as great as hers. But he was slow and unhurried in his move to undress her, masterfully building her need, and his own, to a frenzied crescendo before finally laying her back and tugging off first hers, then his own jeans. His hand rubbed over the silken fabric of her panties, caressing her thighs, her stomach, all the searing hot contours between. Step by step, he led her, round and round the spiral of desire, ever higher, ever higher. When at last they lay, side by side, flesh against flesh, she felt aflame and about to burst. “Now … now, Sloane,” she begged him shamelessly.

With a soft moan, he moved to blanket her with the warmth of his body, to absorb her pain, that pain that would be inevitable. At her helpless cry, he stilled, then held her tightly. “It’s all right, sweetheart. That’s all. It won’t hurt anymore. I promise.” Her short gasps slowly lengthened to a less agonized, more heady pace as a gentle exquisite warmth stole over her, bearing the first of the pleasure in its ever-widening wake. The flower had burst its bud and now opened, opened slowly and arched its way toward the sun.

With age-old rhythm Sloane moved above her, bidding her follow then join in perfect syncopation. He beckoned her higher, teaching her the joys of both her body and his as together they soared. Pleasure became glory, glory ecstasy, and then—a final explosion of utter fulfillment, a moment of supreme happiness surpassing all others. Their bodies were one, their minds were one; time stood still.

“I love you,” she murmured breathless from the apex of her joy, “I love you, Sloane Harper.” She had neither planned it nor expected it, yet the fact remained that she was in love. That had made the difference, she realized now. It was all new and had taken her by storm. She couldn’t say it enough. “I love you.” This was what it had all been about.

He lifted his head from its panting collapse on her shoulder and looked at her then, his skin damp and vibrant beneath her fingers. His heart beat in wild disturbance, but the grin that spread slowly across his lips left no room for doubt as to the pleasure she in her innocence had given him. “I told you we would be in agreement on everything, didn’t I?” he crooned, his voice a deep rasp of emotion. “It’s about time though. You certainly kept me waiting long enough!”

His smile was warm against her hair as he let his head fall forward once more. Beads of sweat mingled with the coppery wisps that framed her face.

“ Waiting long enough? ” she shrieked, light-headed. “My God, I’ve only known you for three weeks and a day—and most of that time you were on the far side of the continent! I’m even surprised you did make love to me”—she laughed softly, recalling another time when it might have been—“considering your thoughts about women who jump into bed with men they’ve known for very short times !”

“This was different.” He laughed down at her, then rolled to the side and propped his head up on his palm. “I gave you plenty of time to think about it. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t call you while I was gone. I was afraid I might get carried away with sentimentality—”

“And what’s wrong with sentimentality?”

“You’re the prim and proper lady lawyer. You tell me !”

A frown crossed her brow as she feigned chagrin. “Hmmm, you’re right. I haven’t led a particularly sentimental life. Busy. Interesting. Rewarding. Challenging. But not terribly sentimental, is it?” Looking down, her eye caught the contour of his thigh, so firm and manly that she simply could not restrain the hand that reached out to mindlessly touch it. Caught up with fascination, she traced the tendoned length upward, then outlined the thin white markings where once a bathing suit had been.

“Oooo, lady,” the voice above her inhaled sharply. “That’s very dangerous …”

“But, I thought …” Her own eyes told her how misinformed she had been. “Sorry about that,” she whispered, then caught his eye. She wasn’t sorry at all. And her expression said it all.

With slow seduction, he met her unspoken challenge. And it was, to her astonishment, even more beautiful than before. If that first experience had been the blossoming, this second was the enrichment. With Sloane as a gentle and experienced guide, she learned how best to play his man’s body and, in so doing, to fine-tune her own. When at last, as one, they reached that awesome pinnacle of ecstasy and tumbled over its edge in free fall, she felt that she had, indeed, become a woman.

Bodies intertwined, they slept, not to awaken until the last of the sun’s flame had been banked for the night. Dusk was at hand, shrouding the world with its purple-hued mist. At its center, Justine glowed, wanned by love and passionately fulfilled.

“Hungry?” Sloane asked softly, turning to stroke the wayward curls from her temple.

“A little,” she hummed softly.

His fingers were suddenly still, probing. “Hey, what’s this?”

“That scar?” Her own slender forefinger joined his in confirmation.

“Yes, that scar. Where did it come from?”

“The school bus.”

“School bus?”

“Uh-huh. Scott Anderson got angry because I called him a ‘wimp,’ so he threw his lunchbox at me.”

“Why did you call him a ‘wimp’?”

“Because he was one. At least, that was the meanest thing I could think to call him at the time. And he deserved it. He had hidden his bubble gum on the underside of one of my braids so that the teacher would not catch him chewing it. When we got on the bus, he decided he wanted it back. It was very painful!”

“I’ll bet.”

Justine raised her head as though hurt. “You don’t sound terribly sympathetic, Sloane. Hmph! A lot of good you are!”

In the silence that followed, she curled into the waiting haven of Sloane’s body and they lay together, quiet and at peace. “Tell me about yourself, Justine,” he asked softly. “About your home, your parents, your experiences as a child …”

Keenly attuned to her mood, he felt her tension instantly. “Oh, you don’t really want to hear about that,” she scoffed evasively. “It’s very humdrum.”

“Fine. But tell me anyway. I know so little about that part of you.” He hugged her even closer in a futile attempt to dispel her unease. “Where were you born?”

Any other subject would have pleased her more. “A hospital …”

“ Where? ”

His determination overrode her hesitancy for the time being. “A small town in Montana. You won’t have heard of it. I grew up on the outskirts of Butte. Very ordinary.”

“Your parents? Are they still alive?”

How strange it seemed to be sharing, after the fact, such personal information with a man with whom she had been so totally intimate already! In Sloane’s arms, she forgot all else. Only her present with him mattered.

But he wanted to know more, and she couldn’t deny him. “My mother died several years ago. My father is alive—he still lives in Montana.”

“Why did you leave?”

Why did she leave? With painful memories of a childhood haunted by her parents’ misery, the ugliness of their divorce and its lonely aftermath, she’d had to leave for her own survival. Besides, if, as a family law practitioner, she hoped to be able to help as many victims of similarly broken homes as possible, the big city was the place to be. “I felt that the opportunities for a lawyer would be better in New York,” she answered simply. “I came east to college, then stayed on for law school. By that time I was pretty much addicted to the big city. What with the possibilities for employment beginning to open up for women, it seemed the logical decision.” It had become easier to talk as the subject moved further from Montana—just as life had grown simpler with the distance.

“I’ll bet you were a wild one, back in college,” he teased her softly.

Her foot made contact with his solid shin as she kicked him in mock punishment. “You’ve just had proof to the contrary. How can you even suggest such a thing? I was a studier. That’s all I did. Study. I won the hearts of all my teachers, made the dean’s list every semester, and was accepted at the law school I wanted—Columbia. Very wild!”

Sloane laughed into the copper-colored curls which covered his shoulder. “I’m glad,” he mused, then paused as he grew more serious. “What do you want out of life, Justine? In the long run, what do you want?”

On the surface it was an easy question. The answer had been her motivational force for years. Now, she answered with the strength of her conviction. “I want to be a good lawyer. I want to be respected as such. I want to continue to find the inner satisfaction I do now in my work. That’s all … that’s all.” Her voice had lowered at the last and she frowned against the warm wall of his chest. That was all … yet, where did this fit in? Was there a place in her life for Sloane? Reluctant to brood on the future, she deftly turned the conversation around. “And what about you, Sloane? What do you want out of life?”

The length of his body grew even greater as he stretched lazily. She was not oblivious, however, to the thread of intensity which wound through him. “I want many of the same things, Justine. I want my business to flourish and its studies to benefit as many people as possible. I also want … a wife and children.” Like a bomb, he dropped the last, leaving the silence to absorb its impact.

For a heart-shattering moment Justine knew an awesome fear. It was the same fear she had felt, though not recognized, the very first time she had met him. Periodically over the past three weeks it had returned in thin-wisped fragments to her consciousness. She hadn’t understood it until now. Sloane represented a threat to her of the highest order. He wanted marriage … the one thing she wouldn’t give him! She had seen her parents tear each other to bits. As the product of their unhappy union, she had herself been wrenched apart. Day after day she saw similar tragedies. Long ago she had decided that marriage had no place in her life. Love or no love, she would stick to her guns.

Sloane’s voice was low and private. “Haven’t you ever thought of children, Justine? Wouldn’t you like to have them?”

She shrugged, willing indifference as she fought the turmoil within. “I’ve thought about it,” she admitted—which, in fact, she had. But without a marriage there would be no children. She had accepted that and learned to live with it. “Work keeps me busy, though. And there’s so much I want to see and do. You”—she poked his ribs as she steered toward safer ground—“travel a lot in your work. Some of us aren’t that lucky. I’m just beginning to discover the beauty of traveling. I’d never been out of the country until I went to France last year. I spent a week in Paris … and loved every minute!”

Sloane was not fooled by her diversionary tactic; his prolonged silence, following her enthusiastic declaration, told her that. For some reason, however, he did not challenge her. Yet, his follow-up statement nearly took her back to square one. “You could travel with me whenever you liked. I’d love having you along. I’ve even got a big project coming up in—”

“But what do you do for fun ?” Justine cut in, as much in desperation as in curiosity. Once again he hit too close to home, and she wanted nothing to spoil the time they shared.

His breath was warm, fanning her forehead. “I ravish fair maidens,” he growled, disguising frustration in mischief.

“No, seriously, Sloane. You must have some hobby … do you play a sport…?”

“Handball. I play as often as I can.”

“Ah, that explains it, then….”

“Explains what?”

“Your muscles.” Rolling over onto him, she stretched to admire the subjects in question. “There had to be some work involved in building those … regular exercise, type-of-thing …”

Her eyes were as green as the new grass of spring beneath the sun’s sparkle. Suddenly, she found herself on her back and looking up at the handsome face which hovered close above. His hair was rich and full. On impulse, she threaded her fingers into its sterling sheen.

“Right now, I have a very different type of exercise in mind,” he drawled, a return of huskiness in his voice. Just as Justine’s senses came to life, however, he levered his taut-skinned form off her. “I believe I will take a jog. Into town. To pick up something to eat. I’m famished!”

His legs had already disappeared into his jeans, and he straightened to zip the fly. She could only stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart”—he read her mind exactly, swooping down to retrieve his shirt and croon playfully to her—“we’ll have plenty of time later.”

With a blush she sat up and wrapped the thick padding of the sleeping bag around her. “And what am I supposed to do while you jog into town?” Disappointed, she watched as he buttoned his shirt, robbing her of the heady sight of his chest.

“Why don’t you jog with me?” he asked innocently.

“Because, in the first place, I don’t jog. And, in the second place”—she squirmed slowly then grimaced—“I seem to be a little sore. I think I could use a hot bath.”

The smile that lit his face was broad and hearty. “I suspected as much. And, you’re in luck. I’ve brought towels. Let me get them while you run the water. Try the master bath upstairs—it’s a sunken tub.” His voice trailed off as he disappeared up the stairs toward the front door and the car. Justine was already half-submerged in a steaming tub when he returned carrying an armload of thick terry towels. “If you finish before I get back”—he winked from the bathroom door after dropping the towels and heading back out—“you can wander around and get some ideas for decorating. You’ll have to earn your keep for the weekend somehow!”

Before she could find a suitable retort, he was gone. Somehow. A warm flush seeped slowly upward as her thoughts turned to that somehow. How misleading life could be at times, she mused. Having always thought of herself as a feminist of sorts, she should have been soundly offended by his parting shot. Earn her keep, she laughed, particularly recalling the none-too-subtle leer which had accompanied that poignant somehow. Yet she felt no offense—none whatsoever. She had chosen freely to give herself to Sloane, and, in the process, had discovered that the giving was far from one-sided. Submission had never entered into their lovemaking. There had been giving and taking and sharing—all beautiful, all satisfying. Nothing would please her more than to spend the weekend in his arms!

As it happened, she did her share of amateur decorating as well. Much of Saturday was spent in this endeavor, as the two walked from room to room while Sloane noted her suggestions as to furniture, light fixtures, wall hangings and artwork, accessories, and floor treatment. “I would leave the windows as bare as possible”—she toyed with a concept that was totally out of the question in the city. “Privacy is not an issue here—you are surrounded by trees and ocean. Why not let it all in? Plants, perhaps—hang them there”—she pointed to the opposite ends of a wide window in the living room—“and there, but make sure that they complement the natural landscape rather than vie with it for attention.”

“And the bedrooms…?”

“There you’ll need something for darkening effect alone. If, that is, you hope to sleep late once in a while. Otherwise, the bright sun pouring in at six may be a bit disturbing.” She grinned, recalling how late they had slept this very morning, sun and all.

“We were both exhausted, sweetheart,” he said, mirroring her memory. “For my part”—a strong forearm fell across her shoulders—“I don’t know whether it was work … or you.”

Justine curled her arms around his waist, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against his chest. She inhaled deeply of his manly scent, then sighed her contentment. The moment was so beautiful, she mused. No past, no future—just now.

“Okay, to work!” Sloane ordered good-naturedly, setting her back from him. “I picked up cleaning supplies with lunch. What will you take—windows or bathrooms?”

“Windows.” Given the choice of those particular two, Justine would do windows anyday!

“Coward,” he taunted under his breath, as he handed her a cloth and a large spray bottle then selected his own and was off. At intervals they checked up on one another, with Justine starting on windows which were nearest the particular bathroom he scrubbed at a given time. After several hours they took a rest, walking the beach with carefree ease, enjoying the presence of each other and the mild ocean breeze.

Dinner was, by mutual choice, a joint endeavor. They had stocked the refrigerator and the cupboards with the basics—after Justine had wiped down the cabinets, inside and out, with Sloane calling directions from the last of the three bathrooms. “Nothing exotic,” they had agreed, yet one thing had led to another, and, before they knew it, they sat down—in the bare middle of the shiny parquet of the dining room floor—to a dinner of London broil, baked stuffed potatoes, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, and peach melba. The irony of paper plates, plastic knives and forks, and the starkness of the empty room went by unnoticed. Hungry as they were, they ate. Romantic-minded as they were, they sipped fine wine from Dixie cups, grinning all the while. For Justine the dinner held as much elegance as any she had ever eaten.

Sloane lazed back on his elbow, stretched his legs their length and crossed them at the ankle as he watched her savor the last of her peach melba. “Do you have any idea,” he finally asked, when every drop had been irrevocably consumed, “how many calories you’ve just consumed?”

She cocked her head defensively. “I said that I splurged once in a while. This happens to be that once!”

“And pizza last night?” he ribbed her, rolling his eyes skyward in memory. “I seem to recall that you matched me, bite for bite.”

Tossing her head back at the unimportance of it, she grinned. “I daresay I’ve worked off every one of those calories.” Bounding up, she loaded her hands with empty plates. “I’ll have to see to that oven tomorrow. It badly needs a cleaning.”

True to her word, the following afternoon found her head in the oven, her hands scrubbing. On a cold surface the spray was only marginally successful. Following the can’s directions, she heated the oven, then set to it again. As she scrubbed diligently, her mind wandered. It came to her suddenly that she hadn’t thought of law all weekend! In her adult life, this was a first! In case of emergency, Susan knew of her whereabouts. Yet, nothing had interrupted the bliss she had shared here with Sloane this weekend. The thought of its end, of returning to the city tonight, brought with it a knot of regret. Convinced of Sloane’s love, she knew she would see him again and often. But, she mused, it had been so nice … so private … so quiet … here … alone with him.

“Justine!” Her own anticipatory frustration was embodied and intensified in Sloane’s bellow. “Justine!” He stormed into the kitchen in time to see her reflexive flinch as her arm inadvertently came in solid contact with the heat of the oven shelf. “Where are the damned sleeping bags?” he shouted, then stopped. “Justine, are you all right?”

Doubled over, she slowly straightened and tried to stand, fighting the stinging sensation on her arm. “I think I’ve burned myself….” She grimaced, clutching the injured forearm. Sloane reacted intantly, pulling her swiftly toward the sink and thrusting her arm beneath the stream of cold water. “Ahhh … that feels a little better….”

Engrossed as she was in an attempt to examine the damage, Justine was oblivious to Sloane’s scowl. “How did you manage to do this? ” It was a new and impatient Sloane, one she’d never seen before.

“I … I was startled when you … barged in here like that!”

“So it was my fault?” he challenged her darkly.

“Of course not!” she snapped back defensively. “I take full responsibility for my actions. It was my own dumb fault … and it’s fine now, really it is.” The arm was fine; oh, yes, it would probably turn into a minor blister before healing, but she felt no pain from that source. It was by Sloane that she felt injured.

He read the hurt in her soft and questioning green eyes, then turned the water off with a jerk and stepped back, combing his fingers carelessly through his hair. “Look, Justine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you like that. It’s just … trying to get things together before we go back …” He abbreviated his explanation, turning instead and heading for the door. “I feel really grubby, after scrubbing the patio. I’m going to take a shower.”

Justine watched him disappear, her heart lodged somewhere between chest and mouth. Absently, she patted her arm dry with a paper towel, then stowed the cleaning supplies beneath the sink. Her brow bore a frown, her eyes a distinct look of worry. Could she let him stalk off like this? Why hadn’t she said anything? After all, hadn’t his gruffness been simply an expression of her own frustration? And, he had apologized.

Her hand slapped the counter determinedly as her sneaker-clad feet crossed the floor to follow him. The water was already running when she reached the bathroom, its air filled with billowing steam. Entering, then closing the door behind her, she leaned back against it, eyes mesmerized by the surrealism of the scene. Amid the mist she watched the shower door, its thickly textured glass a sensual conductor. Behind it Sloane welcomed the beat of the steady spray, turning slowly, throwing back his head, flexing his neck from side to side. His arms were bent at the elbows, his hands cocked surely on his hips. His skin took on a smoothly rippled texture through the shower door, investing her own fingertips with the yearning to touch as she had touched before. As he pivoted slowly, his every line was revealed to her, clear, then blurred, then clear again beyond the glass.

Driven by the new woman she had just discovered, Justine stepped carefully between his scattered clothes, peeled her own off, one by one, to join the pile, then approached and opened the shower door. The brunt of the spray was deflected from her by the sinewed breadth of his back as Sloane stared at her for several dark and heart-stopping moments. He seemed to be struggling, waging an inner war that she could only imagine. Then, before her wide-eyed watch a slow relaxation spread over his features until he resembled, at last, the man she adored. With a grin he took her in his arms, swinging her around and into the full spray of the shower, holding her there, despite her sputtering protest, until she was thoroughly soaked. Her hair was darker, truly copper when wet, and tumbled in tangled curls which he gently tucked behind her ears. When he kissed her, surrealism took on a different face, then burst quickly into blinding passion as desire washed over them both.

It was much later when he finally reached back to turn off the water. In the steam-shrouded silence, he held her body tightly against his, waiting as the last waves of ecstasy faded to loving memories. Her cheek was wet against his chest, her flesh against his as their heartbeats hammered through each other in one, nonending circle.

“Marry me, Justine,” he murmured softly. “I want you for my wife.”